Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(76)

Something the Mole had apparently forgotten.

“Will you send another assassin?” the Mole asked.

Obviously he was worried that he would be the next assassin chosen. “I mean, of course Dyemore needs to be killed, but I don’t know if it wouldn’t be better to simply pressure him to return to Corsica.”

The Dionysus raised his eyebrows and slowly turned to the Mole. “You’ve been talking to my brother.”

“No.” The Mole’s eyes widened in what looked like fear. “No, I wouldn’t, my lord. I’m loyal to you. Only you.”

“Are you?” the Dionysus asked with genuine interest.

“Yes!” The Mole was sweating. Perhaps because of the proximity of the fire, but more likely because of the proximity of the Dionysus. “I … I just think that now you’ve spread the rumors about Dyemore, he’ll be less likely to stay in England. Who, after all, would associate with him? You’ve isolated him most admirably.”

The Dionysus nodded. It was the truth. He narrowed his eyes at the Mole, feeling in a playful mood. “Yes, Dyemore has lost any allies he might have had, but that’s not enough. He must be destroyed.” He sipped his brandy, watching the other man over the rim of his glass. The Mole looked nearly ill with fear. “Only the most loyal of my followers can be trusted for such a mission. Do you have any candidates?”

“I … That is …” The Mole took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and blotted his forehead. “Perhaps the Bear?”

The Dionysus raised his eyebrows.

“Or … or even the Badger.”

“Not my brother?” the Dionysus asked, simply to find out what the Mole would say.

“Do you trust your brother?” the Mole asked, which was rather brave of him.

The Dionysus smiled. “No.”

The Mole winced, and the Dionysus enjoyed watching him slowly realize.

“I can do it,” the Mole said, as if it were his choice. “I’ll kill Dyemore.”

“Lovely.” The Dionysus smiled at him and listened as the Mole came up with a plan.

The Mole was a treasonous bastard, he decided. Or perhaps simply cowardly. Or the Mole’s face had taken on an ill-starred aspect.

Whatever the case, the Dionysus no longer favored him. The Mole was not his friend nor his brother nor his pet.

He would have to be cast out.

Dyemore would also have to be cast out. Out, out, out into the far reaches of hell. Out of this life entirely. But first the Dionysus would have to steal away Dyemore’s salvation and his life.

For if the Dionysus was not allowed salvation, then neither should Dyemore be.

It was only fair.

The sun had long risen by the time Raphael woke the next day. He winced at the sunlight streaming into the room—he’d gone to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms of his house, avoiding both the duke’s and the duchess’s chambers.

He wasn’t certain he’d be able to resist Iris again.

He rose slowly, careful of his aching head. He’d gone to several taverns last night, and while he’d not been exactly drunk when he’d returned in the early hours, he hadn’t been entirely sober, either.

For a moment Raphael sat on the side of the bed and held his head. She’d looked so hurt. As if he’d stabbed her through her heart and the blood was only beginning to flow from the wound.

Had any other person put that look on her face, he’d have killed them. But it had been he who had hurt Iris so awfully.

He’d been the one wielding the knife.

The mere thought made his stomach lurch.

God, what was he going to do? He couldn’t live with her, not now that he’d obviously shown he couldn’t resist her. But what if she was with child?

He sighed, standing like an old man, and looked at the clothes at his feet. Bending, he picked up his coat, and a scrap of paper fell out of the pocket.

He stilled.

He didn’t remember having put anything in his pocket the day before.

Raphael picked up the paper and unfolded it. In what looked like hastily scrawled handwriting it said:

He isn’t what he seems



Raphael narrowed his eyes. Who wasn’t who he seemed? The Dionysus? When had the note been placed in his pocket, and by whom?

He began to wash and dress as he considered the matter.

The tavern he’d been drinking in last night had been nearly empty. The maid serving him his drinks could’ve slipped the paper into his pocket had she been particularly adept, but that seemed unlikely. And he hadn’t met anyone walking to or from the tavern.

That left the ball.

The problem was, almost anyone could have slipped a note into his pocket last night at the ball. The crowd had been pressed so closely together, and he’d moved through it several times, encountering innumerable people.

Among them Andrew, Royce, and Leland.

He’d met both Andrew and Royce in the crowd, but they’d been facing him at the time. Of course there was a slight possibility that he’d walked by them or Leland at some point in the mass of guests and not realized it. If he had, any one of the men could have passed the note to him during that time.

Then, too, when Raphael had initially entered the small study to talk to them, both Andrew and Royce had stood behind him. He didn’t think anyone could slip a paper in his pocket without his noticing, but obviously someone had at some point …