The devil baron, p.1
The Devil Baron, page 1
The Devil Baron
A Valor of Vinehill Novel
K.J. Jackson
Copyright © K.J. Jackson, 2022
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, Living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any forms, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
First Edition: October 2022
ISBN: 978-1-940149-74-5
http://www.kjjackson.com
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Don’t miss my other books
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If you haven’t already, be sure to check out my other historical romances—each is a stand-alone story and they can be read in any order (here they are in order of publication and series):
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Worth of a Duke
Earl of Destiny
Marquess of Fortune
Lords of Action
Vow
Promise
Oath
Revelry’s Tempest
Of Valor & Vice
Of Sin & Sanctuary
Of Risk & Redemption
To Capture a Rogue, A Logan’s Legends Novella
To Capture a Warrior, A Logan’s Legends Novella
The Devil in the Duke
Valor of Vinehill
The Iron Earl
The Wolf Duke
The Steel Rogue
The Christmas Countess
The Devil Baron
Box of Draupnir
The Heart of an Earl
The Blood of a Baron
The Soul of a Rogue
Exile
Exiled Duke
Wicked Exile
Dangerous Exile
Guardians of the Bones
Discreet Destruction
Shadows of Scandal
A Savage Deception
Paranormal Romance
Flame Moon #1, currently free!
Triple Infinity, Flame Moon #2
Flux Flame, Flame Moon #3
– For my favorite Ks
Contents
{ Prologue }
{ 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 }
{ Chapter 31 }
{ Chapter 32 }
{ Chapter 33 }
{ Chapter 34 }
{ Epilogue }
{ Prologue }
Port of Bilbao, Spain
Fall 1825
The flames flicked up into the salty night air, the orange-red inferno reflecting onto the inky waters of the harbor.
Smoke thick in his throat, choking his air, Rafe clutched his bleeding bicep that had been sliced near to the bone, staring up at the wharf-front warehouse engulfed in fire.
The building currently burning his father to crisp, black bones. If there was to be anything at all left of him.
Good riddance.
Even as that thought invaded his mind, he forced himself to take a step back from the reaction.
For that notion, that reaction, spoke to a hatred of his father. But he didn’t hate his father. He didn’t allow himself that emotion.
Any emotion, really.
All of them were a waste. A waste of time, money, energy. Watching his father warp and twist because of his hatred and greed had been a lesson Rafe had learned well.
It wasn’t worth it.
Emotions had not lived within his chest for most of his life. For better or worse, he had his father to thank for that.
But that was rare introspection he wasn’t about to dwell on, for he never dwelled.
People whose actions were dictated by emotion were the most loathsome. And he, the son of Lord Bockton, was not loathsome.
He was feared in this land, just as his father had been.
And now he would need to avenge this assault on his father’s empire—his empire. Too many of his men were dead. His father murdered.
Vengeance was necessary. That was the way. Blood for blood. He held no illusions on the matter.
Revenge not because he particularly cared about his father’s death, but because it would be expected of him. There were some things one couldn’t ignore, and if he intended to hold onto the empire his father had built and Rafe had expanded with blood, sweat and dirty deals with the devil, he had to do what was expected.
Rafe shuffled a step backward, sinking deeper between the two brick buildings across the street from the carnage he’d just escaped from. His men had long since scattered.
Revenge was coming for those English bastards.
Bloody inhuman Vinehill Scots that ravaged his brethren. The despicable crew of the Firefox that cut down one after another. And damnable Wolfbridge himself had struck a blade deep into his arm.
All cruel heathens that had haunted his family his whole life. Exiled his father from England. Killed more of his men than he could count.
Rafe seethed in a breath against the thoughts quickly spinning out of control. Thoughts that were sparking emotion. Mourn his father? No, the man wasn’t worthy of it. Hate his father? Not worthy of that either.
Hate the Vinehill Scots and the Firefox crew and Wolfbridge? They…they actually might be worth it. That was to be determined.
The roof of the building across the street crashed inward, sparks and flames shooting upward into the black sky as a blast of heat cut across his face.
There would be no retrieving his father’s body.
The man was gone and Rafe’s head finally managed to wrap around that fact. Believe it. The dark, bitter shroud of his father lifting from the land.
A deliverance of sorts. A curse of other sorts.
His father’s soul delivered to hell that night. Just as his would be one day.
But not before he walked through the prescribed motions of what lay ahead.
{ Chapter 1 }
Wolfbridge Castle, Lincolnshire
November 1828
The crunch of gravel and breathless panting from below lured Victoria farther along the terrace that ran the length of this side of the castle.
Illicit affairs were always afoot at these fetes at Wolfbridge Castle, and she wasn’t above voyeurism, even if her Uncle Reiner would lock her into the highest room of the castle if he knew all she’d witnessed in the dark corners of the estate during the years. Spying on others was her sole entertainment at the parties. For it wasn’t as though she was anywhere near to embarking on an illicit affair of her own.
Both her uncle and her father had seen to that very thing years ago in her first season.
She’d thought her entrance into society was to be the start of the grand adventure of the rest of her life.
It was not.
She was well-regarded. Witty. Pretty to look at. Intelligent enough to follow politics and the latest business of the empire. Could speak four languages and could sing and play the pianoforte reasonably well. Had a dowry that most men would give their right arm for. But she was also saddled with her Uncle Reiner, the Duke of Wolfbridge, who had raised her from birth, and her father, Desmond Phillips, the Earl of Troubant, who had been dead for most of her life but had reappeared, alive and healthy, three years ago. Between the two of them, they’d put the fear of fire and brimstone and torture into any male that dared to even breathe on her too long in passing.
Dances with heated looks. Knuckles slipping casually against thighs under the table. Stolen kisses in alcoves.
None of that was for her.
For as desirable as she was at first glance—perfect for any young, attractive, reasonably well-off, intelligent peer—she had been made untouchable by her father and uncle.
And lonely.
Vicarious living was all that was left to her.
This was one thing she’d managed to perfect in the last three years of hovering about ballrooms—the art of slipping away from a crowd unseen.
The heated breaths from below the terrace increased, soft moans falling one after another, and the distinctive sound of lips dragging along a neck floated upward into the night air.
Her slippers silent on the stone terrace, she ignored the bright gaiety to her right in the ballroom, the French doors lining the terrace closed, keeping the cool night air out and the warmth in.
A few more feet and there…
She slipped her gloved fingers along the fat stone railing of the balustrade and peeked over the edge into the nook of shadows below created by the corner of the terrace meeting the outer wall of the castle.
A woman’s face upturned, her eyes closed as her parted mouth gasped out moans that curled her tongue. Lady Frantole.
And that was not her husband with his mouth attached to her neck. Not that Victoria blamed her. Lady Frantole was only a year older than Victoria and shackled to a portly man twenty years her senior that continually heaved like he was out of breath.
The man attached to the front of her had his gloved left hand wrapped around her neck as his bare right hand was quickly working upward and under her skirts. Light brown hair, impeccably tailored tailcoat, just like every other fob in attendance at the Eve of Winter Ball her uncle held every year.
Victoria searched around their feet as Lady Frantole’s left leg moved upward, wrapping around his thigh. There, just beside the stone wall at the base of the terrace, his right glove sat discarded on the crushed stone ground cover.
Her lips quirked to the side. He was going in with intention.
Lady Frantole jerked in a sudden spasm that shot through her whole body, a guttural moan at her lips that echoed the luxury of slipping into a hot bath.
His fingers had reached their destination.
By the way Lady Frantole was writhing, her face twisting in carnal agony, the fop apparently knew what to do once he got there.
Her mind slipped for just one second, imagining she was in Lady Frantole’s place. Her heart beating madly, a rough hand dragging up her thigh, lips on her—
Noise behind her.
Victoria snapped her face away from hovering over the edge of the railing in an effort to not be seen from below, and half turned toward the sound.
Several men with cheroots in hand stepped out onto the terrace a distance behind her, and she caught their eyes. One glance at her was all it took. She didn’t recognize any of them. It didn’t matter. By their faces, each of them clearly knew who she was.
The Untouchable One wasn’t to be approached and they well knew that fact. Society had dubbed her with the whispered nickname two years before and it had stuck, just as the meaning of it had.
The gentleman closest to her inclined his head politely, then the group of men moved far off to the opposite end of the terrace instead of descending down the wide marble stairs into the expansive south gardens.
The gravel shifted below the stone banister and she ventured forward a smidge to glance over the railing again.
Lady Frantole was agitated, her head no longer tilted upward as she pushed away at the man. “No,” she hissed.
Victoria tensed, ready to call out to the men on the opposite end of the terrace. She was fine watching a woman live a life she could not. She wasn’t fine watching a woman live out a nightmare.
Just as her lips parted to call to the group of men for assistance, the man below instantly stopped his movements, taking an exaggerated step back away from Lady Frantole.
Well. That was new.
This wasn’t the first overly insistent man she’d intervened upon. But it was the first man that she’d ever seen listen to the woman saying no.
Lady Frantole’s hand instantly went out, reaching for the man.
He took another step backward, his arms clasping across his chest as he glanced down at her outstretched hand, disgust curling his lip. He looked to her face, his voice low. Bored. “You wanted this, and this is a part of it. Wherever, whenever I say. It doesn’t matter what you heard from above or how scared you are of getting caught. That was your one chance, Lady Frantole, as I retire after the first ‘no.’”
“But—”
“No.” He shook his head.
A huff hissed into the night air from Lady Frantole and she spun to her left, stomping away from the man, her slippers digging heavily into the crushed granite walkway as she disappeared into the gardens.
Victoria had to hold in a chuckle.
That was different.
The man lacked any and all discretion—flaunted his lack of it, even. People went into the gardens—deep into the shrubbery to cover a rendezvous. For all the harsh and imposing stone that forged Wolfbridge Castle, it also had sweeping, beautiful gardens, complete with mazes and evergreen hedges that hid nooks and alcoves. And this was exactly what the gardens were for. Hide the debauchery away.
Yet, not only had the man below thought to pleasure Lady Frantole within earshot of the ballroom, he’d then spoken to her with haughty disdain. If Victoria had heard correctly, she’d even heard amusement in his voice as he’d dismissed Lady Frantole.
Who would do that at Wolfbridge?
Uncle Reiner always kept his invitations onto the estate tight.
Her gaze focused in on the man. From her angle, she couldn’t see much of him. Brown hair, lighter than her own dark chestnut strands. What looked to be a strong profile. Handsome. Broad shoulders. If he wasn’t as tall as her Uncle Reiner, he was close. No paunch to be seen.
Who was this man?
He looked up at her. “Like what you saw, silver bell?” His arms unthreaded from his chest as his eyes settled on her face. Not the slightest bit of surprise or umbrage in his look, as though he’d known she was there all along, hovering above, watching. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes in the shadows. It didn’t matter. His potent stare pierced her straight through, a saber through warm butter.
Instant panic seized her chest. She’d just been caught spying on an overly intimate act like a buffoon.
The instinct to flee back into the ballroom without a word sliced along her bones, but her muscles were frozen by his peculiar magnetic stare that kept her rooted in place.
At a loss, the most ridiculous mumble came out of her mouth. “Sil—silver?”
His stare didn’t leave her face. “Your dress.”
She glanced downward, then her head bobbed for a long moment. Of course, her dress. Silver gauze overlaid white satin, the effect of the fabric dazzling under the ballroom chandeliers. Even out here in the darkness, the light of the torches lining the terrace and the garden pathways sent her dress to glittering.
And apparently, she was shaped like a bell.
“Did you enjoy the display?” His voice wasn’t smooth. The words crisp in a demanding way, his low tone spoke of an accent she couldn’t quite place.
Heaven help her, she was acting like a ninny. Her head stopped gyrating and she managed to slip a steely façade of self-assurance back into place. “I was just observing. That’s what you were seeking, was it not? To gain an audience with whatever you thought to do with Lady Frantole?”
His head angled slightly to the side, his penetrating eyes not shifting off her. “What I wanted was to veer Lady Frantole’s attentions off of me.”
Interesting.
Victoria leaned forward, resting her forearms on the chilled stone of the white balustrade as she looked down at him. “You don’t care for her? She is quite beautiful.”
“She’s that. But it takes more than beauty to turn my head, and I knew upon threat of getting caught, she’d eventually turn her attentions off of me.”
Now that she could see his face fully and had a moment to take it in, she recognized exactly what had drawn Lady Frantole to this man. He looked like he was carved from stone. Cheekbones and jawline that were forged from the hardest steel. A patrician nose with the slightest twist in the middle that must have come from being broken, but it only added interest to his features. His mouth proportioned well to the width to his face, his bottom lip slightly plumper than his top. Eyes that were too keen, like they easily read everything deep in her soul. The angles of his face knew their purpose.
Beautiful danger.
She’d grown up with men like this—her uncles. Dangerous. Powerful. Handsome.
It wasn’t new to her.
But that sense that the ground could shift beneath her feet, upending her entire life if he merely flicked his hand, sat in the air between them. Power like this, dripping with raw carnality, was never directed at her.
It wasn’t allowed.
