Page 12 of My Dearest Duke

Definitely not an understatement of wealth.

According to the Duke of Asherford, Mrs. Jessie Dorrian-Lane served only the best food and alcohol to entice the most affluent clients into her extravagant web. Apparently, The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel’s décor was intended to impress, as well. However, the effect was overdone, in Kingston’s opinion.

His soldier’s instincts still in play, he continued his careful scrutiny.

To his right, there appeared to be a gentlemen’s cloakroom.

Boisterous male laughter filtered from the room to his left.

The gentlemen’s lounge?

Searching his memory, Kingston recalled Fortuna’s floor plan as detailed to him earlier by the Duke of Asherford. Yes, the lounge was to his left, and Mrs. Dorrian-Lane’s private rooms were on the upper floors.

“I am Egeus,” the ham-fisted, barrel-chested servant intoned in a voice that sounded like carriage wheels on gravel. “This way, Mr. Barclay.”

Egeus? From Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream? Ludicrous.

Surely not the behemoth’s real name.

He seemed more of a Doyle or a Mack or a Gunnar.

Kingston dutifully followed the man, unable to overlook the massive muscles flexing in Egeus’s back, pulling his coat tight as he lumbered forward. What did the fellow do to maintain his strength?

Heft full-grown cattle? Oak trees? Grain wagons?

The sounds of the establishment rose and fell like waves cresting on the shore as they passed room after room. With each footstep, Kingston’s dread increased, but he was no coward. He’d face his dismal future and bear the cost.

But what of the woman who would become his wife?

He’d be kind to his future duchess. Respectful and considerate. He’d not shame her, but neither would he escort her to ton functions. He wasn’t capable of such hypocrisy.

“Pray God, I can abide the sight of her,” he mumbled low to himself.

Egeus whipped his head around, the lower half of his face contorted in grim condemnation. His irate gaze speared Kingston, pinning him with hostile contempt. “As Mrs. Dorrian-Lane is always veiled, you’ll never know—”

His eyes went wide then slashed to mere slits a blink later.

Swearing a stream of obscene oaths beneath his breath, he shoved brusquely past Kingston, never breaking his wrathful tread.

Obviously, politesse and finesse weren’t requirements for a henchman’s position.

“Absolutely no women in this area,” Egeus clipped out, marching back along the corridor he and Kingston had just traversed.

A woman’s shallow gasp echoed, and Kingston pivoted in time to see a flash of black skirts disappear into an alcove.

Not fast enough, my dear.

Egeus thundered to the alcove and jerked the curtain aside.

“Out.” A single sharp, uncompromising syllable that ricocheted like the report of a gunshot around the small enclosure.

Folding his arms, Kingston leaned a shoulder against the wall, curious why a woman would be sneaking around this part of Fortuna. Asherford had said the sexes were kept separate except for the rooms above, where carnal pleasures might be enjoyed for an exorbitant price.

Kingston was fairly certain Asherford had come by that knowledge firsthand.

Was this skittish minx a prostitute?

He scratched his nose before giving a dubious half-shake of his head.