The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist (The Dark Hand Society #1)

Prologue

The docks at night were a completely different world from the one Brandon and Owen were used to. After all, it was not that common for the heirs of powerful ducal seats to be roaming the wrong part of town.

“The info we got,” Brandon said, hiding himself in the simple clothes he had gotten his hands on, “said that this had to be the place.”

Owen was standing at his side, and he looked upon the rundown establishment Brandon was pointing at.

“It looks, smells, and feels like a very bad idea,” Owen murmured.

“We need information.”

“We could ask nicely.”

“We are not at one of the balls of the season,” Brandon said, “and these are not dainty ladies of the ton that you can sway with one of your smiles. These are thugs. They only respond to power.”

Brandon took a step forward into the establishment, and Owen followed. Inside, they found a group of men around the fire. They were passing a single bottle of dubious origins and contents.

“Well, this looks… unhygienic,” Owen commented.

The men looked up. Rough men. Dangerous men. And most importantly, more men than even those two big, well-trained dukes could handle.

“What on earth do you want?” one of the men slurred.

“Information,” Brandon growled. “I came for information.”

“Boy.” A massive, scarred man got up from his chair. “You came looking for trouble.”

“And we can provide that in abundance,” another man said as he cracked his neck.

The men all got up, sneering dangerously, slowly approaching them.

“Do you reckon,” Owen asked, taking a fighting stance, “that it is too late to ask nicely?”

“I need information, and I am going to get it one way or the other,” Brandon said with determination and raised his fists.

The fight was brutal, and yet it was short as are most things truly violent.

Brandon took down three men before two more flung him and attacked him at the same time.

One landed a blow to his ribs that made him stagger, but Brandon didn’t fall before he made sure his fist connected with someone’s jaw.

Owen was holding his ground. He danced around the thugs, enraging them with his more elegant style but landing devastating blows anytime his feet were planted on the floor.

But still there were too many of them, and soon the duo found themselves cornered, hurt, and exhausted. A blow caught Brandon from behind, sending him to his knees. Before he had the chance to recuperate, another punch to his face. He tasted blood. His blood.

“Get up!” Owen pulled him and basically dragged him out of there. They had no other choice. They had to run. They made it to a narrow alley and collapsed against the wall, gasping for air.

“That was awfully close to being fun,” Owen said, spitting blood.

Brandon said nothing. He was too angry and humiliated and, above all, furious that he didn’t get the information he needed.

“That was way too ambitious, bold, and stupid,” a voice was heard from the shadows.

Brandon tensed, and he heard Owen hissing beside him. They gathered their strength as they straightened to their height to stand up against the new threat.

A figure emerged from the shadows, all draped in black. He was not much older than they were, but he carried an authority that made him look older than his real age. It took only one glance to know that this was not some thug they were up against. This was a gentleman of some stature.

“Who are you?” Brandon demanded, his stance not changing.

“Someone who admired your courage but has doubts about your strategy,” the man said, stepping closer.

“We had a strategy?” Owen asked teasingly.

The man pinned him with a dark look, and Owen closed his mouth.

“We did what we had to do,” Brandon said and wiped his bloodied lips.

“You did what amateurs do.” The man’s voice was calm. “You walked into a fight that you could not win.”

“Winning was not the goal,” Brandon hissed. “Extracting information was.”

“And how did that work out for you?” the man demanded, his tone still flat.

Brandon looked down. The stranger was not wrong. It had been years that Brandon had been trying to get inside the workings of the docks and uncover that wretched gang and get to their leader, but it proved more difficult than he had originally realized.

“You think you can do better?” Owen demanded.

“I know I can do better,” the man said. “If you were to hear me out, I would get the chance to prove it to you.”

He moved forward, strong and authoritative. He took out, with a flair, a small white card with a black hand printed on it. Behind it, in handwritten letters, were the coordinates for a gentleman’s club.

“I would strongly suggest you join me, so I can show you how to do this properly.”

“What is this?” Brandon looked at the card with disbelief.

“The path to victory.”

That was all the man said then he walked away, getting swallowed by the shadows.

“That was a fine trick,” Owen said, impressed.

“That was stupid theatrics,” Brandon growled.

And yet he held onto the card and fixed his eyes on where the man had vanished.

* * *

A few years later…

Brandon was sitting in a smoky room in the back of the gentleman’s club, surrounded by smoke from the cigar that the man behind the big desk had lit. Duncan rarely had any indulgences, but he had that habit, especially when he was deep in plotting.

Brandon studied the leader of their order. Not much had changed in him since the first time they met in that dark alley.

Brandon turned and looked at Owen, sprawled on the luscious sofa, as if he owned the place. After that night, they both became part of the Dark Hand, a secret society that had the goal of making the world better.

Five members, like the five fingers of a hand. Duncan was the Thumb, their cautious leader, which was another way to say that he practiced paranoia more often than not. But Brandon had to admit that it was his caution and well-thought-out planning that had saved all of their lives more than once.

Brandon himself was Index. He joined the order with the sole purpose of using the resources and getting rid of Johnny’s gang. He had found much more.

Owen followed because to him, being part of an order seemed like extreme fun, and for some reason, he and Brandon could not stay separated for too long. It was like this ever since Eton.

Each one of the Fingers had their own reasons for joining such a dark organization, but no one pried more. Brandon had stated that he needed Johnny’s gang behind bars, and the rest of them simply worked to assist him.

And it was the same for every other member. If Brandon were honest, he was rather content with the arrangement. Each one of the Fingers was a powerful duke; even just one of them was a formidable ally.

Brandon couldn’t help but notice Victor’s presence.

The Middle of the Dark Hand was a man who had obviously served in the military—and not in the way that most nobles stated, just claiming the title and never seeing the battle in their life.

The scars on Victor’s body spoke of a story filled with pain and suffering.

Victor himself rarely spoke of his experiences.

In fact, Victor rarely spoke at all. The good thing was that silence added to his dangerous allure.

Most of the time, all they had to do was appear with Victor by their side, and everyone started talking.

The least assuming of them all was the Little.

Not that he was less striking than the rest of the dangerous club, but he had that strange glint in his eye that made Brandon uneasy.

If he were to be honest, Brandon often forgot the man was present in the room, and yet, there was a lingering presence, like the darkness lurking.

Duncan put his cigar away and looked at each one of the members of the Dark Hand in the eyes.

“Gentlemen,” he said in that dark voice of his, “I believe we all know why we are gathered here today.”