Page 21 of All Duke and Bothered

This marriage was doomed if the husband was looking for an escape from it on the second day—and the wife had never wanted it in the first place. He wasn’t sure why he cared in any event. Marital bliss had never been his goal from this union. He’d wanted revenge and he’d gotten it.

Deep down he had always hoped the wife he’d eventually take would be a good match for him. Having seen his parents madly happy and in love, he knew it was possible, even for dukes. His best friend, Sebastian, was incredibly happy with his wife, whom he loved dearly.

Preston had botched any chance of that for himself the moment he’d decided to marry Lord Beckett’s daughter.

He looked up at the first floor of Chalworth Place. Her windows were on the outer side, not on the inner courtyard. From this side, the dining room windows glowed as Porter, the footmen, and the maids no doubt cleaned away the table. The stone walls were dark, the faces of lions and dragons and angels like dark spots in the night.

It was such a contrast with Sumhall and Grandhampton. These were the places where their father and mother had loved them. Two houses full of light and love. Quarrels and games. Until the one terrible event that had landed him in boarding school.

“To Elysium,” he said.

“Elysium, Your Grace?” There was an implicit question in Sam’s voice, like he was checking if the duke was really sane. “The one in Whitechapel?”

“Yes, in Whitechapel,” Preston barked and got into the carriage. As if the man hadn’t taken him there before. Perhaps, quite understandably, Sam was surprised Preston should visit the exclusive whorehouse the day after his marriage. He really shouldn’t have barked at him like that.

The filthier the better, Preston thought as the carriage moved, rattling against the cobblestones.

In twenty minutes or so they reached Whitechapel…

They rode past medieval houses with roofs half gone and stone staircases so worn out they sagged in the middle. Windows with glass panes broken and never replaced. Streets with puddles of sludge that were like sinkholes in swamps so deep, carriages got stuck there after rain. Whitechapel was the home of criminals and robbers, prostitutes and scum.

And inside it, hidden like a pearl in the mouth of an oyster buried deep under the muck, seaweed, and shipwreck at the bottom of the sea, was Elysium.

They arrived and Preston got out, eyeing the building. From the outside, it looked just like the rest of the buildings on the square—brick row houses with the windows on their first and second floors gaping black while the ground floor pub and brothel windows were alight. Inside those houses, no doubt, criminals taught children how to pickpocket, burgle, and, perhaps, even kill. Young women with few prospects and no family learned how to ply their trade with their bodies.

Like the others, Elysium was a brick building of three floors that spread the whole block to the left and to the right. The upper floor was dark—no doubt, the private quarters of the owner. Regular pane windows were aglow with candlelight on the ground floor and the first floor.

Although it was all brick and paned windows, Elysium didn’t look as old as the rest of the neighborhood. Six sharp triangles were arranged in a semicircle over the entrance door, creating the sign of a sun’s rays that the members knew it by.

Just like the final resting place of Greek heroes and the virtuous, Elysium was a place where one could gamble and dine and eat and drink and indulge in one’s physical needs—whatever they were—as much as one wanted, without being judged, and without consequence.

Everything was possible in Elysium, which was owned by Thorne Blackmore, the infamous Mister B, one of the most dangerous men in London.

He passed through the front gate and presented his membership card. It bore the same symbol of the sun’s rays in sharp triangles, his name printed underneath. The guard, who recognized Preston, nodded and let him through. He entered the dark vestibule where a footman stood to take coats, but Preston didn’t have one.

From there, he walked into the great hall. It was dark, the wood-paneled walls painted an elegant, dark teal with gaslit sconces illuminating them. Several crystal chandeliers with candles gave the hall, which was full of round tables with gentlemen of all ages dining, a soft, golden glow. The scent of something delicious wafted to him. Vichyssoise, he rather thought as he let a footman guide him through the ornate passage formed by round tables and chairs. He recognized several noble members of the ton. Others, he didn’t know, though they were dressed as well as the aristocrats.

While he waited for his dinner, Lords Robbins and Mander came in and plunked into the seats opposite him at the table.

“Ah, Grandhampton!” cried Robbins. How many times had Preston spent nights of debauchery with him, Sebastian, and others? It was odd to be here without Sebastian, but quite understandable now that his best friend was married. So was Preston, but his wife hated him. “Did your wife kick you out of your marital bed?”

“Right!” said Mander, who was a shorter young man with a double chin and a round belly. “It was rather unexpected to read about your wedding this morning.”

Since these two weren’t members of Tyche, they wouldn’t know he’d bought Penelope’s hand at an auction. But he had no intention of telling them, so he said, “The reasons for the haste should be of no consequences to you.”

“Right”—Robbins winked and gestured with his hand to suggest a rounded stomach—“the consequences…”

Preston found his fingers curling tightly around the wineglass. “Do shut up.”

Then their dinner was brought—the first course of vichyssoise—and the men started eating.

And Preston started drinking.

As he ate, he watched three pythons writhing in the branches of a marula. A panther paced its cage on the other side of the room.

His companions babbled about something or other next to him. He didn’t really listen. Until Robbins said, “I was wondering, Grandhampton, why you never before showed any interest in your bride.”

“I heard, and please correct me if I’m wrong,” said Mander, “that she was for sale.”