The Secrets of Shadows
Table of Contents
THE SECRETS OF SHADOWS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
THE SECRETS OF SHADOWS
TABETHA WAITE
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE SECRETS OF SHADOWS
Copyright©2020
TABETHA WAITE
Cover Design by Taria Reed
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-64716-065-4
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Also by Tabetha Waite
Ways of Love Historical Romance Series
How it All Began for the Baron
(Christmas prequel novella)
Why the Earl is After the Girl (Book 1)
Where the Viscount Met His Match (Book 2)
When a Duke Pursues a Lady (Book 3)
Who the Marquess Dares to Desire (Book 4)
What a Gentleman Does for Love (Book 5)
Season of the Spinster Series
Triana’s Spring Seduction (Book 1)
Novellas
Twelve Gifts by Christmas
Lord Castleford’s Fortunate Folly (Fortunes of Fate #1)
A Lady’s Guide to Marriage
A Promise Beneath the Kissing Bough
Novels
Behind a Moonlit Veil
The Secrets of Shadows
Anthologies
Heyer Society (non-fiction essays)
Lady It’s Cold Outside (Christmas Regency)
Wrapped Up in Love
(Breast Cancer Charity – Contemporary)
Lords, Ladies & Babies –Little Consequences (Regency)
Rogues On My Mind (Regency)
Some Wallflowers Do (Regency)
Short Stories
Love’s Frozen Kiss
Love Out of the Ashes
This story is for anyone who has felt
the sting of being different.
Remember, you are not alone.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the RWA Hearts Through History chapter group, for without their contest, Romance Through the Ages, I might never have had the opportunity to work with Debby and her fabulous team at Soul Mate Publishing. I’m grateful for each chance I get to have my voice heard and to faithfully represent the romance genre.
‘There are some who claim that London is a city of great opportunity—but that is a falsehood quickly realized. I myself had been under this misconception, being a bright, hopeful, young woman seeking fulfillment in another country, but alas, all that greeted me at journey’s end was further misery and turmoil. I knew I wasn’t alone in this denial of one’s fate, for there are many here like me, although this knowledge is of little comfort as I unwillingly succumb to this prison I have made for myself.
Days have slowly turned into weeks—the weeks into months, until I have become a hollow shell of that former girl from France. So many times I look in the mirror and do not recognize her anymore, sure that she never even existed.’
— Excerpt from the journals of Cosette du Bouir, December, 1759
Chapter 1
Just outside London, England
Mid-January 1760
‘Fais ce que tu voudras.’
That was the inscription scrawled in stained glass above the entranceway of the former Medmenham Abbey. Latin in origin, its meaning was—Do What Thou Wilt.
And how appropriate it was.
No other quote could sufficiently express the infamous nature of the Hellfire Club, or its members’ carnal lust for flesh and debauchery. Davien Elswood, the current Duke of Blackburn, hailed as such from a long and revered familial line, had intimate knowledge of these ceremonial gatherings, for he had condemned himself to be a part of their rites—a mere beast destined to partake of the depravity laid out for him like a sacrificial offering. The whole procedure sickened him—from the orgies, to the pagan rituals, right down to the white silk robe that every Brother was made to wear—all but the Abbott, who was cloaked in red.
Davien wandered over to one of the tower’s dark windows to find a moment’s reprieve from that evening’s entertainment, where their latest female appointed was tied down naked to a crude, wooden table and feasted on in a variety of ways. A loud guffaw sounded, followed by a deep-throated moan, but Davien’s black, fathomless eyes stared unflinchingly at the icy rain pelting the glass; the deep recesses of the River Thames beyond. The occupants of the two-story, stone edifice remained warm, ensconced inside its wicked walls, as a sudden blast of freezing wind caused the bare trees outside to sway precariously.
Perhaps it was Davien’s imagination taking flight, but this winter storm seemed particularly ruthless. But not even the fury Mother Nature unleashed could compare to Davien’s own, stark mood. So many times, since his return to England six months ago, had he stood in this very spot and desired to be anywhere else but here, living this life of vice and sin.
So why stay?
He narrowed his obsidian glare, clenching his jaw until it ached, for he knew that answer. He was already intended for purgatory, and this place was simply another stepping stone on the road to his descent into hell. Twenty years ago, he had begun that gradual slide into utter darkness never knowing that one, fateful evening would seal his fate.
Davien flexed his hand, and resisted the urge to run it through his thick, black hair, free of an ado
rning wig or powder, as so many of his comrades preferred.
How many times had he sworn not to go down this same path, yet still he submitted himself to the horror again and again? At seven and thirty, he’d lived with these tortured memories for years, the experience of that dark night turning him into an empty void. After years of searching for answers, he’d finally returned to England and his estate in the hopes of finding some semblance of peace until the blessed moment death came to claim him.
That’s when Sir Frances Dashwood had approached him with a proposition . . .
Davien sensed the hand on his shoulder before the other man actually touched him. He instantly spun around and grabbed the intruder in his tight grasp. “I’ve told you never to approach me when my back was turned,” he growled without a hint of apology.
John Wilkes raised a neutral hand. Giving a shaky laugh, the action betraying his easy manner and pale face, he said, “No harm done. I was merely sent to tell you that you have been specifically requested by one of the women.” After giving Davien a quick once-over, he murmured a bit more boldly, “By the looks of you, I would suggest more than one.”
Instead of taking the fellow Brother up on the offer, Davien released him, and then spun on his heel. “Another time, perhaps. Give Dashwood my regards."
John was left to gape at Davien’s retreating form as he exited the tower and made his way down the winding, spiral staircase. When he threw the door open and began walking across the sodden earth, feeling the sting of the rain upon his face, he felt that he could finally breathe. But while some of the tension had eased somewhat, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He was helpless to escape from what was always there, the darkness that always lurked, and that would follow him until the end of time. He’d traveled to the ends of the earth and back in search of the light, but it was always just out of his grasp.
Davien climbed into his coach. He issued a curt order to his driver before they sped off into the night.
~ ~ ~
Dashwood looked out the same colored window that Davien had left so abruptly. Flanking him were two more officers of the Order of the Friars. They silently watched Davien’s departure with concern.
“I’m beginning to worry about Blackburn,” one man observed. “His attentiveness during the last few sessions has been declining rather considerably.”
“Indeed,” the second comrade agreed. “Should we act?”
Frances held up a silencing hand, his gaze shrewd and calculating. “Not at this time, although I believe he should be watched carefully. We wouldn’t want the Order to be disrupted.”
The other two men bowed their heads. “It shall be done, Your Eminence.”
Chapter 2
Cosette du Bouir lifted her face to the sky, where a chilly, Heavenly shower was pouring down. She loved the rain, relished the fact that it was pure and free of the smoke and filth from the city. The simple joy of washing with fresh water was a luxury few and far between. What she wouldn't give to bottle up a jug of it and take it to the cramped workhouse she lived in to use for her next bath.
Heaving a sigh, Cosette clutched her knapsack full of thread and miscellaneous sewing material. She knew she must get back in order to start this arduous project before any more time lapsed. Darkness had set in long ago, and if she were to get these dresses finished for Madame Louvre to earn an extra shilling or two, she shouldn't waste one precious minute. Such frivolities as playing in the rain were something she could ill afford. She would gain little sleep as it was, staying up half the night making dresses for London’s spoiled debutantes. Whereas the morning would bring the tedious task of oakum picking, her hands constantly raw from the coarse hemp rope just so she could earn a small ration of food and an uncomfortable night tossing about on a bed of straw at the House of Perpetual Hope at Bishopsgate.
She forced herself to slow her step, ignoring the slight chill that seeped into her bones as she let the drizzle saturate her worn, woolen cloak. She imagined another life, one other than the poverty stricken existence she was cursed with. Then again, when you were an infant left on the doorstep of a Catholic orphanage in France, there was little you could do but survive.
Absently, she touched the silver locket that hung around her neck. Other than this single adornment, she had no link whatsoever to her past. The necklace itself held no clue, for there were no portraits within and only a vague inscription on the back that read, ‘To Mine . . . Be Mine.’ She’d always kept the small hope that someday, it would be the key to unlock the mystery of her true identity, but as the years had passed, she had started to give up the hope of ever learning where she truly belonged.
As she came up on the banks of the Thames, Cosette paused to look out over the black, inky waters. A gust of wind had her pulling her threadbare cloak tighter, as if the action could further protect her from the growing storm. Even then, she invited the cold to penetrate her brain, so that she might grow numb to the realities of her life. But when the guilt of lingering too long overcame all else, she reluctantly began to walk briskly in the direction of the workhouse, preparing herself for a long, sleepless night.
Lost in thought, Cosette didn’t notice the black coach until it came barreling around a corner. She froze in fear, her lungs faltering, as her gaze riveted on those rippling muscles that drew steadily closer. The horses, four midnight black stallions, reacted in immediate surprise at something blocking their path. They threw their powerful forelegs in the air, their razor-sharp hooves pawing at nothing, while puffs of heavy smoke poured from their nostrils.
The driver of the coach, noticing the danger, pulled back hard on the reins. He struggled to take charge, the entire conveyance finally coming to a shuddering stop. The horses were still breathing heavily, anxious as they pranced in place, mere feet from where she stood.
Cosette watched, spellbound, as the carriage door creaked open. A silver-headed cane preceded a tall silhouette. He stepped to the ground looking like the devil himself as he stood beside his carriage, dressed entirely in black. But it was his hollow, dark eyes that caused panic to abruptly take hold.
When he took a step toward her, she turned and ran, fear giving her feet wings. She dared not look behind her as she fled, easily imagining the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the wet cobblestones after her. She ran past brick houses and shops closed for the night. Her stays began to tighten like a vice but still she ran from the terror that threatened, until her lungs felt as if they might burst if she drew another breath. She wasn’t sure how long she was in flight, but when stars began to dance in front of her vision, she veered into Hyde Park.
Something grabbed hold of her cloak.
Cosette felt a scream rise up in her throat as she struggled with her captor. She fought a wave of terror, flailing about like a mouse caught in a trap, until a worn section of her cloak ripped away. She instantly spun around, nearly fainting in relief as her vision finally caught up to her petrified brain. There, flapping like some sort of brazen flag on the low hanging branch of a tree was the damning piece of her shredded cloak, the material still in its grasp.
She held a palm to her breast to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. Now that the threat had passed, she took a moment to inspect the damage to her cloak with a sigh. It had already been repaired more times than she could count, for Lord only knew she couldn’t purchase a new one.
After chiding herself for her skittish nature, Cosette snatched the material from the branch and bent to retrieve her bag of sewing supplies, only to find it was nowhere to be found. She was sure she’d been in possession of it before her flight away from the carriage, but perhaps she’d dropped it during her fight with the tree. She glanced around to search for it, only to feel her blood slowly recede.
A shadowy, male figure stood a short distance away.
Cosette felt her knees go weak. She swal
lowed, taking in the perfectly tailored attire with the stylish greatcoat and its many capes. He eschewed the popular fashion that many men preferred of the day, wearing full-length breeches, and instead of buckled shoes, he wore black boots normally found on the feet of Hessian soldiers. But Cosette knew it wasn’t this man’s clothing that she found so arresting. It was those haunting, obsidian eyes that appeared to bore right through her soul.
As if he had no soul of his own.
He didn’t say a word, just leaned against the tree that had snagged her cloak; one leg crooked just slightly at the knee, appearing completely at ease. And while she could have sworn he hadn’t been there a moment ago, that wasn’t nearly as alarming as what happened next. She watched, transfixed, as he brought forth his left hand and swung it slowly back and forth. A ruby, signet ring danced on his pinkie finger as he taunted her with the very thing she desired.
Her bag.
~ ~ ~
Davien watched the indecision warring on her face as she contemplated what to do. It was obvious that whatever was inside this bag was important to her, but he could smell her fear on the wind, and it was keeping her at a firm distance. He should just give it to her and be done; return to his miserable existence and not give her a second thought.
And yet . . .
There was something about her that called to him. She was different from the rest. He could feel it. While he had taken notice of plenty of females before, in an effort to appease his animal pleasures and satiate the beast inside of him, he had never bothered to give any particular one a second glance.
So why was he hesitating with her?