“Lord Hardwood.”
The gentleman standing guard was not unfamiliar. “Flint,” Hunt returned with a nod. It had been Flint who’d tracked Hunt down less than ten days following his father’s death. He’d been the messenger to inform him that the Duke of Malum wished to meet with him.
Of course, it had not been a mere request.
Dressed in evening formalwear today, the duke’s henchman stood over six feet tall. Sporting a crooked nose and a jagged scar down the right side of his face, the man looked as though he’d spent most of his life down at the docks.
Flint gestured for Hunt to enter. “The duke is expecting you.”
Muffled voices and laughter filtered into the foyer entrance, softened, however, by the thick carpets and velvet-covered walls.
As the door closed behind them, flames burning in the ornate sconces flickered, casting lively shadows all around.
“This way,” Flint said, then pointed toward a staircase even though Hunt knew the way.
Walking behind the duke’s man, Hunt fought the urge to flee. He instinctively wished to make a run for it and head out on one of the packets setting sail that day.
Beat Flint to a bloody pulp if necessary.
And yet he ignored them all.
His father had died, leaving only Hunt to pay off his debts. If Hunt ran, it would be his mother and sisters who’d pay.
And it would mean Hunt was no better than his father.
“If you were like your father, you never would have saved Fiddlesticks.”
Her words danced, unbidden, into his thoughts. And although he’d initially fought such reminders, he was getting used to them.
Damned Priscilla Fellowes. How long before he could purge her from his thoughts?
But he welcomed her voice this time.
He might be paying the price for his father’s sins, but she’d convinced him he was nothing like the man.
Flint pushed open the door to Malum’s office. The room was just as luxurious but in a heavy, masculine style. Tall shelves lined one wall, red velvet drapes hanging along the other.
“Lord Hardwood to see you, Your Grace.”
Hunt stepped inside, and at the sound of the door clicking closed, the duke lifted his head.
Hunt was thoroughly trapped now. There would be no turning back. No running.
And yet, knowing he’d done all he could to come up with the money, knowing his sisters and mother were taken care of, he refused to cower.
“Malum.”
“Hardwood.” The first thing that stood out about the duke was his eyes, which were cold and black. The second thing was his prominent nose and high cheekbones. His jet-black hair was slicked away from his face and tied at the base of his neck with a scarlet silk ribbon.
The wealthy duke made few appearances within the ton. He hadn’t since the death of his wife, who, rumor was, he’d met at the brothel.
Hunt shook his head, exhaling a shallow breath. “I don’t have the money.” He hated excuses and wouldn’t beg. “I’ve irons in the fire, more than one, actually, and eventually, the funds will become available.”
“But not today.”
Hunt exhaled again. “Not today.”
Malum sat straight-backed, hands folded in front of him. Hunt couldn’t help but notice the intricate lace that fell across his wrists and his nails buffed to a shine.
