Page 19 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

It was unguarded at the moment—the circling guard still a few minutes away from this spot.

The lock yielded to his skilled touch, and he slipped inside, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The house was quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from what sounded like the servants’ quarters.

Gideon moved like a ghost through the corridors, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the polished floors. He had memorized the layout of the house from previous reconnaissance—Norfolk’s study was on the second floor, overlooking the garden.

The study. That’s where he assumed Norfolk kept his secrets.

Gideon took the stairs two at a time, every sense alert for the approach of servants or guards. His pulse quickened as he reached the landing. The study door was locked firmly. He made quick work of the lock and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

He approached the desk and easily found a candle and a tinderbox. With a lit candle in hand, his eyes immediately began scanning the room: a heavy oak desk, leather-bound books lining the walls, and portraits of stern-faced ancestors glaring down at him.

The desk was fairly neat, with only a few mundane documents lining its surface.

He searched the bookcase for hidden pockets containing secret documents but found nothing.

Next, he examined the portraits and discovered a safe behind one, which had a surprisingly easy lock to pick.

It seemed Norfolk was not as secretive as the late Wolverstone.

Gideon unlocked the safe with ease and brought a heap of documents to the man’s desk, his trained eyes quickly cataloging what he found: shipping manifests with suspicious cargo listings and letters bearing official seals that discussed matters far removed from legitimate government business.

Gideon’s hands shook slightly as he lifted one of the letters, scanning its contents.

The elegant handwriting detailed arrangements for “special cargo” and “acquisitions” that made his stomach turn—young women described like livestock and destinations across Europe where they would be “distributed to appropriate buyers.”

As he read further, one thing became evident quickly: Norfolk was receiving orders, not giving them. Every document pointed to him as a lieutenant, a trusted subordinate carrying out the wishes of someone else—someone higher up the chain of command.

Someone calling himself The Cardinal.

And unless Norfolk had developed a personal friendship with the Pope’s inner circle, and that inner circle was extremely rotten, those letters weren’t from Rome; they were from the Brotherhood.

Damn it. Norfolk wasn’t the head of this serpent—he was just another coil in its massive body.

Gideon forced himself to focus, pushing down the rage that threatened to cloud his judgment.

He rifled through the desk drawers, finding more shipping documents, more correspondence, and more evidence of a network that stretched across countries.

Charities serving as fronts, shipping companies with legitimate faces hiding monstrous purposes.

Lucky for him, Norfolk wasn’t at all circumspect.

A sound from the hallway made him freeze—footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. A guard making rounds?

Gideon quickly selected the most damning documents: the letters from The Cardinal and other papers he hadn’t had the chance to read yet. He tucked them inside the waistband of his breeches, doused the candle, and waved away the smoke.

The footsteps paused outside the study door.

Gideon stilled until the footsteps continued down the hall. The guard hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

Gideon allowed himself one last look around the study, memorizing details he might need later. He replaced the portrait over the safe and slipped out, retracing his path through the darkened corridors.

He quickly reached the safety of the street and found his horse.

After untethering the animal, he swung into the saddle, the documents crackling softly against his skin as he moved.

Next stop: Leila’s temporary residence.

He knew where she stayed because his carriage driver had taken her home after her carriage broke down that stormy night.

As dawn broke, the house came into view. He pondered what excuse he would use to see the Pasha. Should he say his wife was sick and that he had come himself instead of sending a servant?

No, that didn’t feel right.

Should he bribe the Pasha to leave England immediately? He realized he would have to improvise.

But as Gideon approached the house, something pricked at his consciousness like a thorn.

The windows blazed with light—far too many for the early hour, especially if the Pasha was truly as ill as Leila had claimed.

His soldier’s instincts, honed by years of recognizing when something was off, began to whisper warnings.

Why so much activity at dawn?

He dismounted and tied his horse to the iron post at the front gate.

No guards were visible, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

The garden was well-maintained and expensive.

Whoever lived here had money and influence.

Yet something felt… staged, like a theater set designed to fool the audience.

Gideon approached the front door, instinctively checking that his pistol was secure beneath his coat and gripping the wolf’s head of his cane-sword tightly.

Almost immediately, he heard voices inside—multiple people talking, their conversations animated.

But the moment his knuckles hit the wood, silence fell.

When the door opened, an elderly butler appeared, impeccably dressed in deep red livery that spoke of wealth and tradition. Everything about the man was perfect—his posture, his expression, his deferential bow. Too perfect.

“Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?”

Evening? It’s past dawn. His tone seemed rehearsed as well. But Gideon filed the oddities away.

“I wish to speak with the…” The words died in his throat as realization struck. In all his conversations with Leila, in all his careful questions about her life and circumstances, he had never learned her husband’s actual name. How had he missed something so basic?

Because you were thinking with your cock instead of your head, you fool.

“Sir?” the butler prompted, his neutral expression never wavering. But Gideon caught something in the man’s eyes—amusement? Suspicion? It vanished too quickly to be sure.

“The Pasha,” Gideon finished lamely, hating how uncertain he sounded.

“I’m afraid his lordship is resting in his bedchamber. He has been quite ill. Perhaps I could deliver a message?” His lordship? Not ‘the Pasha’ or ‘His Excellency.’ Interesting.

“It is rather urgent, which should be obvious given the hour of my visit. Can he make an exception?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. The physician has given strict orders that he not be disturbed.”

Gideon reached into his waistcoat and withdrew his calling card, watching the butler’s face carefully for any flicker of recognition. There—a slight tightening around the eyes. This man knew who he was.

“Please give him my regards and tell him I called to inquire about his wife’s welfare.”

“Of course, sir. I shall ensure he receives this immediately.”

Instead of mounting his horse and leaving as expected, Gideon strolled casually around the corner of the house, then doubled back to peer through one of the front windows.

His suspicions were confirmed—the butler was speaking animatedly to a liveried footman, gesturing with what Gideon assumed was his calling card.

The footman took it and hurried deeper into the house, moving with an urgency that belied the butler’s calm dismissal.

They’re reporting to someone. But whom?

Gideon walked the perimeter of the house, searching for a way in.

Near the back, he found his opportunity—a sturdy trellis covered in climbing roses that led to a first-floor window. The thorns snagging at his clothes were the only obstacles. He quickly reached the window to find it closed.

But he easily opened it with his dagger.

Gideon slipped through the window into what appeared to be a small sitting room—furnished but somehow lifeless.

Downstairs, he could hear voices—servants, he assumed—but their behavior was all wrong.

They chatted and laughed with appalling informality, showing none of the decorum expected in a household of this caliber, especially not with a butler as stuffy as the man he’d spoken to just minutes ago.

He moved carefully down the hallway, testing door handles as he went. Locked. Every single one was locked from the outside. What kind of household locks its rooms like prison cells?

One door stood open—a bedroom at the end of the corridor. Gideon slipped inside and immediately knew he was in Leila’s space. The room was lavishly appointed with silks and elegant furniture, clearly designed for a woman of refinement. But something felt wrong, hollowed out.

He approached the wardrobe and opened it carefully. There, hanging among a sparse collection of gowns, was the dress Leila had worn to the Kensington ball.

But the wardrobe was nearly empty.

Of course, her visit was temporary, but still…

Footsteps in the corridor made him freeze. Heavy boots, deliberate pace. Not a servant.

A guard?

Ironic that both houses he’d broken into in one night had guards patrolling inside and out. Gideon moved toward the window, intending to slip out in the similar way to how he’d entered—but his heart sank as he tested the sash.

Nailed shut.

He tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear to it, listening as the footsteps passed by and continued down the corridor. When the sounds faded, he slipped out and moved to the next room—surely her husband’s chamber. But the door was locked, as were all the others he tested.

Every room locked except hers. Why leave only her room accessible?

He easily picked the lock and entered the adjoining chamber to hers. But it was completely empty.

No furniture, no carpet, not even dust.

He tried a couple of doors, only to be met with the same emptiness there as well. It seemed that only Leila’s chamber was furnished.

Returning to Leila’s chamber, Gideon began a more systematic search.

In the dressing table drawer, he found them —small glass vials with meticulously written labels in Arabic script.

His knowledge of the language was limited, but he could make out enough to understand these were not perfumes or cosmetics.

Medicines? Poisons?

He lifted one vial to his nose and inhaled carefully. Fresh mint—exactly like the fragrance that had clung to Leila’s lips the night they kissed. The night he’d fallen mysteriously ill. The night he’d attributed his symptoms to overwhelming emotion and desire.

What a fool you were.

Everything became extremely clear. The sudden onset of his illness, the blurriness of his vision, and the disorientation that had lasted for hours—all of it made sense now.

He had been so besotted, so blind to everything except his growing feelings for her, that he had missed the obvious explanation.

She had tried to poison him. And probably more than once.

On the night they met, she had tipped her wine into his glass—this was attempt number one. The second attempt was the staged carriage crash outside his window, no doubt. He had thought the way her door frame caved in seemed suspect, but he attributed it to an attack, except the attack was on him.

She could have easily killed him in his sleep that night, but he had awoken from a nightmare just in time.

“See, I told you,” he whispered to the invisible ghost of his late wife. “She isn’t so innocent after all.”