Male murmurs declared their farewells, but curiosity coursed, so she peered around the corner like a mouse studying a crumb from her hole. One single candle sconce cast light upon the main hallway, its opulent blue rug and wooden panelling.
The door at the end swung open.
Outlined by candlelight stood a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Not the duke as this gentleman’s alert demeanour radiated danger.
And the long swordstick hanging from his hip did nothing to alleviate that impression.
He slammed the door behind him, stalking forth, and Evelyn stifled a gasp as the sconce light ensnared his face and torso in its radiance. She whirled, pressed her back to the shadowed wall, felt the dado rail dig into her spine, bit her lip and silenced her beating heart with a palm.
For only one man wore a black feather upon a lapel of scarlet cloth. A man that all who lived in the shabbier end of town knew and feared.
Never had she seen his face, but Flora had once glimpsed him at his copper hell and gossiped in hushed tones – scarred, lethal and satanic.
Flora had been enamoured for days.
And now, viewing him for the first time, she realised that air of danger was no façade: it penetrated his entire being.
The Prince of Clubs.
It was said he owned half of London…and half the people within it – they wore his black feather for allegiance, some even inked it to their skin. It was said he knew everyone’s secrets…
What was he doing in the Duke of Rothwell’s home?
For such an imposing man, his tread was light, and her breath hitched as she discerned him pause in the hallway.
Why had he–
A sizable hand grabbed her wrist and tugged her to the dim light – not violent but firm and undeniable.
With his scar pulled taut and lips thinned to a fissure, her proposed scream perished to a whimper, and black eyes bored into her as though he could read every wrongdoing, every skeleton in her cupboard – and currently there were a fair few.
“Sir,” she whispered, although why so hushed she had no clear idea, only that this sinful man belonged to the muted darkness. “Unhand me.”
“Prying, Miss Pearc–” He tapped his forehead, a black curl daring to dangle upon it. “I mean, Mrs Swift?”
Sodding hell. Was that why he’d been with the duke? To reveal all her secrets.
“Not at all. Just…hiding in the dark.” Because lying to this brute, she supposed, would have consequences.
He gave what might pass as a smile in more villainous circles, the scar tilting, his looks handsome in a harsh uncompromising manner – like a granite rock within a storm.
“Shall I also tell you a truth?” he rasped.
“The truth and I parted company long ago,” she found herself saying.
A low chuckle emanated, the hand departing from her wrist. “I knew you were there as soon as I opened the study door.” The villain leaned close – aged whisky and new leather. “I heard you breathe.”
Her own breath ceased.
“And I will keep your secret…for the time being.” And with that, his scarlet coat swirled and swept down the hall.
Evelyn exhaled in a gush, heart knocking louder than Zeus’s thunder.
Gosh. What a…compelling character.
She straightened her dress to calm her pulse, put a hand to her stomach, and then drifted down the hallway to knock on what must surely be the study door. And indeed, she now recognised a small Reynolds work on the hall wall.
“Come,” a voice of gravel decreed. “Have you forgotte–” The Duke of Rothwell’s question trailed at her entry, eyebrows raised, a brandy glass clasped in his fist. “Mrs Swift? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
