Smells of savory sausages, eggs, toast and beans almost made her groan. She filled her plate with much more than she knew she would eat and poured tea.
“My lady.” Briggs entered the breakfast room with a salver holding an envelope. “This came for you while you were in your bedchamber.”
She wiped her mouth with the napkin and took the missive. “Thank you.” She placed it next to her plate and eyed it as she took a sip of tea. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, and it didn’t appear to be an invitation. Shrugging, she pushed it aside and ate her breakfast.
After she was through reading the newspaper with her breakfast, a luxury many women did not have since in most households the husbands got the freshly pressed newspaper before his wife did, her eye was once again caught by the small cream-colored envelope.
She broke the seal and flipped the parchment open.
One week, my dear lady. My client is most anxious to take possession of the portrait.
The writing was bold and crisp. Nothing elegant or mannerly about the words or the confident strokes of the letters.
Diana tossed the letter down and took a deep breath. Her breakfast attempted to make a re-appearance on her lap.
Please, Hunt. You must get it back.
* * *
Late that evening, Hunt entered The Rose Room, the club he and his two brothers, Driscoll and Dante, owned as a joint venture.
Driscoll was his full brother and Dante his father’s bastard who was raised with them. There was never a difference in the way Dante was treated by their father, but Hunt and Driscoll’s mother made it known on occasion that Dante was not ‘one of them’.
To Hunt, they were both his brothers, and he loved them as only brothers can. Over the years they fought, played, attended Eton together and vied for the same opera dancers.
Three years ago, Driscoll and Dante had come to him with a proposition to open a gambling hell. Hunt thought it was a good idea since, although he was prepared to provide for his brothers, he knew it would be a much more rewarding life for them if they had their own means of support. The ridiculous edict of gentlemen not working be damned.
Hunt threw in the financial backing, and he’d been well rewarded with their efforts since then. The club catered to the elite of London, the Upper Ten Thousand, and the newly rising wealthy merchant class. The only women permitted were mistresses and members of the demimonde. No true lady would ever step past the front door.
Hunt walked through the club, satisfied at how busy the tables were, and made his way upstairs to the offices.
His brothers sat at their desks, Driscoll’s head bent, going over numbers in one of his numerous ledgers and Dante slouching, his feet on the desktop, snapping a rubber band.
“It’s nice to see that at least one of you is working.” Hunt knocked Dante’s feet off the desk and leaned one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
“We’re working. I’m taking a break.” Dante stretched and stood. “Now I’m about to go downstairs and mix and mingle. Encourage our customers to spend money.”
What no one except the three of them knew was, while the gambling hell was the two younger brothers’ true source of income, all three brothers took occasional sensitive assignments for the Crown.
With his low-key attitude and extraordinary way with numbers, Driscoll Rose was a trained agent who worked on the more difficult assignments that even the bravest of the brave shunned. Dante’s lackadaisical attitude got him the reputation as rake, libertine, and bon vivant. However, the easy-going gambling hell owner possessed skills with his fists and knives, along with the ability to remain cool and calm in any situation that put him at the top of the Crown’s list to call in when an assignment was about to turn sour.
Hunt, as the head of an old and respected family and title, had contacts among the upper class that provided the Crown with an inside agent when they had no other way to gain imperative information.
What the world saw were three brothers working together in a successful business, living the life of young, wealthy, handsome men who every debutante in London would welcome as a husband. Even the bastard son.
Dante opened the door to return to the gaming floor, then turned back to Hunt. “Did you hear about Lady Diana?”
Hunt’s stomach sunk to his toes. Had word already spread about her up-coming disgrace? “What about Diana?”
5
Dante stepped back into the room and frowned. “What’s wrong? You look angry.”
“What did you hear about Diana?” The words came out more clipped than Hunt would have liked.
Dante shrugged. “Only that she is back from Italy.”
Hunt let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “I know.”