No Duke Will Do - Eva Devon

Chapter 1

London

The East End

Lady Mary, only daughter of the Duke of Blackstone, was either going to do murder or be murdered.

Of that, she was absolutely certain, sitting in a hired hackney outside of one of London’s most notorious gambling halls.

Statistically, it was far more likely that she would be murdered than do murder there, but she had a very intense desire to see this meeting done. She peered at the colossal edifice.

It was shockingly elegant.

It had never occurred to her that such a place, which caused such calumny, would actually be beautiful. But the outside was irrefutably exquisite.

With marvelous Corinthian columns, a stunning plasterwork facade, and a double red door waiting for customers to be admitted, it beckoned one in with a siren’s lure. The lamplights blazed outside as several gentlemen milled back and forth in various states of drunken stupor.

And she did mean gentlemen.

There were men in the most beautiful attire, worthy of any London ballroom. There were, of course, just a few feet down the street, loud shoutings of another sort of men, men she’d never been close to before in her life.

And women, not ladies, she knew.

Women.

Women she’d never spotted in her entire life. More delicately referred to as women of ill repute. Mary folded her hands, gloved in worn kid leather, in her lap, gaining courage.

She needed it.

All her life, she’d been forced to live in the shadows of her father’s decadence and dissipation. Now, she wasn’t going to take it any longer. Now, she refused to allow him to bargain her life away. So, lifting her chin, she opened the door of the hackney herself, bounded down to the dubious pavement, and was astonished when the hackney bolted off without even a backward glance.

Drawing herself up, she walked forward.

Her heart pounded fast in her chest as her sensible side demanded she turn back immediately. But she could not.

She ignored the several glances that came her way, and boldly strode through the entrance. Even the man at the door did not stop her, something she had been anticipating.

The bright lights of the gambling club were that of candles, dancing everywhere. Somehow, she had thought it would be dark and seedy, but instead, gold filigree lined the walls and made the room dance with color. A giant chandelier sparkled in the center of the place, bathing the gamblers in a celestial glow.

Several tables were put up all around the room, with various games—cards, dice, Faro—taking place. Ivory chips danced along felted surfaces, and gentlemen and even ladies cheered with happiness and joy.

Glasses clinked.

Trays of wine and champagne seemed to dance easily, carried by beautifully dressed footmen.

She stopped, taking it all in. She took in the deep perfume and musk of the excitement.

And suddenly, she understood for a moment why her father was drawn to such a place night after night, ruining all the lives of those he loved. After all, life could be mundane. Even for a duke.

There was nothing mundane about this place.

Suddenly, a footman came up beside her. “May I assist you, miss?”

She tensed at that, not correcting him to call her my lady, and turned to the young man. He was dressed impeccably in a dark green livery, his powdered wig carefully positioned upon his handsome head.

“Indeed, you can.” She cleared her throat and declared,

“I am here to see Mr. Heath.”

A wary look crossed the footman’s perfect face before he asked politely, “Do you have an appointment?”

“I do not, but I’m certain he shall see me,” she replied confidently. A confidence she truly did not feel but was determined to project.

“He does not see people who do not have appointments. Perhaps it is best if I fetch you a carriage and send you home immediately, for certainly, someone of your position should not be here.”

At least someone seemed to think she was out of place, or was looking out for her. She was struck by the footman’s kindness. In fact, his brow was furrowed as he studied her. She knew exactly how she looked. She looked like a daughter of the ton. She stood out like a sore thumb compared to all the ladies in the room, who were dressed in magnificent gowns of various bright colors, their hair coiled upon their heads, studded with jewels and ribbons.

She must look like a dreary little violet in a room full of hothouse flowers. Still, she would not be deterred.

“I am not going home, and I am not leaving until I see Mr. Heath.”

The footman’s perfect lips