Earl Harlow.

It had been years since he’d heard it spoken aloud.

Temple—the fourth owner in the Angel—had said it once on the day Cross’s father had died, and Cross had attacked his unbeatable partner, not letting up until the massive man had been knocked off his feet. Now, Cross held back the fury that surged at the name with a smirk. “If your daughter marries me, she gets a filthy title—covered in ash and soot. It will gain you no respect. She shan’t be invited into society.”

“The Angel will get you your invitations.”

“I have to want them, first.”

“You’ll want them.”

“I assure you, I will not,” Cross promised.

“You haven’t a choice. I want them. You marry my daughter. I forgive your brother-in-law’s debts.”

“Your price is too high. There are other ways to end this.”

“Such a difficult choice you leave me with. Which do you think would be worse for the children, the scandal I can bring to their name? The quiet punishment I can call upon their father some night when he least expects it? Prostitution for their mother? With all that red hair, I assure you, there are some who would pay handsomely to take her to bed—with or without the limp.”

And, like that, the rage came. Cross lunged across the desk, pulling Knight from his chair. “I will destroy you if you touch her.”

“Not before I destroy them.” The words were choked from Knight, but their truth was enough to set Cross back. Knight sensed the change. “Isn’t it time you keep someone in your family safe?”

The words rocketed through him, an echo of the hundreds of times he’d thought them himself. He hated Knight for them.

But he hated himself more.

“I hold all the cards,” Knight repeated, and this time, there was no smugness in the tone.

Only truth.

Chapter Five

“Inquiry reveals that the human tongue is not one muscle, but rather eight unique muscles, half of which are anchored to bone—the glossus muscles—and half of which are integral to the shape and function of the larger organ.

While this additional research has cast an impressive light on an area of human anatomy of which I had been previously unaware, I remain unclear on the value of the muscle in question in activities unrelated to eating and articulation.

I may have to ask Olivia to elaborate. Solution not ideal.”

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 24, 1831; twelve days prior to her wedding

I want him punished.”

Cross watched as Temple leaned low over the billiards table at the center of the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel and took a clear shot, the white cue knocking into its red sister and rebounding against the rail to hit a third, spotted ball.

“Are you certain? Vengeance has never been in your bailiwick. Particularly not with Knight.” Bourne stepped forward and considered the playing field. “Damn your luck, Temple.”

“At least give me billiards,” Temple replied. “It’s the only game in which I’ve a chance of taking you both.” He stepped back and leaned one hip against a nearby chair, returning his attention to Cross. “There are ways of disappearing him.”

“Leave it to you to suggest killing the man,” Bourne said, taking his own shot, missing the second ball by an impressive margin, and swearing roundly.

“It’s quick. And final.” Temple shrugged one massive shoulder.

“If anyone outside of this room heard you say that, they’d believe the stories about you,” Cross said.

“They believe the stories about me already. All right, no killing. Why not just pay the debt?”

“It’s not an option.”

“Probably for the best. Dunblade would just run up more and we’d be back where we started in a month.” Bourne turned for the sideboard, where Chase kept the best scotch in the club. “Drink?”

Cross shook his head.

“Then what?” Temple asked.

“He wants his daughter married.”

“To you?”

Cross did not reply.

Temple whistled long and low. “Brilliant.”

Cross’s gaze flew to Temple’s. “Marriage to me is not even close to brilliant.”

“Why not?” Bourne interjected, “You’re an earl, rich as Croesus, and—even better—in the family business. Gaming-hell royalty.”

“One of you should marry her, then.”

Temple smirked, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Bourne. “We both know Digger Knight would no more let me near his daughter than fly. It’s you, Cross. Bourne is married, my reputation is forever ruined, and Chase is . . . well . . . Chase. Add to it the fact that you’re the only one of us he respects, and you’re the perfect choice.”

He was no such thing. “He’s misjudged me.”

“He’s not the first,” Bourne said. “But I’ll admit that if he had my sister in his clutches, I’d consider doing his bidding. Digger Knight is ruthless. He’ll get what he wants any way he can.”

Cross turned away from the words, ignoring the thread of guilt they brought with them. After all, Bourne’s sister-in-law had been in Knight’s clutches a day earlier. Tall, slim Pippa caught in Knight’s strong arms, pressed against his side as he whispered God knew what in her ear. The image made him furious.

Bourne’s sister. Then his own.

He set his cue aside and paced the length of the dark room until he reached the far wall, where a mosaic of stained glass overlooked the main floor of the casino. The window was the centerpiece of The Fallen Angel; it depicted the fall of Lucifer in glorious detail—the great blond angel tumbled from Heaven to the floor of the hell, six times the size of the average man, useless wings spread out behind him, chain around one ankle, glittering jeweled crown clasped in his massive hand.