"La, Mr. Hunt, such fine manners you have." In contrast to her husband's polished good looks, Mavis had a plain face, sallow and sharp-edged from a chronically frail constitution. Even her opulent gown could not hide the meagerness of her figure. "I was telling Kingsley here that we should have you over for supper soon. All work and no play, as they say."
"How kind of you," Gavin said noncommittally.
"I could arrange for a few eligible ladies to be present as well." Mavis batted sparse eyelashes. "'Tis past time there was aMrs.Hunt, wouldn't you agree, Kingsley?"
"Of course, my dear," her spouse said indulgently. "Marriage makes the man."
On the rare occasion Gavin had thought about wedlock, he'd pictured his bride as a hard, practical sort... mayhap like Mavis, though he wouldn't suffer being led by the bollocks like Kingsley. His would be a properly submissive wife. Who'd be loyal and content with a partnership based on mutual benefit.
A woman the very opposite of the troublesome Miss Fines.
"A man makes 'imself. 'E can't depend on no one—and 'specially not one in a skirt," Stewart said tersely. "Anyone who says differently is a fool."
Mavis gave a brittle laugh. "Never argue with a bachelor."
"While we have you, Hunt," Kingsley said, "I wanted to express my outrage at what happened to your patrons. Know that you have my full support in getting to the bottom of this."
Utter claptrap, of course. Less business for The Underworld meant more for competitors like The Palace, and they both knew it. Kingsley had always been a tricky, underhanded bastard. Years ago, before his marriage to Mavis, he and Gavin had had a "misunderstanding" over a wench. Gavin had given Kingsley a public drubbing, leaving the man weeping in the dirt like a babe. He was certain Kingsley had never forgiven him for the humiliation.
"That is the purpose of meeting with all the houses today—to discuss how to avoid such incidents in the future," Gavin said evenly.
"But we can't be certain who to trust, can we?" Kingsley made a show of shaking his well-coiffed head. Not a single strand of golden hair fell out of place. "Though it pains me to say it, I've had suspicions for a while now about Lyon—"
"So that's why me ears were burnin'," announced a roguish voice. "Back-bitin' again, are we, Kingsley?"
Robbie Lyon, proprietor of Lyon's Lair, stepped into the room with his typical flourish. Despite his wiry build, the man was a scrapper and one who never pulled his punches. He was like a small mongrel who'd take any opportunity to piss on you, just for the hell of it. Last year, he and Gavin had had a few skirmishes over territorial lines, so he, too, had cause to make trouble for The Underworld.
"Nonsense," Kingsley said, the smile never slipping from his face. "You must be hearing things in your old age."
Lyon bristled from his grey mane to his thick-soled boots. "Care to test out more than my hearin', you lily-livered dandy?"
"Gentlemen, please." Mavis coughed delicately. "A lady is present."
Snorting, Lyon ran the back of his hand under his nose. "Get your mount under control, ma'am, and then we'll get to the business o' meetin'."
As the two men glowered at one another, their guards reached for their steel.
"Not starting the fun without me, are you lads?" said a rich, lilting voice.
All heads turned as the final two members joined the group. Though Patrick and Finian O'Brien shared a mother, their appearances did not betray their relationship. Patrick was as tall as Stewart and twice as wide, with the traditional red Irish coloring; Finian, the younger brother, had the rangy look of a rat with beady brown eyes and a thin mustache.
Bad blood existed between Gavin and both O'Briens. Half dozen years ago, Gavin had outbid Patrick to secure the property for The Underworld, and the latter held a lasting grudge. As for the younger brother, cases of expensive French brandy had once gone missing from Gavin's storeroom and somehow ended up at Finian's club. Gavin wouldn't trust either O'Brien farther than he could toss him.
Kingsley straightened his velvet lapel. "You haven't missed a thing, O'Brien," he said easily. "Lyon and I were just arsing around."
"If that's the case, let's eat," Patrick said. He licked his lips as he looked over at the abundant sideboard. "Ah, no one roasts a joint like the Blind Stag. Been buried to the armpits in fish of late, on account of Mrs. O'Brien's plan to reduce me." He winked at his brother. "Never heard her complaining about my size in the bedchamber, though, eh?"
Mavis Kingsley sniffed and returned to the table, her husband following at her heels.
Minutes later, they were all settled around the long trestle, a mimicry of a genial gathering as each of them was backed by armed guards. Sitting at one end, Gavin could feel Stewart's bristling impatience beside him.
No time like the present.
"Thank you all for coming," Gavin said. "I invited you today to discuss the assault on my customers." A quick scan around the table did not reveal any nervous twitches or flutters; then again, he didn't expect any. He was dealing with a band of seasoned cutthroats, after all. "Not only did they sustain grave injuries, but the smear to my club's reputation cannot be overlooked. Whoever was behind the attack aimed to halt business to The Underworld."
"How terrible." This came from Kingsley, who was seated to Gavin's right. "Have you any idea of the perpetrator? You have the backing of The Palace to set this matter right."
"Maybe 'twas you who set the matter in motion," Lyon said with a sneer.
