“I like this,” he murmured, gazing over to the Prince. “How much?”
Hugh was ignored for some while until the reprobate slotted quill in holder and then unfurled from his seat behind the desk with a certain savage grace.
“Not for sale,” was the curt rebuff.
Damn it, but the sinister fellow had a glower as black as desolation, a habitual scarlet coat cloaking his broad frame and he wore no cravat.
Some said the slicing scar upon his cheek came from the devil himself – a mark of ownership.
Hugh considered that tale for the ladies’ benefit.
Though he could appreciate how that wound must have hurt when first inflicted, for Hugh had similar upon his chest – deep and torn.
Yet it wasn’t the devil who made such marks but man.
“I need some information.”
With long-legged stride and a swordstick jutting from his coat, the Prince made his way to the decanters, and poured two brandies.
One was handed over and they tipped their glasses at one another.
“You already owe me.”
“I could pay. Or I could provide you with information in return.”
The Prince merely stared with that shadowed gaze. “I’ve enough blunt,” he grunted at last before slugging his liquor in a single gulp, peculiar scars criss-crossing his knuckles. “And there’s no information I don’t have.”
Hugh didn’t doubt it.
“There’s nothing I can offer you then?”
The devil just shrugged.
Hugh clenched his fists. “This is not for some trivial game – blackmail over an earl’s sins or a duchess’ debt. A good man was murdered, leaving his daughter alone in this world. I want justice for them both and you might have what I need. This is about betrayal and death.”
‘“Death smiles at us all,’” the Prince murmured, “‘all a man can do is smile back.’”
“I’ve not come to trade quotes,” growled Hugh. “What do you want from me?”
The Prince flicked his scarlet coat-tails to settle upon the corner of his desk and a grim smile notched his lips, pulling at the facial scar. “Why don’t you…send your little drab in the hackney outside to ask me instead?”
Not on Hugh’s life. “No deal.”
The Prince stared with stony eye.
Hugh returned his own flint gaze.
The fire spat and the hound stirred.
Until the brigand just shrugged once more. “Good night, Cadwalader.” And he prowled to the window, swordstick slapping his thigh, before staring out into the nocturnal nothingness.
“One day, Prince,” Hugh said through gritted teeth, “you will need others. You will call and no one will answer. You will beg and no one will listen.” He strode to the door and fisted the handle. “So let us hope for your sake that when that day comes, I show you mercy.” And he stalked out, leaving it wide.
Information on these ladies would have to be gathered the hard way – through gossip at society salons and tattle at balls.
The waiters and scant gentlemen of the hell parted like the sea before Moses, as likely his expression resembled a storm, and he swept on through the vestibule, out the crimson door held wide, across the pavement and threw open the hackney door, shoving himself into the seat.
In her most ladylike manner,Amelia cleared her throat. “Did it not go well?”
