Mine Till Midnight
turned to face her. They were standing close enough for Amelia to detect the scents of male exertion and warm skin. His unfastened waistcoat, made of luxurious gray brocade, hung open at the sides to reveal a thin white linen shirt beneath. As Rohan moved to button the waistcoat, Amelia saw a quantity of gold rings on his fingers. A ripple of nervousness went through her, leaving an unfamiliar heat in its wake. Her corset felt too tight, her high-necked collar constricting.
    Flushing, she brought herself to stare at him directly. He was a young man, not yet thirty, with the countenance of an exotic angel. This face had definitely been created for sin … the brooding mouth, the angular jaw, the golden-hazel eyes shaded by long straight lashes. His hair needed cutting, the heavy black locks curling slightly over the back of his collar. Amelia’s throat cinched around a quick breath as she saw the glitter of a diamond in his ear.
    He accorded her a precise bow. “At your service, Miss…”
    “Hathaway,” she said precisely. She turned to indicate her companion, who had come to stand at her left. “And this is my companion, Merripen.”
    Rohan glanced at him alertly. “The Romany word for ‘life’ and also ‘death.’”
    Was that what Merripen’s name meant? Surprised, Amelia looked up at him. Merripen gave a slight shrug to indicate it was of no importance. She turned back to Rohan. “Sir, we’ve come to ask you a question or two regarding—”
    “I don’t like questions.”
    “I am looking for my brother, Lord Ramsay,” she continued doggedly, “and I desperately need any information you may possess as to his whereabouts.”
    “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.” His accent was a subtle mixture of foreignness and Cockney, and even a hint of upper class. It was the voice of a man who kept company with an unusual assortment of people.
    “I assure you, sir, I wouldn’t put myself or anyone else to the trouble, were it not absolutely necessary. But this is the third day since my brother has gone missing—”
    “Not my problem.” Rohan turned toward the door.
    “He tends to fall in with bad company—”
    “That’s unfortunate.”
    “He could be dead by now.”
    “I can’t help you. I wish you luck in your search.” Rohan pushed open the door and made to enter the club.
    He stopped as Merripen spoke in Romany.
    Since Merripen had first come to the Hathaways, there had been only a handful of occasions on which Amelia had heard him speak the secret language known to the Rom. It was heathen-sounding, thick with consonants and drawn-out vowels, but there was a primitive music in the way the words fit together.
    Staring at Merripen intently, Rohan leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “The old language,” he said. “It’s been years since I’ve heard it. Who is the father of your tribe?”
    “I have no tribe.”
    A long moment passed, while Merripen remained inscrutable in the face of Rohan’s regard.
    The hazel eyes narrowed. “Come in. I’ll see what I can find out.”
    They were brought into the club without ceremony, Rohan directing an employee to show them to a private receiving room upstairs. Amelia heard the hum of voices, and music coming from somewhere, and footsteps going to and fro. It was a busy masculine hive forbidden to someone like herself.
    The employee, a young man with an East London accent and careful manners, took them into a well-appointed room and bid them wait there until Rohan returned. Merripen went to a window overlooking King Street.
    Amelia was surprised by the quiet luxury of her surroundings: the hand-knotted carpet done in shades of blue and cream, the wood-paneled walls and velvet-upholstered furniture. “Quite tasteful,” she commented, removing her bonnet and setting it on a small claw-footed mahogany table. “For some reason I had expected something a bit … well, tawdry.”
    “Jenner’s is a cut above the typical establishment. It

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