Chapter One

 

Rain fell like an unrelenting penance upon the mourners gathered in St. Bartholomew’s churchyard. Each cold droplet struck with the force of some divine rebuke; persistent drumbeats softening the edges of the congregation and mirroring the tears that tracked the faces of the bereaved.

The rain hammered the crooked stones beneath their feet, bounced off the black umbrellas, ran in winding rivulets over moss-darkened graves, and struck the oak coffin at the heart of their assembly with a hollow sound that echoed the feelings of loss. The great yew trees, ancient sentinels of death and memory, creaked and sighed beneath the weight of the storm, their dark branches dripping in time with the mourners’ quiet lamentations.

Penelope Whitmore stood at the periphery of it all straight-backed, still, and resolute in her grief. The black veil descended from her bonnet like a curtain of mourning lace, its delicate edge plastered by rain to the modest black gown that clung damply to her figure. Though her heart ached with a private agony, she remained upright and composed, the very picture of dutiful propriety. Though her hands trembled beneath the black gloves, she gripped them together tightly so no one could see.

She counted, because counting gave her something to do to keep the tears at bay. Five, ten, twenty, thirty… thirty-seven. Thirty-seven faces, some familiar and some alarmingly strange. Thirty-seven people had come to stand vigil over the coffin of Professor Cornelius Whitmore, who had detested society with the sort of scholarly zeal reserved for those who viewed human company as an unfortunate impediment to intellectual pursuits.

Thirty-seven.

Far too many.

Her uncle had not been a man of the world; he had been a man of parchment and candlelight, of lonely vigils over forgotten manuscripts. Why, then, did his grave attract so many?

Did he know more people than he let on, or did these so-called mourners have an ulterior motive?

Penelope’s brows knitted beneath the veil as her hazel eyes swept over the assembly. A cluster of elderly dons from Cambridge huddled together like old crows against the downpour, their dark coats soaked to the knees, as their umbrellas were no match for the sideways-lashing rain.

Two matrons, acquaintances of her uncle’s late wife stood stiffly beneath black umbrellas, lips pursed against the wet. She spotted her cousin and family solicitor, Thomas Whitmore, who offered her a tight, pinched smile before returning to his murmured conference with a stranger. And there were others, far too many others, men and women she had never seen before in her life, their solemn faces inscrutable.

She could not ask them. Not yet.

The rector’s voice rose over the storm, but Penelope barely heard his words. Her mind drifted back to the last weeks of her uncle’s life, his sudden unease, the nervous way he had taken to locking the library door even when she was inside, the moments when she had caught him staring at her with something that looked unnervingly like fear.

Do not trust them, my girl, he had said one evening, his frail hand closing over hers as they sat by the library fire. Not everyone has honorable intentions.

She had thought at the time that his mind must be wandering. Surely he had always taught her that they should see the good in people? Now, she was not so certain.

The rain intensified, drumming against her bonnet with an almost punishing force. Penelope straightened her spine against the urge to shiver. She would not give way, not here, not before so many strangers. She opened her umbrella to stave off the worst of the deluge. Her mind had been too muddied by shock to think of it until now.

It was then that she saw him.

A figure apart, standing near the wrought-iron gates of the churchyard.

The Duke of Sterndale.

Adrian Sterling was a man who required no introduction. Even had she not heard the whispered tales of duels and scars, of a ruined brother and a monster who haunted the halls of Sterndale Castle and Sterling House like a vengeful ghost she would have recognized him instantly.

He stood tall, broad-shouldered beneath a long, dark coat that flared slightly in the wind, his presence commanding in a way that made the other mourners instinctively step aside out of veneration or fear. Rain slicked his dark hair that he kept shorter than the current fashion, emphasizing the hard planes of his face and the livid scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw, a jagged reminder of some past violence, now transformed into legend by gossiping tongues.

They called him the Devil’s Duke.

And yet, as Penelope’s gaze met his across the cemetery, she felt no chill of fear. His gray eyes piercing, almost unnervingly so, held hers for the briefest of moments. Something passed between them then, unspoken yet undeniably real. Was it an acknowledgment? A recognition of shared grief, perhaps or even of shared isolation?

The rector’s words faded into silence, and the mourners began to shift, a ripple of movement that brought her back to the present. The coffin was lowered into the waiting earth. Penelope’s throat tightened as the first shovelful of soil struck the polished oak with a dull, final thud.

Cornelius Whitmore, her guardian, her mentor, and her last true family was gone.

She would not cry. Not here. But the effort to tamp down her feelings required a great deal of inner strength. 

What will I do without him?

Her gloved fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts as though she could hold herself together by sheer force of will.

“Miss Whitmore.”

The low, refined voice at her shoulder startled her.

She turned to see Lord Edmund Thornfield, a man of moderate academic renowned and considerable social charm and his dark hair immaculately styled as though impervious to the storm. He reached out without hesitation, capturing her gloved hands in both of his.

“I am so deeply grieved for your loss.” His tone was perfectly measured, though his touch lingered too long.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, more quietly than intended, as she tried to reclaim her hand.

“Your uncle was a man of rare brilliance,” Edmund said, shifting his stance until his tall frame shielded her from the others. The overly familiar move struck her as more territorial than protective. “It is not only his family that mourns him today, but the whole of the academic community. Few men possessed his devotion to uncovering truths long thought lost.”

The words should have comforted her. Instead, they felt rehearsed and somewhat insincere. 

“You and he worked closely together, did you not?” she asked.

“Indeed. He often shared the progress of his research with me. Though…” Edmund’s lips curved in a practiced display of hesitation. “I suppose no one was closer to him than the Duke of Sterndale.”

Penelope blinked. “The duke?”

“Oh yes,” Edmund said, following her glance toward the gates. “They maintained a lively correspondence for fifteen years. It began with your uncle’s lectures at Cambridge and continued well after the duke’s…withdrawal from society. They wrote of medieval matters most dismissed as mere folklore, treasures and codes, if you can imagine. Quite an odd pairing, a reclusive peer and a don…but then, as I’m sure you’re no doubt aware, the duke has always been somewhat…peculiar.” He sniggered as if he had just relayed a most amusing joke rather than a jab at the duke’s and indeed, her uncle’s expense.

She did not answer, though her mind whirled. Adrian Sterling was her uncle’s pupil? She had known Cornelius kept company with former students through letters, but not once had the duke’s name ever passed his lips.

Why would he keep their friendship a secret if indeed that was what it was? 

Her uncle had never been one to fall prey to the gossip of the ton, and he certainly wouldn’t hide an acquaintance he admired, no matter what other people thought, but she had never so much as heard the duke’s name pass his lips.

A strange heat rose to her cheeks at the revelation. For fifteen years, her uncle had shared the kind of intellectual companionship she so often craved with a man society had named a beast.

“Your uncle was so very proud of you,” Edmund said softly, breaking her reverie as he leaned just close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath despite the chill. “He often spoke of your own talents with languages. He believed you might one day surpass even his achievements.”

Her throat constricted. Compliments from strangers meant little, but hearing Cornelius’s faith in her abilities repeated aloud pierced something tender in her chest.

“Thank you for your kind words,” she whispered, finally reclaiming her hand.

The cemetery had nearly emptied. Only the gravediggers lingered at a distance.

She turned for one final look at her uncle’s grave.

When she looked up, her eyes found him.

Adrian Sterling.

Standing still at the gates, rain running over his scarred face, unflinching. His gaze held hers, unspoken and unreadable, and for a moment, the storm, the grave, the whole of the world, fell away.

She inclined her head. A simple acknowledgment, nothing more.

“Penelope,” said Thomas, his tone gentle. “It is time.”

She tore her gaze from the duke’s and allowed her to cousin lead her to the waiting carriage where Charlotte, her dearest friend, sat pale and silent in her mourning clothes. Penelope greeted her with a small, sympathetic smile.

As she climbed inside, Penelope could not resist one last glance over her shoulder.

The Duke of Sterndale had not moved.

His gaze remained fixed upon her form, wholly unbroken.

 

***

 

Adrian Sterling did not follow the mourners to their waiting carriages. He remained by the iron gates long after the last umbrella disappeared into the gray blur of the storm, as unmoving as the yews that lined the churchyard.

Rain was nothing to him. It plastered his hair to his brow, ran in channels upon the sharp, sculpted lines of his scarred countenance and soaked the shoulders of his coat until the fabric clung like a second skin but he did not move.

In his pocket, the letter burned.

Three pages of trembling script, written in Cornelius Whitmore’s once-steady hand. A final plea from the only man who had managed, in those early Cambridge years, to see Adrian as something other than a title or a curiosity.

Protect her, Adrian. She is in danger. Trust no one but yourself.

That much he could not escape; those words had seared themselves into his memory. Yet there had been more hints of matters half-explained, of work unfinished, of enemies unnamed. Phrases such as the truth lies buried with the old kings’ and ‘those who seek it will not hesitate to kill for it’ lingered in his mind, stark and uncomfortably melodramatic for a man as rational as Cornelius.

He had read those words a dozen times and cursed them just as often.

 Had the old man been losing his mind? 

He didn’t want to believe it, but it had seemed so out of character for a man who had always been so stoic, and so strong. He hadn’t been failing. He had been scared. 

What had he known that he couldn’t say in person?

Adrian Sterling was not one to play the hero. He had not tried to be heroic for six long years, not since Marcus’s death.

And yet, here he was.

His gaze had followed Penelope Whitmore as she stood by the grave, her black veil clinging damply to the contours of her face. She had not been what he had expected. Cornelius had spoken of his niece often, with fondness and admiration, but Adrian had imagined a timid creature, bookish to the point of awkwardness, cowed by the weight of her uncle’s formidable intellect.

Instead, he saw a woman of quiet and resolute strength.

Even in her grief, there was a poise about her a steadiness he had not thought to find in someone so young and so recently bereaved. She stood rooted to the sodden earth as though she belonged there, as though the storm might batter but would never unmake her. Many women he had known would have fainted or wept with abandon, leaning upon others for support; although she had endured far too much practice at such somber events, Penelope Whitmore faced the burial of her last living relative with a dignity that was almost regal.

Adrian’s eyes had traced the delicate lines of her face where the veil had plastered itself to her skin, the graceful arch of her brows, the determined set of her mouth. Chestnut hair, loosened from her bonnet by the weather, had clung to her cheeks in damp curls, softening features that might otherwise have been considered too composed under the circumstances. 

Unlike the other simpering women who made the right noises only to whisper openly and unkindly about him, she was no painted doll of the ton offering disingenuous grief for the sake of display. 

No…there was something real about her.

That truthfulness, that calm amid the deluge, stirred something within his hardened heart he’d thought long gone.

The petty beauties of London society had never failed to fill him with a decided distaste, creatures who fluttered their fans and feigned sensibilities while whispering poison behind gloved hands. They had called him a monster, the devil, and a murderer, each name offered with wide, false eyes and honeyed tongues. Yet here was a woman who did not glance away from his scar, whose gaze did not falter when their eyes met.

She had seen him and had neither flinched nor fled, despite the stories she must have heard. Perhaps her uncle had given her reason to believe that he was not the beast society presented him as, but there was no reason for her to believe him. He was well aware that the negative views of the gossipy ton outweighed the positive.

Adrian Sterling, who had long been a stranger to admiration, found it kindling unexpectedly in his chest.

He thought of Cornelius’s words…protect her and for the first time since the letter had arrived, the plea did not feel like a burden.

Chapter Two

 

The house had never seemed so large before.

Penelope moved through its silent corridors with the slow, deliberate tread of one walking through a dream, the muted creak of the floorboards beneath her slippers magnified in the hush that followed the day’s mournful ceremony. 

Charlotte had retired some hours earlier, pleading fatigue, though Penelope suspected that her companion had wished to grant her solitude. Solitude was precisely what she thought she wanted. And yet now, in the darkened halls, the absence of company pressed upon her with an almost suffocating weight.

A single candlestick lit her way, its narrow flame wavering as the wind found every crack and crevice in the old house. It sputtered once as a sudden gust rattled the windows, casting a skittering shadow across the wainscoted walls, and she gripped the brass holder more tightly, as though sheer determination could protect its glow from the encroaching dark.

The storm that had drenched the mourners in the churchyard had not entirely abated; it still hissed against the shutters and moaned through the eaves like a restless spirit.

Her destination lay ahead, its door closed as it had been since the day they carried her uncle’s body out of the house. Cornelius Whitmore’s study. His sanctuary.

She paused at the threshold, as if expecting to hear his voice from within, a wry greeting, a gentle admonishment for disturbing his work, the familiar dry humor that had been the balm of her lonely girlhood. But no such sound came. Only the wind, the quiet drip of rainwater from the eaves, and the distant groan of the settling house.

With a breath that shivered in her throat, she pushed open the door.

The scent struck her first. The familiar mingling of pipe tobacco, old leather bindings, and the faint sharpness of ink, a fragrance that belonged to Cornelius as much as his voice or his wit. It was as though the walls themselves exhaled his memory, as though the room resisted the notion of his absence.

The study appeared untouched, preserved as if its occupant had merely stepped out for a moment. Books lay in carefully cultivated disarray across every surface, stacked high upon the massive walnut desk, haphazardly perched on the arms of chairs, and even balanced precariously on the sill of the tall, rain-streaked windows. The very embodiment of brilliant disorder, expertly governed. 

Ancient manuscripts with their vellum pages mottled with age, lay sprawled open beside more recent tomes. The margins of each were crammed with her uncle’s densely scrawled academic annotations. She could almost hear his voice in those notes, muttering his thoughts as he worked, pausing only to tamp down the bowl of his pipe before returning to whatever medieval riddle consumed his attention.

You have no idea what you have until it is gone, Penelope thought sadly, and despite the fact that she was no stranger to loss, it never got any easier. The shock was still the same time after time.

The great Persian rug that covered the floor was worn thin in the places where his restless pacing had carved faint paths. The hearth, though cold now, bore the ashen remnants of a fire last tended by his hand, a faint, gray ghost of warmth clinging stubbornly to its edges. Penelope couldn’t bring herself to see it cleared out. These were the remnants of him; the last remaining part of her beloved uncle left to cling onto in this world.

His favorite chair, the high-backed, leather winged seat that had dwarfed her as a child when she sat curled in its corner still held the impression of his form, or so her grief-tired mind wished to believe. If she closed her eyes, she could still visualize him sitting there in her mind’s eye. If she closed the door, she could still imagine him working away in here; pretend that he was out of sight but only a whisper away.

Penelope stepped into the room, feeling as though she trespassed upon some sacred space. The candlestick trembled slightly in her grasp, throwing erratic shadows that danced across the towering bookcases lining the walls, their shelves groaning beneath the weight of knowledge collected across a lifetime.

How many hours had she spent here, kneeling by that very desk as he guided her through some tangled translation or illuminated the subtleties of medieval iconography? It had been within these walls that he had nurtured her mind, treating her intellect as something to be sharpened and treasured, rather than a curiosity to be subdued. The study had been their world both hers and Cornelius’s, untouched by the expectations of society.

And now that world felt unbearably empty. She was completely alone.

Her gaze fell upon the desk, where the usual clutter had taken on an uncharacteristic disorder. Cornelius had been a man of eccentric habits, yes, but never of carelessness. 

At one time, Penelope had no doubt that Cornelius would have been able to lay his hands on anything in this room in no time at all. Although he had become less ordered in recent months, she knew he had a system. To the outsider, it made little sense, but to Cornelius, everything here had its place. His papers, though abundant, were always arranged according to some private logic, his work always methodical despite its apparent chaos. 

Tonight, however, she saw no method ,only disruption. Scattered notes lay atop one another without discernible order, as though they had been abandoned in haste. Several books gaped open, their spines cracked and pages dog-eared in a way her uncle would never have tolerated.

And there, placed atop the disarray as if demanding her attention, lay a single envelope.

Her breath caught.

Even before she touched it, she recognized the familiar hand, the sharply slanted, economical script of a man who had written more words in his lifetime than some had spoken. Her name, Miss Penelope Whitmore, stared back at her in black ink, each letter firm yet somehow weaker than his usual definitive quill strokes.

The wax seal, once a mark of her uncle’s dignified precision, told a different story. It had been pressed in haste, its edges smudged by fingerprints. Crooked. Imperfect. Cornelius Whitmore had been many things, but careless was not one of them.

Dread coiled in her stomach as she reached for the letter. The paper was cool against her fingers, slightly crumpled at the edges as though it had been handled more than once before it reached her. Her thumb traced the broken impression of the seal, a hastily pressed emblem that bore the unmistakable tremor of its maker’s hand.

He had been frightened. Truly frightened. What was happening to you, Uncle Cornelius, and why didn’t you tell me?

She sank into his chair, which felt too large and empty without his presence. She drew a long, steadying breath before breaking the seal. The candlelight trembled across the page as she unfolded it, the scratch of the paper unsettlingly loud in the quiet room.

My dearest Penelope,

Her eyes blurred, though she blinked the tears away.

If you are reading this, then my time has come sooner than I had hoped, and I am sorry for the situation in which you now find yourself. I had prayed for the luxury of more days to prepare you, but providence has not seen fit to grant them.

Her fingers clenched the page.

You must not trust those who come to you with smiles and soft words, my girl. Dangerous men seek what I have spent my life pursuing. They are relentless, and they will show you no mercy if they believe you possess even a fragment of what they want. Guard yourself well, for their reach is long, and their patience longer still.

Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.

There is one, and only one, whom you may trust should darkness gather. Go to Adrian Sterling, the Duke of Sterndale. Of all men, he alone possesses both the strength and the honor to protect what matters most. You know him by reputation, no doubt, society has named him a beast, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. I tell you, Penelope, they are wrong. He is the only nobleman I have met who values knowledge above title, and who can be trusted to do what is right when all others would turn away.

Her eyes darted back to the first line, as though by reading the words again she might make sense of them. The Duke of Sterndale. Adrian Sterling.

The Devil’s Duke.

Society called him a monster. She had seen him with her own eyes only hours ago, a figure cut from storm and shadow, his scarred face and forbidding presence enough to chill the marrow of even the boldest of souls. And yet Cornelius, her Cornelius, who had judged men with an astuteness few could rival, had written of him with respect. Even admiration.

Her hand tightened around the page.

The work is unfinished, but you are ready. More ready than you know. Continue where I have left off, but do not do so alone. Trust no one else, Penelope. No one but him.

The rest of the letter dissolved into references she could scarcely comprehend at first glance, phrases about the old kings and the truths buried with them, fragments of research that sounded more like the opening lines of one of her uncle’s beloved Arthurian texts than a dying man’s plea.

She pressed the letter to her lap and stared into the candle flame, her thoughts a tangle of grief, fear, and disbelief.

What work was he referring to and why hadn’t he clarified what he needed her to do? Was he so afraid that he didn’t dare record his thoughts in case they fell into the wrong hands?

And the Devil’s Duke? Her uncle had entrusted her safety and his life’s work to the very man polite society crossed the street to avoid?

Cornelius Whitmore had been no fool about character.

If he had written these words with trembling hands and hurried strokes, then the danger he spoke of was real. And if he had chosen Adrian Sterling as her guardian in the darkness, then perhaps the Devil’s Duke was not the monster everyone claimed him to be.

The letter trembled in her grasp when she heard the sound.

At first, she thought it was only the wind, the restless storm that had battered the house all evening, still worrying at the shutters like an uninvited guest. But no. This was different. Distinct.

Heavy footsteps sounded nearby.

The unmistakable weight of boots crossing the floorboards of the corridor beyond.

Penelope froze, her very breath locking in her throat. At this hour, the house should have been silent; Charlotte had long since retired, and her cousin Thomas had departed once he’d ensured her safe return from the churchyard. Every servant had been dismissed to their quarters. And yet…

Someone was there.

Each footfall came slowly, deliberately, as if the intruder had no need to hurry, no fear of being discovered. The boards groaned beneath their measured tread, drawing closer. Closer still.

Her hand flew to the candle, and with a sharp, panicked puff she extinguished the flame. Darkness consumed the study, broken only by the faint silver wash of moonlight that spilled through the rain-streaked windows. Her heart thundered so loudly she thought it would surely betray her presence.

Move, Penelope.

She groped blindly for something to defend herself and her fingers found the iron poker resting by the cold hearth. It was a poor defense, absurd even, but the smooth, solid weight of it gave her a sliver of courage.

The footsteps stopped.

She strained to hear, every nerve taut with dreadful anticipation. For one long, unbearable moment, the corridor was silent save for the sigh of the wind. Then…

The doorknob turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping as the latch gave way with a soft click and the door creaked open on reluctant hinges.

A figure entered, framed in the doorway by a brief flash of lightning.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Masked.

Even in the half-light, she could make out the glint of dark fabric stretched over his face, concealing every feature save for the pale gleam of his eyes. They flicked once around the room, quick and assessing before the intruder stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with quiet precision.

His stride was confident and unhurried, as though this intrusion was not strange to him. He crossed to her uncle’s desk without hesitation, bypassing the books and clutter as though he had navigated this very room countless times before.

Penelope crouched lower behind the arm of the great leather chair, clutching the poker so tightly that her hands ached. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee into the corridor and wake Charlotte, or rouse the servants, but her legs refused to obey. She remained rooted, powerless, as the stranger went about his work.

And work it was.

The intruder did not fumble or search blindly. He rifled through Cornelius’s drawers with the systematic efficiency of one who knew precisely what he sought. Papers were lifted, skimmed, and discarded with quick, practiced movements. Occasionally he paused, tilting his head as though cross-referencing some private memory of the room’s contents.

This was no common thief.

Penelope’s breath came in shallow, measured pulls, her mind racing through her uncle’s letter. 

Dangerous men seek what I have spent my life pursuing…

Her fingers tightened around the poker. She had thought the letter the final ramblings of an overworked scholar, colored by fatigue and paranoia. But no, Cornelius had been right to be afraid.

And so, it seemed, should she.

The stranger moved to the low drawers on the right-hand side of the desk, pulling them open in rapid succession. He knew the room, but his search lacked the respect of a scholar or a friend. There was a ruthlessness in his movements, a cold precision that spoke of desperation.

Who was this man, and what on earth could he be looking for?

Penelope shifted slightly, desperate for a better view.

The ancient floorboard beneath her foot betrayed her.

It groaned with a sharp, traitorous creak, the sound splitting the silence like a pistol shot.

The intruder reacted with animal quickness.

He spun toward the sound, his hand darting to the edge of his coat as though reaching for some hidden weapon. Their gazes met for a fraction of a heartbeat, hers wide with terror, his narrowed with cold, calculating alertness.

Then he bolted.

Not toward her. Not toward the door.

Toward the window.

Penelope barely had time to rise before he was across the room. With a swift, fluid motion, he threw open the sash and climbed through into the storm-lashed night beyond.

She rushed to the window in time to see his dark form vanish into the garden below, swallowed by shadow and the pounding rain.

The wind howled through the open frame, scattering several loose papers from the desk across the floor. Penelope clutched at the window ledge, staring into the impenetrable dark of the grounds, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts.

He was gone.

Gone…but not without leaving a mark.

The study lay in disarray, the once-sacred space violated by an intruder who had moved with the confidence of familiarity. The drawers hung open like gaping mouths, their contents strewn in careless disorder. Books lay scattered across the rug, their pages crumpled and damp where the rain had begun to creep inside.

Her uncle’s warnings echoed in her mind with terrible clarity.

Guard yourself well, for their reach is long…Trust no one but Adrian Sterling.

She lowered herself slowly into the chair, her limbs trembling with delayed shock. The poker clattered from her grip, forgotten.

This was no scholarly paranoia.

Cornelius Whitmore had known that his work, whatever its true nature had drawn the attention of dangerous men. Men willing to violate his home, his sanctum, even after his death.

And now they were here.

Her gaze swept the wreckage of the desk. The letter lay safe in her lap, but many of Cornelius’s notes had been disturbed. She stooped to retrieve the scattered papers, her heart pounding as her fingers brushed against Cornelius’s work pages smudged and creased, ink running where the damp had kissed them. One lay half-hidden beneath the desk, its edges torn as though ripped from a larger sheaf. She drew it out carefully.

It bore a line in her uncle’s dense hand, written in his characteristic Latin shorthand.

Clavis ultima non in sepulcro iacet, sed in memoria coronae.

Her pulse quickened.

She could make out clavis, a key and sepulcro, a tomb, but the rest resisted her as her anxious mind attempted to process the hurried, almost feverish scrawl. Latin was one of her strengths, but the words felt heavy and disjointed, a fragment of some greater mystery.

Another page caught her eye, this one little more than a list, though no less unsettling for its sparseness:

Templum vetus. Angliae septentrionalis.

Sigillum fractum.

Sterndale.

An old temple…

A broken seal.

And then, that name…Sterndale.

Her gaze darted toward the dark window where the masked figure had fled.

Whatever her uncle had been entangled in, it reached further than she could have imagined.

She pressed the pages to her chest, as though doing so might somehow shield them from the unseen forces that had set this nightmare in motion.

Cornelius had been right.

And she being alone, frightened, and utterly unprepared was now caught in the storm he had left behind.

Chapter Three

 

The morning brought no comfort.

The storm had passed, leaving behind that eerie stillness peculiar to rain-washed streets, but Penelope Whitmore felt none of its cleansing balm as she stepped into the library. If anything, the light of day served only to sharpen the horror of the night before.

The destruction, which in the moonlight had seemed little more than a chaotic scattering, now presented itself with deliberate cruelty. Her uncle’s sanctuary, his kingdom of parchment, ordered shelves and meticulous research had been reduced to a battlefield.

The once-pristine carpets were littered with medieval manuscripts, their fragile pages splayed like wounded soldiers abandoned to their fate. Margins, lovingly annotated in Cornelius’s hand, now bore dark smudges where boots had ground dirt into their delicate fibers. Entire stacks of books had been toppled, some lying open at awkward angles, their spines cracked. Drawers gaped like open mouths, their contents rifled through and strewn without care.

She pressed a hand to her throat, forcing down the surge of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. In daylight, she could no longer cling to the comforting possibility that last night had been some fevered imagining born of grief. No, it had been real. Every detail confirmed it. The masked intruder, the deliberate search, the flight into the storm.

And now, in the stark clarity of morning, she saw what she had been too terrified to believe in the darkness. This had not been mere vandalism. It had been methodical and considered. 

Whoever that man was had been looking for something very specific, and he had been so keen to find it, he had ransacked the place in the dark.

Charlotte entered behind her with the quiet grace Penelope had come to rely upon. Her companion’s gaze swept over the wreckage, and she drew a slow breath, her lips tightening as she crouched to examine the pattern of the destruction.

“This,” Charlotte said softly, “was no common burglary.”

Penelope turned to her, grateful for the calm authority in her voice. “You see it too. I’m not sure how they got in, but we need to secure this room at once.”

Charlotte straightened, her pale brow furrowed in thought. “If they sought valuables, they would have made for the silver or the locks of the strongbox. This…” She gestured to the chaos. “…this is targeted. They knew precisely what they wanted.”

Penelope followed her gaze, and that was when she saw it.

On the reading desk, placed with deliberate precision amid the devastation, lay a single sheet of paper.

In daylight, it was impossible to miss. Would the intruder really have made time to leave a missive? It must have been written before or sent by somebody else.

Her feet carried her forward before she could command them otherwise. The sheet was of fine quality, the vellum thick and heavy beneath her gloved fingers, its edges cleanly cut. The handwriting, firm, elegant, undeniably educated was of the sort used by men accustomed to their commands being obeyed.

Her stomach lurched as she read:

Miss Whitmore,

Your late uncle’s research into ancient treasures is to be surrendered within fourteen days, together with all documents and correspondence pertaining to the matter. Failure to comply will result in consequences most severe for all concerned parties.

Consider this your only warning.

No signature. No flourish. There was only that chilling ultimatum.

Her skin crawled. Whoever had written it had meant for her to feel this creeping dread, a horrid sense of being prey marked for the hunt.

She read it again, slower this time, each word sinking like a stone into her gut. Ancient treasures. So it was not her uncle’s reputation or personal effects they desired was his research. The very work he had warned her about in his final letter.

Cornelius had known. He had known, and he had been terribly afraid.

Charlotte’s hand came to rest lightly on her sleeve. “Penelope,” she said gently, “you are pale. Sit, I beg of you.”

But Penelope could not sit. Her hands shook as she set the letter back on the desk, as though the very paper carried contagion. “They gave us a fortnight.” Her voice sounded distant, even to herself. “Fourteen days to hand over his life’s research. Why would anyone assume we would do that, and what makes them think they have the right?”

Charlotte’s expression hardened. “This is beyond us. We must inform Mr. Whitmore at once.”

“I have already sent word.”

As if conjured by the very utterance of his name, the sound of the hall clock striking ten heralded Thomas’s arrival.

The solicitor entered the room with his usual grace, his measured tread deliberate as he navigated the ruin, careful not to further disturb the scattered manuscripts. He removed his gloves and top hat with practiced motions, his face schooled into its professional mask, though Penelope noted the flicker of concern in his dark eyes as they settled on her.

“My dear cousin,” he said gravely, “I came at once upon receiving your message. But I must confess…” He paused, surveying the room with quiet dismay. “I had not expected this.”

“No one would.” Charlotte’s voice was sharper than Penelope had ever heard it. “Who would do such a thing? Who would attempt to threaten us in such a way?”

Thomas approached the reading desk, his lips pressing into a thin line as he picked up the letter. He read it once, then again, his jaw tightening with each pass.

“This,” he said at last, “is not to be ignored. Whoever wrote it is not only well-educated but well-resourced. This is no idle threat. We must involve the magistrates immediately.”

Penelope had expected such a suggestion. Indeed, some part of her even welcomed it ,surely the proper authorities were the rational choice in the face of such a violation. Yet as Thomas spoke, she felt Cornelius’s words echo through her: Trust no one else, Penelope. No one but him.

The Duke of Sterndale.

She lifted her chin, surprising even herself with the firmness in her tone. “No.”

Thomas blinked. “No?”

“I will not go to the magistrates. How dare anyone try to take what is not rightfully theirs? What makes them believe we will merely succumb to such a demand, and how do they expect us to do so even if we would? We have no idea who sent this.” She stepped forward, meeting his incredulous gaze. “My uncle’s letter was explicit. He trusted no one, save one man. If he placed such faith in that judgment, I must honor it.”

Thomas’s brows knitted together in confusion. “And who, pray, is this singular man whom Professor Whitmore deemed so worthy?”

She drew a steadying breath. “The Duke of Sterndale.”

Her words fell into the room like a thunderclap.

For a moment, no one spoke. Even Charlotte, whose loyalty rarely wavered, seemed struck dumb by the audacity of the declaration.

Thomas recovered first, his astonishment plain. “Sterndale? The Devil’s Duke? Penelope, surely you cannot mean…”

“I do.” She surprised herself with the steel in her voice. “Uncle trusted him. He named him ‘the only nobleman who values knowledge above title’, and ‘the one man in London with both strength and honor to protect what matters.’ If Cornelius believed that, then I cannot disregard it…not now, when his warnings have proved so grievously true.”

Thomas opened his mouth, then closed it again, his composure visibly battling his disbelief.

Charlotte found her voice next, though it wavered between caution and reluctant admiration. “Penelope,” she said softly, “you cannot be certain the duke will even receive you. He has not opened his doors to society in years.”

“Then I shall knock until he does,” Penelope replied, surprising herself with the audacity of the statement.

Her boldness stunned even her own ears. She, who had been content to pass her life in quiet study, now found herself willing to confront the man society called a monster. But what choice did she have?

Cornelius’s final plea was clear: Trust no one else, Penelope. No one but him.

 

***

 

The carriage wheels crunched over the frost-stiffened gravel, their slow progress toward the house feeling more like the approach to judgment than a simple house call.

Sterling House loomed ahead, its gothic façade a vision of solemn magnificence. Blackened stone, tall narrow windows with pointed arches, and weatherworn gargoyles crouching along the roofline, all combined to create a structure that seemed more like a fortress than a residence. The house rose from its grounds like a creature of shadow and memory, ancient and unassailable, its high chimneys coughing faint tendrils of smoke into the wintry sky.

Penelope had read descriptions of such architecture how the style was meant to inspire awe, but here, at the threshold of the Devil’s Duke himself, awe felt perilously close to dread.

She drew her cloak tighter, suppressing the instinct to shrink into herself.

Beside her, Charlotte was pale but composed, her gloved hands folded in her lap with the outward serenity of a woman attempting to hide her racing pulse. Across from them, Thomas adjusted his cravat with unnecessary precision, his solicitor’s mask firmly in place though his gaze betrayed his unease.

Penelope could not blame him. She herself felt as though every turn of the carriage wheel tightened some invisible noose.

The great doors of Sterling House groaned as they opened, revealing a hall beyond of vast proportions and grandeur. Shadows pooled in the high corners where light from a few carefully placed sconces could not reach. The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the faint metallic tang of cold stone.

It suited its master perfectly.

Mrs. Hartwell, the duke’s housekeeper, received them at the entrance with the kind of brisk efficiency that brooked no hesitation. A woman of middle years, she bore herself with the rigid dignity of one who had managed this household through storms far worse than unexpected callers.

“His Grace will be informed of your arrival,” she said with a curt bow of her head once they’d introduced themselves, and given a brief explanation for their unannounced visit. “Please wait here.”

As Thomas and Penelope waited in the foyer, the measured tap of a walking cane on the marble floor drew their attention. A tall, regal woman in a stunning emerald gown advanced from the far end of the corridor, her bearing commanding in a way that reminded Penelope, quite without warning of the duke himself.

Her gaze passed over the party with an assessing weight that required no words. After a brief pause, she gave the faintest inclination of her head to the butler, who immediately moved to ensure refreshments were provided and the guests settled in the drawing room off the main hall. Without another word, the woman disappeared through a side door, leaving in her wake the faint scent of rose attar and an unspoken awareness that she was mistress of her domain.

Though the room was appointed in deep, rich colors, mauve draperies, dark walnut paneling, an Aubusson carpet that softened each footstep, the atmosphere was no less imposing than the façade.

Penelope’s fingers brushed the back of one of the carved chairs as she sat, grounding herself in its solidity. The air here smelled faintly of old parchment and aged wood, a scholar’s scent, but it was unexpectedly comforting.

Charlotte reached for Penelope’s hand, giving it the smallest squeeze. “Courage,” she whispered. She always knew what to say at any given time.

Penelope offered her friend a faint, fleeting smile. She was grateful for her beloved companion’s unwavering support, though her heart was a butterfly’s frantically beating wings, and courage felt very far away.

 

***

 

Adrian Sterling sat in his study, the dim light from a single leaded window casting his scarred profile into stark relief. 

The desk before him was strewn with open volumes, and manuscripts spilling across the dark surface in a riot of vellum and ink that was not dissimilar to the disarray of Cornelius’s study before it had been ransacked. It was a familiar chaos, one that Professor Whitmore would have understood.

When the butler appeared at the door, Adrian did not look up. “What is it, Travers?” His tone carried the low, rough edge of a man accustomed to solitude.

Travers shifted nervously, his fingers worrying at the edge of his livery. “Your Grace… there are visitors.”

Adrian’s quill stilled. His jaw tightened. “Visitors,” he repeated, his voice sinking into a growl. “You should know by now that I do not receive callers without an invitation.”

The butler’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “They said… it is a matter of urgency, Your Grace, to do with an incident at Whitmore House.”

“They?” Adrian’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.

Travers paled beneath the scrutiny, his words faltering. “Miss Whitmore and… and…”

“Enough.” Adrian rose in one fluid motion, the chair scraping sharply against the flagstones. His height alone seemed to fill the room, but his fury lent him an even greater presence.

Travers shrank back as though the air itself had grown too heavy to breathe.

 

***

 

The sound of approaching footsteps reverberated down the hall…deliberate, unhurried, but heavy with purpose.

Thomas stiffened, every inch of him the wary solicitor defending his charge. Charlotte’s grip on Penelope’s hand tightened until it almost hurt.

Penelope’s breath caught.

The Duke of Sterndale appeared in the doorway, his shadow creeping up the wall like some specter conjured from a nightmarish tale. He did not merely enter the room, he occupied it. His presence claimed their surroundings with such force that, for one suspended moment, Penelope could neither think nor move.

He was as she remembered from the graveside. Tall, broad-shouldered, draped in the dark austerity of a man who eschewed frippery. His scar caught the light, a livid reminder of violence past, running from his left temple to his jaw with cruel precision. His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes, icy gray and unrelenting swept over their little group with the predatory assessment of a hawk regarding trespassers in its midst.

Thomas straightened instinctively, squaring his shoulders as if to shield Penelope and Charlotte from that penetrating gaze.

Adrian said nothing. The silence stretched taut, an unspoken test.

Penelope swallowed hard, willing her trembling hands to obey her.

“Your Grace,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I come on behalf of my uncle, Professor Whitmore.”

At the mention of the name, something incomprehensible flickered in Adrian’s eyes.

Penelope reached into her reticule, retrieving the letter she had read so many times it had begun to feel burned into her brain. She rose, her knees unsteady, and stepped forward to place it on the table between them.

Adrian did not immediately touch it. His gaze sharpened, his posture stilled, and the faintest shift, imperceptible to anyone less watchful, softened the rigid lines of his jaw. He studied the folded parchment as though its very creases might betray a falsehood.

Only when he had accepted it did he cross to the window, letting the pale, late winter light fall across the page. His gaze traced the familiar, angular hand, pausing to examine the pressure of the pen, the flourishes of certain capitals that no forger could quite imitate. The cadence of the words precise, economical, and laced with the dry wit of a man who had once corrected his Latin in the margins banished any lingering suspicion.

“Cornelius,” he said, handing the note back to her, his voice low and roughened with memory.

When he spoke again, the words were stripped of the menace that had cloaked his initial silence. “He was my tutor at Cambridge.”

Penelope blinked. “I heard you were acquainted academically.”

Adrian nodded once, still studying the letter as though its folds contained Cornelius’s spirit. “Medieval history. He was… the only one who believed my fascination with such subjects was more than an idle indulgence.”

The hard edges of his demeanor softened further as he set the letter down with deliberate care.

“We kept in touch through correspondence for fifteen years,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Research others dismissed as unprofitable speculation, codes, forgotten texts, the kind of mysteries that keep scholars awake when saner men sleep. Cornelius understood that. His death is a tragic loss.”

Penelope’s throat tightened.

In that moment, she no longer saw the Devil’s Duke, the reclusive peer whose name society spoke in hushed tones. She saw a grieving scholar, a man who had loved her uncle in his own reserved, intellectual way.

Her heart warmed unexpectedly, despite the chill that still clung to her from their journey. 

The fearsome façade had cracked though not entirely, but enough for her to catch a glimpse of the man beneath.

And in that glimpse, she felt the first fragile stirring of trust. Perhaps this was not a man to be feared after all.