Page 28 of From Duke Till Dawn
Whatever his reasons, she’d get that damned cash back from him. She’d make him pay back everything, all that he owed her. Because he did owe her. She had been the one who’d gone with him to all the investors, smiled prettily at them and made promises about all the wealth the gaming hell would pull in during its limited engagement. No formal documents existed with her name on them—no swindler ever wrote down anything—but it was known across London and beyond that both she and Martin were guaranteeing the success of the gaming hell.
The investors and staff had trusted her. And she had trusted Martin.
She’d faced other hurts before. One couldn’t grow up on the streets without confronting betrayal. But those were small insults and injuries that everyone experienced in life. This, however... this was another realm.
Was this what Alex felt? This bitter, choking sensation that made the whole world look gray and covered in smoke? How did he stand it? How didshe?
The cab came to a stop. “Soho,” the driver called down.
She got out and paid him, noting that he drove off quickly, not lingering to pick up a fare or asking if she wanted him to wait. The streets of Soho looked more like the streets where she grew up: narrow and crooked, full of people, filth, and desperation. She’d vowed never to come to these neighborhoods again, not when she’d tasted the soft and elegant life. Now she had no choice.
The sign for the King’s Doxy showed a crude portrait of the actress Nell Gwynn, who’d been the mistress of King Charles II. Nell’s painted red lips curved in a coarse smile of invitation. But the windows, grimy as they were, had all their glass, and no one slept in a puddle of their own sick on the front step.
Martin had a silly attachment to this place. He’d spoken of it happily, telling tales of his youth swindling drunks. For some reason, he didn’t despise his early years, the way she did. He thought of them fondly, and often said, “It was easier then. Modest and simple. Before things grew complicated.” Then he’d sigh and order another pint.
Someone inside laughed harshly. Then voices were raised. A glass broke.
No decent woman would go into a place such as this on her own.
Cassandra walked in.
She stopped just inside the doorway. Low, smoke-stained timbers crowded overhead, and the floor looked sticky. Tables were scattered here and there throughout the dim room. It was early enough in the day to host the most dedicated drunkards, men dozing next to their greasy pints or having rambling conversations with people who weren’t listening. A thin, rib-ridged dog slept in front of the fire. The room stank of stale beer and sweat.
Cassandra fought a shudder of disgust. She knew this place—not the King’s Doxy in particular, but hundreds of other grimy taprooms filled with hollow-eyed ghosts barely scratching out an existence in a cold world. Her vow not to return meant little when she needed to find Martin.
Walking farther into the pub, she ignored the few curious or outright rude stares that followed her. Everyone here thought she was a lady, with her fine ladies’ clothes and years of aping a lady’s behavior. She wasn’t any better than the sullen barmaid slouching in the corner, picking dirt out from beneath her nails. A road split many times, and a person’s life changed completely depending on uncountable choices they made over a lifetime. Cassandra had made decisions that brought her here, now.
She looked for the man who’d all but raised her. The man who’d betrayed her.
A wave of burning fury and fear spilled through her. She shoved it aside. Now was the time to be in control. She had only herself to rely upon.
A tall, stooped man in an apron stood behind the bar, mechanically wiping out pewter mugs with a dirty rag. He looked at her like she was a flea crawling up to the bar.
“Slumming today, madam?” he asked insolently.
She paid no heed to his rudeness. It couldn’t touch her. “Does this place rent rooms?”
“It does.”
“Did a man calling himself Hughes or Hamish or Halford or Hall take a room today?” She held out her hand to a little over her head. “Stands about this tall? Likes to wear loud waistcoats. About fifty years of age.”
“Maybe,” the barkeep said as though he couldn’t be bothered to think. “He done you wrong?”
She barely held back a bitter laugh. “Is he here or not?” she pressed.
“You want to dance, slumming lady, or are we going to come right to it?” he answered. He held out his hand and waited.
She ought to have known he’d want a bribe. Nobody did anything for free in this kind of place. She couldn’t even be angry about it. That’s just how business went in the slums.
Pulling a coin from her reticule, she held it up but away from the barkeep’s grasp. “I don’t like dancing. Give me what I’m looking for.”
The barkeep eyed the coin eagerly. Without taking his eyes from its dull shine, he said, “Nobody took a room today.”
Shoving aside disappointment, she asked, “What about this week?”
“Just a young, poxy lad. And a sea captain, tan as a pair of boots with a big black beard. No one else.”
Martin never affected disguises, sniffing that they were for actors.
