“Yes, but scoundrels are notorious liars. So I had no way of knowing if I should believe you.”

“A great logical conundrum. If one tells the truth about being a scoundrel, is he scoundrel at all?”

“Perhaps a scoundrel with a gentlemanly core.”

He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. You shall ruin my reputation.”

She laughed, and the sound gave him immense pleasure. He was sad when it was gone, stolen into the dark gardens on a breeze. After a long stretch of silence, she said, “You said you had a message for Chase.”

Chase.

Duncan had avoided asking for Tremley’s file for a plain, simple reason. It was stupidity on his part – she was bound to Chase in ways he did not understand and he could not stop – but it did not change the fact that he didn’t want her near the founder of The Fallen Angel if she didn’t need to be there.

He didn’t want her near him if she did need to be there.

He’d get the file another way. Without using her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said. “I saw your face when you sought me out. Tell me. I’ll …” She hesitated, and he wondered what she meant to say. Before he could ask, she said, “I’ll pass Chase your message. Give it to me.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“In what?”

In his mess.

In Tremley’s threats.

It was bad enough that his sister was in danger, but he could protect Cynthia. He had less control over Georgiana. And he couldn’t be certain that Chase would care for her if need be.

She had to remain clear of this.

He shook his head. “It’s time you distance yourself from him.”

“From Chase?” she asked. “If only it were as easily done as said.”

He hated the words and the sadness in her small smile. “I shall help.” He’d do whatever he could to get her away from Chase and his unfettered, unreasonable power over her.

She nodded. “Your papers will help. Anna will have to disappear once Georgiana is married.”

He would help, papers be damned.

But she did not need to know that now.

The following morning, Georgiana sat at her enormous desk at The Fallen Angel, attempting to focus on the work of the casino, as Cross placed a parcel at the edge of her desk.

“From West,” he said. “Delivered from his offices this morning.”

She looked to the parcel, wondering for a fleeting moment if West had packed it himself. Before she could stop herself, she reached for the paper-wrapped parcel, her fingers toying with the string that kept its contents secret from prying eyes at his offices and hers. If he’d tied it himself, he’d had to have done it without gloves. She stroked down the ridge of one loop of the string. Just as she was without gloves now.

Just as she would be this evening, when he made good on his promise. And she made good on hers.

Realizing that she was being a cabbagehead, and that Cross was staring at her as though she’d grown a second head, made of cabbage, she snatched her fingers away. “Thank you,” she said, affecting her greatest tone of dismissal.

She ignored the look of amusement on his handsome face. “A note arrived at the same time. For Anna.”

He set the crisp ecru square on top of the parcel, and she resisted the urge to tear open the envelope, instead turning her face back to her work – a movement that both made her look exceedingly busy and hid her flaming cheeks from her business partner, who would no doubt tell all the others if he suspected her embarrassment. “Thank you.”

He did not move.

She willed the blush away.

It did not work.

“Is there something else?”

He did not reply.

She had no choice. She looked up. He was trying not to laugh at her. She scowled. “I am not above turning you out on your ass.”

His lips twitched. “You and which army?”

“Is there something else? Or are you simply being a pillock?”

Cross grinned. “The latter. I’m curious about that package. Temple says you’re after him.”

“Temple is married. Of course I’m not after him.”

He laughed. “You think you’re very clever.”

“I am very clever.”

“Temple says that you made a fool of yourself last night. When was the last time you drank champagne?”

“Last night,” she said, crossing one buckskin-covered leg over the other and reaching for the package, pretending not to think on the evening that loomed ahead. Pretending not to seriously consider calling for a case of champagne to prepare for it.

She opened the package, knowing Cross would not leave until she’d done so.

He’d sent her the paper. If one could refer to Duncan West’s gossip rag as “the paper.”

The week’s edition of The Scandal Sheet had arrived at The Fallen Angel two days before it would land on breakfast tables across London. Except it wasn’t for her. It was a gift to the man known only as Chase.

No, not gift. Service. As requested.

“Scandal Becomes Salvation,” the headline on the front page read, followed in smaller text with “Lady G— Rides Through Ton, Wins Aristocratic Hearts.”

Cross laughed, craning his head to read the page. “Clever. I shall tell you – I know you did not like that cartoon, but the reference to Lady Godiva makes for excellent reading.” He took the paper from the desk to read more carefully.

She pretended not to care, opening the note that accompanied Chase’s package. “Lady Godiva was protesting outrageous taxation.”