If Thalia was right, Lydia would appreciate the freedom—and he needed to get a clear head before he lost it entirely.
CHAPTER 8
Thalia stepped into the dim rooms of the club, tossing back her hood as soon as she was inside. Candlelight danced from the wooden beams across the ceiling, and the stench of spirits made her nose sting.
Behind her, one of Elliot’s manservants carried her latest sculpture under a sheet. Elliot himself would have accompanied her if he hadn’t been called away on urgent business, meaning she had to handle this on her own.
Which was fine. Of course. She preferred handling things on her own, and even though she had never felt safe here, she also felt confident that no one would actually attack her, especially with a servant in tow.
Well, perhaps the servant made very little difference, really. But he provided an illusion of safety that she clung to.
A greasy man behind a bar looked her up and down. “What do you want here, love?”
She grimaced at his blackened teeth and foul breath. “I’m looking for a Mr. Fagin.”
“Downstairs, betting on the ring. Purple waistcoat: you can’t miss him.”
“Thank you.” Beckoning to the servant, she ventured toward the stairs for the first time since coming here.
Downstairs, in the pit, was the true underground venue, where men could bet, not just on cards, but on human flesh.
Thalia had never liked boxing much. It seemed an aggressive sport, and all too often she had seen the other side of it, men beaten bloody and broken. There had been too many deaths, and even when there hadn’t been deaths, there were broken bones, bruises, and split knuckles.
Still, a promise was a promise, and she had a sculpture to deliver.
As she descended the stairs, painted girls leered at her. She had not dressed as one of them tonight and had, in fact borrowed one of her maid’s dresses, a dull brown. Here, she felt as though she were a sparrow among parrots, her plumage dulled when compared to the rouged cheeks and red lips of the working girls.
And there, spreading out before her in a den of depravity, was the pit.
In the center of the room sat the main attraction, and the only reason many of the men here came: the boxing ring. A rope enclosed a square space that was sectioned off from the throng. Within those confines, two men were sparring with one another.
She hadn’t intended to look, but when she did, she put a hand over her mouth.
Of the two men there, standing shirtless with rags wrapped around their knuckles, she recognized one. He was tall, dark-haired, with an arrogant bearing and a face so devastatingly handsome that she hardly knew how she had ever kept her resolution to call off the wedding.
Thin lips that had once moved so softly, so passionately, against hers. Broad shoulders. The rounded muscles worked and flexed underneath as he prowled around his opponent, his focus unwavering.
She felt as though she had intruded on something private, even though he was performing for a crowd. Her mouth turned dry, but she couldn’t look away, even as the two men exploded in a flurry of movement. The smaller man attempted to land punches across the Duke’s head, but he covered himself, then lashed out with his fist, aiming lower, into the man’s stomach.
Thalia sucked in a breath.
The Duke capitalized on his advantage; every movement was loaded with grace and power. The dance was brutal, yes, but it was no less a dance for all that.
When he landed a final blow to his opponent’s face, and the other man fell, a belldinged, and everything stopped.
Thalia released the breath she had been holding, and as though in slow motion, the Duke turned around and caught sight of her.
His eyes were like twin storms as they gazed into hers, and she knew she ought to break the tension and look away, but it was all she could do to keep her calm when faced with such an overt display of power and aggression.
In a drawing room, he was civilized, but here he was something else entirely. Something raw and masculine and animalistic in a way that made her blood heat and her heart pump. Her stomach felt oddly unsettled, looping around itself.
So,thiswas what he did when he came here. Not to bet, but to win. She’d known it since that first time she’d met him here, but knowing it and witnessing it were two entirely different things.
The crowd shifted, and someone stepped in front of her, breaking their line of sight.
Good. Finally.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Thalia turned her attention to looking for a man in a purple waistcoat. He wasn’t hard to find, standing in the middle of the room with an expression on his face that indicated he was pleased with himself.
