The Golden Swan was alive. The main hall, two floors below, thrummed with a vibrant energy. The sound of instruments and raucous, drunken laughter was a muffled, pulsing beat that was felt more than heard, even in the sound-proofed luxury of the private room.
Derek lounged in a high-backed, crimson-velvet armchair, one long leg casually thrown over the armrest. He stared, unseeing, through the one-way-glass window at the smoky, swirling kaleidoscope of dancers on the stage below. A half-full glass of wine was balanced lazily on his knee. He was the very picture of the bored, dissolute Grand Duke, a man indulging in the pleasures of the establishment he had so scandalously gifted to his mistress.
His posture was relaxed, but his mind was as tight as a bowstring. He was not here for the dancing, or the wine. He was here to wait.
A soft, hesitant knock echoed from the door.
