Page 53 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“Why are you following me?” Rowan growled.

“Steady on!” came a familiar voice. “It’s only me!”

Rowan released his grip, stepping back in surprise. “Felix?”

Felix smoothed his wrinkled coat and his crooked hat. “I should have known I couldn’t shadow you undetected.”

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.” Felix examined a tear in his glove with exaggerated dismay. “Was the manhandling truly necessary?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I was handling this alone.”

“Yes, and I nodded very seriously while completely ignoring that ridiculous statement.” Felix brushed dust from his sleeves.“You’re hunting dangerous men in dangerous places. Did you honestly think I’d let you face that without backup?”

“Go home, Felix.”

“Not a chance.” Felix’s customary levity disappeared, his expression hardening. “I’ve spent a year wondering if you were dead. I won’t spend another night wondering the same.”

The stubborn set of his friend’s jaw told Rowan that argument would be futile. Felix could be remarkably immovable when he chose.

“Fine,” Rowan conceded. “But you follow my lead. No unnecessary conversation, no drawing attention. We’re there for information, nothing more.”

Felix’s face split into a grin. “Like old times. Remember that tavern brawl in Cambridge?”

“This isn’t Cambridge,” Rowan warned. “These men would slit your throat for the buttons on your coat.”

“How fortunate I wore my second-best buttons, then.”

Despite himself, Rowan felt a flicker of gratitude for his friend’s presence. The Jackal’s Den was known for its exclusivity and its dangers in equal measure. A second pair of eyes might prove valuable.

They continued their journey through progressively seedier streets. Gas lamps grew scarcer, the facades of buildings more dilapidated. Finally, they stopped before an unmarked door set into a grimy wall. No sign announced its purpose, but a burly man stood guard outside, his eyes evaluating every approaching figure.

“Let me handle this,” Rowan murmured.

The doorman straightened as they approached. “Members only.”

Rowan withdrew a sovereign from his pocket, pressing it into the man’s palm. “The Duke of Aldermere to see Mr. Loughton.”

Recognition flickered in the doorman’s eyes—not for Rowan, but for the name. “Wait here.” He disappeared inside, returning moments later. “You may enter. Your companion as well.”

The interior hit them like a wall—thick smoke, the mingled scents of spirits and sweat, voices raised in laughter and argument. Oil lamps cast a jaundiced glow over gaming tables where men hunched over cards and dice, their faces masks of concentration or desperation.

“Charming establishment,” Felix murmured. “I especially admire the décor. Is that actual blood on the wallpaper?”

“Silence,” Rowan warned.

His eyes swept the room, noting exits, counting potential threats. Former naval training had honed his ability to assess dangerous situations instantly.

They had taken only a few steps when a mountain of a man detached himself from a nearby table. His face bore the scars of countless brawls, his cauliflower ears testifying to a pugilist’s career.

“Your Grace,” he growled, blocking their path. “Didn’t expect to see your face in here.”

Rowan kept his expression neutral. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t. But I know your father well enough.” The man’s lips curled. “He owed me fifty pounds when he had his unfortunate accident.”

Felix tensed beside him, but Rowan maintained his composure. “I’ll settle any legitimate debts before I leave. Right now, I have business with Loughton.”

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