Philippa Marbury was odd, and Lord Castleton didn’t seem to mind.
But she didn’t want to say that aloud. Not to Olivia—the most ideal bride that ever there was, on the cusp of a love match with one of the most powerful men in Britain. So, instead, she said, “Perhaps he’s an excellent kisser.”
Olivia’s expression mirrored Pippa’s feelings on the matter. “Perhaps,” she said.
Not that Pippa would test the outlandish theory.
She couldn’t test it. She’d agreed to Mr. Cross’s wager. She’d promised.
A vision flashed, dice rolling across green baize, the warm touch of strong fingers, serious grey eyes, and a deep, powerful voice, insisting, You shall refrain from propositioning other men.
Pippa Marbury did not renege.
But this was something of an emergency, was it not? Olivia was kissing Tottenham, after all. No doubt kissing one’s fiancé was not within the bounds of the wager.
Was it?
Except she didn’t want to kiss her fiancé.
Pippa’s gaze fell to the rosebush on which she’d been so focused prior to her sister’s arrival . . . the lovely scientific discovery that paled in comparison to the information Olivia had just shared.
It was irrelevant that she did not wish to proposition Castleton.
And it was irrelevant that it was another man, altogether, whom she wished to proposition—especially so, considering the fact that he’d tossed her out of his club with utter disinterest.
As for the tightness she felt in her chest, Pippa was certain that it was not in response to the memory of that tall, fascinating man, but instead, normal bridal nervousness.
All brides were anxious.
“Twelve days cannot pass quickly enough!” Olivia pronounced, bored with their conversation and oblivious to Pippa’s thoughts.
All brides were anxious, it seemed, but Olivia.
Twenty-eight hours.” Digger Knight lazily checked his pocket watch before grinning smugly. “I confess, my blunt was on fewer than twelve.”
“I like to keep you guessing.” Cross shrugged out of his greatcoat and folded himself into an uncomfortable wooden chair on the far side of Knight’s massive desk. He tossed a pointed look over his shoulder at the henchman who had guarded his journey to Digger’s private offices. “Close the door.”
The pockmarked man closed the door.
“You are on the wrong side of it.”
The man sneered.
Knight laughed. “Leave us.” When they were finally alone, he said, “What can I say, my men are protective of me.”
Cross leaned back in the small chair, folding one leg over the other, refusing to allow the furniture to accomplish its goal—intimidation. “Your men are protective of their cut.”
Knight did not disagree. “Loyalty at any price.”
“A fine rule for a guttersnipe.”
Knight tilted his head. “You’re sayin’ your men aren’t loyal to the Angel for the money?”
“The Angel offers them more than financial security.”
“You, Bourne, and Chase never could resist a poor, ruined soul,” Knight scoffed, standing. “I always thought that particular job best left to the vicar. Gin?”
“I know better than to drink anything you serve.”
Knight hesitated in pouring his glass. “You think I’d poison you?”
“I don’t pretend to know what you’d do to me if given the chance.”
Knight smiled. “I’ve got plans for you alive, my boy.”
Cross did not like the knowledge in the words, the smug implication that he was on the wrong side of the table here—that he was about to be pulled into a high-risk game to which he did not know the rules. He took a moment to have a good look at the inside of Knight’s office.
He’d been here before, the last time six years earlier, and the rooms had not changed. They were still pristine and uncluttered, devoid of anything that might reveal their owner or his private life. On one side of the small room, heavy ledgers—insurance, Knight called them—were stacked carefully. Cross knew better than anyone what they contained: the financial history of every man who had ever played the tables at Knight’s eponymous gaming hell.
Cross knew, not only because a similar set of ledgers sat on the floor of his own offices, but also because he’d seen them that night, six years before, when Digger had thrown open one enormous book, his ham-fisted henchmen showing Cross the proof of his transgressions before they’d beaten him almost to death.
He hadn’t fought them.
In fact, he’d prayed for their success.
Knight had stopped them before they could finish their job and ordered Cross stripped of his money and thrown from the hell.
But not before setting Cross on a new path.