“We can’t all be as saintly as you are, Cross,” Bourne replied. “I thought better of it.”

She raised a blond brow. “By ‘thought better of it,’ I assume you mean that you realized I wouldn’t have had you if you were the last man in London?”

“You wound me.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Truly.”

In the six years since the owners of The Fallen Angel had come together with the singular purpose of proving themselves more powerful than the aristocracy, there had been little time and even less interest for anything that detracted from such a goal. Truly, it had only been in the last year, once the club was everything they had planned it to be, that Bourne, Cross, and Temple had made time for love.

Or, rather, that love had ensnared them.

She played another card. “God protect Lady Bourne, as she surely has her work cut out for her. I feel I should apologize to her for my hand in your match.”

Georgiana had been instrumental in matching each of her partners with their wives – none more so than Bourne’s. Lady Penelope Marbury had once been betrothed to Georgiana’s brother, but the match was imperfect, and Georgiana had used her own scandal to extract the Duke of Leighton from his impending marriage, leaving Lady Penelope a spinster for nearly a decade… until Bourne desired her for himself.

Georgiana had been only too happy to repay her debt to the lady.

Temple laughed. “You don’t regret a moment of your meddling.”

She’d played a similar hand in Temple’s match to Miss Mara Lowe, now Duchess of Lamont. And in Cross’s match to Lady Penelope’s sister, Lady Philippa, now Countess Harlow.

Bourne grinned, all wolf. “Nor should she regret it. I ensure my lady is quite happy with her match.”

She groaned. “Please. Say no more.”

“Here is something,” Cross interjected, and Georgiana was grateful for the impending change of topic.

There were a dozen things he could have said. A hundred. The four present ran a casino. They traded in secrets of the richest and most powerful people in Britain. The building they were in boasted a remarkable collection of art. Cross’s wife cultivated beautiful roses. And yet, he did not speak of any of those things. Instead, he said, “West is not a bad choice.”

She turned surprised eyes on him. “Not a bad choice for what?”

“Not what,” he corrected. “Whom. For you.”

She wished there was a window somewhere nearby. Something through which she could leap. She wondered if she could ignore the statement. She looked to Bourne and Temple, hoping they might find the statement as preposterous as she did.

They didn’t.

“You know, he’s not wrong,” Bourne said.

Temple spread his massive legs wide. “There’s no one else who matches her in power.”

“Except us,” Bourne said.

“Well, of course,” Temple said. “But we’re spoken for.”

“He hasn’t a title,” she said.

Temple’s brows rose. “That’s the only reason you don’t consider him a reasonable choice?”

Dammit. That’s not what she’d meant at all. “No,” she said. “But it would help if the rest of you remembered that I’m in need of a title. And I’ve selected it. Langley will not meddle in my affairs.”

Cross laughed. “You sound like a villain in a romantic novel.”

She rather felt like one with the direction in which this conversation was moving.

As though she had not spoken, Bourne added, “West is talented, rich and Penelope seems to think he’s handsome. Not that I have any idea why.” He grumbled the last.

“Pippa feels the same way,” Cross said. “She says it is an empirical fact. Thought I myself have never trusted grown men with hair that color.”

“You realize you haven’t a leg to stand on when it comes to hair color,” Temple said.

Cross ran a self-conscious hand through his ginger locks. “Irrelevant. It’s not me Chase thinks is handsome.”

“I am sitting right here, you know,” she said.

They did not seem to care.

“He’s a brilliant businessman and rich as a king,” Bourne added. “And if I were a betting man, I’d lay money on him eventually holding a seat in the House of Commons.”

“You are not a betting man, though,” Georgiana pointed out. As though it would stop him.

“He doesn’t have to be. I’ll put money on it,” Cross said, “I’ll happily mark it in the book.”

The betting book. The Fallen Angel’s betting book was legendary – an enormous leather-bound volume which held the catalogue of all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager – no matter how trivial – in the book, and the Angel bore witness, taking a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.

“You don’t wager in the book,” Georgiana said.

He met her gaze. “I shall make an exception.”

“For West running for Minister of Parliament?” Temple asked.

“I don’t care about that at all,” Cross said, throwing a card down. “I’ve one hundred pounds that says that West is the man who breaks Chase of her curse.”

She narrowed her gaze on the ginger-haired genius, recognizing the words. She’d made the same wager an age ago. She’d won.

“You shan’t have my luck,” she said.

He smirked. “Care to wager on it?”