“What’s that?” Chase asked, discarding.

“If she wants children, someone’s going to have to do the deed.”

If she wanted children, he would do the deed.

Cross discarded. “If you’re sure she’s not ugly, I’m happy to—”

He did not finish the sentence. Bourne lunged at him, and the two went tumbling to the floor, in a cacophony of broken chairs, laughter, and the sound of flesh hitting bone.

Temple sighed, throwing his cards down to the table. “These games never end the way cards are supposed to end.”

“I thought good card games always end in a brawl,” Chase said. Cross and Bourne rolled into a chair, toppling it over as Justin entered the suite. The bespectacled man ignored Bourne and Cross, tumbling across the floor, and leaned low to whisper something to Temple and Chase.

Temple entered the fray then, a stray fist grazing the high arch of one of his cheeks, eliciting a wicked curse before he yanked Cross from Bourne. Pulling out a handkerchief, Cross wiped the blood from a cut just above his eye and leveled a long, knowing look at Bourne. “If you’re this high-strung on the first week of your marriage, you need to get that wife of yours into bed, or you need to get her out of your house.”

Bourne wiped a hand along one swollen lip, knowing the words were true.

“I need her. Without her, I haven’t got Langford.”

And if I touch her again, I might not let her go.

And then he’d ruin her just as he’d ruined everything else of value he’d ever had.

Cross’s eyes gleamed, one fast swelling shut, as though he’d heard Bourne’s thought with crystal clarity. “That limits your options, then.”

“Bourne,” Justin said, drawing his attention, “you’ve a note from Worth.”

A thrum of unease coursed through Bourne as he broke the seal of Hell House and read the few lines of text scrawled hastily across the paper. Disbelief and fury shot through him at the words.

Tommy Alles was in his house. With his wife.

He would kill him if he touched her.

He might kill him anyway.

With a wicked curse, Bourne was on his feet and headed for the door, halfway across the massive room before Chase spoke, “I’m told there’s a problem at the roulette table as well.”

“Bugger the roulette table,” he growled, yanking open the door to the owner’s suite.

“Well, considering your wife is down there, Cross might be willing, but—”

Bourne froze at the words, disbelief and dread settling in his gut as he registered his partners’ smirks. Barely retaining his control, he headed for the window to look down on the casino floor, drawn immediately to a cloaked figure standing at one side of the roulette field, one delicate hand reaching out to place a single gold coin on the numbered baize.

“It appears the lady is taking the adventure you promised,” Chase said, wryly.

No.

It could not be her. She would not have done something so foolish.

She would not have risked her sisters.

She would not have risked herself.

Anything could happen to her down there, in the pit of vipers, surrounded by men who drank too much and wagered too much . . . men who were high on their winnings or driven to prove that they were in control of something, even if it was not their purse.

He cursed, dark and wicked, and set off for the door at a run.

A low whistle sounded, and Cross’s words followed behind him. “If her face is half as fine as her courage, I’ll happily take her off your hands.”

Over his dead body.

Chapter Thirteen

Dear M—

Well, the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby is very proud indeed today. I had my coming out, presentation at court, vouchers to Almack’s and all, and there’s no question that I am a resounding success.

This should come as no surprise, as I’ve been officially on the marriage mart for nearly two weeks and I haven’t had a single interesting conversation. Not one, would you believe it? My mother’s angling for a duke, but it’s not as though there is a glut of young, eligible ones on hand.

I confess, I had hoped I might see you—at a ball, or a dinner or some affair this week, but you’ve gone missing, and all I am left with is foolscap.

An apt name. Fool indeed.

Unsigned

Dolby House, March 1820

Letter unsent

The Fallen Angel was magnificent.

Penelope had never seen anything so stunning as this place, this marvelous, lush, place, filled with candlelight and color, teeming with people who called out obscene bets and rolled with laughter, who kissed their dice and cursed their bad luck.

She had announced herself quietly, not wanting to reveal her identity but knowing that if she did not tell the men guarding the entrance her name, she would not be allowed inside. Their eyes had gone wide as she’d spoken her identity, naming her husband and lingering in the shadows of the entryway, waiting for them to decide they believed her.

When one of the large men had grinned wide and knocked twice on the inner door to the club with a fist the size of a ham, the door had opened just barely. “Bourne’s lady. Best let ’er in.”

Bourne’s lady.

A shiver of awareness shot through Penelope at the description—one she did not want and still could not resist. One she planned to use to her full advantage that night as she gave her husband a significant piece of her mind.

But the door opened all the way then, revealing a carnival of movement and sound, and Penelope forgot her immediate goal.

She pulled her cloak tightly around her, grateful for Worth’s counsel and for the too-large hood casting her into shadow while she watched those around her hover over their cards, track the little ivory ball in the roulette wheel, follow their dice across the rich, green baize, as it tumbled in the winds of fate.