Page 90 of One Wicked Secret
Trust no one!
Had that not become the mantra she lived by?
Mr Daventry appeared outside the carriage door. He checked the blade in his boot, then beckoned them to alight.
Lord Rothley stood surveying the haunting grandeur that was Shadowmere. “And people say my house is a haven for ghosts.” The marquess gave a derisive curl of the lip. “This place truly is the netherworld.”
“Allow me to address Hawke.” Mr Daventry checked the time on his gold pocket watch and told his coachman—a dangerous-looking fellow named Gibbs—to storm the house if they didn’t return within the hour. “I’ll explain I’m conducting an investigation on behalf of the Home Secretary.”
A jolt of fear set her heart racing. “I thought you said Mr Hawke is a sybarite. Surely his world revolves around pleasure, not provocation.”
“Hawke has a reputation to uphold. Men pay handsomely to indulge their ... private vices,” Mr Daventry said in subtle warning. “And as you know, Mrs Dalton, some would kill to hide the truth.”
Indeed. It’s how they’d found themselves in this predicament.
They followed Mr Daventry to the imposing door, though she expected a flurry of bats to burst from the eaves when he rang the iron bell. The deep toll echoed in the brisk night air—a warning for the damned to be on their guard.
Footsteps echoed beyond the door before a narrow panel creaked open, revealing a sliver of a man, his large beady eyes dark with suspicion. “State your business,” he said so coldly it proved unsettling.
Mr Daventry passed his calling card through the hatch before introducing them. “We seek an audience with Mr Hawke.” He stepped closer. “Forgive me. That sounded like a request, not a demand. Kindly tell Mr Hawke we will return with the King’s men if he turns us away. I’m here at the Home Secretary’s behest.”
The man studied the card. “Kindly wait here,” he said, his tone equally sardonic before he slammed the hatch shut.
As if aware of her thoughts, Mr Daventry addressed the blatant lie. “Murder and fraud fall under the banner of law and order. The Home Secretary will be more than keen for us to solve this case.”
“You’ll find more than one member of the House of Lords frolicking in Hawke’s bedchambers,” the marquess warned. “Don’t underestimate the power of the aristocracy when it comes to silencing the masses.”
“Make no mistake. Hawke is in charge here. He despises the lords who pay to attend his parties. Hawke feasts on scandal and takes his pleasure from ruining men.”
Mr Daventry was right again.
The servant returned. “Mr Hawke will see you,” he said,sliding the heavy bolts and welcoming them in. “Leave your weapons in the box, gentlemen.”
The entrance hall could have been the antechamber to hell. Flames roared in the huge stone hearth, bathing the crimson walls in firelight. Shadows danced over gilt-framed paintings of naked nymphs and marble statues in shameless repose.
The servant—an athletic man dressed in black—frisked the men but didn’t take their outdoor apparel. He led them to the dining room, where a man with midnight hair lounged in a throne chair at the head of a long, lavish table laden with food and wine. He wore black trousers and a loose white shirt, the fabric flowing carelessly over his rugged form, as though he had no care for propriety.
Mr Hawke rested one elbow on the arm of the chair, fingers idly trailing along his jaw as he studied them through sharp green eyes. “Three men, one woman. Quite the arrangement. I see the lady has a taste for dark-haired men. What a pity I won’t be part of your illicit revelry.”
Before Elsa could stop him, Daniel stepped forward. “Insult my wife again, and I’ll put a rapier through your black heart.”
Mr Hawke’s devilish grin was devoid of warmth. “Surely you know what night it is, Dalton? It’s The Gilded Bacchanal. A celebration of indulgence.” He gestured to the table, where golden goblets of burgundy wine shimmered beside platters piled high with glistening fruit, honey-glazed meats, and confections dusted in gold. “Be aware, the women here cost more than two shillings.”
Daniel flew at the hedonist, but Lord Rothley and Mr Daventry caught an elbow each and held him back. “When they release me, you’re mine.”
Mr Hawke shrugged. “I hate to disappoint, but I prefer fuller hips and large breasts.”
That’s when Elsa decided to end this nonsense. It was clear Mr Hawke enjoyed toying with them. “We’re not here for The Bacchanal,” she said, hurling her blade at the devil’s chair.
The small knife sliced the air, embedding itself in the wood, inches from Mr Hawke’s head. Close enough to warn. Sharp enough to wound.
Mr Hawke didn’t flinch. “Few ladies surprise me, Mrs Dalton. Perhaps I will join you upstairs after all. I do enjoy a woman with spirit.”
“Stop behaving like a child and converse like a grown man,” she said without thinking. “Sir, I was shot in the arm almost a week ago. The man who defrauded my father has already murdered one witness and is currently living life to excess upstairs.”
“How is that my concern?”
“Summon Mr Charmers,” she said, her voice cold, “or I’ll see this house torn apart until we find him.”
