Because a week ago, he would have said yes, unequivocally. A week ago, he would have argued that the girl deserved everything that came her way—every ounce of justice he could mete out with his power and strength and influence.
But now, the unequivocal was becoming more complex. And he could not think of her simply. Suddenly, he thought of the way she teased him when she forgot that they were enemies. The way she faced him as his equal. The way she dealt nimbly with her students and with the men at his club. The way she gave herself up to his kiss. To his touch. The way she cradled that idiot pig in her arms as though she were the best companion for which a woman could ask.
The way insidious little thoughts inched into the back of his mind, teasing him into wondering if he couldn’t be something better than the damn pig.
He downed the rest of his scotch, turning back to get more.
Christ. He was comparing himself to a pig now.
So, did she deserve his vengeance? He didn’t know any longer. But when he thought of his past—of the life he could have had, of the pleasure he’d taken in his title, in his role, in his potential—he couldn’t stop the anger from threatening.
If not for her, he would be far less angry.
And much less hurt.
This bed had been made years ago. Far be it from him to resist lying in it.
She had lied to him. Again and again.
And when she’d finally told him the truth, she’d stolen his last ounce of hope. The last promise of the life he’d desired in the darkest parts of his soul. The beautiful wife. The strong, happy child. The family. The name.
The legacy.
She’d stolen it, as though it had never been his to begin with.
Anger flared, hot and welcome, and Temple met Duncan West’s gaze. “She deserves it.”
West turned back to the table, and took his shot. Sank the ball. Straightened and lifted his glass, toasting Temple. “If that is true, I shall happily assist you,” he said. “I shall see you at Leighton’s ball.” He drank deep before he tossed Temple the cue and made his way to the door. Once there, he turned back. “What of Chase?”
Temple hadn’t spoken to his partner since their falling out several evenings earlier. “What of him?”
“Where is he tonight?”
“Busy,” Bourne said, the reply in no way welcoming further discussion.
West pretended not to notice the irritation in Bourne’s tone. “No doubt. But when is he going to realize that I’m friend enough to keep his secrets?”
Cross raised a brow. “When your livelihood isn’t dependent on the telling of them.”
West grinned and downed his scotch before making for the door. “Fair enough. I’m for vingt-et-un.” He nodded to Temple. “Tomorrow?”
Temple inclined his head in West’s direction. “Tomorrow.”
“And my questions will be answered?”
“That, and more,” Temple promised.
West nodded and was gone within seconds, the tables on the floor of the casino an irresistible pull. His agreement should have enhanced Temple’s excitement. Should have made him feel vindicated.
Instead, they left a knot of something not altogether pleasant in his gut. Something he was neither interested in nor capable of defining.
He turned back to his friends, each watching him carefully.
“Once he reveals her, her reputation is gone. And he puts the orphanage at risk,” Bourne pointed out.
“No one likes the idea of an orphanage run by a scandal,” Cross explained, as though Temple didn’t understand.
He understood. And he did not like the unpleasant sensation that coursed through him at the words. At the suggestion that his plan was a danger to a houseful of innocent children.
At the way Bourne so easily dismissed Mara as a scandal.
He didn’t like which of those things grated the most.
“If he has access to orphanage files, he’ll discover within minutes who the boys are,” Bourne said. “He’ll out the fathers.”
“The girl won’t be able to survive it. She’ll never be able to show her face in London again,” Cross added. “If she’s not run out by the men who’ve sent their boys there, she’ll be destroyed by the women of the ton. And she’ll blame you. Are you prepared for that? To lose her? Entirely?”
Temple narrowed his gaze on Bourne. “Why would I care about losing her? Good riddance.”
The lie grated, even as he refused to acknowledge it as such. His friends knew better than to press the issue.
“West is a friend,” Cross added. “But he is also a newspaperman. And a good one.”
“I realize that,” Temple said.
He wasn’t a monster. Once she was ruined, he would protect the boys. He would build them a palace outside the city. He’d fill the damn thing with sweets and hounds.
And pigs.
He imagined her, holding that damn piglet, a smile on her pretty lips, and felt a pang of something close to guilt.
Damn.
He flexed the hand of his wounded arm, hating its stiffness.
“I’ll keep West from the orphanage,” he vowed. “He’s a decent man. He won’t do anything to harm two dozen children.”