his nature a few times. Who was he? He often lay in the dark and stared sightlessly at his ceiling, wondering why he felt so unrooted.
Was he the rake, the charming libertine who loved to seduce women, drink, race recklessly, and gamble? Or was he the man Riordan O’Malley called Hawk, someone believed to be just as dangerous as the owner of the Asylum, a man who had killed while dueling and whenever provoked to act in defense of his self?
“My Lord Rothbury,” a voice purred. “You are the very man I wished to see.”
It was Madame Salome herself draped in a scandalous gown of flimsy green silk, her mass of vibrant red hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her gown clung to her dazzling form, accentuating and displaying what lay beneath. The lady had a reputation of arranging discreet trysts, allowing women and gentlemen of high society to indulge in experiences under the banner of secrecy. She gambled often at the Asylum and was rumored to have a debt of over fifteen thousand pounds, yet O’Malley had not called her in vowels.
“Salome,” Nicolas said by way of greeting, a slight dip of his head acknowledging her interest. “How may I be of service to you?”
She laughed, light and tinkling. “On your knees, preferably. I am restless tonight, and I do not believe I’ve had you yet.”
He stared at that charming smile, oddly unmoved. The woman was beautiful and intimately knew of her allure. He admired her confidence and even her cunning, for she was a lady protected by some of the most powerful lords of society—those belonging to the ton and those of the underworld.
Hunger stirred Nicolas’s veins, but it was not for this woman. All his thoughts and attention were with another lady. One who probably would skewer him if he truly tried to kiss her. It should be alarming, the degree to which Lady Maryann compelled his senses.
“I am flattered,” he said with a slow smile to lessen the sting to her vanity. “Regrettably, I must decline.”
Her light blue eyes flared wide, and it was clear the lady was not accustomed to rejection.
“You are horridly disobliging,” she said with a pout meant to entice. “Could it be the rumors are true? That you’ve formed an attachment with some naive little thing?”
It did not surprise him that gossip had already made its way to this particular gambling den. The owners traded in information on the black market where the currency of secrets was more powerful than money itself. Everyone who visited the Asylum told of what they knew to see if they could gain some value from the knowledge they provided.
“If only they were,” he said calmly. “Either way, I do not give a damn about said hearsay.”
“How disagreeable of you.” A calculating glint entered her eyes. “I have never heard you deny a rumor. Is the marquess protesting too much?”
Nicolas smiled but made no reply. Yet he perceived the threat in her probe. Bloody hell. Who else was actively wondering how important Lady Maryann was to him?
He walked past Salome, and he could feel her stare boring into his back. Perhaps she worked with Farringdon, the very duke Nicolas was knocking down a peg tonight.
It would explain her sudden interest, and there had been a rumor some months ago that they were lovers. Perhaps her task had been to seduce Nicolas and ferret out the truth. Or a weakness he was sure to have. Either way, he would not allow her to distract him from his purpose, but he would keep discreet tabs on her.
And most importantly, he would hire two of O’Malley’s men who were former runners to discreetly watch over Lady Maryann and protect her, should the need arise. It was better to be safe than regretful. And the idea of anything happening to her was…truly unthinkable.
Nicolas stopped at the railing on the upper bowers, peering into the crowd of dancers as they twirled to the waltz. The ballroom was as elegant as those found in the best town houses in London, possibly even grander. All the women on the floor wore decadent masks to hide their identity from scandal, and in the arms of the men they twirled with, they were far bolder and more scandalous than ladies of the demimonde.
Nicolas spied Farringdon sitting at a table in a corner, conversing with the owner of Asylum, Riordan O’Malley. The duke appeared agitated, and he glanced over his shoulders several times, rubbing the back of his