He ached from a day on horseback in the rain, from his futile search for her, a beautiful needle in the filth-ridden haystack of London in December. He’d gone to the orphanage, and to West, and to the orphanage again. He’d checked the post, paid a fortune to the postmaster for information on his human cargo for the day, worried that she might have left the city already.
An eloping couple and two gentlemen had left on the North Road, headed for Scotland. But, even though apparently the female half of the elopers was quite attractive, the postmaster assured him that she was not auburn-haired, and her eyes were perfectly ordinary.
She was not Mara.
He should have been happy she was still here. But, instead, he was furious that she had so easily disappeared. There was no sign of her. It was as though she had vanished like smoke. If he didn’t know better, he might think she’d never been there in the first place.
Except she’d left her gloves. And her pig.
And a hole in his chest. His lips twisted wryly as his wound throbbed at the thought. Two holes, he supposed—one healing, and one life-threatening.
He rolled his bad shoulder under his coat, the pain from the wound radiating down his arm and stopping at the elbow. He worked his fingers in his sling. Nothing. Exhaustion did little to help the damage to the feeling there, he knew, but he could not rest. Not before he found her.
If he was crippled when it was over, so be it.
At least he’d have her.
Frustration flared at the thought. Where in the hell was she?
He looked up to the ceiling, his gaze falling on the great stained-glass window that marked the center of the main room of The Fallen Angel. Lucifer, falling from Heaven. In a stunning array of stained glass, the Prince of Darkness was depicted in free fall, halfway between paradise and inferno, a chain about his ankle, his scepter in one hand, and his wings wide and useless behind him as he tumbled into the pit of the casino.
Temple had never thought much about the window, except to appreciate its message to the members of the club—while the aristocracy might have banished him, Bourne, Cross, and Chase, the scoundrels who owned London’s most legendary gaming hell, would reign more fearful, more powerful, than ever before because of it.
Chase had a flare for the dramatic.
But now, as he considered the great stained glass, as he watched Lucifer fall, he realized how massive he was. How strong. Somehow, the window maker had captured the rise and fall of muscle and sinew in the mottled panes of glass. And Lucifer’s strength was useless in this moment. He could not catch himself. Could not stop himself from landing wherever it was that God had cast him.
And standing there with his weak arm and the utter sense of futility that washed over him as he realized that he could not find the woman he loved, Temple felt for the Prince of Darkness. All that beauty, all that power, all that strength. And still he landed himself in Hell.
Christ.
What had he done?
“You brought a pig into my casino.”
Temple looked to Chase. “Has anyone seen her?”
Chase’s gaze grew serious. “No.”
Temple wanted to shout his fury at the truth in the words to the rafters. He wanted to tip over the nearest hazard table and rip the curtains from the walls.
Instead, he said, “She disappeared.”
They stood, side by side, watching the floor of the casino. “We still have men looking. Perhaps she will turn up on her own.”
He cut the founder of The Fallen Angel a look, knowing that such a thing was virtually impossible. “Perhaps.”
“We shall find her.”
He nodded. “If it takes me the rest of my life.”
Chase nodded and glanced away, no doubt uncomfortable with the emotion in his words. Not that Temple cared. “But you did find a pig.”
He looked down at Lavender’s sleeping face. “Her pig.”
Chase’s blond brows rose. “The lady owns a pig?”
“It’s ridiculous.” It was even more ridiculous that he had come to care for the little creature. His only link to her.
“I think it’s charming. She’s an intriguing woman, your Miss Lowe.”
Except she wasn’t his. Temple handed Lavender to his friend. “She needs to eat. Take her to the kitchens and see if Didier can find her something to eat.” He was already turning back to the crowd, looking for someone who might know Mara. Perhaps she’d had a friend when she was a child—someone who might have offered her a bed.
But what if no one offered her a bed? What if she was on the streets even now, cold and without a place? He’d slept on the cold London streets once. The idea of her alone—freezing—
She didn’t even have gloves.
His heart pounded with panic and he shook his head to clear it. She was no fool. She would find somewhere to sleep.
But with whom?
Panic flared once more.
Chase was still talking, and Temple listened if only to have something else to think on. “Didier is French. The pig might end up in a stew.”
Temple looked back. “Don’t you dare let her cook my pig.”
“I thought it was Miss Lowe’s pig?” Temple was tempted to clear the smug smile from his friend’s face.
“As we are to be married, I prefer to think of her as our pig.”
Chase grinned. “Excellent. I shall do my best to help.”