It wouldn’t be so bad if they did suit.

  Chapter Eight

  Dear M—

  Just a quick note today to tell you that we are all thinking of you, me most of all. I asked my father if we could come to Eton for a visit, and of course he told me that it wouldn’t be appropriate, as we are not family. It’s silly, really. You’ve always felt as much like family as some of my sisters. Definitely more like family than my Aunt Hester.

  Tommy will be home for his summer holiday. I am crossing my fingers that you will join us.

  Ever—P

  Needham Manor, May 1816

  No reply

  On the evening of his wedding, Bourne exited his town house almost immediately after depositing his new wife inside and headed for The Fallen Angel.

  He would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel like something of an ass in leaving her so summarily, in a new home with a new staff and nothing familiar, but he had a single, immovable goal, and the faster he reached it, the better they all would be.

  He would send the announcement of their marriage to the Times, get the young ladies Marbury matched, and have his revenge.

  He did not have time for his new wife.

  He certainly did not have time for her quiet smiles and her quick tongue and the way she reminded him of everything that he had lost. Of everything on which he’d turned his back.

  There was no room in his life for them to talk. No room to be interested in what she had to say. No room to find her entertaining or to care even a bit about how she felt about her sisters or how she had coped with her broken engagement, now years behind her.

  And there was definitely no room for him to wish to murder the man who had broken that engagement and made her doubt herself and her worth.

  It did not matter that she put flowers on his parents’ graves at Christmas.

  Maintaining a distance from her was essential—it was distance that would establish the parameters of their marriage, namely, that he would retain his life, and she would build her own, and while they would see her sisters matched together, it was for their individual reasons.

  So, he left her sleepy-eyed and wrinkled in her traveling cloak and headed to The Angel, doing his best to ignore the fact that she was alone on her wedding night, and that he’d likely suffer extra torture in hell for leaving her there.

  Four hours in a coach, and he was already too soft with her.

  He breathed deep, enjoying the frigid dampness in the evening air, yellow with thick January fog as he navigated through Mayfair to Regent Street, where a handful of peddlers remained in the waning light, rising up out of the mist only when they were an arm’s length away. They did not speak to him, their well-honed instincts telling them that he was not in the market for what they were selling. Instead, they faded away as quickly as they appeared, and Bourne made his way to the great stone building atop St. James’s.

  The club was not open yet, and when he slipped through the owners’ entrance and onto the pit floor, he was grateful for the lack of company in the cavernous room. There were lanterns lit around the floor, and a handful of maids were completing the day’s work—scrubbing at carpet, polishing sconces, and dusting the framed art on the walls.

  Bourne crossed to the center of the pit floor, stopping there for a long moment to take in this place—the place that had been home for the last five years.

  Most afternoons, he was the first of the owners to arrive at The Fallen Angel and he liked it that way. He enjoyed the quiet of the pit at that hour, the silent moments before the dealers arrived to check the weight of the dice, the oil on the wheels, the slickness of the cards, preparing for the mass of humanity that would descend like locusts and fill the room with shouts and laughter and chatter.

  He liked the club empty of all but possibility.

  All but temptation.

  He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, feeling for the talisman that was always there, the coin that reminded him that it was temptation and nothing else that kept these tables full.

  That it was temptation that ruined.

  That one did not risk what one could not afford to lose.

  The coin was gone. Another reminder of his unwanted wife.

  He moved to the roulette table, brushing his fingers across the heavy silver handle of the wheel, spinning it, running the colors together, all speed and luxury, as he reached for the ivory ball on which so many hopes had been pinned—and lost. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he sent the ball spinning into the well, loving the sound of bone on metal, the way it shivered over him, all smoothness and sin.

  Red.

  The whisper echoed through him, unbidden, unstoppable.

  Unsurprising.

  He turned away before the wheel slowed, before gravity and providence pulled the ball into its seat.

  “You’re back.”

  On the other side of the room, silhouetted by the open door to the bookkeeper’s suite, stood Cross, the fourth partner in The Fallen Angel. Cross handled the club’s finances, ensuring every penny that came through the door to the hell was well accounted for. He was a genius with numbers, but he neither looked nor lived like the unparalleled man of finance he was. He was tall, a half a foot taller than Michael, even taller than Temple. But where Temple was the size of a small house, Cross was long and slim, all angles and sinew. Bourne rarely saw him eat, and if the dark hollows beneath his eyes were any indication, it had been a day or two since the other man had slept.

  “You’re here early.”

  Cross rubbed one hand over his unshaven jaw at the words. “Late, really.” He moved aside, allowing a beautiful woman to exit the room behind him. She flashed Bourne a shy smile before pulling the enormous hood of her cloak up to shield her face.

  Bourne watched as the woman hurried to the entrance of the club, letting herself out with barely a sound, before he met Cross’s gaze. “I see you were working very hard.”

  One side of Cross’s mouth rose at the words. “She’s good with the books.”

  “I imagine she is.”

  “We weren’t expecting you back so quickly.”

  He hadn’t expected to be back so quickly. “Things took a bit of a turn.”

  “For better or worse?”

  The echo of the marriage vows he’d spoken with Penelope set Bourne on edge. “It depends on your view of the situation.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt you do.”

  “Falconwell?”

  “Mine.”

  “Did you marry the girl?”

  “I did.”

  Cross let out a long, low whistle. Bourne couldn’t agree more.

  “Where is she?”

  Too near. “At the town house.”

  “Your town house?”

  “I did not think it appropriate for me to bring her here.”

  Cross was silent for a long while. “I confess, I am eager to meet this woman who looked into the face of marriage with cold, hard Bourne and did not run away.”

  She hadn’t had a choice.

  There was no way that she would have gone through with a wedding to him if he hadn’t forced her to the parish vicar. If she’d had more time to think it through. He was everything that she was not, coarse and angry, with no hope of ever returning to the world into which he’d been born. Into which she’d been born.

  Penelope . . . she was proper and perfectly bred for a life in that world. This world—filled with gaming and drink and sex and worse—it would scare her to death. He would scare her to death.

  But she’d asked to see it.

  And so he would show it to her.

  Because he could not resist the temptation of her corruption. It was too compelling. Too sweet.

  She didn’t know what she asked. She thought adventure was a late-night walk in the woods surrounding her childhood home. The main floor of The Angel on any given night would send her into hysterics.

  “The turn?” Cross said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You said it did not go as planned.”

  “I agreed to match her sisters as well.”

  Cross’s brows rose. “How many of them?”

  “Two. Easy enough, I think.” He met Cross’s serious grey gaze. “You should know it was a love match. We married this morning. I couldn’t bear being apart from her a moment longer.”

  A beat passed as Cross heard the lie. Understood its meaning. “Since you are so very much in love.”

  “Precisely.”

  “This morning,” Cross tested the words. Bourne turned away and placed his hands flat on the roulette table, pressing them firmly into the plush green baize. Knowing what was to come even before the words were spoken. “You left her alone on your wedding night.”

  “I did.”

  “Is she horsefaced?”

  No.

  When she was in the throes of passion, she was stunning. He wanted to lay her down on his bed and make her his. The memory of her writhing against him in Falconwell Manor had him shifting to accommodate the way his breeches tightened against him.

  He scrubbed one hand across his face at the lie. “I need some time in the ring with Temple.”

  “Ah. I see that she is.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Then perhaps you should return home and consummate your marriage to this woman whom you love so very passionately. Lord knows it’s a more pleasurable experience than having Temple serve you your ass in the ring.”

  Even if you deserve the pounding.

  For a fleeting moment, Bourne considered the words. Played out the events that would occur if he returned home and sought out his innocent new wife. Imagined what it would be like to lay her down on his bed and stake his claim, to make her his. To show her the adventure she did not even know she had requested. Her silken hair would cling to the rough stubble on his chin, her full lips would part on a sigh as he stroked her soft skin, and she would cry out at the pleasure he wrung from her.

  It was a wicked, wonderful temptation.

  But she would not take the experience as it was given. She would ask him for more. More than he was willing to give.

  His gaze returned to the roulette wheel, drawn, inexorably, to where the little white ball had found its seat.

  Black.

  Of course.

  He turned back. “There is more.”

  “There always is.”

  “I agreed to return to society.”

  “Good God. Why?”

  “The sisters need to be matched.”

  Cross swore, amazement in the single, vicious word. “Needham negotiated your reentry? Brilliant.”

  Bourne did not tell the truth—that it had been his wife who had negotiated the terms first. Most successfully. Instead, he said, “He has information that will ruin Langford.”

  Cross’s eyes widened. “How is that possible?”

  “We weren’t looking in the right place.”

  “Are you sure it—”

  “It will destroy him.”

  “And Needham will give it to you when the daughters are matched?”

  “Shouldn’t take long; apparently one of them is halfway to the altar with Castleton.”

  Cross’s brows rose. “Castleton is a dimwit.”

  One of Bourne’s shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. “He’s not the first aristocrat to marry a woman above his intelligence. Won’t be the last, either.”

  “Would you let your unmarried sister marry him?”

  “I don’t have an unmarried sister.”

  “It sounds to me like you have two of them now.”

  Bourne heard the censure in the words . . . knew what Cross was saying. Knew that marriage to Castleton would condemn any woman with a brain in her head to a lifetime of boredom.

  And Penelope would suffer knowing that another one of her sisters had made a bad match. I don’t fool myself into thinking that they could find love. But they could be happy, couldn’t they?

  He ignored the echo. “It’s virtually done. It gets me one step closer to Langford. I’m not about to stop it. Besides, most women of the aristocracy have to suffer their husbands.”

  Cross raised a brow. “You have to admit . . . marriage to Castleton would be something of a trial. Particularly for a young lady hoping for say, conversation. You should introduce her to someone else. Someone with a thought in his head.”

  Bourne raised a brow. “Are you offering your services?”

  Cross cut him a look. “Surely there is someone.”

  “Why look for someone else when Castleton is here, and ready?”

  “You’re a cold bastard.”

  “I do what it takes. Perhaps you’re growing soft.”

  “And you’re hard as you’ve ever been.” When Bourne did not reply, he pressed on. “You may get some of the invitations without help, but for the rest—for a true return to society—you’re going to need Chase. It’s the only way you’ll unlock all the doors you require.”

  Bourne nodded once, standing straight, taking a deep breath and adjusting the sleeves of his frock coat carefully. “Well, then I ought to find Chase.” He met Cross’s grey gaze. “You’ll start putting it out that . . .”

  Cross nodded. “You’ve been laid low by love.”

  There was a heartbeat of hesitation before Bourne nodded.

  Cross saw it. “You shall have to do better than that if you want anyone to believe you.” Bourne turned away, ignoring the words until Cross called him back. “And one other thing. If your revenge relies upon your marriage and your pristine reputation, you’ll want to secure them both quickly.”

  Bourne’s brows snapped together. “What are you saying?”

  Cross smirked. “I’m merely suggesting you ensure that your wife hasn’t grounds for annulment. Take the woman to bed, Bourne. Quickly.”

  Bourne did not have a chance to reply, as there was a sudden commotion in the main entryway to the club, beyond a wide oak door that stood half-open. “I don’t give a damn that I’m not a member. You’ll let me see him, or I shall make it my life’s purpose to destroy this place . . . and you with it.”

  Bourne met Cross’s gaze, and the taller man said casually, “Have you ever noticed that it’s always the same promise, but never from one powerful enough to deliver?”

  “Did your companion have a husband by chance?”

  Cross went stone-faced. “That is one puddle in which I do not play.”

  “Not for you, then.” Bourne headed for the door, pushing it open to find Bruno and Asriel, two of the door-men of the hell, holding a man of average height and average build face-first against the wall. “Gentlemen,” he drawled. “What have you found?”

  Asriel turned to him. “He’s after you.”

  At the words, the man began to fight in earnest. “Bourne! You’ll see me now, or you’ll see me at dawn.”

  He recognized the voice.

  Tommy.

  It had been nine years since the last time he’d seen Tommy Alles, since the night his father had taken everything that Bourne had, with pleasure. Since Tommy had chosen his inheritance—Bourne’s inheritance—over his friend.

  Nine years, and still the hot betrayal coursed through him at the way his friend had turned his back. At the way he had been so complicit in his father’s actions.

  “Do not for one moment imagine that I would not gleefully meet you at dawn,” he said. “Indeed, I would think very carefully before making the offer if I were you.”

  Tommy turned his head against the velvet-covered wall, facing Bourne. “Call off your dogs.”

  Asriel growled deep in his throat, and Bruno thumped Tommy into the wall. At his grunt, Bourne said, “Careful now, they do not take well to bad manners.”

  One arm went high between his shoulders, and Tommy winced. “This isn’t their battle. It’s yours.”

  Needham had likely warned Tommy of Bourne’s plans and their arrangement. There could be nothing else that would bring Langford’s son here to face Bourne and his anger. “What you seek is not here.”

  “I hope to hell she isn’t.”

  She.

  And with that single word, it all fell into place.

  Tommy hadn’t come for Needham’s document. Likely didn’t even know it existed.

  He had come for Penelope.

  He had come for Falconwell.

  “Let him go.”

  Once released, Tommy shrugged back into his coat and cast a loathing glance at the two men. “Thank you.” Bruno and Asriel stepped back but did not leave the small space, ready to leap to their employer’s aid should he need them.

  Bourne spoke first. “I shall be very clear. I married Penelope this morning and, in doing so, made Falconwell mine. Neither you nor your father will touch it. Indeed, if I discover that either of you ever sets foot on the land again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  Tommy wiped one hand across a swollen lip and laughed, the sound hollow and humorless. “You think I didn’t know you’d come for it? I knew you’d do whatever was required to reclaim it the second it was out of my father’s hands. Why do you think I tried to marry her first?”

  The words echoed through the small room, and Bourne was grateful for the dim light that hid his surprise.

  Tommy was the fiancé.

  He should have seen it, of course. Should have imagined that Thomas Alles was still in Penelope’s world. In her life. Should have expected that he would have angled for Falconwell the moment it was removed from his inheritance.

  So he’d proposed to her, and she’d accepted, foolish girl, likely thinking that she loved him—the boy to whom she’d been a friend for so long. Wasn’t that what silly girls dreamed? To marry the boy they’d known since childhood? The simple, friendly companion, the safe friend who never demanded anything but laughter?