Page 3 of My Demanding Duke

“What’s that?” Hugh bit out, his heart momentarily frozen with fear.

“A father with a love for the card tables that does not match his skill,” Bartie answered sadly, before elaborating further. “Lord Mosley won a considerable sum in York, just after New Year, and set it aside to launch his only daughter into society. Unfortunately, since his arrival to town, the baron has lost all his winnings and then some, in various gaming hells around the city. He is being refused credit left, right, and centre; the only thing saving Miss Mosley from being ostracised by society completely, is a lingering fondness amongst some of the ton for her late mother.”

Hugh frowned, surprised by the rush of concern he felt for the girl whose name he had only just learned. His own knowledge of the heartbreak that a loved one’s addiction to the card table could bring, stirred sadness and anger deep in his soul.

Fate was cruel, to bestow such a reckless father upon a girl as beautiful as she. Lord Mosley’s gambling left his daughter at risk of suffering insult to both her pride, and her body. The was no doubt that her beauty had not gone unnoticed by the nefarious gentlemen who lurked amongst the shadowed gaming-dens of London’s underbelly.

“Is Lord Mosley present?” Hugh wondered aloud, thinking that he might offer the baron a word of caution - or his fist.

“Lud, no,” Bartie chuckled, “Miss Mosley is here as a guest of Lady Limehouse; the countess is making it her personal mission to see that her late friend’s daughter is seen in all the right places. Not that it will do much good, in the end.”

The defeated tone on which Bartie finished speaking, ignited a spark of rage within Hugh’s belly. How cruel fate was to bestow Miss Mosley with a father so incompetent that her future was written off before it had even begun.

Hugh paused and took a deep breath as his train of thought shifted in another direction. Perhaps fate was not so cruel; she had delivered Miss Mosley his way, had she not?

“Which club does Lord Mosley frequent?” he asked of Bartie, careful to keep the excitement he felt from his tone.

“He’s been sighted in The Bird’s Nest, of late,” Bartie answered, naming one of the more salubrious gambling dens in Pickering Place - not that that was much of an accolade. “However, I’m not certain he’ll be there much longer. Shatter does not tolerate punters who fail to honour their debts.”

Hugh nodded, visualising the brawny proprietor of The Bird’s Nest. Shatter was known for being fair, when fairness was due. He was equally famous for his ruthlessness should a situation deem it necessary for him to be ruthless. He was not the sort of fellow that anyone - even Hugh - would like to cross.

“You should go into service for Whitehall,” Hugh commented to his friend, with a smile, “I’m certain your skills at gleaning information would come in useful there.”

Bartie gave a snort in response and rolled his eyes. “The problem with that idea, your Grace,” he answered, “Is that the gossip in Whitehall is so terribly dull; there’s nowhere on earth more interesting, than a London ballroom at the height of the season.”

He offered a conspiratorial wink, which made Hugh question if his attempts at acting nonchalant had been at all convincing.

“Well,” Hugh shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently, “I believe I have passed the requisite amount of time for a face showing. Goodnight, Beaufort. I’m sure our paths will cross again before the season’s out.”

Hugh offered his companion a stiff nod, before turning on the heel of his slipper and making for the entrance hall. There, the footman called for his carriage, and when the vehicle arrived, Hugh hastened to it.

“Pickering Place,” he instructed his driver, curtly.

Hugh climbed inside and, as the carriage began its journey towards St. James’ Street, he wondered what, exactly, he was going to do once he found Lord Mosley. He had no claim on the man’s daughter, nor any solid evidence that the man might risk her safety at the tables, yet he still felt compelled to speak with him…

It was a madness of sorts; the unrelenting fear which troubled his soul. That same fear had haunted him when Jack had lived and its echo now tortured him. His worry for Jack had been rational; however, Jack was his brother, and they shared the same blood. Miss Mosley was nought but a stranger to him - he had no duty of care to her whatsoever.

The carriage soon arrived at the alleyway which led to Pickering Place. Too impatient to wait for the footman, Hugh opened the door himself and sprang from the vehicle onto the footpath.

“I shall return shortly,” he called over his shoulder before plunging into the darkness. The narrow alleyway, its bricks cold and slick with damp, opened onto a small square. The square was hemmed in on all sides by tall, brown-brick buildings, which housed various businesses of ill repute. Hugh made for The Bird’s Nest, the exterior of which was far grander than those of its neighbours.

Inside, the decor was lush and extravagant; sumptuous velvet hangings lined the walls alongside gilt-framed paintings of Renaissance nudes. The Bird’s Nest consisted of a warren of small rooms where men might play any game they liked - or partake in a different kind of fun with the light skirts who frequented the place.

Hugh, familiar with the layout, made for the main room, where he might learn of Lord Mosley’s whereabouts.

Despite the early hour, he found a large crowd present, loud and boisterous. An extravagant chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow on the florid, drunken faces which milled beneath it.

“Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Hugh turned to find Daniel Shatter standing behind him, his face wearing what appeared to be an attempt at a smile - though it did little to soften his hard features. The proprietor waved a gloved hand and a somberly liveried footman arrived at his side.

“A brandy for His Grace,” Shatter instructed curtly, “One of the good ones.”

“I’m honoured,” Hugh grinned; Shatter had connections to every criminal in London, including cross-Channel smugglers.

“It might not be patriotic, but nothing compares to a good French brandy,” Shatter answered, with a shrug. Hugh could only nod in agreement; the embargo on goods from France couldn’t end soon enough.

The footman returned a few moments later, bearing two tumblers filled with deep-amber liquid. Shatter handed one to Hugh before lifting his own in a toast.

---