Chapter 6: The Devil’s Waltz

The letter arrived with my morning chocolate, tucked beneath the silver tray like a poisonous viper waiting to strike. The parchment was thick, expensive, but the handwriting was a deliberate scrawl—anonymous, careful, and designed to wound.

*Your father did not slip on the stairs. He was pushed. Ask the Duke of Ashworth about Lord Vane's collection of debts. Some debts are paid in gold. Others in blood.*

I read it three times, my fingers leaving tremors in the paper. The breakfast room's warmth drained away, replaced by the cold realization that my carefully constructed world had just shifted on its axis. Father's death had been ruled an accident—a tragic misstep on the grand staircase of our London townhouse. I had accepted it. Grieved it. Built my revenge upon it.

But if someone had pushed him…

The teacup shattered against the floor before I realized I'd thrown it. A servant rushed in, but I waved her away with a sharpness that made her retreat. I needed air. I needed answers. I needed the Duke of Ashworth.

---

"Lord Vane's collection of debts," the Duke repeated, his voice a low rumble in his private study. He didn't ask how I'd found him, didn't question my unannounced arrival. Instead, he poured two glasses of whiskey and slid one toward me. "You've been doing your homework, Lady Seraphina."

"My father's death was no accident." It wasn't a question. My voice held steady, though my heart raged against my ribs. "You knew."

"I suspected." He swirled his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Your father and I shared certain… interests. He was investigating the same group I've been hunting for three years. The Hand of Midnight."

The name struck me like a physical blow. Whispers in ballrooms. Shadows in corridors. A secret society that supposedly controlled half the noble families in England, pulling strings from behind gilded masks.

"They killed him." The words tasted like ash.

"Most likely." The Duke set down his glass, his dark eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "And they killed my brother. Six years ago. Made it look like a riding accident."

We stood there, two ghosts bound by grief and vengeance, the fire crackling between us. I had come to him expecting a bargaining chip, a tool to be manipulated. Instead, I found a mirror.

"I want them to suffer," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I want them to burn."

"Then we want the same thing." He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sand and cedar and something darker. "But understand this, Lady Seraphina. The Hand of Midnight doesn't fight fair. They'll target your reputation, your family, your very sanity. You'll lose everything you love before this is over. Are you prepared for that?"

I thought of Edmund, my traitorous fiancé, already in league with them. I thought of my mother, fragile and grieving. I thought of my own carefully rebuilt life, designed to destroy them from within.

"I've already lost everything," I said. "I have nothing left to lose."

His smile was sharp, wolfish. "Then we have an accord."

---

The charity ball at Marchmont House was a sea of silk and candlelight, but all I could feel was the Duke's hand at my back, burning through the fabric of my emerald gown. We had agreed to play the part of a courtship—a convenient cover for our whispered conversations and secret meetings.

"You're tense," he murmured, his lips brushing my ear as he led me through the waltz. "Your enemies will notice."

"My enemies are watching," I shot back, forcing a smile at a passing countess. "That's rather the point."

"Then smile like you mean it." His hand tightened on my waist, pulling me closer. "And tell me what you found in your father's study."

I nearly stumbled. "How did you—"

"I have eyes everywhere, my dear. Including in your household." His voice was silk over steel. "The ledger. The one hidden behind the loose panel. What did it contain?"

The music swelled, spinning us through the crowd. I caught a glimpse of Edmund across the floor, his face dark with jealousy as he watched us. Good. Let him wonder.

"Names," I said, keeping my voice low. "Fourteen names, each marked with a date. Ten of them are dead."

"And the other four?"

"One of them is the Earl of Wessex. Another is my former fiancé's father."

The Duke's expression didn't change, but his grip tightened. "You've been holding out on me, Lady Seraphina."

"I'm learning to trust no one." I met his gaze, unflinching. "That includes you."

Something flickered in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or recognition. "Smart. But you're going to have to trust me eventually, because there's something you don't know about your father's death."

The music began to fade, the dance drawing to its close. I leaned in, my lips nearly touching his. "Tell me."

"He wasn't killed by the Hand of Midnight." The Duke's voice was barely audible. "He was killed by someone inside your own household. Someone who still walks free."

The world tilted. The candles blurred. I felt his hand steady me, the only anchor in a sea of betrayal.

"Who?" The word was a knife.

"I don't know yet." He released me as the final notes died, stepping back with a formal bow. "But I intend to find out. And when I do…" His smile was cold. "We'll have our revenge."

He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by the glittering elite who had no idea that I was about to burn their world to the ground.

But as I watched him disappear into the crowd, I realized I had made an error. I had come to him for an alliance.

I hadn't expected to find a partner.

And I certainly hadn't expected the way my heart raced as I remembered the warmth of his hand on my back, the promise in his eyes.

*He's dangerous,* I reminded myself. *They're all dangerous.*

But as I turned to face the whispers and stares, I couldn't help but wonder if the most dangerous thing in this room wasn't the Duke at all.

It was me.