Cross would have expected extortion—a doubling of the debt, a tripling of it, enough to level a financial blow. He would even have imagined some proposal of joint partnership between the clubs; Knight loathed the way The Fallen Angel had catapulted to aristocratic success in a matter of months after opening, while Knight’s remained a mediocre, second-rate hell that collected the peers rejected by the Angel’s rigorous standards of membership.

But never, ever would he have imagined this request.

So he did the only thing one could do in this situation. He laughed. “Are we listing the things we would like? If so, I should like a gold-plated flying apparatus.”

“And I would find a way to give it to you if you held in your hands one of the few things I hold dear.” Knight stamped out his cheroot.

“I was not aware that you held Meghan dear.”

Knight’s gaze snapped to Cross’s. “How do you know her name?”

A hit.

Cross considered what he knew of Knight’s only child, the information he’d learned from the files kept locked away in the inner safe of the Angel. The ones that held the secrets of their potential enemies—politicians, criminals, clergy with a love of fire and brimstone, and competitors.

The information was as clear as if Knight’s file were spread on the desk between them.

Name: Meghan Margaret Knight, b. 3 July 1812.

“I know quite a bit about young Meghan.” He paused. “Or should I call her Maggie?”

Knight collected himself. “I never cared for it.”

“No, I don’t imagine you did, what with the way it oozes Irish.” Cross draped his coat over the back of the chair, enjoying the small amount of control he had gained. “Meghan Margaret Knight. I’m surprised you allowed it.”

Knight looked away. “I let her mother name her.”

“Mary Katharine.”

Mary Katharine O’Brien, Irish, b. 1796, m. Knight—February 1812.

“I should have known you would have information on them.” He scowled. “Chase is a bastard. One day, I’m going to give him the pounding he deserves.”

Cross folded his arms at the reference to his partner, and founder of The Fallen Angel. “I guarantee that will never happen.”

Knight met his eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful. After all, you know about the girl already. It will be like marrying an old friend.”

Residence: Bedfordshire; small cottage on the High Street.

Knight sends £200, 4th of every month; does not visit and has not seen the girl since mother and child were sent away, October 1813.

Girl raised with a governess, speaks mediocre French.

Attended Mrs. Coldphell’s Finishing School for Girls—day student.

“Since when do you give a fig about your daughter?”

Knight shrugged. “Since she’s old enough to be worth something.”

There was one more line, written in Chase’s bold, black scrawl.

NB: Girl required to write to Knight weekly. Letter posts Tuesday.

He does not reply.

“Ever the doting father,” Cross said, wryly. “You think to buy yourself a title?”

“It’s how the game is played these days, isn’t it? The aristocracy isn’t what it once was. Lord knows fewer and fewer have any money with the good work of you and me. Six days from now, Meghan arrives. You’ll marry her. She gets the title, and my grandson will be Earl Harlow.”

Earl Harlow.

It had been years since he’d heard it spoken aloud.

Temple—the fourth owner in the Angel—had said it once on the day Cross’s father had died, and Cross had attacked his unbeatable partner, not letting up until the massive man had been knocked off his feet. Now, Cross held back the fury that surged at the name with a smirk. “If your daughter marries me, she gets a filthy title—covered in ash and soot. It will gain you no respect. She shan’t be invited into society.”

“The Angel will get you your invitations.”

“I have to want them, first.”

“You’ll want them.”

“I assure you, I will not,” Cross promised.

“You haven’t a choice. I want them. You marry my daughter. I forgive your brother-in-law’s debts.”

“Your price is too high. There are other ways to end this.”

“Such a difficult choice you leave me with. Which do you think would be worse for the children, the scandal I can bring to their name? The quiet punishment I can call upon their father some night when he least expects it? Prostitution for their mother? With all that red hair, I assure you, there are some who would pay handsomely to take her to bed—with or without the limp.”

And, like that, the rage came. Cross lunged across the desk, pulling Knight from his chair. “I will destroy you if you touch her.”

“Not before I destroy them.” The words were choked from Knight, but their truth was enough to set Cross back. Knight sensed the change. “Isn’t it time you keep someone in your family safe?”

The words rocketed through him, an echo of the hundreds of times he’d thought them himself. He hated Knight for them.

But he hated himself more.

“I hold all the cards,” Knight repeated, and this time, there was no smugness in the tone.

Only truth.

Chapter Five

“Inquiry reveals that the human tongue is not one muscle, but rather eight unique muscles, half of which are anchored to bone—the glossus muscles—and half of which are integral to the shape and function of the larger organ.

While this additional research has cast an impressive light on an area of human anatomy of which I had been previously unaware, I remain unclear on the value of the muscle in question in activities unrelated to eating and articulation.

I may have to ask Olivia to elaborate. Solution not ideal.”

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 24, 1831; twelve days prior to her wedding

I want him punished.”

Cross watched as Temple leaned low over the billiards table at the center of the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel and took a clear shot, the white cue knocking into its red sister and rebounding against the rail to hit a third, spotted ball.

“Are you certain? Vengeance has never been in your bailiwick. Particularly not with Knight.” Bourne stepped forward and considered the playing field. “Damn your luck, Temple.”

“At least give me billiards,” Temple replied. “It’s the only game in which I’ve a chance of taking you both.” He stepped back and leaned one hip against a nearby chair, returning his attention to Cross. “There are ways of disappearing him.”

“Leave it to you to suggest killing the man,” Bourne said, taking his own shot, missing the second ball by an impressive margin, and swearing roundly.

“It’s quick. And final.” Temple shrugged one massive shoulder.

“If anyone outside of this room heard you say that, they’d believe the stories about you,” Cross said.

“They believe the stories about me already. All right, no killing. Why not just pay the debt?”

“It’s not an option.”

“Probably for the best. Dunblade would just run up more and we’d be back where we started in a month.” Bourne turned for the sideboard, where Chase kept the best scotch in the club. “Drink?”

Cross shook his head.

“Then what?” Temple asked.

“He wants his daughter married.”

“To you?”

Cross did not reply.

Temple whistled long and low. “Brilliant.”

Cross’s gaze flew to Temple’s. “Marriage to me is not even close to brilliant.”

“Why not?” Bourne interjected, “You’re an earl, rich as Croesus, and—even better—in the family business. Gaming-hell royalty.”

“One of you should marry her, then.”

Temple smirked, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Bourne. “We both know Digger Knight would no more let me near his daughter than fly. It’s you, Cross. Bourne is married, my reputation is forever ruined, and Chase is . . . well . . . Chase. Add to it the fact that you’re the only one of us he respects, and you’re the perfect choice.”

He was no such thing. “He’s misjudged me.”

“He’s not the first,” Bourne said. “But I’ll admit that if he had my sister in his clutches, I’d consider doing his bidding. Digger Knight is ruthless. He’ll get what he wants any way he can.”

Cross turned away from the words, ignoring the thread of guilt they brought with them. After all, Bourne’s sister-in-law had been in Knight’s clutches a day earlier. Tall, slim Pippa caught in Knight’s strong arms, pressed against his side as he whispered God knew what in her ear. The image made him furious.

Bourne’s sister. Then his own.

He set his cue aside and paced the length of the dark room until he reached the far wall, where a mosaic of stained glass overlooked the main floor of the casino. The window was the centerpiece of The Fallen Angel; it depicted the fall of Lucifer in glorious detail—the great blond angel tumbled from Heaven to the floor of the hell, six times the size of the average man, useless wings spread out behind him, chain around one ankle, glittering jeweled crown clasped in his massive hand.

The window was a warning to the men below—a reminder of their place, of how close they were to their own fall. It was a manifestation of the temptation of sin and the luxury of vice.

But for the owners of the Angel, the window was something else.

It was proof that those banished into exile could become rulers in their own right, with power to rival those they’d once served.

Cross had spent the last six years of his life proving that he was more than a reckless boy cast from society, that he was more than his title. More than the circumstances of his birth. More than the circumstances of his brother’s death. More than what came after.

And he would be damned if he would let Digger Knight resurrect that boy.

Not when Cross had worked so hard to keep him at bay.

Not when he had sacrificed so much.

His gaze flickered over the men on the floor of the hell. A handful at the hazard tables, another few playing ecarte. The roulette wheel spun in a whir of color, a fortune laid out across the betting field. He was too far away to see where the ball fell or to hear the call of the croupier, but he saw the disappointment on the faces of the men at the table as they felt the sting of loss. He saw, too, the way hope rallied, leading them into temptation, urging them to place another wager on a new number . . . or perhaps the same one . . . for certainly luck was theirs tonight.

Little did they know.

Cross watched a round of vingt-et-un directly below, the cards close enough to see. Eight, three, ten, five. Queen, two, six, six.

The deck was high.

The dealer laid the next cards.

King. Over.

Jack. Over.

There was no such thing as luck.

His decision made, he turned back to his partners. “I won’t let him ruin my sister.”

Bourne nodded once, understanding. “And you won’t let Temple kill him. So . . . what? Marry the daughter?”

Cross shook his head. “He threatens mine; I threaten his.”

Temple’s brows shot up. “The girl?”

“He doesn’t care an ounce for the girl,” Cross said. “I mean the club.”

Bourne propped one arm on the end of his cue. “Knight’s.” He shook his head. “You’ll never convince his membership to leave him. Not without inviting them to join us.”

“Which won’t happen,” Temple said.

“I don’t need them all to leave him for good,” Cross said, several steps ahead. “I need them to leave him for one night. I need to prove that his kingdom exists only because of our benevolence. That if we had the mind to do so, we could destroy him.” He turned back to the floor of the club. “She arrives in six days. I need the upper hand before then.”

I need control.

“Six days?” Temple repeated, grinning when Cross nodded. “Six days makes it March the twenty-ninth.”

Bourne whistled. “There’s the upper hand.”

“Pandemonium.” The word hovered in the dark room, a solution that could not have been better devised if the devil himself had done it.

Pandemonium—held every year on the twenty-ninth of March—was the one night of the year when the Angel opened its doors to nonmembers. An invitation provided its bearer with access to the casino floor from sundown to sunup. With one, a man could steep himself in sin and vice and experience the clandestine, legendary world that was The Fallen Angel.

Each member of the club received three invitations to Pandemonium—small, square cards so coveted that they were worth thousands of pounds to men desperate to join the club’s ranks. Desperate to prove their worth to the owners of the Angel. Certain that if they wagered enough, they might leave with a permanent membership.

They rarely did.

Most often, they left with pockets thousands of pounds lighter and a tale with which to regale their friends who had not been so lucky to receive an invitation.

Cross met Temple’s gaze. “Every man who gambles regularly at Knight’s is desperate for access to the Angel.”

Bourne nodded once. “It’s a good plan. One night without his biggest gamers will prove we can take them whenever we like.”

“There are how many . . . thirty of them?”

“Fifty, more like,” Bourne said.

Cross returned his attention to the floor of the club, his mind racing to formulate a plan, to set the gears in motion. He would save his family.