Amelia looked at him oddly.
But her lips were parted so Hugh neared.
She did not withdraw, so since he was being scandalous, he placed a hand to her silken chin, then leaned in to–
“’Ere we are. The Prince’s!” came a yowl from the hackney coachman, slamming what sounded like a sledgehammer upon the roof and halting so abruptly they were nigh upended to the floor.
Bloody damnation!Could a man not woo in peace.
“You’d best go.” Amelia’s lips quirked. “The gaming hell will only get busier after seven.”
Hugh nodded, tendered her a tip of hat brim and shoved his way out.
Naturally, he was a member of this hell, but he spent little time gambling as when one’s life was the wager most nights, money became rather tame.
He gave his name to the broad-shouldered henchman at the crimson door and within a trice was ushered forth.
Without pausing, he strode through the grand vestibule, on past the waiters with their silver trays of champagne, the air redolent with tuberose and leather.
Later, the air would no doubt also reek of desperation and loss but at this hour, the handful of gentlemen had elevated hopes of winning a fortune with a throw of dice rather than with labour or ledgers.
A decadent haven had been deftly created, one which beguiled, softened defences and encouraged deep play.
Swinging his cane, Hugh weaved betwixt the tables.
The Prince kept this club exclusive and expensive, the waiting list for membership as long as the Welsh winter. No house-employed doxies would saunter these rooms either, but high-class courtesans and vibrant widows were oft invited – ladies who cared not for theTon’s endorsement or had enough blunt to weather the gossip.
A lanky melancholic fellow loitered by a sculpture of Orpheus, watching over the hell with vigilant eye, and one could almost be fooled into thinking he was one of the clientele, so elegantly was he attired in deepest black.
Except he wore an equally black feather in his lapel – an emblem of allegiance to the Prince.
Some, it was rumoured, had the feather inked to their skin while others were given these emblems, but such was the Prince’s reputation that not even the most hardened villain dared to replicate them.
“Kian Finlay.” For Hugh knew this melancholic fellow was a right-hand man of the owner.
Sombre blue eyes flicked to him. “Cadwalader. Follow me.” And without another word, he spun to stalk down a corridor, past various sculptures – Cerberus the dog and Charon the ferryman of Hades – until they arrived at a grand staircase.
“You know the way.”
A man of few words so Hugh merely nodded and embarked up the marble steps.
On the first floor, a scarlet door presented itself and he knocked with the brass top of his cane.
“Enter.”
Hugh did as bid and closed the door.
He’d had cause to visit the Prince on a few occasions and though the gaming rooms could be termed a little ostentatious, not so was this study.
It resembled a gentleman’s refuge with an immense walnut desk, decanters, bookcases, a globe, and even a pedigree bloodhound lounging by the fire.
“Wait,” a voice said from behind the desk.
Hugh peered to the dog.
The dog peered back and returned to dozing, so presuming the request was aimed at himself, Hugh stayed where he was and swivelled his eyes to a painting on the wood-panelled wall.
In deepest sleep, within a field of wind-tossed wheat, lay a blond woman, her hands limp, hair spread, and it was so exquisite, so finely rendered, that with just a whisper, one could imagine her eyes dreamily opening.
