Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Alf looked serious. “Have you heard anything else from your men since Lord Chase’s death?”

  Hugh shook his head. “They’ve been quiet in the last week. Both Exley and Dowling have hardly left their houses. Of course they’re the only named Lords that we know about. There are others who may be moving, may be warring with each other, and we simply don’t have knowledge of them.” He looked at Alf. “That is why tonight is so important. If we can find that list of members, we’ll be able to open up and clean out the whole nest of them.”

  “I know, guv. You can count on me.”

  She lifted her chin as she met his gaze. The rouge on her lips drew a man’s eye, making her even more alluring. Knowing what she was—what she could do—and seeing how she presented herself at the moment, he caught his breath at the possibilities. If he’d had a female operative when they’d been in Vienna a year ago, the things they could’ve accomplished. She thought like him, but she was his opposite: female to his male.

  Dangerous, yet soft.

  Intelligent and erotic at the same time.

  His match, this urchin from St Giles.

  The carriage jerked to a stop.

  Hugh nudged aside the window curtain. “We’re here.” He glanced at the women. “Don your masks before we go in.”

  Iris tied a black silk half mask to Alf’s face—making her more mysterious with only her red lips revealed. Iris took a painted oval mask of a woman’s face on a stick out of the bag for herself.

  The carriage swayed as the footmen got down. A minute later the door was opened and Talbot, wearing livery, held out his hand. “M’lady?”

  They descended, and Hugh looked up at Dowling’s house. It was a grand residence, only a few years old, with a row of Grecian columns across the front, staid and patrician. A lot of money had gone into building this residence. Dowling was a very rich man—odd, since, although he was an aristocrat, he’d neither inherited wealth nor married into it.

  “Come,” Hugh murmured, and ushered both women up the steps, already crowded with masked guests.

  Inside the entryway was a press of bodies, moving slowly to proceed up a wide staircase. Some of the ladies were in costumes with elaborate headdresses. Others merely held oval masks on sticks like Iris. Most of the gentlemen wore dominos, though a few had gone to the trouble of a costume. He jostled against a devil, tail, horns, and all.

  They made their way slowly to the first-floor ballroom, a large room that took up nearly the entire back of the house. Tall windows, some of them French doors, marched across one wall, though of course all of them were closed since it was winter. Hugh could already feel sweat sliding down his spine. The heat was overwhelming, and the stench of perfume, candle wax, and body odor oppressive.

  Beside him Alf caught her breath. “It’s so pretty.”

  Pretty? He glanced at her. She was gazing, rapt, at the chandeliers high above, the dozens of flat faceted pieces of blue cut glass sparkling as they reflected the candles.

  He looked at her again. “Yes, I suppose it is pretty.”

  “We’re lucky our host and hostess aren’t greeting their guests,” Iris murmured as she opened her fan.

  “Mm,” Hugh replied. “Do you see Viscount Dowling?”

  “By the windows.” Iris tilted her chin.

  “Where?” Alf asked.

  “The man in the mustard-colored suit. He’s dressed as the sun, I believe,” Iris said softly. “Do you see? He’s wearing a mask, but Lord Dowling’s red hair is quite remarkable, even in costume. He’s standing next to another gentleman in scarlet.”

  Alf’s eyes widened as she glanced at the group. “That’s—”

  “Exley,” Hugh finished for her. Exley hadn’t even bothered with a domino. Christ. What was the earl doing here tonight?

  Dowling and the Earl of Exley stood together and appeared to be quite good friends. Although they were both on the list Montgomery had given him, in all the time watching both men’s houses he’d never had word of them together, never known them to socialize.

  Hugh drew a breath and tried to make note of the other men in the grouping—almost impossible since all except Exley wore masks—and wondered how many might be in the Lords of Chaos.

  “We should stroll,” Iris said nervously. “We risk attracting attention if we stand in one place too long.”

  “A good suggestion.” Hugh offered his arms and they began perambulating the room.

  “Are you calling it off?” Iris hissed.

  “No,” Alf said from his other side before he could reply. “There’s no need just because Exley’s here.”

  “She’s right,” Hugh said, his voice low. “We’ll continue as planned.”

  Iris frowned. “But Exley knows you. He’s seen Alf—she was there when you both discovered Crewe’s body.”

  “I was dressed as a boy,” Alf reminded her.

  “What if there are more Lords of Chaos at this ball than expected?” Iris murmured. Her knuckles were white against her mask’s stick. “For all we know the guest list is full of Lords.”

  “We already knew that Dowling was a Lord,” Alf whispered, her voice calm and even. “Nothing’s changed in that.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “It was always dangerous.” Alf’s painted lips curved in an almost feral smile. There was his huntress, lurking under the lady’s rouge and paint. He admired her even as he feared for her.

  But she was right. He knew Alf was right, and he needed that list of names—or at least some sort of new information in this investigation.

  And yet unease crawled up his back.

  “Be quick,” Hugh said to her, making his decision. “Find the damned room and take no more than two or three minutes. Leave if you hear anything, do you understand?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I know my job, guv.”

  Their slow walk around the room had taken them to the far side and by a door that led to an inner hallway.

  Alf winked.

  And then she was gone.

  ALF SMILED AND nodded to a lady as she walked down the hallway. The lady’s necessity was down this way—that was a swell cove’s name for a bog, Iris had told her. There’d be an outer room as well where ladies could repair their face paint, hair, and dresses if need be. Alf walked neither fast nor slow. She moved sedately, her skirts swishing down the corridor. She neared the door and stepped aside as two girls came out, tittering together. The girls turned and went down the hall, back toward the ballroom.

  Alf glanced over her shoulder. The way was clear. Quickly she lifted her skirts and darted past the door, walking fast. Her panniers swung from side to side, silly things. She had to be careful that they didn’t brush against anything in the hallway—a table or statue or other ornament—and knock something down. It wouldn’t be good to bring the footmen and guests to her.

  There. A staircase to her left. Just where her informant had said it would be.

  She ran up it on tiptoe.

  The floor above was the family’s private apartments. Alf found herself in another hallway, this one much dimmer. She started creeping to the right, toward where Dowling’s private study should be, and then realized she could hear footsteps approaching her rapidly.

  Hastily she tried the nearest door, found it unlocked—thank God!—and ducked inside. She pulled the door to, but left a crack, peeking out.

  She watched a maid hurry by.

  She counted to twenty.

  Then opened the door again and peered out.

  The hall was empty.

  Quickly she slipped down to the study, snatching a lit candle from one of the wall sconces as she scurried by.

  She closed the study door, wincing as it squeaked, and held the candle high. The room was above the ballroom and about half as large. A huge desk sat by a fireplace, flanked by two chairs. Over the fireplace two crossed rapiers were displayed. Alf lifted her brows. Fine steel, possibly Toledo, judging by the lovely birdcage finger guard. A bookshelf
and four cabinets were against the inside walls.

  She snorted softly. Two or three minutes to search. Kyle was barmy if he thought she could do anything in that amount of time.

  Alf set the candle on a candlestick on the desk.

  A row of windows looked out over the back of the house, and she could hear the music drifting up from the ball below as she tested a drawer in the desk. Her informant had said that the desk was the most likely place. No point in even trying elsewhere, then. Not in the little time she had.

  She sat at the desk. There were two drawers at the top, both locked. On both sides of the desk legs were more drawers—unlocked—and she quickly rifled these, finding nothing of interest.

  She frowned and returned to the two locked drawers. At least that narrowed down her search. Alf took the dagger from her stays and wedged the point in the crack between the top of the right-hand drawer and the bottom of the desktop, above the lock. She searched the surface of the desk and found a marble bust.

  She picked up the bust and bashed it into the hilt of the dagger. Once. Twice.

  The lock broke.

  Grinning to herself, she pulled open the drawer.

  Inside was a stack of pound notes, weighed down by a small purse of golden guineas. She left those alone. Beside them were several letters. Those she stuffed between her stomacher and her corset—no time to look at them now. Nothing else of importance lay in the drawer.

  She opened the left-hand drawer the same way.

  Inside was a stack of papers.

  She flipped through them, looking for names, places. They looked like contracts. Legal papers in any case. Were they important? She didn’t know, and the papers were too many and too large to hide inside her dress. She placed them on the desk while she looked back inside the drawer to see if it hid anything else.

  It didn’t, but…

  She opened the right drawer again, shoving everything out of it. Pound notes fluttered to the floor.

  She examined both drawers.

  The right-hand drawer was shorter than the left.

  Alf yanked hard on the right drawer, pulling it all the way out of the desk. She bent and peered into the hole left behind, but of course there wasn’t light enough to see anything. She angled herself and stuck her arm into the hole, wriggling until her fingers struck the back.

  Outside the study door someone said, “Not here.”

  Alf froze, hardly breathing. Slowly she turned her head to look at the door.

  “Damn it, Dowling,” a different voice said. “When, then?”

  Retreating footsteps.

  She slid her fingers over the back of the hole. She could feel a crack. There was a door of some kind there.

  She withdrew her hand and went back in with her dagger, wedging the blade in the crack and wriggling it.

  The wood gave with a loud snap.

  “… killing him only drew attention to us.” They were returning.

  There was a piece of paper wedged in the back of the drawer. Alf snatched it and the dagger and thrust both back inside her corset.

  She whirled to the door.

  “What would you have had us do?”

  The door squealed as it began to open.

  TEN MINUTES.

  Iris glanced at Hugh out of the corner of her eye, keeping a small, politely bored smile affixed to her face. It had been ten minutes at the very least since Alf had left them. She and Hugh had continued their slow glide around the ballroom. He’d fetched her a small glass of punch.

  And they’d somehow lost sight of both Lord Dowling and the Earl of Exley.

  Alf had not returned.

  She could feel the tension in Hugh’s arm under her fingertips.

  “It’s taking too long,” he growled under his breath.

  Iris took a sip of the punch, her mask dangling from her wrist by a silk cord. “What shall we do?”

  He shook his head, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

  She swallowed and nodded to Lady Young, who was wearing an unfortunate shade of lavender. The ballroom was hideously hot. Lady Dowling ought to’ve ordered the windows opened, despite the January cold. It was only a matter of time before someone fainted.

  “Damn, it’s hot,” Hugh muttered under his breath, using a handkerchief to blot his upper lip. “Promise me that after we marry you’ll not have balls as crowded as this one.”

  Her head snapped around to him. “What?”

  Beneath the mask of his domino she could see his brows knit. “I said—”

  “Surely you don’t still think we will marry?” she hissed under her breath.

  “Iris, if I have offended you in any way, I do apologize.” He’d stiffened in male pride.

  “Are you an idiot?” She shook her head before he could answer and held up her hand. “No. Let me ask a different question. Do you imagine that I am an idiot? I have seen how you look at Alf. I have seen how she looks at you. And even if there were no affection or ardor between you and a woman whom I have come to regard as a dear friend, I do not wish to have another passionless and unhappy marriage. I’m tired of only being the hostess and mistress of a man’s house. I had enough of that with James.”

  He blinked. “I… see.”

  She patted his hand. “I assure you, though, that I shall remain your good friend, dearest Hugh.”

  Someone exclaimed nearby and the crowd started murmuring, heads turning toward the door.

  Iris glanced toward the entrance to the ballroom to see what the commotion was about, and saw Hades walk in the door. He was tall and lean and dressed all in black—as befitted the god of the dead. His dark hair was unpowdered and left loose about his shoulders as if he simply couldn’t care less about what others might feel was proper. And his face…

  His face was half fallen angel and half devil.

  And he wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t in costume at all.

  “Why have you stopped?” Hugh muttered beside her.

  “Who is that?” Iris asked, staring. It was as if she couldn’t look away from that terrible face. He’d been scarred horribly. A single great gouge from his forehead, down through his eyebrow, somehow missing the eye itself, but digging a furrow into his cheek, twisting one corner of his mouth, and carving a divot out of the edge of his jaw.

  “Dyemore,” Hugh said.

  The room had gone silent and his single word sounded overloud.

  Hades turned his spoiled visage toward them as if he’d heard his name on Hugh’s lips.

  Iris felt the impact of that gaze across the room.

  She inhaled, hastily looking away.

  “Dyemore?” She licked her lips, turning aside. She had the oddest feeling that he could read her lips even across the room. “Who is he?”

  “Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore,” Hugh murmured in her ear. “His father was the former leader of the Lords of Chaos, the Dionysus. The old duke died last fall. Dyemore turned up in London just weeks ago to claim the dukedom.”

  Iris frowned. “He was out of the country before that?”

  “No one seems to know where he was. The father was estranged from the son.” His voice sounded tight.

  “What…” She inhaled. “What in God’s name happened to his face?”

  “All we know is rumors,” he replied. “Some say it was a duel—a father angry over a daughter’s corruption and subsequent suicide. Others that his own father did it to him when he was very young. And some, of course, say he was born thusly. A curse on the family.”

  She glared at him. “Well, the last is obviously nonsense.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but even the wildest rumors and gossip are interesting in their own way.”

  “Humph.” She chanced another glance at the demonic figure by the door. “You think it significant that he’s here tonight.”

  “Let’s walk,” Hugh replied. They began moving around the ballroom again, nearing the hall that led to the ladies’ retiring room. “Dyemore hasn’t been seen in society since hi
s return. He’s only ventured out to his banker and his lawyer and once to a coffeehouse.”

  Iris inhaled. “He didn’t bother with any sort of costume tonight.”

  “Perhaps he wanted to be recognized,” Hugh said. “The position of Dionysus—there are rumors that it’s hereditary.”

  She felt a chill of horror even in the humid room. “Then he might be here to claim leadership of the Lords.”

  Hugh looked at her. “Yes.”

  They’d made the side of the room near the door to the hall.

  “I don’t like that Alf hasn’t returned. She’s now well past ten minutes late.” Hugh leaned close to her. “Wait fifteen minutes. If I’m not back by that time, make your way to the carriage in the mews.”

  Iris turned her head in alarm. “But—”

  He was already ducking out the door.

  She turned immediately back to the ballroom. Best not to stare at the door. Best not to draw attention, either to herself or to him.

  She inhaled slowly. This was a ball. She’d attended innumerable hot, boring balls since she’d come out more than a decade ago. This was simply one more.

  “My lady,” a voice like black smoke rasped behind her, “might I have the honor of this dance?”

  She knew even before she turned and saw the pale-gray eyes, the left staring out of ravaged crimson scar tissue:

  Hades had found her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thenceforth the Black Warlock taught his son all that was most evil of wizardry. Spells that maimed and drove others insane. The mysteries of mesmerizing and commanding armies. Every night the Black Prince would return to his rooms weary and sore and with his heart aching. The Golden Falcon would fly to his arm then and butt her head against his cheek until he stroked her feathers with his fingers.

  But even she could no longer make him smile.…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Hugh took the stairs two at a time, and as he did so he had to keep reminding himself that she knew what she was doing. That she’d lived by herself in bloody St Giles for years. That she was smart and swift and brave.

  And oh God, he’d sent her in alone, and if anything had happened to her he’d never forgive himself.