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

CHAPTER 2

“ I did not expect to see you out here this evening, Your Grace.”

Hugh Blackwood, the Duke of Nighthall and the unfortunate proprietor of this den of iniquity, winced upon hearing his title. He always did, when he was at Underworld. It always served to remind him that, no matter how hard he tried to keep his two worlds separate, they would inevitably eventually collide.

Hugh didn’t know if Martin O’Connell, his right-hand man at Underworld these past years, insisted upon using Hugh’s title to remind him of this dreaded eventuality or if he did so just to be a pain in Hugh’s arse. Knowing the clever, contrarian Irishman, it could go either way.

Despite the formal invocation of Hugh’s ancestral title, Martin was not shy about taking a place next to Hugh on the small balcony that overlooked the main gambling floor of Underworld. It was a tucked-away little nook outside the owner’s office, one where a man could see without being seen—or at least not witnessed overmuch. Hugh preferred to maintain a low profile. Martin was the visible presence of the club, not Hugh.

“Hm, one of the dealers told me there might be trouble,” Hugh said, not taking his eyes from the bustling crowd below.

Immediately, any hint of playfulness vanished from Martin’s expression.

“What kind of trouble?” he asked.

Hugh had never gotten the details of what had made Martin leave Ireland for London—he’d never asked—but he had the sense that the man had found himself on the wrong end of some kind of trouble. But some instinct had told Hugh to trust Martin from the start, and he’d never had reason to regret that decision. Whatever problems Martin had seen in his home country, they had made him a damn good club manager, which was all Hugh needed to know until Martin decided to tell him otherwise.

God knew a man was entitled to his secrets. Sometimes, Hugh felt every part of his life was secret from someone or other.

Still, Martin’s intensity wasn’t needed at the moment, so Hugh waved a hand.

“Just the usual kind,” he said. “Rowdy men who don’t like to hear that they’ve lost, let alone that they have to pay their debts.”

Martin hummed thoughtfully, then rapped his knuckles against the hardwood railing, which was, as always, polished to a smooth shine.

“Well, we’ll keep an eye out,” he said, “and if we need to send one of the boys to throw someone out on his arse, that’s what we’ll do.”

Hugh started to nod—it was standard procedure, and it worked extremely well; gentlemen feared being embarrassed in front of their peers above all others—but, as if on cue, one of the men he paid well to keep a keen eye came up to the balcony. The owner’s balcony wasn’t forbidden to staff by any means, but nobody except Martin ever came up here unless they were compelled to do so.

The men respected Martin and feared him a little…but they outright feared Hugh.

Most people did.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. O’Connell, my lord,” said the man in a thick Irish accent. Martin handled the hiring and brought in many of his countrymen. Indeed, Hugh had so little to do with the day-to-day workings of the staff that most of them did not know his true name or title—though they all recognized that he was a member of the aristocracy.

“What is it, McCreedy?” Martin asked.

“Trouble,” the lad said succinctly. “Down at the table in the west quarter. Two gents are gettin’ into it with a third. Same two as were hasslin’ one of the girls, earlier.”

Hugh’s mouth set into a grim line. He might not like that working women came to Underworld, but he had barely opened the club before he realized that there was no way to avoid their presence entirely. If he didn’t permit them in the club, they would loiter outside, waiting for the wealthy patrons of the club to exit.

Out there, he had no power. In here, at least, he could deliver a swift kick to anyone who thought they could take liberties as they wished just because those women sold their attentions.

“Who was the lass?” Martin asked, standing upright in a way that promised violence.

“Bessie—but she’s a’right,” McCreedy hastened to add. “More mad than shook up, even.”

Martin nodded sharply, but nothing about him relaxed. He pushed away from the banister, only stalling his movements when Hugh put a quelling hand on his arm.

“I’ll handle this one, Martin,” he said. “I’m here. I may as well.”

His casual words did nothing to hide the ice in his tone. Trouble was an unavoidable part of this sordid business, but he still couldn’t help but resent whenever someone—usually a drunk, entitled someone—brought extra disruption into the gaming hell.

Martin gave him an understanding nod, then turned back to the balcony. Hugh understood the meaning behind the subtle movement. Martin would have his back whenever he needed it.

“Right,” McCreedy said, a touch of nerves in his voice. “Just this way, then, m’lord.”

Hugh heard the trouble before he saw it, two upper crust accents, slurred with liquor, arguing about a hand of cards. It wasn’t serious—he could already tell by the way the dealer was looking bored and annoyed, not upset or concerned—but it was a disruption.

“Gentlemen,” he said icily, approaching them until they had to look up at his considerable height. “What seems to be the problem?”

There was only one correct answer to this. The men, were they possessing anything like good sense, should immediately deny any problem whatsoever and then remove themselves from his club posthaste.

They were either too drunk or too stupid to realize this—or perhaps both.

Immediately, both men launched into protests and accusations.

“He cheated?—”

“He’s a liar?—”

“Gentlemen,” Hugh said again, a little bit more loudly, a little bit more forcefully. “Before you continue, please allow me to reacquaint you with one of the rules of our establishment. Did you know that anyone who is accused of cheating on the premises will be removed and will have his membership revoked. That said, allow me to ask you once more. What seems to be the problem?”

For a blink, he thought the men were going to get it. He thought they were going to do the smart thing.

Instead, they looked at one another and bristled in unison.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” one demanded.

“Do you know who we are?” sputtered the other.

Hugh smiled broadly at them. One of them had the good sense to look concerned at this.

Sometimes, Hugh really enjoyed having that kind of effect on people.

“I cannot say that I do,” he said, bitingly pleasant. “But I think you will find that it highly matters who you are. What matters is who I am. And I am the man who controls whether or not you are permitted to frequent this establishment. And, beyond that, I am the man who pays the wages of the fellows behind you?—”

The concerned one, the one who had half a lick of sense, whipped his head around with comical speed. Hugh found he was still not in a laughing mood, however, not even when one of the waiting toughs he employed gave the fancy coves a jaunty little salute.

That hire had Martin written all over him. They had the same impish sense about them at the worst bloody moments.

“—which means,” Hugh went on, “that I am the man who is going to have you escorted from this club. Now, if you wish to tell me who you are, after all, I’m sure I can make a note on your membership files, but…”

“No, no,” the smarter one said. “No, we’ll leave.”

He tugged on his companion’s arm. The second man looked like he considered putting up more of a fight, but when one of the toughs grabbed onto his other arm, he went easily enough toward the door.

Hugh trusted his employees to take things from there.

When he turned, however, he saw that his show had garnered an audience. There were perhaps a dozen pairs of curious eyes staring at him.

Hugh gave another smile, this one just as razor-tipped as the last.

“And that is why,” he said with a mocking lilt, “ you don’t challenge the man who controls the drinks. And, on that note, why don’t we raise a glass on the house, eh, gentlemen?”

This offer was met with a raucous cheer from the assembled patrons and a bustle of motion from the staff as they hurried to make good on Hugh’s offer.

The sounds of the club quickly returned to normal, the gasps of victors and the groans of losers. There was laughter and bickering, yes, but nothing that spoke of true animosity. Hugh was sure things weren’t settled for the night, however. As the hours wore toward morning and the players fell deeper into their cups, conflict was inevitable.

But for now, all was well.

Hugh returned to his place on the balcony, where Martin was doing a weak job of attempting to hide his smile.

“You do like your drama, don’t you, Your Grace?” he asked. “You sure set them to scrambling; it was fun to watch.”

“I can still sack you, you know,” Hugh muttered without any real heat—nor without the ice he preferred when dealing with unruly patrons.

“Oh, aye, sure,” Martin said, outright chuckling now. “And then you can manage all the staff, and order the drinks, and order new decks of cards. Oh, plus the daytime staff, don’t forget them?—”

“Oh, shut your mouth, you smart Irish bastard,” Hugh said. “You’ve made your point; you can’t be replaced. Don’t be smug about it.”

Martin did fall silent, but he did so with a distinctly smug air.

“Nobody would fault you for finding a bit of entertainment yourself,” Martin said after a few beats. “You know?—”

“Enough,” Hugh said wearily. It was a well-worn argument between them. Martin seemed to labor under the delusion that Hugh’s social life was lacking in some way—which was bloody rich, indeed, coming from a man who practically lived at the club.

Hugh might be busy, but he was still a duke living in London, a town packed to the rafters with widows and actresses. He wasn’t celibate , for Christ’s sake.

Though Martin was not entirely without a point, Hugh supposed. It had been…not a short time since he’d last had a lover.

Hugh was certain that his friend had a retort to this, and indeed Martin opened his mouth to say something that never made it past his lips. Instead, his gaze caught on something below so sharply that Hugh followed the glance on instinct.

At first, he didn’t see it. And then, all of a sudden, he did.

Well, she didn’t belong here, now did she?