Page 4 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

G ideon pressed his back against the cold stone wall, resting his head. The chill offered a small relief from the pounding in his skull. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let them drift open, surveying the small enclosure he had found himself in.

A faint glimmer of light filtered in from a tiny window high above. It was obscured by leaves or branches—he couldn’t tell—but occasionally, when the wind blew, a narrow beam of moonlight slipped through and cut across the room.

In those brief glimpses, Gideon could make out that his enclosure was a narrow, oblong space. Not a room exactly, more like a cell.

A dungeon.

There was only this tiny window, offering the slimmest view of the outside world, and to his right, a thick wooden door fitted with a small metal grate—no doubt for the guards to peer in without unlocking it.

Guards… Were there any watching him? Standing in the way of his possible escape?

He couldn’t hear anyone outside the door, nor could he tell if there were other prisoners shackled in rooms nearby.

Hell, he didn’t even know if there were any other rooms in the vicinity.

He wondered what time it was. Or even what day it was. How long had he been here?

And where was here ?

The last thing he remembered was—

Gideon froze as something moved in the shadows on the opposite side of the room.

Was it just the wind again, shifting the shadows and playing tricks on his already tired mind?

No.

It wasn’t the shadows.

Something moved within them.

Something—someone—was in here with him.

He wasn’t alone.

* * *

Twenty-two days earlier…

Gideon sat in bed, a leather folder spread open across his lap. Notes. Names. Habits. All the information he had gathered on the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist—a dark, evil, detestable secret society responsible for his family’s death.

Besides the obvious sins, the Brotherhood ran smuggling rings, forged art auctions, and human trafficking operations.

Blackmail. Child brothels. The worst kind of rot.

What Gideon had recently uncovered was that they used various charities to steal money under the pretense of virtue for their evil causes.

Thus, they always left a trail of documents behind, although the names on those papers were often fake. It didn’t stop Gideon from finding a few members and eliminating them.

In the beginning, there used to be eleven titled men atop the Brotherhood’s pyramid. Gideon learned that from the old Duke of Wolverstone’s journal—the man who wore the Erebus mantle before him.

Used to be. This was over fifteen years ago, but the old Wolverstone had taken care of most of them.

He had written it all down.

The original eleven. How he had picked them off, one by one. How he spared a few after they promised to disband. They were his friends, his peers, after all.

Bile rose in Gideon’s throat.

How one could call such vile creatures friends or peers, he would never understand. It sickened him to know that men like that walked the same earth as he did.

The late Wolverstone, however, had been a different beast. Powerful beyond measure, the only reason he had gone after the Brotherhood was to save his friend—the late Earl of Roth.

Even after Roth had betrayed them, handing over The Shadows’ roster to the Brotherhood and getting most of them killed—including Gideon’s young family.

The late Wolverstone protected him anyway.

Gideon wouldn’t make that mistake.

The only reason he even accepted the Erebus mantle—the leader role of The Shadows—was to gain access to all this information.

He had no patience for secret society politics. And it all was going to stop with him.

First, he would eliminate the Brotherhood. Next, he would dismantle The Shadows, and his job would be over.

No more secrets. No more lies.

Yes, The Shadows were supposed to be a band of vigilantes vowed to protect the people whom Parliament cared not about. The people the Brotherhood used and discarded.

But Gideon had seen what power did to men. Once they had enough, they always forgot the ones they claimed to protect.

The late Wolverstone proved that to be true.

Most of the old Brotherhood members were dead now. The ones spared by Wolverstone had died of illness or age. Gideon had helped the lingering two cross over to the realm of the dead. The only survivor of the old guard was Norfolk.

Gideon suspected he was the one who had kept the operation running all these years—the leader of the Brotherhood.

He was the one Gideon was eyeing as his next victim. But the old man was careful. Suspicious. Never alone. Always surrounded by his wife and daughters like a shield.

As if he hadn’t sold other men’s wives and daughters for a coin.

As if he hadn’t murdered other men’s wives and daughters…

As if he hadn’t deserved to have the same thing done to him as he had done to others.

Gideon clenched his jaw.

Sometimes, he wished he was cruel enough to give Norfolk exactly what he deserved. Sometimes he wished he could strip Norfolk of his family and leave him to suffer alone…

But Gideon wasn’t that cruel. Just cruel enough to hunt him down and kill him.

Eventually. He would get to Norfolk soon enough.

In the meantime, he had others to take care of—the new members. Men who joined the Brotherhood after Wolverstone’s purge.

At first, Gideon thought that the Brotherhood rebuilt their ranks by recruiting the original members’ sons, but he was wrong.

It turned out a completely new group of young gentlemen had taken over the vile society. And they all shared core identifying characteristics.

They were young, rich, lazy… entitled. Too lazy to earn their wealth by honest means. Too twisted to resist the pleasures of the flesh—even when their victims were unwilling. Even when they were children.

Men who drank, debauched, and used others like tools. Men whose own morality didn’t stop them from participating in heinous activities like the illegal slave trade and child brothels.

Gideon had identified a few of them by watching who grew close to the remaining older members or who suddenly came into great wealth or had ties to the old members.

Then he followed them. Listened to gossip. Bribed harlots for information.

Luckily, all members of the Brotherhood were foolish enough to brand their bodies with a crimson fist. So once he identified the men with questionable morals, it was easy to confirm whether they were part of the Brotherhood.

The problem was, he didn’t know how many of them were out there.

Eleven? Fewer? More?

It was quite possible he would never find out—unless he obtained their records somehow. Either that, or he would have to inspect every gentleman’s body for the crimson mark. And he did not relish that prospect.

Gideon had gleaned as much as he could from the late Wolverstone’s journal, even before it was lost to him…

Not lost. Stolen.

Just a few weeks ago—right out of his metal safe with an elaborate lock.

Gideon had known who the thief was, and that was why he’d never confronted her.

Yes, her. Caroline.

The Duchess of Kensington. The late Wolverstone’s unofficial goddaughter, and the niece of his friend—and traitor—the late Earl of Roth.

He blinked the thought away.

He didn’t care about her. If she wanted to read about the depths of her uncle’s betrayal in her hero’s own words, she was welcome to do so.

He had only one care in the world—to burn the Brotherhood to ash.

Every member. Every record.

Until nothing was left for anyone to follow.

And when that was done…

He would end The Shadows, too.

No more secrets. No more rot passed down disguised as legacy.

He would bury it all.

A loud crash came from outside. Gideon turned his head, his ears perking at the sound. Was it thunder? The rain pelting against his window confirmed that as a possibility.

Then came the sounds of horses and shouting.

Not thunder. Just man-made chaos.

He stepped toward the window and watched the dark outline of a person struggle with the door of an overturned carriage—or at least, that’s what it looked like through the rain-streaked glass. The storm had turned brutal, lashing the cobblestones with sheets of water.

Gideon shrugged and went back to bed. He gathered the papers strewn across the mattress, righted them, and walked to his safe.

He tucked everything away except for his notebook and locked the safe with an ornate key. He dropped onto the mattress, picked up the notebook, and hurled it onto the dresser.

Then he lay there, staring at the canopy overhead.

These were the moments he relished… and the moments he feared.

When he was one-on-one with his thoughts.

When he allowed himself to remember Sarah and the girls.

To remind himself that he didn’t have them anymore. That he was alone.

That there was nothing left for him.

What would Sarah think of him now?

He’d spent over fifteen years trying to live up to her expectations—and still fell short.

But now… he fell even further.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

Loud, insistent knocking came from the front door.

Gideon cursed, grabbed his silk banyan, threw it over his shoulders, and made his way downstairs.

In the foyer, his butler Hobbes was speaking with a man in unfamiliar livery—dark red with silver trim. Expensive, but not from any house Gideon recognized.

“What is it, Hobbes?”

Both men looked up. The stranger twisted his cap in nervous hands.

“Your Grace, we need help. The carriage overturned, and the lady’s trapped inside. The door’s stuck fast.”

“Shall I wake the footmen?” Hobbes asked.

“No. Let them sleep.” Gideon was already heading back upstairs. “I’ll deal with it.”

He dressed quickly, tugging on his breeches, stockings, and boots. A simple shirt and a hat on his head. He grabbed his sword-cane on the way out, the silver wolf’s head cool against his grip.