“I was not. Not when you blooded the bed and left him holding the responsibility for your death. Not when his father exiled him and the rest of the aristocracy shunned him.
“Nor was I there when he spent his first night under Temple Bar, or when he began leading with his fists or when he and Bourne concocted their idiot plan to run dice games among the worst of London.”
Mara went cold at the words, hating that this woman knew so much of Temple’s past. But Anna seemed not to mind, instead pushing forward. “But I was there when they started the Angel. When he started the life he has now, as the winningest fighter Britain has ever seen. I was there when he won his first bout in the ring at the Angel. And I was there as his coffers and his standing and his respect throughout London grew.”
“It isn’t respect,” Mara corrected, the words sharp on her tongue. “It’s fear. And undeserved fear. They think him the Killer Duke, because I made him so.”
Anna smiled. “I think it’s charming that you think he’s never done a damn thing in his life that earned that moniker.”
Mara’s brow furrowed. “Nothing like what he’s thought to have done.”
Ana lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “Either way. It’s respect. And fear. And one without t’other isn’t worth the ink it takes to write either one alone.” She paused, the carriage rocking beneath them, the cold drizzle turned to sleet on the window outside. “And either way, Temple likes it.”
Perhaps it was true.
“He’s money and friends and a club that any man would kill for. And he’s got the half of London that matters—the one that judges a man on work and not blood—on his side. And he likes it all.”
Was she right, this strange, mysterious woman? Did he enjoy this life he led? Or did he regret every moment that he did not have the life she’d stolen from him?
“The only thing it’s missing is you.” She stilled at the words, and Anna saw it. Pressed on. “Come back to the Angel. Ask him yourself.” She leaned forward. “Come back, and let him show you how much he loves you.”
The words ached, the offer so very tempting. She did not wish to run. “I owe it to him to leave. I owe it to him to give him back everything I took. To wipe the slate clean.”
“Even if you are right, even if such a thing were possible,” the other woman said, “don’t you also owe him a chance at happiness?”
He’d called her the woman he loved.
And he was the man she loved.
Was that all that was required for happiness?
God in Heaven, if she thought she might be able to make him happy, she would race into his arms. She met Anna’s gaze in the dim light. “Sometimes love is not enough.”
Anna nodded. “God knows that is true. But in this case, you don’t only have love, do you?”
It was hard to imagine they had even that. After a decade of hatred and lies and scandal. Longer. But they shared strength. And a past bigger than themselves.
Anna placed a gloved hand over Mara’s, clasped together in her lap. “You once told me you did not have friends.”
Mara shook her head. “I don’t. Not really.”
“You have him.”
The words summoned tears once more. She knocked on the roof of the carriage as she had seen the woman do earlier. As if on strings, it slowed to a stop, and the footman came to open the door and lower the step. Mara stepped down, promising herself she would not turn back.
Even when Anna called out, “Do consider what I’ve said, Miss Lowe. You are welcome at the club any time.”
Chapter 20
The floor of the Fallen Angel was packed with gamers. During Temple’s recovery, in the absence of a fight on which to bet, club members were perfectly content to throw their money away on dice and cards. When wagering was involved, The Angel was more than happy to accommodate desire, and all of the staff—from footmen and croupiers to companions and cooks—was on hand to help do so.
Temple made his way through the owners’ entrance of the club, Lavender at the crook of his arm, pushing his way onto the main floor of the hell, gaze sliding over the throngs of men clad in their perfectly tailored suits, all in danger of losing their fortunes to the casino, and all enjoying every second of it.
On any other night, he would have enjoyed the view. Would have found Cross and asked him about the evening’s take. Would have played a round or two of vingt-et-un himself.
But tonight, he prowled the edge of the room, silent, frustrated.
Furious that now the rest of the aristocracy seemed to accept him, tipping heads and patting his shoulder in acknowledgment.
He was one of them, again, as though the last twelve years had never happened.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as he couldn’t find her.