Page 47 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

T he office of the House of Pain and Pleasure was crowded when both Lord Payne and Lord St. John finally arrived.

Gideon had only requested the carriage, but the men had come themselves.

Gideon wasn’t mad at the reinforcements, even if he didn’t want to involve more people for fear of getting them hurt.

St. John bowed deeply, demonstrating quiet reverence for the infamous Erebus. Payne, however, was more reserved in his greeting, his shoulders stiff and his jaw set with barely contained emotion.

“So,” Payne said, “you are the man we’ve heard so much about. The man for whom I was abducted and tortured.”

Gideon met his accusing gaze steadily, understanding the man’s resentment but refusing to accept blame that wasn’t his.

“That was not my fault; I hope you know this,” he said firmly.

“Whatever happened to you occurred before my time. Besides, the people who abducted you—if what I read is true—are the same people hunting us now.”

Payne’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly. “What people are those?”

“The Brotherhood,” Gideon replied, watching carefully as the two men exchanged a meaningful glance. The look that passed between them was loaded with recognition. “I suppose you know what I’m talking about.”

“We do,” St. John confirmed, his voice grave. He placed a reassuring hand on Payne’s shoulder. “And that’s why I was comfortable bringing Blake here with me. I hope you don’t mind.”

Gideon shook his head. “The only thing I mind is that you’re putting your lives in danger. All I required was the carriage.”

But Payne took a determined step forward, his demeanor shifting from reserved to fierce in an instant. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “If you’re about to uncover the man behind my abduction, I am not leaving.”

Gideon felt a surge of respect for him.

“Then you’re not leaving,” Gideon agreed with a short nod.

Over the next quarter hour, as they traveled to Roth’s townhouse in unmarked carriages, Gideon quickly summarized the events of the last few weeks, providing the necessary historical context.

He spoke of the Brotherhood’s formation, their responsible deaths, his own family’s murder, and his subsequent acts of revenge.

“And now,” he concluded, “the only hope of finding their leader and saving Leila’s brother lies in identifying the man who calls himself Cardinal.”

He glanced toward Leila, who was seated beside him in the carriage, her face unreadable but tense.

“And we hope Roth, the Earl of Roth, will be able to help us with that,” Gideon added.

A few moments later, they arrived.

Rather than use the main door, St. John guided them to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house.

A nervous-looking footman led them through a maze of service corridors, past the kitchens, and up a narrow staircase to the main house. Finally, they emerged into an elegant drawing room where Roth awaited them.

His wife, Lady Roth, stood by his side. Her usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, her dark hair escaping its pins, and a worried glint in her eyes. Despite her obvious anxiety, she stood ready to assist, her chin lifted with determination.

Gideon felt Leila step closer to him, her fingers wrapping around his arm and holding tight. The simple gesture, both possessive and vulnerable, made something hard and aching soften inside him. He shifted slightly, offering his arm more fully, and covered her hand with his.

St. John quickly summarized the purpose of their visit, with Roth listening intently and asking pointed questions when clarification was needed. When they finished explaining, he nodded decisively.

“My portrait gallery is extensive,” he said, already moving toward the door. “If this man moves in society at all, there’s a good chance I’ve painted him or someone who knows him.”

He led them down a long corridor lined with paintings, finally stopping at a pair of double doors that opened into a magnificent gallery.

The room was enormous, with soaring ceilings and walls covered from floor to ceiling with portraits.

Hundreds of faces gazed down at them, all captured in Roth’s skilled brushwork.

Gideon watched as Leila began studying each portrait carefully, moving systematically from one wall to the next. Her posture was tense, her shoulders hunched in concentration. He could almost feel the frustration radiating from her as she examined each painting.

The men stood back, allowing her to work. Occasionally, one of them pointed out a portrait that might be promising, but Leila dismissed each one with a shake of her head.

“His eyes are similar to this man’s,” she said suddenly, pausing before a portrait of a middle-aged gentleman. She leaned closer. “But the eyebrows are bushier.”

She moved on. Gideon could see her growing more agitated with every shake of her head, her muttered comments becoming more terse.

“His chin is similar to this one,” she said next, halting in front of a portrait of a younger man. Her fingers traced the air, hovering just shy of the painted canvas. “Strong jaw. Cleft chin. But not quite right.”

A third portrait caught her attention—this one apparently sharing the Cardinal’s nose.

Gideon glanced toward Roth and saw the man’s brows draw together in thought. Clearly, something had clicked.

“Wait a minute,” Roth said suddenly, turning and striding away with purpose.

He returned with a leather-bound sketchbook and a handful of charcoal pencils, then walked up to the portrait Leila had studied first—the one with the eyes.

He opened the sketchbook to a blank page and, without preamble, began to draw.

“How much bushier are the eyebrows?” he asked, not glancing up.

Leila moved to his side, her voice urgent as she gave directions, pointing to specific areas and suggesting angles and shapes.

Gideon observed her, admiring how focused she was despite the emotional toll this must be taking.

Roth’s pencil moved quickly, translating her memories into a likeness on paper.

“The shape of the eye is right,” she said, “but more deep-set. And there were lines, here…”

As Roth added the final strokes, a sudden knock echoed through the house.

Not a polite tap. Not a hesitant rap. But a sharp, urgent pounding.

Everyone in the room froze. Roth’s hand stilled.

Gideon’s stomach tightened. He recognized that rhythm.

“It’s for me,” he said, already striding toward the stairs.

At the front door stood a tall, lean man with sandy hair, a sharp jaw, and green eyes. His coat was damp from the night air, and he looked like he’d ridden hard and fast.

“Ian!” Gideon exclaimed.

Ian stepped inside, his serious expression breaking into a grin. “Glad to be of service again, old friend,” he said, clasping Gideon’s hand. “Though my wife wasn’t pleased to be left in the middle of the night. I’ll be brief.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “I’m still with the Crown, but these days I’d rather be with my family. Marriage changes a man.”

“It should,” Gideon replied with quiet understanding.

“But the job is done.” Ian handed him a thick bundle of papers. “Everything you asked for.”

Gideon accepted the documents, feeling the weight in his hands. “Thank you, Ian. This might be exactly what we need.”

They clasped hands once more.

“Send my regards to your wife,” Gideon called as Ian turned to leave.

“I will. Right after I grovel.” Ian offered a wry smile and vanished into the night.

Back upstairs, Gideon returned to the drawing room, the documents in hand.

St. John raised an eyebrow. “What are those?”

Gideon began untying the string. “I stole these from Norfolk the night I killed him. He documented everything—his transactions, his contacts, his crimes. I’m hoping they lead us to the Cardinal.”

The table soon filled with pages—letters, records, shipping logs, even encrypted notes. The men gathered around. Only Roth and Leila remained focused on the sketch.

Gideon scanned the documents, noting foreign postmarks and familiar dates. One by one, patterns emerged—confirmations of places where Leila had lived while under the Cardinal’s watch.

“Look at this,” Payne said, holding up a letter. “Dated eight years ago. This looks like when the leadership changed hands.”

Gideon read it. His jaw tightened. “So the current Cardinal took over eight years ago. He’s not the one who killed my family.”

But he’d destroyed Leila’s life. And that was enough.

Across the room, Roth was finishing his sketch.

“Yes!” Leila said suddenly. “That’s him. That looks like him.”

Everyone turned toward her, then to the drawing. They crowded around.

Gideon’s heart stopped.

He stared at the familiar face. The refined cheekbones. The cold, calculating eyes.

Recognition hit like a blade to the gut.

“I can’t believe this,” Payne whispered, white as a sheet.

The room held its breath. Silence wrapped around them like a noose.

Gideon found his voice, though it came out low and hoarse.

“Mr. Marcus Townsend.”

Lord Payne’s cousin.