Page 2 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

“Which club does Lord Mosley frequent?” he asked of Bartie, careful to keep the excitement he felt from his tone.

“He’s been sighted in The Bird’s Nest, of late,” Bartie answered, naming one of the more salubrious gambling dens in Pickering Place - not that that was much of an accolade. “However, I’m not certain he’ll be there much longer. Shatter does not tolerate punters who fail to honour their debts.”

Hugh nodded, visualising the brawny proprietor of The Bird’s Nest. Shatter was known for being fair, when fairness was due. He was equally famous for his ruthlessness should a situation deem it necessary for him to be ruthless. He was not the sort of fellow that anyone - even Hugh - would like to cross.

“You should go into service for Whitehall,” Hugh commented to his friend, with a smile, “I’m certain your skills at gleaning information would come in useful there.”

Bartie gave a snort in response and rolled his eyes. “The problem with that idea, your Grace,” he answered, “Is that the gossip in Whitehall is so terribly dull; there’s nowhere on earth more interesting, than a London ballroom at the height of the season.”

He offered a conspiratorial wink, which made Hugh question if his attempts at acting nonchalant had been at all convincing.

“Well,” Hugh shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently, “I believe I have passed the requisite amount of time for a face showing. Goodnight, Beaufort. I’m sure our paths will cross again before the season’s out.”

Hugh offered his companion a stiff nod, before turning on the heel of his slipper and making for the entrance hall. There, the footman called for his carriage, and when the vehicle arrived, Hugh hastened to it.

“Pickering Place,” he instructed his driver, curtly.

Hugh climbed inside and, as the carriage began its journey towards St. James’ Street, he wondered what, exactly, he was going to do once he found Lord Mosley. He had no claim on the man’s daughter, nor any solid evidence that the man might risk her safety at the tables, yet he still felt compelled to speak with him…

It was a madness of sorts; the unrelenting fear which troubled his soul. That same fear had haunted him when Jack had lived and its echo now tortured him. His worry for Jack had been rational; however, Jack was his brother, and they shared the same blood. Miss Mosley was nought but a stranger to him - he had no duty of care to her whatsoever.

The carriage soon arrived at the alleyway which led to Pickering Place. Too impatient to wait for the footman, Hugh opened the door himself and sprang from the vehicle onto the footpath.

“I shall return shortly,” he called over his shoulder before plunging into the darkness. The narrow alleyway, its bricks cold and slick with damp, opened onto a small square. The square was hemmed in on all sides by tall, brown-brick buildings, which housed various businesses of ill repute. Hugh made for The Bird’s Nest, the exterior of which was far grander than those of its neighbours.

Inside, the decor was lush and extravagant; sumptuous velvet hangings lined the walls alongside gilt-framed paintings of Renaissance nudes. The Bird’s Nest consisted of a warren of small rooms where men might play any game they liked - or partake in a different kind of fun with the light skirts who frequented the place.

Hugh, familiar with the layout, made for the main room, where he might learn of Lord Mosley’s whereabouts.

Despite the early hour, he found a large crowd present, loud and boisterous. An extravagant chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow on the florid, drunken faces which milled beneath it.

“Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Hugh turned to find Daniel Shatter standing behind him, his face wearing what appeared to be an attempt at a smile - though it did little to soften his hard features. The proprietor waved a gloved hand and a somberly liveried footman arrived at his side.

“A brandy for His Grace,” Shatter instructed curtly, “One of the good ones.”

“I’m honoured,” Hugh grinned; Shatter had connections to every criminal in London, including cross-Channel smugglers.

“It might not be patriotic, but nothing compares to a good French brandy,” Shatter answered, with a shrug. Hugh could only nod in agreement; the embargo on goods from France couldn’t end soon enough.

The footman returned a few moments later, bearing two tumblers filled with deep-amber liquid. Shatter handed one to Hugh before lifting his own in a toast.

“To a good night’s play,” he said.

“Indeed,” Hugh echoed before taking a deep sip from his glass. The liquid burned its way down his throat to his belly, warming him nicely. “Is Lord Mosley about?” he ventured after another sip.

“He’s in the Oriental drawing room playing five-card loo,” Shatter answered evenly, “Though he might not be there for much longer, he’s losing heavily again, and my patience is wearing thin.”

“I’ll cover his losses for tonight,” Hugh assured him quickly, “Just allow him to play a while longer.”

Shatter raised his eyebrows a fraction to convey his surprise, though he passed no comment. Only a fool would refuse such an offer.

“I’ll instruct the footman to keep you topped up,” Shatter said, and Hugh smiled his thanks.

He bid the man good evening, then made for the Oriental drawing room, so called because it was decorated with Chinoiserie wall hangings, hand-painted with motifs of pagodas, dragons, and lilies. Several men sat playing at the lacquered table, over which hung a cloud of smoke. From their dishevelled appearances and the number of cheroot stubs in the ashtray, it was obvious that they had been playing for quite some time.

“Loo,” a croaky voice called, revealing his hand to the table.

“Devil take you, Mosley,” one of his companions grumbled, “That’s the fifth game in a row you’ve won.”

“Luck is on my side tonight,” the baron replied, gleefully.

“I suppose fate owes you a win or two,” the first man answered, with a sigh, “Alas, she has forsaken me, so I must take my leave before I lose my shirt. Adieu , gentlemen.”

The portly man heaved himself from his seat, leaving one spot open at the table.

“May I?” Hugh queried from the doorway, causing all heads to turn his way. One of the players let out a slight groan at the sight of Hugh, who was renowned for his card skills, but the others waved for him to join.

“I should probably quit while I’m ahead,” Mosley chuckled nervously as Hugh took his seat. He brought a handkerchief up to mop at his bald pate while his eyes darted nervously around the table. He was deep in the throes of a winner’s high; though he knew he should leave, it was clear that he would not.

“Deal me in,” Mosley decided after a moment. His posture visibly relaxed as he gave up the internal battle with his conscience.

The group played hard and fast, and for the first few rounds, Hugh allowed the others to win. He found that it was always best to lure competitors into a false sense of security rather than to pounce straight away. Lord Mosely won three hands and his excitement grew even more palpable; with Hugh present, the stakes had been driven higher, and the baron had won himself a considerable sum.

“Shall we deal again?” Hugh pondered, offering Mosley a chance to escape.

“Once more,” the baron agreed, his eyes alight with greed.

His expression soon changed to one of dismay as Hugh finally played to win. With each round, Hugh pushed the buy-in ever higher until Mosley had lost all that he had won - and then some.

Still, he would not stop. Now that he was no longer winning, he was chasing his losses.

“One more,” Mosley called, nervously wiping away the sweat from his upper lip. Hugh hid a smile, for the man had walked into the trap he had planned for him. Hugh would bankrupt the fellow, offer him clemency, in exchange for a promise that he would never gamble again…

…But would that suffice in keeping Miss Mosley safe?

The other players began to fall away from the game, throwing their cards down in defeat until only Hugh and Lord Mosley were left. The baron’s thin lips were pressed tightly together as though he was trying to keep from breaking into a smile. Hugh felt a momentary pang of worry, but the cards he held in his hand were almost unbeatable.

“What’s say we raise the stakes, eh?” Lord Mosley asked as he drew his final card, “My estate in Whitby sound enticing enough for you, Falconbridge?”

“I could always use another estate to add to the pile,” Hugh responded, earning himself a few sycophantic chuckles from the players who had already folded, “What’s say I place my estate in St. Ives in the pot to match you - and five thousand pounds to boot.”

A strained hush fell; it was an astronomical sum, one which all present knew that Mosley could not match.

“I can’t meet your bid,” the baron replied, his brow furrowed into a frown, “As you well know.”

“You have something else I want.”

“And what might that be?”

“Your daughter.”

It had not been his intention to try to win the fair Miss Mosley, but now that he had uttered the words aloud, Hugh felt a deep sense of satisfaction. What better way was there to ensure Miss Mosley’s continued safety than installing her by his side as his duchess?

The other players at the table hummed with excitement; no doubt, this would be the talk of taverns across London for many days to come.

“And what do you want to do with her?” Lord Mosley asked with a sneer - though not, Hugh noted, an abject rebuttal of his demand.

“Marry her,” Hugh said simply, “If I win, I shall wipe clean the slate of your debt in exchange for her hand.”

There was a silence as Lord Mosley digested this rather tempting offer. He glanced at the cards in his hands and, as though assured by them, nodded his head.

“Alright,” he agreed, “But you’ll have to double your bid; my Anna’s worth more than a paltry five thousand.”

“Indeed she is,” Hugh agreed, “One might say that her worth is priceless…”

Lord Mosley did not acknowledge the second part of his remark. Instead, he laid his cards out on the table for Hugh to inspect. An approving murmur went up from their fellow players; Lord Mosley held a brilliant hand.

“A good hand,” Hugh acknowledged coldly, “But not a winning one. I’m afraid you’ve been well and truly loo’d, my lord.”

With a flourish, Hugh laid his cards out upon the table - four of the same suit and the coveted Pam.

He had won himself a wife.