Page 3 of Duke of the Underworld (Regency Gods #2)

CHAPTER 3

T his place was…

Well, Persephone was seeing too many things at once to properly focus on any one of them.

There were men, dozens of men, far more than she’d ever seen in any ballroom. And they were acting brashly, laughing loud, shoving one another playfully. These were gentlemen, and they were behaving like farm boys playing an illicit game of mob football when they were meant to be tending to their chores.

And that was just the men themselves. There were also women, some of whom were dressed in such a way that they made Persephone’s aide in the alley look like she was recently from the convent.

Plus the money . The players were all using tokens, of course—Underworld’s allure was that it put an upper-crust veneer on the, well, underworld where these illicit acts took place. It was the threat of the sordid without its reality. It was a place that aristocrats could come to play at being a common man without any of the…unpleasantness that came along with poverty.

Persephone was no thief—would that she were; it would solve a lot of her problems—but watching all that money be thrown away over something as stupid as a hand of cards made her fingers itch to turn to a life of crime.

“Excuse me, miss. Can I help you?”

Persephone turned at the sound of a polite voice with an Irish lilt to see a tall, thin man looking down at her with a curious air, one tinged with impatience.

Persephone resisted the urge to turn tail and run. She’d come this far. She wouldn’t falter now. She couldn’t.

So she raised her chin and looked him square in the eye.

“Good evening, sir,” she said. “I need to speak with the owner of this establishment.”

The man before her looked unimpressed.

“Miss,” he said. “I don’t think that’s possible. In fact, I don’t think anything is possible here for you tonight. You should leave. Shall I call you a carriage?”

Part of her wanted, with a desperation that bordered on compulsion, to stomp her foot in irritation. The only thing that spared her was the desire to not look like a petulant child.

But, goodness. Did everyone have to stand in her way this evening? She hadn’t even reached her greatest hurdle yet. Could someone not just be the tiniest bit agreeable?

“Sir,” she said in the same tone he’d used when saying miss . “I must insist. In fact, I plan to stay directly in this spot—” She pointed at her feet for emphasis. “—until I speak to the man who owns this establishment.”

She knew who he was, this mysterious owner, for all that he carefully shrouded himself in secrecy. She would reveal this knowledge, if she needed to, but she preferred to maintain discretion—if only because it might buy her a tiny bit of goodwill.

Lord only knew she could use every ounce of the stuff she could get.

“Miss,” the man repeated, this time with a stronger hint of warning in his voice.

“You shall have to forcibly remove me,” she said, hoping she wasn’t giving him ideas. Most gentlemen would rather eat their own hats than lay hands upon a lady in such a manner, particularly in the eye of so many witnesses, but Persephone couldn’t necessarily say that this man was a gentleman.

Nor that gentlemanly behavior could be generally expected in a place like this one, regardless of the birth of the man she addressed.

Still, she held his gaze, trying to show more bravery than she felt.

Just when she began to worry that she could not stand strong any longer, the man dropped his chin, giving his head a rueful shake.

“Fine,” he said. “You want to go see the owner? I shall take you to him.”

Though Persephone knew she should be grateful that she was getting what she wanted, she balked at this, if only a little bit. It was one thing to go to an uncertain location when it was under her own direction. She didn’t like the idea of being led to a place not of her choosing.

“He cannot see me here?” she tried.

The Irishman gave her a look that said she was really stretching her luck.

“He cannot,” he said dryly. “He rarely comes down to the gaming floor while the club is open. You can see him in his study or not at all.”

Drat.

“And his study is…on the premises?” she clarified.

Was she flattering herself that the man seemed impressed with her cheek? She probably was, but it gave her a boost of confidence, so she decided to keep up with the self-deception.

“It is,” the man said.

Persephone did not like this. She really very well and truly did not like this. She suddenly felt all the echoes and warnings she’d received—from herself, then from the woman from the alley, and even from this man—echoing in her head.

What had she been thinking? She was going to end up… Oh, she probably was too naive to even know what kind of problems girls like her got into in places like these. Did people get stabbed at gaming hells? There was probably a stabbing every evening, wasn’t there? Or she’d be robbed! She didn’t have anything to steal, but that would probably enrage the thieves, hence the stabbing!

She’d have nobody to blame but herself when she ended up robbed and stabbed. Herself and her father, she supposed.

The wry Irishman was looking at her expectantly. And Persephone was stubborn beyond comprehension, it turned out.

No doubt they’d put that on her tombstone after this all went wrong.

“Very well,” she said. “Take me to him.”

The man turned, mumbling something under his breath that sounded like the words just as dramatic . Persephone decided not to ask.

She kept her wits about her as she followed the man off the main casino floor and toward a staircase that wound around the large, high-ceiling room. Once they reached the second floor, the carpeting grew lusher and springier beneath her feet. The interior, fine down below, grew…not necessarily nicer, but less clearly disturbed by hundreds of passersby each evening.

When they came upon a large oak door, ornately carved and its brass handles carved to a perfect shine, Persephone amended this assessment.

This place wasn’t elegant. It was terrifying .

And this man—whose name she hadn’t even asked , which now seemed like a grievous oversight—didn’t even hesitate before opening the door and letting himself in. Persephone took a steadying breath, smoothed her skirts hastily, and then followed him inside, coming face to face with?—

Nobody.

She drew up short.

She thought the man might have snickered at her. Rude, that.

“Please, miss,” he said, sounding distinctly amused. Truly very rude! “Wait here. His Grace will be with you soon.”

Persephone nodded, trying not to grimace.

“Good, thank you,” she said.

The man turned from her, then slipped out the door, quick and silent as a wisp of smoke.

Leaving Persephone there to await her fate.

“There’s a lady in your study.”

For the second time that night, Hugh found himself approached by Martin on the balcony.

This time, however, he was far more confused by his second in command’s arrival.

“Well, get her out,” he said, wondering why Martin hadn’t already done so. “The girls know they’re not allowed in my study.”

Some of the workers at the club had tried to get his attention before, of course. They might not know precisely that he was the Duke of Nighthall, but women who made their money by men’s favor knew how to detect a fat purse and were willing to take risks to try to earn some of that coin for themselves.

Hugh didn’t blame women for selling one commodity that couldn’t be taken from them. He knew well that most of them had been driven to desperate circumstances, that they hadn’t taken to the world’s oldest profession by choice.

But he didn’t pay for company, and he certainly didn’t do so at his place of business. There were some lines a man could not cross, and taking advantage of a vulnerable woman in that way was one that Hugh would not stomach.

Martin gave him a disgusted look, the one that Hugh received whenever he underestimated his second in command.

“Give me some credit,” Martin drawled. He never had been one to leave it unsaid when Hugh made an error. It was annoying in its own way, but after a lifetime of people kowtowing to his rank, it was also refreshing. “It’s not one of the working girls. It’s a lady .”

This caught Hugh’s attention.

“A… lady lady?”

Martin’s look was even more disgusted now. “Is there another kind?”

Well, no, Hugh, suppose not.

“What’s she doing there?” he demanded.

Martin shrugged, his look shifting to one of delight.

“I didn’t ask,” he said. “I tried to send her on her way, and she very stubbornly insisted that she needed to speak to the owner of this establishment.”

“You didn’t ask,” Hugh echoed flatly.

“Thought I’d leave that treat for Your Grace’s pleasure,” Martin said with a sweeping bow.

The cheeky bugger.

And yet…

Yet, Hugh could not deny that his curiosity was piqued, just a little bit.

“Fine,” he said. “But if she causes a problem, I’m leaving it for you to clean up.”

“That’s less a threat than you think, considering it’s my whole job,” Martin returned grandly.

Well, at least someone was enjoying himself.

He entered his study on quiet feet, the well-oiled hinge on the secret back door opening soundlessly. No lawman was likely to raid a gambling club owned by a duke, but it was always better to be prepared, just in case.

And sometimes secret entrances came in handy for matters like observing sweetly curved redheads from behind.

She was staring intently at the main door, her posture rigid and her hands balled into fists. She was dressed modestly, in dark, unassuming colors, but her clothes were too fine a quality to mistake her for any of the usual classes of women who frequented the Underworld.

So it was true, then. There was a lady in his club.

Hugh let a little smirk tease about his lips. Perhaps Martin wasn’t the only one who would enjoy this evening after all.

“You will be more comfortable if you sit, you know.” The voice came from behind her—from too close behind her.

She jumped so violently that she feared, for a split second, that she was about to topple over. Bad enough that she’d been taken by surprise; she didn’t need to meet the fearsome Duke of Nighthall, the dreaded owner of the Underworld, from a crumpled heap on the floor. When she turned to face him, balance regained, she fixed a look on her face that she hoped looked fierce, rather than startled.

“You snuck up on me!” she accused. She could not afford to be on the back foot.

Even though it was…tough not to feel that way, given the whole, ah, overall, erm, look of him.

Oh, fine. She admitted it. He was handsome as could be. He was tall, dark, and forbidding, and he had an air of absolute authority. He had broad shoulders and heavy brows and dark, dark eyes. And dark, thick hair, and—and what had happened to her vocabulary? Certainly she had, at some point in her life, known a word other than dark .

For all his intimidating looks, the man made no move to menace her as he entered through a space that she had previously assumed to be a tapestry.

What kind of gothic novel nonsense was this? Dark, brooding heroes and secret passageways?

Oh, dear. Did this mean she was the na?ve heroine who ended up losing everything because she was taken away by her passions? No, no, she was entirely without passions. She would be fine, surely. She just had to stay focused.

In pursuit of this focus, she gazed a few inches past his shoulder. Hm, that was a nice painting he’d hung over there. Very soothing. It probably provided a nice counterpart to all the hubbub she’d witnessed downstairs.

“I came in through the door,” he commented mildly. “I can’t say it’s my fault you were looking at the wrong door.”

She glowered. This, tragically, led her to the mistake of meeting his eye.

Still dark. Still fathomless.

Alas.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked, gesturing to the twin chairs across from his desk.

She looked quickly between both doors, then glanced over at the chairs. They were inopportunely placed to keep an eye on the entrances, something she could only assume was intentional. But she was no fool—she was not a tragic heroine, no matter her environs. She shook her head and repositioned herself. This time, both entrances were in her eyeline.

Was she deluding herself when she thought she saw a flicker of approval cross his face?

The duke sunk into his own chair, minimizing his height. Well, that was helpful. She no longer felt like she was speaking to a leviathan. Or not as much, at least.

A beat. Then another.

And… Persephone found she didn’t have the right words. Belatedly, she realized that she hadn’t actually expected to make it this far.

“I hear you needed to speak with me,” he said when she didn’t do anything besides fidget anxiously.

“I…yes.” She cleared her throat, fidgeted some more, and only then looked him in the eye. They really were the most intriguingly deep color. She took a deep breath. “My name is Persephone Lovell. My father is Baron Fielton.”

She saw the moment he understood. He didn’t move, not an inch, but she could practically see tallies and sums running through his mind. None of them looked good, not to her, not to him. That much, she knew.

“Your father owes a great deal of money to this establishment,” he said without inflection.

Her eyes flickered away, embarrassed, but then returned to him. She’d made it into this office. She would not flinch now.

“Yes,” she said. There was no excuse to be made, so she would not try to manufacture one. Her father had gambled far past what was reasonable, far past what was imaginable . He’d lost a fortune and then kept losing.

And he hadn’t repaid any of it.

“I had to terminate his membership for dereliction of payment,” Hugh added.

“Yes,” she said again. “And…thank you for that.”

Hugh arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t do it for your sake, Miss Lovell. I did it because this is a business. Your father failed to pay. I am not going to lose further funds just to satisfy a man’s desire to waste a fortune on a roll of dice.”

“Right,” she muttered, fidgeting again. That was…extremely reasonable. Of course it hadn’t been to protect her father. “Right, of course. Well, I have come here tonight, Your Grace—” An eyebrow quirked as she realized that she knew his identity, something she knew was not precisely a secret, but which wasn’t public knowledge, either. “—to…ask for leniency.”

Hugh grimaced. “Your father sent you here in hopes that a pretty face would compel me to forgive his debts?”

She felt her eyes grow wide as saucers. He couldn’t really think?—

“I—no! No!” She shook her head hard enough that one of her curls dropped free from her pins. “No, my father doesn’t know I’m here.”

Goodness, she could only imagine. She didn’t know what was worse, the idea that her father would have stopped her from coming here, thereby dooming her family, or the thought that he might have encouraged her to come—despite the danger, despite the risk to her reputation. She feared that this last confirmation that he didn’t care for her a whit would crush her.

“I just wanted to ask…if we could have more time,” she stammered. “Or if there is some new way of payment. Something. Anything that I can do that will help.”

She didn’t have that many skills, but maybe she could offer something . Dukes didn’t need lessons in French or anything of the sort, but he wasn’t married. Maybe he would like help…hosting an event? Planning menus? She didn’t have any good ideas, but maybe he did.

“Miss,” he said sternly. “You cannot make that kind of offer in this kind of establishment. Another man might take it the wrong way.”

Briefly, her brow furrowed in confusion, then she blanched. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord . He’d thought she was trying to—that she meant to…

That she meant to trade her person for his payment. And, yes, the woman that Persephone had met in the alley had been perfectly lovely, had been far more caring of a stranger than she’d needed to be. But that didn’t mean that Persephone intended to follow the woman’s career path! That she meant to make a lightskirt of herself.

She nearly choked on her own surprise.

“I—no! That’s not what I meant at all,” she said. “I just thought…”

He sighed. “You thought I might be driven to pity. You thought I might be driven to forgive the debt—never mind that collecting these debts is the entire basis of my business—just because you asked? You thought you were, what? More important than the people who work here—more important than their families? Their livelihoods?”

“No, I?—”

“You thought that I might be swayed by your foolishness in showing up here? In letting yourself into such a dangerous place, into making such a dangerous world?”

“That’s not what?—”

“Or maybe you wanted a taste of the darkness yourself,” he mused. “Maybe your father’s desires have rubbed off on you more than you want to admit. Maybe you?—”

“Would you let me answer!” she snapped. “Or are you so enamored of the sound of your own voice that you prefer to hold conversations without a partner!”

The duke didn’t reply, and the silence after her retort was cavernous. It took scant seconds for her ferocity to fade into horror at her outburst.

“I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said.

The pause after her apology was endless. He looked her up and down, his gaze appraising and deliberate. She fought, with every iota of her being, not to twitch under that probing glare. She would have given all the money to her name—which was not much, but still—to know what he was thinking.

He stood. He towered over Persephone in this position, even with the desk between them. Persephone wasn’t necessarily diminutive, but she wasn’t tall, either.

Next to the duke, she felt positively tiny.

Even so, she didn’t falter. She couldn’t. She just pressed her lips tight and clenched her hands into fists again. The pinch of her nails against the meat of her palm oriented her.

“You have come here,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “to ask to find a new way to repay your father’s debts.”

“Yes,” she agreed cautiously. There was something highly dangerous about the look in his eye. She didn’t have to be an expert in men to know that much. “I mean…not the way you implied—” She could feel the burning brightness of her blush. “—but yes.”

“And you will do so in any way in your power—except of course,” he added mockingly, “for the way that I implied.”

She paused, looking as though she were hunting for any hidden meaning in his words. And she probably deserved the little jibe. The whole situation was… It was madness.

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “If it will help my family…then yes.”

The gleam of triumph in his eyes made her acutely nervous.

“In that case,” he said, “there is something you can do.”

“Yes?” she asked, wide-eyed and breathless.

“Yes,” he said. “You can marry me.”