Tempted By the Night (25 page)

“No.” He glanced over at Cappon. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in.”

Cappon eyed the dangerously fast phaeton, with its high-sprung wheels and narrow seat, not to mention the pair of horses that pranced and danced in their traces, as if they couldn’t wait to take off on a wild ride. “And I thought the Dials would kill me,” he muttered as he climbed up and into the seat.

Rockhurst went to sidestep his cousin, but Mary was too fast and was already in front of him. Again.

“You must take her,” she insisted. “Find her and bring her along. She’s—”

“Been safely seen to,” he told her. “I’m not taking some Mayfair miss down into the Dials.”

“You did before,” Mary argued.

“Unwittingly,” he replied. “But this time is different. Mary, I won’t have her harmed.” He glanced up at the house. “I’ve seen to that, and I’ll brook no argument on the subject.”

Not that Mary was opposed to disagreeing with him, order or not. “Rockhurst, don’t be an idiot. You
cannot
do this alone.”

Cricks added, “My lord, if you would but read Podmore, along with the volume we believe was his
source—” The man paused for a moment and glanced over at Mary. “Does he read ancient Gaelic?”

Mary shook her head.

“No matter,” Cricks told him. “Miss Kendell can translate. It is imperative—”

“It is imperative I go.” The brows rose, and he sent his most imperious glance at the bookseller, who scurried behind Mary.

His cousin stood firm, unscathed. “You cannot go alone.”

“I am not,” he told her, moving her firmly out of his path. He climbed into the curricle. “I have Teague.” A rough cough from beside him prompted him to add, “And Mr. Cappon’s able assistance. Now go back to your books, Mary.”

She groaned. “Did you at least read the volume of Podmore I gave you?”

“I did not,” he replied. “I burned the damned thing.” Then he snatched up the reins and gave the grays their freedom, letting the pair take off at a wicked pace.

There was an outraged gasp from Cricks, while Mary growled and stomped her foot in rage. “That idiot!”

“To burn such a rare book—” Cricks agreed.

“No, not about the book, about going alone. Whatever are we to do?”

“There is nothing to do but to find the young lady.” Cricks blinked owlishly at the growing night. “But I fear it will be hard to do now.”

Mary sighed, trying to think of how they could find Hermione now that the sun had set.

Then she glanced up at her cousin’s house. What was it Rockhurst had said about Hermione?

That she’d been “safely seen to.”

“She’s in the house,” she announced, already halfway up the steps.

“But Miss Kendell, how can you be sure?”

“I’m sure,” Mary told him, barging in without ringing for Stogdon.

Cricks followed, looking around the well-appointed house with an eye of fear. “Won’t we be cast out?”

“Hardly,” she told him.

“And how do you propose to find her?”

“Mr. Cricks, I spent a good part of my childhood in this house playing hide-and-seek. There isn’t a closet, cubbyhole, or hiding spot I don’t know.”

“It’s a rather large house,” he said, following her toward the armory.

“Then best we start quickly,” she told him.

Even before Rockhurst came to a stop before the peacock-emblazoned door of Cappon’s brothel, he knew something was wrong.

So did Teague, for the dog growled in a deep, menacing rumble.

“I don’t like this,” Cappon declared, climbing down from his seat. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Nor do I,” Rockhurst agreed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the empty streets around them. He nodded to Teague, who leapt down from his perch and immediately began circling the phaeton, growling and looking in all directions, as if he couldn’t figure out exactly where to go.

Rockhurst felt it also, a sense of being ensnared on all sides. Then he drew a deep breath and got down as
well, hauling his bag with him. With haste born from the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, he pulled it open and started arming himself—the long knives into his waistband, the pistols beside them. He tucked a garrote into a pocket and an extra knife into the top of his boot. He slung his cross-bow over his shoulder and, finally, rose from the dirty sidewalk with Carpio in hand.

“Christ!” Cappon exclaimed. “What fool would cross your path now?”

Rockhurst grinned. “Remember me thusly when you think to lighten the tribute you owe me.”

The faux madame raised his gloved hand, and said, “Never again, my lord. Never again.”

Then from around a corner came the patter of feet, and all three of them turned, Teague leaping forward and putting himself in front of his new master.

“Tibbets!” Cappon exclaimed at the sight of his lost servant. “You’ve come back.”

As the little man moved into the light, Teague growled furiously at him—unwilling to let the man close.

And Tibbets froze, having found himself face-to-face with an angry wolfhound. His tiny chest heaved up and down, as if he’d just run across London, while tears ran down his cheeks.

“Tell that idiot dog to leave him be,” Cappon shouted. “Can’t you see he’s been hurt.”

True enough, for one of Tibbet’s eyes was swollen shut, and a gash on his head was black with dried blood.

“’Tis probably the blood,” Rockhurst said, catching hold of Teague and hauling him back.

Cappon shook his head, then rushed to his favorite servant and hugged him close. The giant madame sobbed, as did Tibbets, at this unbelievable homecoming. “Oh, Tibby, I thought I’d lost you for certain.”

“Almost I fear,” the little man said. “I didn’t think I’d get here in time.”

“In time?” Rockhurst asked.

“Oh aye, my lord!” Tibbets gasped. “You must come quick, I’ve found the hole.”

“Show me,” Rockhurst said, pointing Carpio in the direction the man had come.

And Tibbets would have gone ahead if Cappon hadn’t stopped him, catching hold of his “Tibby” and refusing to let go of him. “No he won’t,” he protested. “He’s been hurt. Tibby, you need to be seen to. I won’t have you lost again.”

Tibbets shrugged himself free and tried to smile for Cappon’s benefit. “It ain’t so bad as what will happen to all of us if his nibs here don’t come right now and close that bugger of a hole.”

“Right you are,” Rockhurst told him. “Can you show me where it is?”

“Oh, no you won’t!” Cappon trilled.

“I gotta,” the man said. “I’m the only one what knows where it is.”

“Then let’s go,” Rockhurst said, as Tibbets scurried toward one of the alleys.

“You lose me my Tibby, Rockhurst, and there will be no tribute this month,” Cappon told them, completely rooted in place. “Or the next,” he added furiously.

“Go on and count it out,” Rockhurst told him, lock
ing a bolt into place on the cross-bow. “I’ll be back for it soon enough. With Tibbets.”

“If you live,” Cappon muttered under his breath as he climbed the stairs into his brothel.

Tibbets, after one last look of longing toward the peacock door that Cappon was slamming shut, scurried toward the dark alley, with Teague and Rockhurst bringing up the rear.

They wound through the shadows of the Dials, around corners and down streets that Rockhurst wondered if they ever saw the light of day.

Finally, Tibbets turned a sharp corner and one more before they came to a dead end. There was no way forward and only one way back.

The ill ease that had been nudging Rockhurst’s senses came to full alert. Teague didn’t even bother to bark, he just laid his ears back and growled quietly—as if the dog feared awakening the unseen evils all around them.

Rockhurst didn’t think he’d ever seen this corner of London. “Tibbets, what is this place?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the little man, to find his one good eye now glowed a horrible red.

“The place you’ll breathe your last,” Tibbets said as he drove a knife into a chink in the bricks.

Rockhurst surged forward to stop him, but it was too late. The rat-faced traitor twisted his knife as one would a key, and with it, opened the flood gates to hell.

“Open this door,” Mary yelled out, hammering on Cappon’s peacock doors with all her might. When no one answered over the loud music and laughter inside,
she turned to Hermione. “Are you sure this is the correct place?”

Having been freed by her friend and Mr. Cricks from Rockhurst’s armory, Hermione had insisted they bring her to Cappon’s.

“I fear so,” Hermione said, adding her own fists to the pounding. “Open up now!” she shouted.

The door opened, but merely a crack, and Cappon himself peered through it. He took one look at Mary in her plain brown gown and ugly bonnet and his eyes grew wide.

“If you are looking for work—I don’t think even I could sell you, but if you are looking for something else—”

“I am looking for my cousin—” Mary began.

“Your cousin isn’t here,” he told her, trying to close the door, but Hermione had the forethought to stick her boot in the crack.

Cappon frowned when the door wouldn’t close.

“I need to find my cousin,” Mary repeated. “I know he is here.”

“But I doubt he wants to be found,” Cappon told her. “And not here.” The giant man in the green silk dress looked her up and down again. “And not by you.” He drew the door back and, this time, slammed it closed.

As it hit Hermione’s foot, she yelped in pain and drew it back.

“This will never do,” Mary complained, as she retreated down the steps. “Why, of all the inconsiderate
—”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and stood fast. “Oh, demmit, Mary, this isn’t the time to use Mayfair manners.”

“Hermione!” Mary gasped at her friend’s use of such language. “I fear your association with Rockhurst has tarnished your tongue! What would your mother say if she heard you cursing like a—”

…
your association with Rockhurst…

Hermione turned around and hammered on the door with all her might. “Open this door in the name of the Paratus or so help me—”

When the door swung open this time, it revealed Cappon holding a cudgel.

Hermione yelped and scurried down the steps to Mary’s side.

“Who are you?” Cappon asked, shaking the fearsome-looking weapon at Mary. “And how do you know about him?”

Mary’s mouth flapped open, and she stammered a bit, that is until Hermione nudged her sharply in the ribs.

“Tell him who you are,” she whispered.

“I’m Lord Rockhurst’s cousin, and it is imperative that I find him.” Hermione nudged Mary again. “Immediately,” she hastily added.

Cappon cocked his head. “I do remember you on his steps. And I also remember he didn’t seem overly fond of seeing you.”

“Tell him about the trap. Tell him Rockhurst is in danger,” Hermione whispered.

But she needn’t have bothered, for just then the entire night sky lit up as a massive explosion rocked the Dials.

The proprietor crossed himself and muttered some quick prayer. Then he glanced down at Mary, “I think you’ve found him.”

In the shadows near the explosion, there glowed a pair of red eyes. The creature behind them would have smiled, but there was too much work ahead to celebrate just yet.

Melaphor had been waiting too long for this day—now finally all his plans were coming to fruition. Seeding the traitors who thought to overthrow him, planting his own spies and surprises. Now he had only a little bit longer, and the last Paratus would be dead.

He glanced up as out of the chaos came the patter of feet running from the destruction. With a smooth, quick movement, he caught the fellow by the scruff of his coat and dragged him up into the air, his small feet pedaling in dismay.

“Let me down, let me down,” the fellow complained.

“Ah, my good man, Tibbets,” he said as he brought the insignificant fellow up to eye level. “What an excellent job you’ve done for me. Is it all as we have planned?”

Tibbets settled immediately. “Oh, aye, Master Melaphor,” he said enthusiastically. “The Paratus is surrounded, and those fiends are a hungry lot. He’s in a devil’s own trap, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Good work,” Melaphor said, glancing in that direction.

“About my payment—” Tibbets began.

But the man’s request never finished, for Melaphor had snapped his neck and tossed him into the gutter with the rest of the garbage.

Payment indeed! Certainly, the dwarf had done his task admirably, but Melaphor never rewarded traitors.

Hermione dashed toward the bright light and the sounds of battle. From time to time, Teague’s sharp bark or the ugly howl of a derga would pierce the night, which only served to hasten her steps.

Even as the Dials had exploded, she’d pushed Mary and Cricks inside Cappon’s and ordered the man to keep them safe. While the brothel owner had gaped at the unseen lady barking orders at him, he hadn’t lived in the Dials all his life not to know the face of danger—even an invisible one. With the door shut tight, and after Hermione had heard the bar put in place, she’d gone in search of Rockhurst.

“Saol amháin, grá amháin,
” she whispered to herself as she went along.

Mary and Cricks had come up with a theory that the
doors to that realm could be closed by using the magic inside Milton’s Ring. If Hermione could get it off in time, and Rockhurst used it to seal the door, it would be closed forever, ending the need for a Paratus.

She paused at a corner and tried to get her bearings. Seven Dials certainly wasn’t Mayfair, for the streets were so narrow and twisted here it was impossible to find one’s way easily. But then she caught sight of an unearthly light and continued on, muttering under her breath the Gaelic words Mary had said she must use.

“Saol amháin, grá amháin,
” she repeated over and over.

One life, one love. It was a pledge of fidelity, the same one with which the ring had reportedly been forged.

One life, one love. Hermione knew exactly what it meant, for she knew without a doubt that Rockhurst was and would always be her one love.

Oh, if only he has a life left
. Lost in her own worries, Hermione stumbled over something and landed with a thud on the filthy cobbles.

“Not another ruined gown,” she muttered, vexed that she wasn’t going to have a single muslin left before this was over. Not only that, she’d lost about half her hairpins, and now her hair fell in a tumbled mess around her shoulders. This life of a Paratus would never do if one wanted to make a decent appearance. But her fit of pique ended as she rolled to one side and realized what it was that had caught her foot.

An arm.

Tibbets’s arm to be exact.

And Tibbets? His eyes stared lifelessly at her.

Hermione opened her mouth to scream, but an icy cold hand clamped over her lips, and another hand caught her under her arm and hauled her up.

“What have we here?” said a cool, smooth voice.

Hermione twisted around to look at her assailant, her breath catching in her throat.

The fiend grinned. “Kitten! How lovely to see you again,” Melaphor smoothed her tumbled hair back from her face before he leaned forward and whispered into her ear, “And such a timely arrival. I think you will come in quite handy in aiding me as I kill your beloved Paratus.”

Rockhurst knew they could have killed him at any time, but the bastards were just toying with him, wearing him down, coming at him three at a time, then backing off to let the others have a go of it.

Teague had already proved himself half a dozen times over, showing he had the same wits and cunning as Rowan.

But the real battle was going on inside Rockhurst, as the darkness clamored to be set free, to fight these monsters with the aid of a black power that was sure to defeat any foe. Yet Rockhurst resisted. For if he unleashed it, how would he ever find his way out?

Without her…

He who had never wanted the help of another. The man who’d roamed London alone, fighting these demons unaided, now realized that being a Paratus was more than being just the sole avenging warrior.

That his forebears, even the infamous Thomas of Hurst, had missed the true meaning of being the Paratus.

That it wasn’t enough to be at the ready, it was about being ready. And using every resource available to meet the danger of the dark realm beyond. Which included his Shadow’s aid.

Rockhurst laughed, loud and hearty, as he sliced at the derga coming toward him, Carpio taking off the fiend’s arm.
Of course, I come to this realization now. When I am about to meet my end.

If anything, he could do one last thing that would give his death some honor.

He turned to Teague. “Go to her, boy. Go to her and protect her.”

The dog stood his ground and barked.

“Go to her,” he ordered. “Save her.”

Then Rockhurst looked up and realized why Teague wasn’t moving. Melaphor stood at the edge of his henchmen, his arm outstretched as if he held something in his grasp…no, rather make that
someone
.

And it didn’t take eleven hundred years of Paratus wisdom to realize who it was that had Melaphor’s smile tipped into such a triumphant curve.

“Let me go,” Hermione said, struggling against Melaphor’s grasp. There before her was Rockhurst, bleeding from an ugly slash on his arm, and he wavered slightly as he fought off the two derga currently trying to gain the upper hand.

“Why would I want to do that?” He tugged her closer. “You’ve changed, Kitten.” He inhaled deeply. “You have his stench all over you.”

Hermione ruffled. “I’ll have you know that perfume is a very expensive blend from Floris
—”

“Not that sad bit of spring,” Melaphor chided. “But
him.
”

Oh, this didn’t bode well. She bit her lower lip and took a furtive glance at Rockhurst. Carpio no longer danced and sang through the air, and from her vantage point it looked like…

No, it couldn’t be. He’d given up. And then she had her proof, for he turned to Teague.

“Go to her,” he ordered. “Save her.”

Most decidedly he was giving up. Sending Teague to her, before he began to fight to the bitter end. His end. But didn’t he realize that if he gave up, then everything was lost.

She didn’t know whether her heart was breaking or she was entirely furious.
If only he’d listened…

Just then, Rockhurst looked up and over at where they stood, seeing his enemy for the first time, and she swore she saw something spark to life in his eyes.

“He knows I have you,” Melaphor told her.

“He cares not for me—”

Melaphor’s grip tightened. “I disagree. He’s mated with you—whether he knows it or not—he’s chosen you. Which means your fate is entwined with his.”

“It is?” she asked, feeling for the first time a bit of hope—but then all too quickly realizing her hope was only going to feed whatever plans Melaphor had for the night.

Which meant there was only one thing left to do.

She glanced up at Melaphor. “He cannot care for me, for he’s never seen me. He knows not who I am. So if you think to use me—”

“Not seen you?” The fiend laughed. “Well, let me enlighten him. Let him take the vision of your fair face to his grave.”

“No, please,” Hermione begged. “Not that!”

Melaphor swept his elegant hand over her, and she felt the veil of magic that had kept her concealed fade away.

This is it,
she realized. The last moment she’d see nothing but love in his eyes.

For the shock was instantaneous. She could see it immediately.

Hermione Marlowe? How could I have been so deceived?

But there was more to the moment than just her heartbreak and the loss of his love.

There were no more secrets between them. Never again would she be his Shadow.

But she could save his life.

Hermione reached down and ever so slowly pulled the ring from her finger. And this time, it came off.

She didn’t feel any different, but everything was.

Rockhurst gaped at her, as did the derga who until that moment had only seen their master standing there.

“Lady Hermione?” he said, taking a step closer.

“I am so sorry,” she said, moving toward him as well.

“This is all quite touching,” Melaphor said, yanking her back by her hair. “But she is mine now, Paratus.” He pulled Hermione right up against his cold body. “And when I have Milton’s Ring, all of this world will be mine as well.”

“What ring?” Hermione asked. “Do you mean this one?” She held up the shiny bit she’d pulled from her finger.

“Milton’s Ring?” came the muttering from the derga, and a light of suspicion rose in their eyes.

This was no longer about killing the Paratus as they’d been promised, for now a greater prize dangled within their grasp.

“Is this the ring you so covet?” she said. “If that is all you seek, have it!”

Then she threw it, as hard and as far as she could into the darkest reaches of the alley.

“No-o-o-o!” Melaphor screamed, releasing her and racing after his henchmen, “It is mine!”

But the derga were single-minded in their greed, and one of them swept Melaphor aside in his haste to seek the ring, leaving the fallen prince to scurry across the dirty cobbles like a rat to join the frenzy digging in the refuse.

Hermione rushed to Rockhurst and, to her shock and thrill, he caught her in his arms.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Saving your demmed hide,” she sputtered back. Then she caught up his hand and pressed the real ring into it. “This will close the hole, all of them. But you must not put it on, put it in the crack. Then I must repeat something in Gaelic…at least Mary and Mr. Cricks believe
—”

He cut her off by towing her over to where Tibbets had slid his knife. He pulled it out and handed it to Hermione.

He looked down at it. “And here I thought you’d tossed it away
—”

“’Tis Lord Hustings’s engagement ring they are fighting over.”

For it was true, she’d accepted Lord Hustings’s offer not two days earlier in a fit of pique and regrets over Rockhurst.

“I don’t think we want to be here when one of those derga finds out he is the future Lady Hustings.”

Hermione laughed as Rockhurst slid the ring into the wall.

“Now what do I
—”
His words stopped short as suddenly he was pulled from behind. Melaphor caught him by the throat and began to cut off his air.

Carpio fell from Rockhurst’s hand, and he gasped and fought as well as he could, but Melaphor’s power was only intensified by his anger.

“Leave him be,” Hermione said, tugging at the devil’s arm. “Let him go.”

Melaphor turned his red gaze on her. “When I am done with him, then it will be your turn, my little kitten.”

Never,
Hermione fumed.

“Come, Kitten,” Melaphor cajoled. “Watch him die.”

“I am not your kitten,” she told him.

“Still have your claws, I see.”

She glanced down and realized she still held Tibbets’s knife. “Yes. Yes, I do,” she told him, stabbing the blade between his ribs.

Melaphor’s eyes widened with surprise, and but better still, he released Rockhurst.

The earl took a deep, wheezing breath and stumbled back.

Now they could close the hole, she thought, but
behind them one of the derga cried out he’d found the ring. His roars of triumph quickly changed to a menacing howl as her deception came to light, and they turned toward her with murder in their eyes.

“Now, Rockhurst, now,” she said, pulling him to the wall and guiding his hand back to where the ring was lodged.

She took a deep breath and repeated the words that Mary had spent the entire ride over making her repeat.

“Saol amháin, grá amháin,
” she said in a strong, clear voice.

For a moment nothing happened, then a soft tremble vibrated through the air. A tiny ray of light pierced the darkness, but in an instant, it swelled to an explosion of power. Behind the derga the wall opened up, sucking them off their feet and back into their world.

Hermione slipped and lost her footing and found herself sliding across the alley toward the abyss, that is until a hand reached out and snagged her arm.

Yet to her dismay, it wasn’t the earl who’d caught her, but Melaphor.

Melaphor, with Tibbets’s knife still stuck in his ribs, and Hermione in his grasp, held his ground, fighting the power that would end all his meticulous plans.

Rockhurst caught up Carpio and stalked toward them, and Hermione knew a moment of true fear, for the devil’s own darkness obliterated his vision.

He stuck the point into Melaphor’s chest, and said, “Give her to me.”

“No, my lord Paratus,” Melaphor taunted. “Finish me if you can.”

“Rockhurst, help me,” she begged, then realized what a mistake she’d made.

For in that moment, the Paratus faded and the earl returned. He looked with horror at the choice he must make, and Carpio wavered in his grasp.

Hermione now saw the devilish nature of Melaphor’s last-ditch effort. As long as he held her, he was anchored to this world, but if he were killed, she’d be swept along with him into his realm—and into a waiting mob of angry derga.

But the longer the void remained opened, the more powerful the vortex seemed to become, and soon it would sweep them all along into its hungry void.

“You are the Paratus,” Hermione shouted at him. “Kill him, you ruthless bastard.”

“No,” he told her.

“But you must,” she told him. “For if you do not, all will perish.”

The blackness flooded his eyes again, and Hermione braced herself for what she was sure was the end.

He let out a loud, feral peal, an ancient war cry not heard in England since before the Romans. Then the Paratus pulled Carpio back, swung it high in the air, and drove it into Melaphor, even as Teague leapt from the shadows and caught hold of Hermione’s skirt.

She hit the ground hard, her head slamming into the cobbles, and the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was Rockhurst sagging to his knees and the entire alley exploding.

“There you are. I thought this is where I might find you.”

Quince didn’t even turn around. She just sat on the bench and stared at the Serpentine before her. The still water reflected the half-moon above them. “I’m surprised you’re here, Milton.”

“Why is that?” he asked, coming to sit beside her.

“I would have thought you would be with your ring. Or least doing your best to save it.”