There was nothing he could do. Not to stop it. She deserved her perfect wedding with her handsome—if simpleminded—earl. She deserved a man without demons. A man who would give her a home. Horses. Hounds. Family.

Those children flashed again, the little blond row of them, each wearing a little pair of spectacles, each smiling up at their mother. At him.

He pushed the vision aside and stood, straightening his jacket.

Impossible.

Philippa Marbury was not for him. Not in the long run. He could give her everything for which she asked now . . . he could teach her about her body and her desires and her needs . . . prepare her to ask for what she wanted.

To ask her husband.

He swallowed back a curse.

Six days would be enough.

He ripped open the door of his office, nearly pulling it from the hinges, and headed for the library of The Fallen Angel, where Knight waited for him. Dismissing the guard at the door, Cross took a deep breath and entered, regaining his control. Focusing on the task at hand.

Knight was livid. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he turned toward the door, hatred in his ice blue gaze.

Cross took pleasure that, tonight, at least this had gone well—at least this was in his control. A thread of uncertainty tainted victory, however; Knight had not come alone.

A young woman sat primly in one of the high-backed chairs at the center of the room, hands folded in her green woolen skirts, eyes cast downward, as though she could will herself invisible. She was pretty enough—pale skin, tight black curls, and a little red mouth that curved up in a bow even though she looked nothing close to happy.

Indeed, it was her misery that established her identity.

Letting the door to the room close behind him, Cross looked to Knight, meeting his nemesis’s icy blue gaze. “Not very fatherly of you . . . touring your daughter about London’s better hells in the middle of the night.”

Knight did not respond to the insult, instead turning away from the sideboard where he stood, ignoring the girl entirely. “You think you’ve won? With one night?”

Cross folded himself into another large chair, extending his long legs and doing his best to look bored. He wanted this confrontation over and done with. He returned his gaze to Knight. “I know I have won. Your fifty largest players are right now losing at my tables. And with a word, I can keep them there, playing forever.”

Knight gritted his teeth. “You don’t want them. They’re too base for your precious club. The others will never allow the likes of those scoundrels on the books at the Angel.”

“The others will do what I choose. Your sorry lot is a sacrifice we will make to ensure that you understand your place. You are a product of our benevolence, Digger. You exist because we have not seen fit to take you down. Yet. It is time you realize that our club is more than yours will ever be. It is time you realize our power extends farther than yours ever could. Knight’s exists solely and completely because of my goodwill. If I want you destroyed, I can do it. And I will not be tested.”

Knight narrowed his gaze on him. “You’ve always liked to think of me as the enemy.”

Cross did not waver. “There’s no thinking about it.”

“There was a time when I was the closest thing you had to a friend.”

“I don’t recall it that way.”

Knight shrugged, uninterested in rehashing the past. “Have you forgotten Lavinia’s debt? She still owes me. One way or another.”

The sound of his sister’s name on Knight’s lips made Cross want to hit something, but he remained still. “I will pay the debt. You will refuse entry to Dunblade. Forever. And you will leave my sister alone. Also forever.”

Knight’s black brows rose, and he lifted his silver-tipped cane from the floor to inspect the finely wrought handle. “Or what?”

Cross leaned forward then, letting his anger show. “Or I take them all. Every last gamer.”

Knight lifted a shoulder. “There are more where they came from.”

“And I shall take them, too.” He paused, then added, “Over and over, I shall strangle the coffers of Knight’s until you can’t afford the wax to keep your tables lit.”

Admiration flashed in Digger’s gaze. “You shall make me a fine son-in-law.”

“I shall see you in Hell first.”

Maggie Knight responded to that, head snapping up, eyes wide, a deer in the hunter’s sight. “You wish me to marry him?” She hadn’t known. Cross resisted the urge to say something to the girl—to comfort her.

“Don’t let the crassness fool you.” Knight barely looked at her. “He’ll make you a countess.”

“But I don’t wish to be a countess.”

“You wish for what I tell you to wish for.”

“Wishing won’t make it so, I’m afraid,” Cross said, ending the conversation by standing and heading for the door. “My apologies, Miss Knight, but I shan’t marry you.”

She exhaled. “That is a relief.”

Cross’s brows rose. “It is, isn’t it?”

“No one should be relieved.” Digger turned to Cross. “We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we, Cross? Longer than you’ve known any of these nobs you call partners.”

Cross stood. “I’ve a rather impressive group of gamers on the floor tonight, Digger. More than I had originally planned. I’m afraid I haven’t the time for nostalgia. You’ll have Dunblade’s debt tomorrow. Or I take Knight’s. Gamer by gamer. Brick by brick.”