Priscilla rubbed her chest. How long before this ache faded?
As they rode away from Cliffhouse, she could only imagine a dismal future. This time of her life, these past days when she’d known love and passion and unspeakable pleasure, was over.
First, she’d have to face Primm. And after that, Gabriel and her mother. Because the only thing she knew for certain was that she wasn’t going to be able to return to teaching.
No, this time, she’d ruined herself for good.
Payment
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Edgeworth and Hunt stood outside the Duke of Malum’s infamous Domus Emporium.
“Quite.” Hunt would, in fact, have appreciated the fortification at his side, but it wouldn’t have been fair to bring his friend into it.
Edge hadn’t confided anything, but Hunt sensed his friend had troubles of his own.
Hunt ignored the throbbing in his head. The two of them had spent the night before carousing through some lesser-known clubs. After a frantic week searching for and finding no solutions to paying off his father’s debt, Hunt had splurged his last night of freedom deep in his cups.
He’d contemplated following Meadowbrook, who had promised he’d be visiting his daughter’s school—perhaps persuade him to forge another bargain. And Hunt might have had success, as the man had acknowledged that this wasn’t the first time his daughter had drastically disobeyed his biddings.
But it would have meant the possibility of running into Miss Fellowes again.
Priscilla.
He reached into his pocket, where he’d kept the black sapphire pendant. Getting rid of it would have been a logical choice. He could have given it to his mother or one of his sisters. Hell, it was only a trinket.
But as he’d taken one last look around his boarding house, he’d given into something ridiculously sentimental and scooped it off the desk.
A reminder of his foolishness.
And her eyes.
“Damien is there, but if this doesn’t go well, you’ll protect them?”
“Of course.” Edge would not offer optimistic reassurances. Every lord in London was aware of the Duke of Malum’s volatile disposition.
Hunt put the pendant back in his pocket at a sudden loss.
Edge was already well-acquainted with the Hardwood solicitors, so there was no need to leave further instructions.
The deadline he’d been dreading for weeks now had finally come. When he’d first arrived in London, five days before, he’d sent a missive requesting an extension.
Malum responded by naming the time and day for this meeting.
Hunt’s breath caught in his chest.
Edge took a few steps backward. “In that case, I’ll see you at White’s later this afternoon.”
Hunt met his friend’s stare meaningfully and then dipped his chin. “Save me a scotch,” he said though both of them knew this wasn’t likely.
Edge wouldn’t have repeatedly offered to smuggle him to the docks otherwise.
Hunt didn’t bother watching his friend walk away but turned to gaze up at the three-story manor set in the heart of Mayfair. It looked perfectly innocent, the door flanked by a few columns, windows encased in conservative molding, but nothing to cause it to stand out in any way.
However, although nothing was notable about the exterior, one only had to step inside to comprehend that this was no ordinary Mayfair townhouse.
On his first visit to London’s most exclusive brothel, not quite a year prior, Hunt had felt as though he’d stepped into another world. Because no expense had been spared in fitting out the interior.
Malum’s employees must have been watching out the door—of course, they were—it swung open before Hunt rang the bell.
