Page 52 of The Big Bad Duke

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?”