He placed his forehead to hers, pulling her to him, wanting her near. “I am here. I am yours. And dear God, Penelope, I have ached for you as well. So very much.”

She smiled, so beautiful. “How is that possible?”

“How could it not be?” he asked, the words harsh and graveled with emotion. “For nine years, I thought it was vengeance that would save me, and it took you—my strong, beautiful wife—to prove that I was wrong and that love was my salvation. You are my redemption,” he whispered. “You are my benediction.”

She was crying in earnest, and he sipped at the tears before taking her mouth in one long, lush kiss, pouring all his love into the caress, stroking deep until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his head. “Tell me you believe me.”

“I believe you.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of relief that coursed through him at the words. “Say it again.”

“I believe you, Michael.”

“I love you.”

She smiled. “I know.”

He kissed her, deep and quick. “It is customary for the lady to return the sentiment.”

She laughed. “Is it?”

He scowled. “Tell me you love me, Lady Penelope.”

“It’s Lady Bourne, to you.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and let her fingers tangle in his hair. “I love you, Michael. I love you quite desperately. And I’m very happy that you’ve decided to love me back.”

“How could I not?” he asked. “You are my warrior. Facing down Bruno and Langford to fight.”

She smiled shyly. “I could not leave. I would not be your fallen angel. I would follow you into hell . . . but only to bring you back.”

The words humbled him. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, “But I am afraid I cannot let you go.”

Her serious blue gaze did not waver as she asked, “Do you promise?”

With everything he was. “I do.” He wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin upon her head, before he remembered the other item he’d brought for her. “I brought your winnings, love.” He extracted the papers from the card game the previous evening and set them next to the pudding.

“Your property.”

He pressed a kiss to her neck, and smiled against the skin when she sighed at the caress. “Not mine. Yours. Won handily.”

She shook her head. “There is only one thing from last night’s winnings that I want.”

“What is that?”

She leaned up to kiss him thoroughly, robbing him of breath. “You.”

“I think you might regret that win, Sixpence.”

She shook her head, all seriousness. “Never.”

They kissed again, lost in each other for long minutes before curiosity flared and he lifted his head. “What did you have on Langford?”

She gave a little laugh and curled around him to reach for the wager, sifting through the pile of papers to retrieve the small square of paper. “You forgot to teach me the most important rule of scoundrels.”

“Which one is that?”

She unfolded the paper carefully and handed it to him. “When in doubt, bluff.”

It was her invitation to The Angel.

Surprise gave way to laughter, then to pride. “My wicked, gambling wife. I believed you had something truly damning.”

She smiled, bold and brilliant, and he found he’d had enough of talking.

Instead, he lowered his wife to the floor of his dining room and stripped her bare, worshipping every glorious inch of skin he revealed. And as her laughter gave way to sighs, he reminded her again and again of how very much he loved her.

For years, when children and grandchildren inquired about the round black mark on the Hell House dining-room table, the Marchioness of Bourne would tell tale of a figgy pudding gone wrong . . . before the marquess would interject that in his opinion, it had gone rather perfectly.

Epilogue

Dear Sixpence,

I saved them all, you know. Every letter you ever sent, even those to which I never replied. I’m sorry for so many things, my love: that I left you; that I never came home; that it took me so long to realize that you were my home and that, with you by my side, none of the rest mattered.

But in the darkest hours, on the coldest nights, when I felt I’d lost everything, I still had your letters. And through them, in some small way, I still had you.

I loved you then, my darling Penelope, more than I could imagine—just as I love you now, more than you can know.

Michael

Hell House, February 1831

One week later

Cross woke as usual, on a makeshift pallet inside his office at The Fallen Angel, wedged between an overflowing bookcase and a massive globe, surrounded by papers.

Not as usual, however, there was a woman sitting at his desk.

Strike that. Not a woman. A lady. A young, blond-haired, bespectacled lady.

She was reading the ledger.

He sat up, ignoring the fact that he was not wearing a shirt and that, conventionally, gentlemen did not greet ladies half-naked. Hang convention. If the woman hadn’t wanted to see him half-naked, then she should not have invaded his offices in the night.

That most men did not make a practice of sleeping in their offices was of little import.

“May I help you?”

She did not look up. “You’ve miscalculated column F.”

What in hell?

“I have not.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose and tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, entirely focused on the ledger. “You have. The proper calculation should be one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred forty-six and seventeen pence.”