The Angel was known for delivering on gamers’ fantasies, and tonight . . . it would deliver well.
And Knight would know that he could not beat the Angel.
That he could not beat Cross.
The door to the suite opened and closed behind him, but Cross did not turn to face his new companion. Only a handful of people were allowed access to the owner’s suite—any one of them someone whom Cross would trust with his life.
Instead, he watched the roulette table below, the spinning wheel, the ivory ball rolling along the mahogany edge, around and around as the bettors leaned in. On one end of the roulette field, a young man no more than twenty-five lifted his mask and watched the roll of the ball with wild eyes—eyes that Cross had seen countless times over the years. Ordinarily, Cross would see nothing but profit in the young man’s demeanor, but tonight, for a moment, he saw more.
“Lowe,” Temple said, quietly, at his shoulder, following the line of his gaze.
Cross looked to his friend. “Did you know he was one of them?”
Temple shook his head once, firmly. “I did not. I wouldn’t have allowed him inside the club.”
“He’s not after you,” Cross said. “Anyone can see that.”
The ball dropped into the roulette wheel, and the young man winced, turning away from the table as though in pain. In seconds, he had collected himself and returned his attention to the field, already reaching for money to wager again.
Temple shook his head. “He can’t stop himself.”
“We could stop him.”
“He’d just go back to Knight’s. Might as well have him lose to us tonight. As long as he causes no trouble.”
Cross cut Temple a look. “What trouble would he cause? We’d defend you to the death.”
One of Temple’s massive shoulders lifted in a great shrug. “Defend me or no, a boy who has been wronged so well is a danger indeed.”
Cross returned his gaze to Christopher Lowe, now watching as the ball rolled in the roulette track once more. “Is that why you’re up here? In hiding?”
Temple rolled his shoulders back into his black jacket. “No. I’m here for you.”
“What about me?”
“It looks like your plan is working.”
Cross pressed his hand against the cool glass, savoring the wide, smooth pane against his palm. “We shan’t know until we get proof that Knight’s is empty of real gamers tonight.”
“It will come,” Temple said before going quiet for a long moment, then adding, “I hear the daughter arrived on time, this morning.”
Cross had heard the same, that Meghan Margaret Knight had been set up in a lavish town house on the edge of Mayfair. “She won’t stay long. Not with us pulling Knight’s strings.”
Temple didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Instead, he watched the gaming below. “Bourne and Penelope are here.”
Cross’s gaze flickered to the far end of the room, where his partner sat—unmasked—happily next to his wife, watching as she knocked firmly against the baize to request another card for her hand of vingt-et-un. Penelope smiled at the flop and turned to her husband, lifting her face to his for a kiss. “She’s winning, as usual, I see.”
There was a smile in Temple’s tone. “I’m certain he fixes the games.”
Cross raised a brow. “If I ever get proof of that, he and I shall have a talk.”
Temple laughed. “Be careful with that judgment, friend. Someday, it will be the lady you wish to impress.”
Cross did not find the words amusing. “There are no doubt many things that might happen,” he said, scanning the floor. “But my being laid low by a lady is not one of them.”
He couldn’t be.
Even if he did touch them—even if they were an option—a future with a woman was not. He owed Lavinia too much. He owed Baine too much.
He couldn’t bring either of them back . . . couldn’t return them to the lives they deserved. But he could ensure that Lavinia’s children got everything Baine’s should have had. He could be certain that they never knew the gnawing disappointment of want.
He would leave them a kingdom. Built from sin, but a kingdom nonetheless.
A crowded hazard table erupted in cheers, drawing the attention of half a dozen others nearby. At one end of the table, smug as ever, was Duncan West, owner of three major newspapers and a half dozen scandal sheets. West was rich as Croesus and lucky as sin. More importantly, he was on the roll, and would take everyone nearby with him.
Cross remembered that pleasure keenly—the knowledge that he would win.
It had been a long time since he’d taken such pleasure.
“I would have bothered Bourne with this,” Temple said casually, as though they were anywhere but the owners’ suite of the most legendary gaming hell in London, “but since he is so busy with his lady, I thought perhaps you might step in.”
Cross heard the amusement in Temple’s tone. “I’m a little busy for your games, Temple.”
“Not my games. Chase’s. I am simply the messenger.”
The words sent a tremor of unease through him. With a soft curse, Cross scanned the floor of the club, looking for the founder of the Angel, who, of course, was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t need Chase’s games either.”
Temple chuckled. “It might be too late for that.”
The words had barely been spoken when Cross’s gaze settled on the lone figure at the center of the casino floor below, the only person in the entire room who was not moving. Of course.