He reached for the door handle, already thinking of his next destination.

Of Pippa.

Of the way she smelled and tasted, of her smart mouth and flashing eyes, of her curiosity. She was somewhere in this building, likely gambling or interviewing a prostitute or doing something else scandalous, and he wanted to be near her.

Desperately. She was opium. One taste, and he couldn’t stop himself.

Something had changed in the darkness earlier that evening.

False.

Something had changed earlier than that.

He found he was rather desperate to explore it.

Six days. He wouldn’t waste another second of it in this room. He opened the door. Less than a week, then he would leave her. She would be his pleasure. His one taste. His one mistake.

And afterward, he would return to his life.

“I see I must sweeten the pot. Shall I add in Philippa Marbury?”

The words sent an icy chill through Cross, and he turned slowly, the open door forgotten. “What did you say?”

Knight smirked, cold knowledge in his gaze. “Ah, I’ve your attention now. You shouldn’t have left Sally at the club. Whores are so easily convinced to turn traitor.”

A pool of dread spread through Cross’s gut as the other man continued. “I may not be the great genius you are purported to be, but I know my way around lightskirts. A few extra quid, and Sally told me everything I needed to know. Your plan to lure my big gamers to Pandemonium. The names of all the girls who helped you—every one of them out on the streets now, by the way—and most importantly, the name of the aristocratic lady who happened into your office while you were plotting my demise. Blond girl. Spectacles. Odd as an otter.” Knight rocked back on his heels, his false accent returning. “Sounded right familiar, that one.”

Cross could see it coming. A runaway carriage, too fast to stop.

“Philippa Marbury. Daughter of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby. Future Countess of Castleton. And the sisters . . . cor! One to be married to Tottenham, and the other Lady Bourne!” Knight whistled, long and low, the sound sending fury through Cross. “Impressive, that. Wouldn’t like to see ’em ruined. Wager Bourne wouldn’t neither.

“Terrible thing for an unmarried Lady Philippa to be discovered trottin’ about in a gamin’ hell. And with a pure scoundrel like yourself, no less . . . with your reputation? Why, she’d never be allowed in polite society again. No doubt the old Castleton bird won’t have her baby boy marryin’ her.”

Cross froze at the words. At their implication.

He should have seen it coming.

A memory flashed, the older man leaning over him six years earlier, Cross nearly dead from the beating he’d taken at Knight’s henchmen’s hands.

Insurance.

He should have known that Knight would have had a second plan. An insurance policy. Should have known, too, that it would be Pippa.

What he had not expected was how very angry that made him.

He was at Knight’s throat in three long strides, one large hand wrapping around the other man’s neck and throwing him back against the sideboard, rattling glasses and sending a decanter of scotch toppling to the floor. He ignored the startled gasp from the girl on the opposite end of the room. “You’ll stay away from Philippa Marbury, or I’ll kill you. That’s the game.”

Knight caught his balance and smiled, as though they were discussing the weather and not his imminent demise. “I wouldn’t worry. I shan’t have time to go near her . . . what with all the excitement around my girl’s wedding.”

“I should kill you anyway.”

Knight smirked. “But you won’t. I saved your life, boy. Without me, you’d be drunk and half-mad with the pox, if any one of half a dozen hell owners hadn’t dumped you in the Thames themselves. Without me, you’d be dead or living dead. You owe me even without my having your pretty plaything in my clutches. You were useless. Weak. Unworthy. And I gave you an exit.”

The words sent a chill through Cross, their truth undeniable.

Knight removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his lip, checking to see if there was blood. “You have me to thank for all this. Your entire empire. And the tragedy of it is that you’re too honorable to ignore it. Instead, you owe me.”

He shook his head, even as he knew the words were true. “Not this.”

“Of course this,” Knight scoffed. “It’s time you realize that aristocrats or not, money or not, fancy French chef or not, I’ve been down this road before you, and I’ll always know the terrain better than you. You can’t beat me.

“I hear Duncan West is here. I wonder if the lady will make Wednesday’s Scandal Sheet?” At Cross’s flashing gaze, Knight pointed to Maggie, who stared back at the two of them with shock and confusion in her eyes. “You marry my girl, or I ruin yours. That’s the game.”

Your girl. The words echoed through him, part taunt, part hunger. All truth.

For much of his life, Cross had been known for his ability to see all possible outcomes of a situation. He could look at a spread of cards and predict the next flop. He could see the next punch in a bare-knuckle boxing match. He could plot a dozen moves forward on a chess board.

He wondered if Pippa played chess.

He pushed the thought aside. There would be no more thinking of Philippa Marbury. No more touching her. His fingers itched at that, desperate for more of the contact they’d been denied for so long. He’d only been able to touch her for a heartbeat.

He’d ached for her since the second he left her tonight. Since before that.