So, he left her sleepy-eyed and wrinkled in her traveling cloak and headed to The Angel, doing his best to ignore the fact that she was alone on her wedding night, and that he’d likely suffer extra torture in hell for leaving her there.
Four hours in a coach, and he was already too soft with her.
He breathed deep, enjoying the frigid dampness in the evening air, yellow with thick January fog as he navigated through Mayfair to Regent Street, where a handful of peddlers remained in the waning light, rising up out of the mist only when they were an arm’s length away. They did not speak to him, their well-honed instincts telling them that he was not in the market for what they were selling. Instead, they faded away as quickly as they appeared, and Bourne made his way to the great stone building atop St. James’s.
The club was not open yet, and when he slipped through the owners’ entrance and onto the pit floor, he was grateful for the lack of company in the cavernous room. There were lanterns lit around the floor, and a handful of maids were completing the day’s work—scrubbing at carpet, polishing sconces, and dusting the framed art on the walls.
Bourne crossed to the center of the pit floor, stopping there for a long moment to take in this place—the place that had been home for the last five years.
Most afternoons, he was the first of the owners to arrive at The Fallen Angel and he liked it that way. He enjoyed the quiet of the pit at that hour, the silent moments before the dealers arrived to check the weight of the dice, the oil on the wheels, the slickness of the cards, preparing for the mass of humanity that would descend like locusts and fill the room with shouts and laughter and chatter.
He liked the club empty of all but possibility.
All but temptation.
He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, feeling for the talisman that was always there, the coin that reminded him that it was temptation and nothing else that kept these tables full.
That it was temptation that ruined.
That one did not risk what one could not afford to lose.
The coin was gone. Another reminder of his unwanted wife.
He moved to the roulette table, brushing his fingers across the heavy silver handle of the wheel, spinning it, running the colors together, all speed and luxury, as he reached for the ivory ball on which so many hopes had been pinned—and lost. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he sent the ball spinning into the well, loving the sound of bone on metal, the way it shivered over him, all smoothness and sin.
Red.
The whisper echoed through him, unbidden, unstoppable.
Unsurprising.
He turned away before the wheel slowed, before gravity and providence pulled the ball into its seat.
“You’re back.”
On the other side of the room, silhouetted by the open door to the bookkeeper’s suite, stood Cross, the fourth partner in The Fallen Angel. Cross handled the club’s finances, ensuring every penny that came through the door to the hell was well accounted for. He was a genius with numbers, but he neither looked nor lived like the unparalleled man of finance he was. He was tall, a half a foot taller than Michael, even taller than Temple. But where Temple was the size of a small house, Cross was long and slim, all angles and sinew. Bourne rarely saw him eat, and if the dark hollows beneath his eyes were any indication, it had been a day or two since the other man had slept.
“You’re here early.”
Cross rubbed one hand over his unshaven jaw at the words. “Late, really.” He moved aside, allowing a beautiful woman to exit the room behind him. She flashed Bourne a shy smile before pulling the enormous hood of her cloak up to shield her face.
Bourne watched as the woman hurried to the entrance of the club, letting herself out with barely a sound, before he met Cross’s gaze. “I see you were working very hard.”
One side of Cross’s mouth rose at the words. “She’s good with the books.”
“I imagine she is.”
“We weren’t expecting you back so quickly.”
He hadn’t expected to be back so quickly. “Things took a bit of a turn.”
“For better or worse?”
The echo of the marriage vows he’d spoken with Penelope set Bourne on edge. “It depends on your view of the situation.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
“Falconwell?”
“Mine.”
“Did you marry the girl?”
“I did.”
Cross let out a long, low whistle. Bourne couldn’t agree more.
“Where is she?”
Too near. “At the town house.”
“Your town house?”
“I did not think it appropriate for me to bring her here.”
Cross was silent for a long while. “I confess, I am eager to meet this woman who looked into the face of marriage with cold, hard Bourne and did not run away.”
She hadn’t had a choice.