The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (30 page)

The man laughed, the lines around his eyes deepening. Gabriel turned away, as if bored with the answer, but he looked into Meade's long snout to see if there was anything imperative he should say. Meade rolled his eyes and gestured that they leave. That probably meant that the viceroy was gushing over him.

He turned swiftly toward his host and gave him a bow, low enough to show respect. "Forgive me, Viceroy. I haven't been to a masquerade in years. I find myself . . . curious." He looked speculatively at a nearby beauty who was showcasing her assets.

The viceroy followed his gaze, his eyes lighting up. He thrust out his hand toward the woman and the party and said something about enjoying himself. Gabriel thanked him and stalked away toward the other side of the ballroom. Now to find Jeremy Lyons and Sean Healy and the real reason he'd come tonight.

He looked intently for the two men, one reportedly dressed as a domino, the typical costume of all black with a black mask, and the other as Benjamin Franklin, the famed American politician, scientist, and inventor.

Suddenly Gabriel slammed into someone, knocking him off balance. He looked down and discovered a woman. She fell back, bumped into another man who had his back to them, and then started to fall toward the floor.

Gabriel caught her with reflexes that knew what to do before he had a chance to think of it. He hauled her into his arms, into his chest, steadied her and righted her to stand on her own feet in a matter of seconds.

She swayed for a moment and then turned flashing blue eyes on him. His senses took in her costume in a moment—blues and greens and purples, splashes of pale yellow, more purple with red tones, all the colors blending into each other and flowing from the body of the dress into streamers of colored fabric, organza over taffeta. The colored streamers stirred and fluttered with her every movement. Most of her face was covered with a turquoise mask edged in purple lace. Her pale blue eyes, ringed in darker blue, locked with his.

"I'm so sorry." He caught that much from her pink lips. And then, as she tilted her rounded chin up she said more, but he couldn't fathom what it was. Despair and panic crashed through him. He wanted to know what she said. Who was she?

Before he had a chance to frighten her away with his confused silence, he clasped her waist with one hand and her hand with the other. "Dance with me," he thought he said. He hoped he said it aloud. If she protested he didn't know it; he didn't have the courage to look at her face.

Her body, though, followed. He felt the flow of muscle keep up with him beneath his gloved fingertips. She turned into his arms, she took a deep breath, as did he, and then he closed his eyes and concentrated on the vibrations of the music, the long-known steps of the waltz that he'd danced a thousand times and the familiar feel of a beautiful woman in his arms.

It felt good to dance again.

She was as light as moonbeams in his arms and moved with his every movement as if they were one. He opened his eyes, feeling the silence in a new way, seeing her dress come alive and flutter around them like a living thing that grasped and teased and caressed and waved . . . like the wind. She was like the wind.

Her breath was long and even, her chest going in and out in equal accord with his. There was no sound of anything, but it was as if she were a conductor and through her he could hear everything—the music, the laughing, whirling couples, the woman in his arms. She looked up then, into his eyes, and a look of startled fear filled her blue gaze.

She stopped. Stopped them in the middle of the whirling, twirling dancers. She covered her mouth with her white gloved hand, then dropped her hand, shook her head slowly back and forth, and took a step back. "It can't be," her lips read. She shook her head again and turned from him, turned and fled, silken streamers of flight in a bluish blur that quickly disappeared into the crowd.

What had he done to scare her away?

Meade rushed to rescue him before he stood very long staring after her like a lovesick fool.

The crocodile in the midst of the dancers did not go over very well. He was shot with dire looks, shrieked at by the ladies, shoved aside and cursed as one man tripped over his long tail, but none of that derailed him for even a moment. No. His stalwart secretary forged through the throng to save him.

Gabriel sighed, not knowing whether to laugh or run from him. He decided for a chuckle and strode over to the swamp monster, grasped his scaly shoulder, and hurried him off the dance floor.

"Well?" Gabriel demanded, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. This night was not going at all as planned. "Have you found Healy or Lyons?"

Meade pointed behind him with a long yellow claw.

A small group of older gentlemen stood huddled together, looking deep in conversation. There was an obvious Ben Franklin among them and two men in domino regalia. One of them was probably Molony. Men interested in eccentricities such as ancient antiquities often gravitated toward each other at events like these.

Gabriel made his way over to them, his pet lumbering after him.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he came up to their inner circle. They stopped talking and turned to stare at him. He inclined his head. "Gentlemen."

He saw someone say his name and plunged forward with the plan, their faces registering a degree of curiosity and respect. "I am sorry to interrupt but I've been looking for Jeremy Lyons and Sean Healy. I have important business to discuss. Would any of you, perhaps, be the gentlemen in question?"

Ben Franklin stepped forward and bowed. "I am Sean Healy." Gabriel was almost sure he'd read that right. Meade nodded at him from behind the croc's rows of uneven teeth. "And this is"—he flung out his hand to one of the more heavily masked men—"Jeremy Lyons."

That man only stared at him, eyes too dark to see beyond the mask, but something about him sent a chill through Gabriel. This man was no fool. He would have to be told everything to gain his cooperation.

"Would you mind accompanying me to a quieter place where we could talk?"

They both nodded.

They followed Meade and Gabriel into an empty drawing room outside the ballroom that was open for guests to refresh themselves. While the three men took seats around the fireplace, Meade gathered up plates of delicacies and lumbered through the room getting them drinks and making them comfortable.

Gabriel took off his mask and, at first, did all the talking, hoping his servile crocodile would sit down and help him when it came time for them to speak.

He told them about the missing Sloane manuscript and the prince regent's orders to locate it. How he and the kings of France and Spain were determined to find it. He told of the Featherstones and their commission to find it. Then he told of his ward. He let his tone soften, talking as if she were his long-lost daughter. And then there was the prince regent's order. He must obey his prince regent—
their prince regent
now that they were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland—and bring Alexandria home to safety. Had they seen the Featherstones? Did they know anything of the missing manuscript?

The darkly masked man began talking and Gabriel turned to Meade. It was hopeless to try to read his lips so covered by the full face mask. Meade stood behind the man, looked at Gabriel, and spoke slowly and clearly.

They had heard of the missing manuscript and yes, there had been a visit from the Featherstones some months ago. The only clue they had was the rumored location of the last place Sloane's manuscript was seen in
Dimmu borgir
, the Black Castles of Iceland.

Iceland. So it was true. Alexandria's parents must have gone to Iceland. Had she followed them there already? Had he gone to all this trouble for nothing? Had he missed her?

Meade motioned for Gabriel to pay attention. The man was still speaking.

There was more. Another person had been asking about this. Tonight. Here. At the ball.

"Who?" Gabriel asked, thinking of the Spanish men who were following Alexandria.

Meade's face paled within the green cavern of his costume.

"A woman. Wearing a flowing, colorful dress in colors of blue and purple. She'd said she was dressed as the
Wind
."

I
thought he was old!" Alex exclaimed as she walked into Montague's bedchamber the next morning. He had been in bed, recovering from his stab wound since the musicale and, as everyone in John's household knew, getting crankier with each day he was confined. Alex plopped down on the chair beside the bed. "I thought he would have a cane and a monocle and well . . . gout! I didn't dream he was so . . . he would be so . . ."

"Whatever are you talking about, Alexandria?" Montague sat further up in bed, wincing with the movement.

"The duke. He was at the ball last night. I know it."

"How do you know? Especially with everyone in costume?"

Alex squeezed her hands together in her lap. "We danced. I looked up into his eyes, his very green eyes, and then, after I suspected and turned away from him, I saw Mr. Meade in a crocodile costume heading right toward us. It was him, I'm sure of it."

"Did he know you?" Montague's voice was low and grave.

"I don't think so. I ran away. I had already talked to Jeremy Lyons and I have so much to tell you about! But after seeing the duke, I just ran away. He's here in Dublin and I don't know what he means to do."

"Describe him to me. Any number of people could have green eyes."

Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered him. "He was tall, almost a head taller than I am, and he had . . ." she looked down, "very broad shoulders. I hardly know how to dance and yet he practically carried me around the floor as if I weighed nothing. He had black hair, worn short, and behind his demimask were very green eyes. I've never seen anything like them."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Just 'dance with me.'" She couldn't hold Montague's gaze.

"But you don't think he knew who you were?"

"I don't think so. He asked me to dance because we ran into each other, literally, he nearly knocked me down." She didn't mention that he'd held her, for a moment, in his arms and how his nearness had made her light-headed.

"All right. Let's assume it was him and that even if he didn't recognize you, he knows you are in Dublin. Now, what did you learn from Lyons?"

The maid came in with Montague's breakfast tray so Alex waited for her to situate it and leave before speaking. "Mr. Lyons said he had spoken with my parents. I don't know how they accomplished that as he is very private and spoke in a harsh whisper I could barely hear, but somehow they managed it."

"Resourceful, your parents." Montague winked at her while he buttered his biscuit. "Reminds me of a certain young lady I know."

Alex took a pleased breath and continued. "He said they had heard of a missing manuscript from Sloane's collection."

"So it is a manuscript. Did he know what kind of manuscript?"

"No." Alex leaned forward, her eyebrows rising in excitement. "But he did know where it was last seen. And where my parents were going next."

Montague paused midbite. "Well?"

"Someplace called
Dimmu borgir
: the Black Castles of Iceland."

Montague sat back against his pillows. "You don't say."

"Have you heard of it?"

"Hmm, just barely. We sailed around the eastern shore of Iceland once. It's not what you would think from the name. At least not the time of year we were there. It's mostly known for its volcanoes. There was a huge eruption about twenty years ago. I can't imagine why a missing manuscript of such importance would end up there."

"Maybe that's why; no one would think to look there."

"Do you think that is where your parents went next? All the way to Iceland?"

"I plan to visit the Dublin Custom House today and see if I can find any records of them sailing to Iceland. And then, I plan to buy my own passage there."

"Alexandria. I'm not fit enough to travel yet, and Baylor is planning to leave for Belfast soon. It's too dangerous. I won't allow you to go alone."

Alex sat up straighter. "I have no choice. The duke is here and should he . . . have me within his grasp again, I believe he will haul me off to London. I have to leave Dublin immediately."

Montague sighed. "Maybe the duke is right. Think of it. You will be safe in his house. He has promised to hire as many investigators as you'd like to follow your leads. Think what might happen to you in an unknown land so far away, alone, with the Spaniards likely tracking you? It's not possible!"

Alex remained quiet, thinking. If she argued with him, he might do something, like try to locate the duke and tell him where she was. She couldn't let that happen. She stood, went over to his bed, and kissed his cheek. "Let me think about it. I'll see what I can find out at the Custom House and we'll talk again."

He studied her eyes and she felt a tendril of fear at the thought of deceiving him. She had to convince him to her side.

A FEW HOURS LATER JOHN accompanied her to the main desk in the majestic Custom House. They told the man their names and were directed to one of the smaller desks. A man with red mutton-chop sideburns and friendly blue eyes introduced himself as Mr. McQueen.

"Please, sit down. What can I do for you, Lord Lemon, Lady Featherstone?"

Alex curtsied and sat across from him, John sat next to her. "Lady Featherstone has come from her home on Holy Island to search for her missing parents, Ian and Katherine Featherstone. We understand that they were in Dublin about a year ago."

"Sir, I have reason to believe," Alex quickly added, "that they sailed from Dublin to Iceland. Are there ships sailing to Iceland from here?"

"Oh yes. We have ships sail all over the world from Dublin," the man said with pride.

"Could you check the passenger lists during fall of last year?"

"Your parents are missing? How extraordinary!"

"Please, sir. I know it is not a typical request, but their very lives may depend on us finding them."