Page 1 of Duke of the Underworld (Regency Gods #2)

CHAPTER 1

“ O i, where ye goin’ then, little birdie? Care to come over here for a chat, eh?”

After hearing over a dozen halfhearted calls from the men gathered in pockets here and there in the various doorways and alleys of Whitechapel, Persephone Lovell supposed she ought to have been more accustomed to the crudeness, the implication. At the very least, she should have become a bit more used to the nicknames.

Shady characters, it transpired, were endlessly creative with nicknames.

She picked up the pace of her steps.

“Ah, don’ be like that, chickadee!” the man called, his voice growing more distant with each step. As she hurried out of sight, she heard his friends begin to tease him, their laughter made loud by their intoxication, about how he’d been rejected by “such a fine piece of skirt.”

And here she’d worn her most muted skirt for this little errand.

Once the men’s voices had entirely disappeared into the layered noise of the neighborhood, Persephone debated slowing her steps. She wanted to look inconspicuous, her too-fancy skirt notwithstanding. But she also wanted this, ah, misadventure of hers to come to a swift—and successful— conclusion.

It had to. This had to work.

She wouldn’t have done this if she’d had any other choices, after all—or at least not any she could see. She had so little power in this life, something that had become increasingly, brutally obvious to her in the past several months.

This was the only thing she could think of. She could not even let herself consider what she would do if it didn’t work.

“Y’a’right there, girlie?”

This was a woman’s voice, far gentler than any of the men’s had been when they called out to Persephone. She paused, looked around, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw a woman lounging in a doorway, gown draped such that it was more suggestion than actual clothing. The entirety of her leg was exposed. Persephone hadn’t ever seen a thigh that wasn’t her own, and now she could see…all of one.

She was speaking to a lady of the evening! The idea was a touch thrilling.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Persephone said. Her words, like her clothing, likely made it obvious that she was not a native of his neighborhood. And if that hadn’t done it, her accent would have given her away.

Barons’ daughters might be on the lower end of Society in Mayfair, but she was likely the most gently-bred lady to traverse these streets in the past year.

Gentlemen were another question entirely, which was what brought Persephone here in the first place.

The woman frowned at her.

“Cor, miss, this ain’t no place for ya,” the woman said. She moved a step forward, into the light, and Persephone caught a glimpse of tired eyes accentuated by heavy kohl and rouge. “How’d ya get y’self so lost that y’ended up down these parts?”

“Oh, I’m not lost,” Persephone said hastily. Best to make herself seem confident, even if she was plagued with little more than doubts knit together with determination—and desperation.

“No?”

“No,” she said firmly, only to realize…yes, actually. She was a tiny bit lost. “But,” she said, raising her chin, “if you would point me in the direction of the club Underworld, I would be much obliged.”

Even in the dim light, she saw the woman’s eyes go wide.

“Naw, miss, that place ain’t for the likes of you,” she said, accentuating her words with a sharp jerk of her head that made it clear that her ringlets were a wig, not her own locks. “You don’ wan’ to be goin’ over there. T’is a right rough place, miss. Right rough.”

Persephone fought the urge to wince.

“Right rough” was very likely the most common descriptor for Underworld, one of the most notorious gambling clubs in London. It was the kind of place discussed in whispers, even among the more daring gentlemen of the ton , all of whom both desired to see and be seen at the gaming hell…even as they feared the hit to their reputations if they were too frequently associated with the place.

In some ways, the idea made Persephone smile. It was nice to think that gentlemen could fret about their reputations for once, instead of leaving those woes as the exclusive purview of ladies.

Or, it might have made her smile, if not for her current errand.

“Just so, madam,” she said to the woman. Being polite never hurt. “Do you know where I can find the establishment from here?”

The woman did not seem reassured. “I’ve a daughter meself,” she said, wringing her hands. “And she’s no highborn lassie, I need not tell ya that.” Her self-deprecating laugh was tinged with just a hint of bitterness. “But I’d not send my own girl to Underworld, mark my words. Makes me think I’d best not be sending you, either, well-bred as ya seem to be.”

In better circumstances, Persephone might have decided to get a little more high-minded about this. It was as though low-born girls deserved any less protection than high-born ones, after all. But time really was of the essence, and what Persephone needed at the moment was instructions, not a philosophical debate.

“Madam,” she repeated. “Please. I—I have business with the owner.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Business? With the owner of Underground? ”

She sounded approximately as incredulous as Persephone felt about the whole thing, and she’d had weeks to accustom herself to the idea.

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

The woman gnawed at a lip, smearing her cheap rouge.

“Please,” Persephone said softly. She knew she sounded desperate, and maybe that revealed more than she ought, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t afford to care. She needed to get to Underworld, needed to set her proposal to the proprietor…

Or else everything would be lost.

And perhaps this woman spoke that language. Persephone could imagine that she did, given the roughness of her profession in such a brutal neighborhood.

Because the woman sighed, then looked askance, as if deliberating. It was almost impossible to wait, but Persephone did, terrified that any action on her part would put the woman off her purpose.

“Fine,” she said at last. “I can’t say that I like it, miss, but…fine.” She pointed out of the alley toward a larger road. “If ya take this route down thataways, you’ll down to a big cross street. Go down to the left a ways and you’ll see it. Can’t miss it. Jes’ look for the place with all the high-nosed gents hanging about, tryin’ to act as though they belong here any more’n you do.”

Persephone could not say she was thrilled by the vagueness of “thataways,” nor the non-specificity of the distances she was meant to travel, but she did like the sound of something she would be unable to miss.

“Thank you,” she said fervently. “Thank you.” She scrabbled for the hidden pockets inside her skirt, where she’d tucked some of the little coins she had left from her pin money. She pulled out a few, and offered them to the woman.

She hesitated.

“I feel I ought not take from ya, if ye’re in as dire straits as all that,” the woman said, though she did ultimately reach to take the coins from Persephone’s hand. “But I’m not one to turn down coin freely given.”

Persephone didn’t have anything to say that wouldn’t sound insulting, so she merely reiterated her appreciation.

“I thank you,” she said again. She turned to head in the direction that the lightskirt had indicated.

“There’s still time to change yer mind!” the woman called after her.

Persephone didn’t let these words stop her.

Because it was far, far too late for her to change her mind. It didn’t matter how foolish this was, didn’t matter that she was scared half out of her wits.

She had to get into Underworld. There was simply no other choice.