Anna stood, and the entire room went silent, every person assembled stunned by the events of the evening—none more so than Lady Tremley, who seemed thoroughly shocked by the fact that she’d murdered her husband.
And it was murder; Lord Tremley grew cold even as the owners of The Fallen Angel looked to each other. Something had to be done, for if there was ever a man who deserved killing—this was he.
Georgiana surveyed the room in the silence, finally deciding to take control, returning to the tabletop, taking her spot on the roulette field. “I shouldn’t have to remind any of you that every one of you has a secret kept in our confidence.”
Temple understood immediately what she was saying, pulling himself back up to stand on a table. “If a breath of what happened here tonight—”
Bourne rose, too. “Not that anything has happened here tonight—”
“Nothing besides obvious self-defense,” Georgiana said.
“And, of course, saving two perfectly innocent people from their own demise,” Duncan pointed out, joining her.
Cross spoke from his place on the floor. “But if something had happened, and information left this room, every one of your secrets—”
“To a man,” Georgiana said.
Duncan climbed up beside her. “—will be printed in my papers.”
There was a beat as the words sank in around the room, silence fell as the membership of The Fallen Angel remembered why they came to this place, where their dues were paid in secrets.
For the tables.
The gaming began almost immediately.
Georgiana and Duncan climbed down from their perches, easing to the side of the room, where he stopped and smiled down at her, and she, up at him.
Tremley was dead. And Duncan was alive.
Alive and free. No more fear for his future.
The threats had perished with the man who delivered them.
He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We are a tremendous team, love.”
It was the truth.
They were a perfect match.
She took a deep breath, terror still shaking the air in her lungs. “I thought he would kill you,” she repeated. “And I would not have had the chance to tell you that—”
Something flashed in his gaze. Something like pleasure, chased quickly away by regret. By loss. “Don’t,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. “Don’t tell me you love me. I’m not sure if I will be able to bear it when you leave.”
When she left.
It would come, and all that had happened today to Anna and Chase . . . it would not affect Georgiana. Tomorrow, she would still require propriety.
Tomorrow, she would still need to think of Caroline.
The title. The respectability. Chase and Anna and West had been saved . . . but Georgiana was still a scandal.
She ignored the ache in her chest that came with the knowledge that he was right. That none of it mattered.
Tonight, everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had.
Chapter 22
Two mornings later, Georgiana awoke in her bed at her brother’s home, to the smell of flowers and the face of her daughter.
And to a deep, abiding sadness, which had come the moment Duncan West had left The Fallen Angel two evenings prior, and hadn’t left.
Didn’t show signs of leaving.
“Something has happened,” Caroline said from the side of the bed. “And I think you ought to know about it.”
A thousand things had happened. Her club had been saved. Her identity had been protected along with her secrets. A traitor had been killed, his wife saved—already on her way to Yorkshire, to make a new life for herself.
And Georgiana had learned to love, before she’d had no choice but to turn her back on it.
But she did not think Caroline meant any of those things.
Georgiana sat up in her bed, moving to make room for Caroline, who refused to climb in, which was rare. “What has happened?” She reached out to touch the pink rose haphazardly placed in her daughter’s hair. “Where did that come from?”
Caroline’s green eyes were wide with excitement as she touched the rosebud as well. “You’ve flowers. A great deal of them.” She lifted Georgiana’s hand. “Come. You must see.”
Georgiana dressed for expedience rather than impression, pulling on her most comfortable breeches, a half corset, and a fine linen shirt before Caroline led her downstairs to the dining room, where a dozen bouquets waited for her.
Two dozen. More.
Roses and peonies and tulips and hyacinth—arrangements in a tremendous variety of sizes and shapes and colors. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she thought they might be from Duncan.
But then her gaze settled on the white roses, arranged in the shape of a horse. She raised her brow. “Did something else happen?”
Caroline smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. “There is another cartoon.” She lifted the paper from beside Georgiana’s breakfast plate. “It’s a good one, this time.”
Dread coursed through Georgiana. She doubted very much any cartoon was “a good one.”