And somehow, more devastating than all the others.

Her stomach roiled. She ignored it. “What is it you wished to tell me?”

Lavinia paused, clearly surprised by the firmness in Pippa’s tone. “You should be cautious of him.”

A lesson Pippa had already learned.

The baroness continued. “Jasper . . . he loves women. More than he should. But when it comes time for him to follow his word . . . he fails.” She hesitated, then said, “I should hate to see you ruined because you believed him.”

The words were full of sorrow, and Pippa hated the way they made her feel—the tightness and discomfort they brought with them . . . with their meaning. With the knowledge that this woman had known him. Had received promises from him. Had been betrayed by him.

Things Pippa hadn’t warranted.

She stiffened at the thought. She shouldn’t want to be betrayed by him. She shouldn’t want his promises. She shouldn’t want him at all. This was science, was it not? Research. Nothing more. Certainly nothing emotional.

A memory flashed—the Earl of Castleton’s lips dry and warm against hers.

Nothing emotional.

She shook her head. “There is nothing between us.”

One of the baroness’s auburn brows rose in a familiar gesture. “You came through a secret passageway into his office.”

Pippa shook her head. “He didn’t know I would find it. He never expected me there. Never wanted me there.” She hesitated. “It’s clear he cares deeply for you, Lady Dunblade. I believe he loves you a great deal.”

Not that Pippa knew anything about love, but she recalled the sound of his voice in the darkness . . . muffled by his marvelous secret passageway, and the expression in his grey eyes when Lavinia had battled him, standing strong and firm in his office.

They were as close to love as Pippa could imagine.

That, and he wouldn’t touch her.

A knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed around it, willing it away.

The baroness laughed, and Pippa hated the hollowness of the sound. “He doesn’t know what love is. If he knew what was best for us, he would stay away from us.”

Something tightened in Pippa’s chest at the words. “That may be so,” she said, “but no matter what happened in the past, it’s clear you were a very important piece of it . . . a very important . . .” She hesitated. What did one call a paramour in polite company? She was certain that her mother would insist that one did not call a paramour in polite company. But she and Lady Dunblade were here, and there was no one else in hearing distance, so Pippa did not mince words. “ . . . lover.”

Lady Dunblade’s blue eyes went wide. “He is not my lover.”

Pippa kept on. “At any rate, it does not matter. I have no hold whatsoever on the gentleman. He was to assist me in some research. It is now complete.”

The baroness interjected. “Jasper is not my lover.”

Pippa waved one hand. “Perhaps not now, but at one time. Again, it’s irrel—”

“Lady Philippa.” Lavinia’s tone was unyielding, urgent. “Dear heaven. He is not my lover.” She paused, and the look on her face was a mix of panic and despair and not a small amount of horror. “He is my brother.”

Chapter Thirteen

Cross stood in the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel, watching as half of London gambled on the floor below. The very wealthy half of London.

The floor was packed with people: women in vibrant silks and satins, their identities hidden by elaborate masks designed for this very occasion; men with thousands of pounds burning in their pockets—eager to play, and win, and savor this moment when they might outsmart the Angel.

For five years, since the first Pandemonium, men had fallen victim to the Angel’s temptation and wagered everything they had on her tables, on their own luck. And every year, a subset of those men had lost. And the owners of the Angel had won.

Chase liked to say that they won because none of them had enough riding on the night to lose. Most nights, Cross knew better. They won because they could do nothing less. They’d sold their collective souls, and their gift was fleecing the gentlemen of London.

Tonight, however, Cross doubted them. Doubted their keen, unwavering ability to win.

Doubted himself.

Too much was riding on Pandemonium tonight. Too much that he couldn’t control. Too much that made him desperate to win.

And desperation was not good for winning, not even when the plan was working.

He braced one hand against the stained glass, his wide, flat palm on Satan’s thigh as he watched the tables below. Vingt-et-un and roulette, hazard and piquet, the movement of the club was a blur of tossed cards and rolled dice and turned wheels and lush green baize.

On a normal night, Cross would have been calculating winnings—one thousand from hazard, twenty-two hundred from roulette, half again from vingt-et-un. But tonight, he was focused on the fifty who marked his fate.

Fifty of Knight’s biggest players were dispersed across the floor below—fifty men who would never have been allowed to wager at this club if not for their special invitations. Fifty men who did not deserve to play here but played nonetheless.

At Cross’s will.

Sally had kept her promise, delivering the gentlemen to the floor of the Angel, and now it was the Angel’s task to keep them there. The employees of the hell had their orders. If a man had a wager in one hand, he had a full glass in the other. If a gamer appeared lonely, or bored, it was not long before he would be joined by another masked reveler—someone who had been paid handsomely to ensure that all in attendance left with light spirits and lighter pockets.