She’d sold him out to Knight, forced him into a marriage he didn’t want. Into a life he would never have taken. In this world where they lived and breathed power and sin, pleasure and punishment, betrayal was always a possibility. Losses happened.

But Sally’s actions had not simply punished him; they’d threatened Pippa.

And that, he would never forgive.

Fury raged as he advanced on the prostitute, unsettling her, pushing her back through the throngs of revelers, between card tables and dice fields until they were at the side of the room, dingier and less welcoming than the main floor of the Angel. “Tell me, what was my future worth to you? A few quid? A new gown? A string of paste? After all I’ve done for you? For your girls? And you repay me with this. By threatening the one thing I hold dear?”

She shook her head, brown eyes flashing. “It’s so easy for you to judge me, isn’t it?” she spat.

“You threatened mine,” he thundered, wanting to put his fist through a wall. In six years, he had never felt so out of control. So unhinged. The idea of Pippa in danger made him shake with fear and anger and a half dozen terrifyingly powerful emotions.

What would he do when she was married?

Sally saved him from having to answer the question. “You with your perfect life and your piles of money and never having to get on your knees to earn your next meal and stay on them to thank some stranger for the coin . . . If you’d failed—”

“If I’d failed, I’d have kept you safe.”

“Safe,” she scoffed. “You’d have sent me off to the country to live out my days—an old mare put to pasture? That may be safe, but it’s not satisfaction.”

“Many think otherwise.”

“Well, not me,” she said. “If you’d failed, and Knight had discovered my role in your plans, he’d have pushed me out, and I’d be working the streets.” She paused. “I’ve a good life, Cross, and I protected it. You would have done the same.”

Except he hadn’t. Protecting his life would have meant throwing Pippa to Knight and refusing his request. Refusing to take on Maggie.

But Pippa had come first.

She always would.

“If you think on it, I’ve done you a favor. You get yourself a wife. And an heir. You shan’t regret it.”

The wrong wife. The wrong heir.

“I shall regret every minute of it,” he said.

“Cross—” Sally began. “I am sorry, you know. For the lady.”

He stilled.

“Lady Philippa was kind to me. Kinder than any aristocratic female ever has been. And I knew the moment I told Knight about her that I’d regret it.”

“You are not fit to speak her name.” She was better than this place, and all of them combined.

“Likely not. But it’s not your choice.”

“It should be.”

Sally gave a little smile. “Do not doubt for one moment that what’s done was done for her. Not you.”

Meaning Pippa would be happier without him—that Pippa deserved more than what he could give her.

Truth.

“Attention!” Knight’s great, booming voice distracted them both, and they turned to find the man, scarlet-banded hat askew, high atop a hazard table at the center of the floor of the casino. “Attention!” he called again, banging his silver-tipped walking stick heavily on the worn baize, stopping the lively music and drunken chatter. “I’ve somethin’ te say, ye disrespectful gits!”

Knight grinned as the room tittered its laughter, and Cross gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come.

“I’m still angry at most of ye for taking yer time at the Angel’s tables fer that poncy party they call Pandemonium—drinkin’ yer tea and eatin’ yer cakes with a collection of nobs who don’t know an ace from their arse. But I find myself in a forgivin’ humor tonight, pets—in part because, well”—he turned his twinkling gaze to Cross—“at least one of those gents is about to be family!”

The announcement was met with a raucous, near-deafening cheer, as all heads turned toward Cross, who did not cheer. Did not smile. Did not move.

Knight raised a brow and reached out a hand to his future son-in-law. “Cross! Join me for a word or two!”

The cheer again, grating on every nerve, making Cross wish violence on every man here. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, unmoving, and Knight’s gaze darkened. “Aww . . . he doesn’t want to steal my roll! Don’t worry, my boy. The pips . . .” He paused, letting the word fall between them. “They are in my favor these days!”

And with that single syllable, evocative of the woman who consumed his thoughts, Knight made it impossible for Cross to refuse the request. He moved across the room with deliberate calm, despite the desire to pull Knight from the table and tear him limb from limb, and climbed up to join the man who had outplayed him. Finally.

Knight clapped him on the back, and Cross spoke, sotto voce, “Tomorrow, she marries. And you lose that bit of control.”

Knight spoke through wide, smiling teeth. “Nonsense. I can ruin her marriage and her children’s reputation, with one well-placed word.” He turned back to the room, a king speaking to his subjects. “And now, the beautiful lady who has captured his heart! The banns will be read tomorrow, and in three weeks’ time, my girl will be his!”

Maggie was lifted up onto the table, and Cross had to give the young woman credit—no decent father would allow his daughter anywhere near this place. No man would allow a woman for whom he cared here. But this woman, clad in mauve and resignation, stood straight and still, without fidgeting, without blushing.