She did not reply, and neither did Justin. “There is more,” he said.
She turned to a nearby clock, noted the time, and knew without asking what news he brought. “Lady Tremley.”
Justin nodded. “At the ladies’ entrance.”
Bourne’s brows rose. “How did you know that?”
“What is she doing here?” Cross asked.
“She was invited,” she said, drawing a dark look from her partners.
“We did not discuss inviting her,” Temple said.
No, they hadn’t. She had sent the invitation within the hour of West’s leaving, several days earlier.
She did not tell them the whole truth, afraid that they might reject West’s request. Afraid they would not realize how much she needed West. The fear made her angry. She did not like feeling out of control. “I made a decision for all of us.”
“She’s dangerous. Tremley is dangerous,” Bourne warned. “If she offers his information—if he finds out—”
“I am not a child,” she reminded him. “I can connect the spots. What of the lady?”
Justin said, “Bruno says she’s a black eye.”
“Ah. Vengeance, thy name is woman.”
“If her husband is such a coward that he must resort to beating his wife, I’ll personally help her exact it,” Bourne said.
Justin replied. “She asks for Chase.”
“She shall have Anna instead.” She turned and smoothed her skirts.
Bourne met her gaze. “Be careful. I don’t like you dressed like a whore when none of us are there to protect you.”
“This isn’t a dark alley in the East End.”
“Chase,” he said, using the name he’d given her a half decade earlier, reminding them all of their history. “This is much more dangerous.”
She smiled, warm with the knowledge that they worried about her, this motley band of rogues she’d amassed. “Yes, but it is danger of my own design. I’m native to it.”
Bourne looked to the stained glass, his gaze lingering on Lucifer’s wings, useless as he fell. “It does not mean that there won’t come a day when it will swallow you up.”
“Possibly,” she allowed. “But it won’t be today.” She followed his gaze to the window, where the beautiful blond angel tumbled into Hell. “Today, I reign.”
In minutes, she was belowstairs, at the ladies’ entrance to the club, where Bruno, one of the Angel’s main security detail, stood watch in the dim light. Next to him was Lady Tremley, a beautiful woman in her twenties who sported one of the worst shiners Georgiana had ever seen, despite the Angel being known for its nightly bare-knuckle fights.
With a nod to Bruno, she opened the door to a small ante-chamber off the dark entryway. “My lady,” she said quietly, startling the other woman. “Will you join me?”
Lady Tremley looked skeptical, but followed Georgiana into the room, taking in the sitting room, appointed as though it were prepared for ladies of the ton to take their afternoon tea instead of gambling and gossiping and playing at life as their husbands did.
Georgiana indicated a settee, upholstered in blue velvet. “Please.”
The lady sat. “I asked to see Mr. Chase.”
And Chase she saw.
Georgiana sat across from Lady Tremley. “Chase is indisposed, my lady. He sends his regards, and hopes you will consider speaking to me instead.”
The marchioness took in the low neckline of Georgiana’s dress, the height of her pale blond wig, the dark kohl around her eyes, and saw what everyone saw when they looked at her. A skilled prostitute. “I don’t think—”
A rap came on the door, and Georgiana opened it to receive a package from Bruno, who was long-skilled in the art of knowing what the founders of The Fallen Angel required without being asked. Closing the door, she approached the lady, extending the linen parcel, filled with ice. “For the eye.”
The marchioness took it. “Thank you.”
“We know about bruises here.” Georgiana sat. “All sorts.”
They remained unspeaking as Lady Tremley held the compress over her eye. Georgiana had had this precise meeting too many times to count, and she recognized the lady. A woman eager for something more than that which life had offered her. Eager for something that would entertain and enrich and engage. Something that would change her in some small, private way, allowing her to suffer through her long days of propriety. And if the black eye were to be considered, something that would see her through long days of marriage, as well.
The key was to let the lady speak first. Always.
After long minutes, Lady Tremley lowered the ice and unlocked herself. “Thank you.”
Georgiana nodded. “Of course.”
“I am sorry.”
It always began this way. With apology. As though the lady had some hand in the cards she had been dealt. As though she weren’t simply made female and, therefore, less than.
“There is no need to be.” It was the truth.
“Surely you have something else . . .” The lady trailed off.