E than leaned his forehead onto the thick, oak, four-paneled door and swallowed hard against the raw burn of his throat.
He'd been screaming and pounding on the scarred wood for what had to be hours.
This was what happened when one chose to walk home from a notorious brothel without at least a friend or footman as company.
Father always said his recklessness would be the end of him.
Old bastard would be so pleased at Ethan's current predicament.
He'd actually made his way safely to the far end of Grosvenor Street when an indistinct carriage rolled alongside him and two large men had grabbed him up like a bundle of laundry, covered his head with a sack, and tossed him onto the floor of the carriage as the coachman whipped the horses into a gallop.
They'd tied his hands and feet and done him the added indignity of resting their boots on him as the musty smelling conveyance rattled through the streets of London.
At least Ethan hoped they'd gone no farther than London.
As the smell of the Thames had only grown more virulent, he assumed they'd merely moved from Mayfair to one of the less savory parts of Town.
Once they'd reached their destination, he'd been carried between the two men like a pig on a spit up several flights of stairs, banging his head periodically, until he'd finally been dumped in this room.
They'd freed him of the sack and bonds and left him there without a word of explanation.
"Let me out this instant or there will be hell to pay!
" he shouted when he'd caught his breath once more.
"Now, damn you!" He continued to pound his fists on the door and resorted to wordless screams at the top of his lungs.
Elbridge was behind this. Had to be. But to what end?
His brother had ever been a bully and a scheming weasel of a man, but he'd never resorted to something like this.
Ethan shivered at the sudden cold sensation that shot down his spine.
No, Elbridge hadn't the courage for anything truly nefarious.
Tonight's events were merely inconvenient, not deadly. And dammit he, for one, had had enough.
"By whose authority do you keep me here, you gutter rat whoresons?
What the--" The door burst open so precipitously Ethan stumbled back and nearly fell on his arse.
A broad red-haired behemoth stepped into the room, a cudgel in his hand.
Behind him, a tall man in black stripped off his greatcoat and hat to hand them to a young maid who hovered in the background.
"You!" Ethan said and immediately regretted doing so.
The man his brother had met in the gaming hell, the man he'd watched at Missus Greene's, strode into the room.
Up close in this well-lit though sparse chamber he was.
..magnificent, there was no other word to describe him.
His eyes were so dark as to appear black.
His lips, though cruel and in what seemed to be a permanently fixed sneer were lush and full.
His cheekbones, jaw, and even his chin were drawn sharp as razors ready to cut anyone who dared touch them.
"What did you say?" The man's voice had the dark, husky sound of one who did not speak often. Likely because he did not have to in order to be heard, and obeyed.
"Nothing." Ethan clenched his fists to ward off the sensation of the earth shaking beneath his feet. "Now see here, you...you..."
"See here nothing. Shut your fucking gob or I'll shut it for you. You'll wake everyone in the damned house with that screaming." He took a step toward Ethan, who forced himself to remain still.
"In the house?" the big redhead said. "We heard him in the bloody street. I swear he woke me dear old mam, and she's been dead and buried these fifteen years. In Ireland!"
"By what right did you snatch me off the street and lock me into this hovel?" Ethan demanded. "Do you know who I am?" He normally hated those who traded on their title or name, but frankly, he was utterly out of ideas at this point. "I'm the son of the Marquess of--"
"You're Lord Ethan Hawkworth Polston, not that who you are means two shites to me. Or did my men fetch the wrong useless fribble from Grosvenor Street?" He glanced at the big Irishman who grinned like a fiend.
"Your boys don't make mistakes," the Irishman said. "At least they only do it once."
"Too right, Sullivan." The dark-haired erotic wraith of a man turned to go. "So, stubble the fucking screaming like a damned woman and go to bed," he spoke over his shoulder. "I'm in no mood to discuss the particulars of your visit to our fine establishment tonight."
"I'll scream all damned night if that's what it takes. I'm one helluva screamer." Ethan couched that last remark in as much licentious innuendo as he could muster.
In the blink of an eye, the man whirled around and slammed his fist into Ethan's jaw so hard he saw stars before be collapsed to the floor. His head began to swim, and the light of the room faded.
"I'm Fam Dyer, son of the Devil, and now you know who I am."
The last thing Ethan heard was the sound of the Irishman's laughter.