Page 168 of Immortal Rose

“I may have the beginnings of one,” he allowed.

Her gaze turned shrewd behind her mask. “And will you allow me to help you?”

He shifted tactics. “I’m surprised you want to attend the ball at all—are you so eager to be presented to society? It will only make the annulment that much more scandalous.”

She gazed at him evenly as the hackney coach rolled to a slow, torturous stop. “The Earl of Foxcourt, afraid of a little scandal?”

No, certainly not. But with her smirk, he was ever so slightly afraid of her.

There were two entrances to Ardent’s.

The front palatial entry, carved of dignified white marble and featuring a stunning array of less dignified statues, had been a landmark on Regent Street for the nearly ten years since Greystone had mysteriously assumed ownership over the den of vice—rumored, of course, to have been through a card game. In all Hugh’s best attempts to unwind the man’s financial holdings, to look for some weakness to coax out and use to his advantage, he’d found little more than that.

It was through these imposing bronze doors that men of all walks of life had stumbled, eager to waste whole inheritances on cards and dice, praying in vain to the hard-hearted ancient fairy goddess of luck, Fortuna, to save them when their fates turned.

There, from the second-floor gallery, Greystone would watch the comings and goings like a lesser god, his countenance as cool as moonstone. Hugh had only ever seen the man from a distance, and that had been close enough for him.

The invitation instructed the midsummer masquerade guests to use the front entrance, no doubt so Greystone could observe each arrival. Hence, they chose the second entrance: an otherwise nondescript red door tucked into the piss-soaked alley that ran behind the gambling hell. Hugh had to imagine Greystone enjoyed the thought of the Patricians being made to navigate the vile puddles, but it was to their advantage now, arriving unfashionably early without another soul in sight.

This discreet door ushered in guests who sought a turn with one or more of the skilled house wenches or rooms for discreet assignations with lovers. It was, Hugh noted with mounting distress, nearly the same color that painted Viola’s lips.

Excitement and curiosity lit her eyes at the sight of it, and Hugh was once again torn between pleasure and despair at her usual fearless disregard for her well-being. She had already been made to suffer so many of life’s cruel contours; he was loath to expose her to yet another tawdry slice of Linden’s darkness. In a world of coal, Viola was a diamond. She deserved palaces, not temples of sin.

As if to prove his point, silky tendrils of sensual rose and jasmine incense, along with pipe and cigar smoke, escaped through the frame of the door like a smoking gateway to hell and not merely a gambling den.

Viola’s nose wrinkled beneath her mask, her brow furrowing.

“What is it?” he asked, desperate for any excuse to send her straight back to Foxcourt House in the hack.

She shook her head, and the same hope slid away. “Nothing.”

Breathing in the smoke and damp night air, Hugh raised his hand to knock. The door creaked open, revealing a surly night porter in the hell’s signature gray uniform. “Tonight’s invite only.”

Hugh held out the invitation Tommy had copied, bringing an easy smile to his face. The porter took it from him with obvious suspicion, raising a monocle to his eye as he turned the card over. The glass of the eyepiece turned iridescent in the dim street lantern light.

Fairy glass, as he’d suspected. Hugh’s hand tightened on his jacket lapel. He was banking on any list of names that corresponded to the invitation number being at the front entrance.

The guard inspected it. “Using the wrong entrance if yer here for the fancy t’-do.”

“Thought we might start the night off with a different sort of fun,” Hugh told him genially, lowering his voice as if to bring the porter into his confidence. “Relaxes a man before he starts tossing dice.”

“Aye,” the porter said, his gaze shifting between them.

A lance of blistering heat pierced Hugh’s chest as the man’s glassy eyes fell on Viola, who had, damn her, spread her cloak once more and slowly, slowly, brought her gloved hand down over her collarbone, trailing it toward . . .

“What’s a handsome gent like you doing guarding the door?” she asked, huskily. “Shouldn’t they have you on the floor, with all the other temptations?”

That same furious heat spilled through him, until Hugh had to fight the humiliatingly primitive urge to haul her closer to his side. She is playing a part, as are you, you fool.

The porter grinned, flashing brown teeth as he opened the door fully. “Come see me later if yer toff bores ye, yeah?”

His gamble had paid off, but it no longer felt like the victory it was as Viola sauntered past him. She tossed Hugh a luring glance, trailing a hand over the porter’s shoulder. Then, like a figment of his darkest, most debauched dreams, she disappeared through the veil of incense smoke into the hall’s looming darkness.

And, like the dog he was, Hugh gave chase.

Viola slowed her strides to absorb the newly revealed world around her. Greystone was a man with luxurious, unrestrained taste and a voracious appetite for art, and that was reflected even in the most hidden parts of the hell. The walls here were covered in dark silk and depictions of lovers unsuitable for anything other than a private collection.

Viola slowed before a towering portrait of Venia, naked among the roses, her golden hair falling over her shoulder in much the same way as that of the young woman gazing up at her.