18
Percy's heartthudded as the hallway panel swung open, revealing a flickering tunnel.A genuine secret passageway!The part of her that was supposed to protest that she shouldn't go in had been abandoned back with Fitzwell. Along with her perfume. Prior to the tour, Hunt had asked that she remove the stuff as his sneezing might compromise the stealth of their mission.
Mission. Stealth.The words tickled her pulse.
"Watch your step," Hunt said as he led the way.
Percy discreetly studied her host as they traversed the shadowy corridor. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the walls, and he had to duck his head at points where the ceiling hung low. In the light of the lamp he held aloft, his hair gleamed like a pelt, causing her palms to prickle. She remembered how those thick locks had slipped between her fingers…
Much like her plan. What had earlier seemed like a brilliant strategy now felt rather foolish. The turban made her scalp itch, and beneath the thick gown, perspiration slickened her skin. She'd used up her supply of inane feminine chatter, too.
"Have you seen a gambling club before?" Hunt looked back at her.
"I haven't, no." The notion rustled a laugh from her throat. "Perhaps you missed this fact, Mr. Hunt, but ladies are never allowed anywhere interesting."
The flickering light threw his face into bold relief, licking over the intriguing hollows and masculine planes. "I find it difficult to believe that normal rules apply to you," he said.
How often had she furtively thought that very thing? According to Charity, that line of reasoning was precisely what landed Percy in scrape after scrape. Under Hunt's watchful gaze, she felt suddenly transparent, exposed despite all the layers she wore.
Stay on guard. Don't let him see your weakness.
"I follow rules. Most of the time," she amended.
"You didn't when we were attacked at Vauxhall. I believe etiquette has it that I was supposed to fend off the ruffians. You were supposed to succumb to your delicate sensibilities. To scream and faint—not jump into the fray."
Nowthatirked her. "So sorry, but fainting has never been one of my fortes," she said tartly. "I will, however, make note. The next time we are accosted by cutthroats I will be certain to stand by and wring my hands whilst they finish you off."
At that, Hunt smiled. A true smile, something that she had not seen from him before. Her heart skipped a beat, and that was before he took her hand and kissed it.
"You did not disappoint—far from. I'll take courage and honesty over propriety any day." The approval in his deep voice turned her blood to honey. "You, Miss Fines, are a rare creature."
Rare—and apparently not in abadway.She was grateful for the darkness that hid her blush. If this was Hunt's version of gallantry… it wasworking. His direct praise made her insides melt like butter on a hot crumpet. He took up the lead again, and as they continued to walk, she became aware of a hum; the sound soon grew into an indecipherable mix of voices and background clatter.
"Here we are." Hunt indicated a series of wooden slats on the wall. When he pushed one back, two small beams of light penetrated the dark tunnel. "This is one of the gaming rooms. Have a look."
As Percy peered through the viewing hole, her jaw slackened. She didn't know what she'd expected—fire and brimstone perhaps? Instead, multi-tiered chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, and a fountain of champagne bubbled at the center of the room. Men surrounded the room's many tables, their eyes riveted upon the action on the green baize. Shouts and groans erupted as dice were thrown. Like peacocks, brightly dressed wenches paraded around the room.
The buzz of energy and color flowed into her as she observed the fascinating world. Hunt was right; this was a treasure trove of inspiration for a writer. Her head spun with the sorts of adventures Miss Priscilla Farnham might encounter in such a place. For the first time in ages, her fingers actually itched for a quill.
"Why, the club is magnificent," she said in an awed voice. "All of this is yours?"
"When I bought the place, it was a tumble-down building. Now it's one of the finest clubs in London," he said. "I mean to make it the best."
Seeing the ambition in his dark gaze, she had an intuitive flash of what this place meant to him. Papa had looked that same way when talking about Fines & Company. Fortitude, a drive to succeed—she'd always admired those qualities. For so long, she'd been searching for the purpose of her own existence. She hadn't found it yet, but she suddenly realized one thing: it wasn't Portland.
The truth was oddly relieving. With a smile, she said, "Better than this? Is that possible?"
"Anything is possible if you set your mind to it."
Exactly as Papa would have said.
They continued the tour, each room grander than the one before.
"How many rooms are there in The Underworld?" she asked after they mounted steps to the first floor. She peered through the viewing hole into the dining chamber. With delight, she saw that clever painted wood fronts made the supper tables appear like small boats and the walls were painted with rolling waves. Supper on the River Styx.
"A dozen, give or take. There is another floor in addition to this one."
"May I see it, please?" She twisted around eagerly.
