In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,83

comes as a shock,” Steele went on, remarkably straight-faced, and the first hint of unease spilled around inside Hugh. “It always is.”

The other man was serious.

He scoffed. The other man was off his head, is what he was. “And these gentlemen”—by Connor Steele’s account, thieves and kidnappers—“simply divulged all of this to you?”

“No. My records of Mac Diggory’s child street gang contained your name. But I wouldn’t have pieced together your connection to your title. Nesbitt summoned me. He revealed what had become of you. On his deathbed, he left a note detailing the . . . story.”

Hugh clenched his jaw. And a story was all it was. Because what was the alternative? That he, who’d spent his life fighting and killing, had been born to a different fate, one different from the ruthless path he’d led? Done with his company, Hugh shoved to his feet and gestured to the door. “I don’t know what game you play, but we’re done here.”

Steele made no attempt to leave. “This isn’t a game,” the other man said quietly. “And you are well within your rights and reason to question my presence here.” The detective stood. “However, I’ll leave this file, your file, so you can have some time to look through it.”

Hugh resisted the urge to snort. This tale, if nothing else, had provided a diversion from his last meeting with Lila March.

When Hugh made no move to take Steele’s papers, the detective set them down on the desk. “I will allow you some time to process this discovery; however, there is the matter of the title and estates, which will require your attention, Your Grace.”

Your Grace.

“The only business I care to speak about is what you were paid to seek out,” Hugh snapped.

“Of course. I trusted it important that I share the details surrounding your origins first. With regard to the other matter, the name I’ve linked to Dooley is a nobleman by the name of Prendergast.”

Again, Hugh searched his mind. The name also meant nothing.

“It’s common knowledge that Prendergast has an affinity for boxing. The gentleman’s son was killed at Gentleman Jackson’s.”

Hugh sat straighter in his chair.

Steele knew. It was there in his eyes before he even began his next sentence.

“The widow is the sister of a woman who has been seen coming ’round your arena.”

Lila.

His gut clenched.

What in hell . . . ?

Steele cleared his throat. “I do not believe there is any clear link between the young ladies and the marquess.”

It was too much. “Get the hell out,” Hugh said tiredly.

After he’d packed up his belongings, Steele made his way to the door, then turned back. “Someone I know and love very deeply was herself a victim of Mac Diggory’s cruelty. I’ve made it my life’s goal to find those who’ve been wronged by him and help set their circumstances to rights. That is the only reason I’m here. I left my card at the top of the folder. I am at your service when you are ready to speak.”

With that, the other man let himself out of the room.

Hugh stared blankly at the folder, at the fine card tucked there with the other man’s name at the center of it. Yanking it out, he turned the small ivory rectangle over in his hand. Connor Steele had come here and just expected Hugh to believe . . . he’d been born a damned duke. What bloody rubbish.

There was a sharp knock at the door. “We’re done,” he called, and his partners filed in.

“Wot’d ’e want?” Bragger asked without preamble.

He hesitated. “He came here with an unbelievable story.”

Hooking his right foot around the bottom of Hugh’s chair, Maynard dragged it out. “Ya recommended we ’ire a detective.”

“Hire a different one,” Hugh muttered, reclaiming his seat.

Bragger’s eyes remained locked on the file. Always in possession of more restraint than their third partner, he seated himself on the edge of Hugh’s desk. “What’d ’e want?”

The pair wouldn’t relent, and by Steele’s admission, he’d be back. “He claims I’m some Lost Lord or other.” He opened the notepad containing the names of fighters to be paired for the next week’s matches. As he perused those names, Hugh went on. “Steele says Mac Diggory was responsible for taking children of the peerage and positioning them in his gangs.”

The expected guffaws and laughter didn’t come.

Glancing up from his work, Hugh caught the serious set to both men’s features. “Surely you aren’t believing the damned story?” More silence met his question. “It’s bullshite. All of