Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Did my father have evidence that Daphne’s family were involved?” Panic swept over her, a tidal wave threatening to drag her under, but she needed more information before Dante came charging to her rescue. “Tell me, and I shall consider returning to Rochester with you.”

Satisfied, he released her arm. “It was so long ago, but it had something to do with a man claiming to be the illegitimate son of the countess.”

The countess, not the earl?

“What was his name?”

It was one question too many.

Her uncle frowned and took to tapping the top of his boot with his riding crop. “Tell me those notes haven’t fired more than your curiosity. Tell me you’ll not use this information to try to find the devil who murdered your father.”

She should have told him what he wanted to hear, but blurted, “Someone must fight for him. Someone must fight for justice.”

The atmosphere changed, the wind blustering in from the north, whipping up leaves and twigs, a far more threatening presence that mirrored the sudden shift in her uncle’s countenance.

“Now listen here.” He pressed the tip of his crop to her chin, forcing her back against the brick wall. “Foolish talk will get you killed. Loath me to spoil your fantasy, but your father was a scoundrel who lost his way when your mother died. I wished to save you from this, love, but we sold the house in Hampshire to pay your father’s debts to Manning. There’s every chance Henry betrayed his clients, turned traitor, and it all ended badly.”

Beatrice gulped. “That’s a lie.”

It didn’t matter what this rogue said. Until presented with the truth, she refused to believe her father had caused the death of innocent people.

He snarled as he jabbed the crop at her throat. “You’re coming home with me before your mouth runs away with you and we’re both found dead on the roadside.”

She tried to catch her breath, but he was suddenly surrounding her, a large ominous figure pressing her to the wall, trapping her, preventing her escape.

Familiar smells invaded her nostrils—the clawing scent of his shaving soap, the pomade he used to tame his unruly mop of hair, the musty pong of damp clothes. Aromas as suffocating as waking underground and inhaling nothing but soil.

Her knees would have buckled were she not forced upright by the tip of the crop. Her vision might have blurred were it not for the deep cough and the voice of the one man she didn’t fear.

“If you wish to walk away from here unscathed, I suggest you release the lady, give her some air.”

John Sands froze before pasting an arrogant grin and swinging around to face the man foolish enough to offer a challenge.

“Be on your way, boy,” he said, brandishing the crop as if it were a knight’s steely sword. “Keep to your own affairs, and I shall keep to mine.”

Dante stood like a Roman god, strong, solid, capable of bringing the heavens crashing to earth with a single strike. “Miss Sands’ well-being is my affair. And I’ll throttle any man who hurts her.”

John Sands laughed. “I’m her father, fool, and may do what I please with my own daughter.”

“You’re her uncle by marriage, a man who would force himself upon her to satisfy his own deviant pleasures.” With a quick whip of his wrist, Dante grabbed the crop from her uncle’s hand. “I am Dante D’Angelo. Son of Daphne and Alessandro D’Angelo.” He slapped the crop lightly into the palm of his hand. “Henry Watson came to my father’s aid, and I’ve waited a lifetime to repay the debt.?

?

John Sands blinked rapidly. “D’Angelo? You’re the boy? The b-boy in the carriage?” Panic coated every syllable. He shook his head as if the vision before him were a mirage, a cruel trick of the mind.

With Lucifer’s arrogance, Dante splayed his arms wide. “No longer a boy, but every inch a man. A man ready to wreak havoc to uncover the truth.”

John Sands was at a sudden loss what to do. He shuffled back and forth, his eyes darting every which way like those of a hare snared in a trap.

“Imagine my surprise upon discovering my friend’s governess is the daughter of the man paid to protect my parents.”

Her uncle mumbled, muttered something about the earl slitting his throat, about him paying the price for his loose tongue.

Beatrice presumed he would plead for clemency, offer excuses for mistreating her, use methods to incite Dante’s pity. But in true cowardly fashion, John Sands made a dart for the thicket of spindly shrubs and trees opposite.

Dante’s sinister laugh pierced the chilly night air. He was about to take flight, too, no doubt thrash the lout with the riding crop until he begged for mercy, but she grabbed his arm to stall him.

“Wait! He’s told me everything he knows. We have two new lines of enquiry. More than enough information to keep us busy for weeks.” And she wished to be rid of John Sands, hoped he ran as far as his legs could carry him, hoped he stumbled into a poacher’s trap and perished in the cold.