In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,129
garish display of opulence and grandiosity, enough to turn an outsider’s stomach. All around, men and women waltzed and pranced about, getting drunk off their own frivolousness.
In short, it was nothing less than what Hugh might have expected of an event hosted by one who’d run the Fight Society.
A champagne flute in his fingers so as to blend with the other lords and ladies present, Hugh stared on at the tall, slender figure in the middle of the ballroom. His face concealed, Hugh could make out little of his features. He didn’t know what he’d expected . . . some immediate recognition. A telltale hint or sign or mark upon the man’s face that he’d been the head of the Fight Society.
Instead, arm-in-arm with a petite woman some twenty years his junior, the man was as much a stranger as every other man here this night.
Just then, the guest Prendergast greeted moved on and the marquess looked out.
And for a moment, Hugh believed the other man saw him standing there, watching him. Knowing Hugh intended to search his lair for any hint of wrongdoing.
But then Lord Prendergast shifted his focus to a portly pair.
So many men and women of all ages, coming here for a night’s revelry, almost wicked enough to border on respectability.
He swept his gaze around the room, taking in the outlandish display.
When his partners had asked him to enter the nest of vipers, Hugh had not thought beyond the ultimate outcome: procuring evidence that could link Prendergast and, through him, all the other men responsible for the Fight Society.
His focus had been singular: securing an invitation and then slipping about like the expert thief he’d once been to find that which he wished. Information which Hugh would bring himself to steal, and then justice would be done.
What Hugh hadn’t allowed himself to think about was that he’d be surrounded by the many men who’d tossed coin down, betting on him, cheering him on . . . or worse, shouting him down in favor of the boys he’d faced. All the while, those spectators had expected him to maim and kill . . . or to be broken or killed himself.
And there was a peculiar . . . numbness as he lingered his gaze on the older gentlemen with greying or white hair. Were they the same men responsible for Hugh and Bragger and Maynard’s hell? Did they even now take their pleasures here, just as they had in the Fight Society?
A voluptuous woman draped in wet silver satin drifted closer. From behind her sharp-beaked owl mask, an invitation blazed from her eyes, and she extended it in the form of painted fingernails that she caressed along the tops of her bosom.
For the first time, grateful for the mask he wore that concealed his disgust, Hugh shook his head.
With a little pout, the fleshy creature instantly turned and shifted her attentions to a more appreciative, agreeable gentleman near her.
The worries he’d carried in invading the marquess’s townhouse had been for naught. Prendergast and his guests were so intoxicated and consumed by their pleasures that Hugh could have conducted a formal search of each person present, and they’d have only mistaken his touch for a scandalously bold caress.
Abandoning his glass on the tray of a nearby servant, Hugh set off in search of the marquess’s offices.
Using the same furtive steps that had saved him in the ring and in the rookeries, Hugh wound his way along the perimeter of the room and made his way out into the corridors. The gaiety grew muted and muffled the more distance he put between himself and those festivities, until he’d reached the recesses of the marquess’s townhouse, so only the faintest of echoes met his ears.
Working his eyes over the empty halls, Hugh kept on alert for lords or ladies, or trysting couples.
Alas, most of the household staff appeared to have been put to use ensuring the pleasures of the guests. Methodically, Hugh cracked open door after door. Well-oiled hinges added not so much as a damning creak to his search. He pressed the handle of the last door in the hall, and froze.
Heavy mahogany paneling lined the walls, that shiny, dark wood a perfect match to the desk that stood at the very center of the room.
Prendergast’s offices.
His heart hammered: Was it excitement? Fear that he’d not find any hint of what he sought? A triumph of having at last found his way to the possible answers of his past?