A hit.
Cross considered what he knew of Knight’s only child, the information he’d learned from the files kept locked away in the inner safe of the Angel. The ones that held the secrets of their potential enemies—politicians, criminals, clergy with a love of fire and brimstone, and competitors.
The information was as clear as if Knight’s file were spread on the desk between them.
Name: Meghan Margaret Knight, b. 3 July 1812.
“I know quite a bit about young Meghan.” He paused. “Or should I call her Maggie?”
Knight collected himself. “I never cared for it.”
“No, I don’t imagine you did, what with the way it oozes Irish.” Cross draped his coat over the back of the chair, enjoying the small amount of control he had gained. “Meghan Margaret Knight. I’m surprised you allowed it.”
Knight looked away. “I let her mother name her.”
“Mary Katharine.”
Mary Katharine O’Brien, Irish, b. 1796, m. Knight—February 1812.
“I should have known you would have information on them.” He scowled. “Chase is a bastard. One day, I’m going to give him the pounding he deserves.”
Cross folded his arms at the reference to his partner, and founder of The Fallen Angel. “I guarantee that will never happen.”
Knight met his eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful. After all, you know about the girl already. It will be like marrying an old friend.”
Residence: Bedfordshire; small cottage on the High Street.
Knight sends ￡200, 4th of every month; does not visit and has not seen the girl since mother and child were sent away, October 1813.
Girl raised with a governess, speaks mediocre French.
Attended Mrs. Coldphell’s Finishing School for Girls—day student.
“Since when do you give a fig about your daughter?”
Knight shrugged. “Since she’s old enough to be worth something.”
There was one more line, written in Chase’s bold, black scrawl.
NB: Girl required to write to Knight weekly. Letter posts Tuesday.
He does not reply.
“Ever the doting father,” Cross said, wryly. “You think to buy yourself a title?”
“It’s how the game is played these days, isn’t it? The aristocracy isn’t what it once was. Lord knows fewer and fewer have any money with the good work of you and me. Six days from now, Meghan arrives. You’ll marry her. She gets the title, and my grandson will be Earl Harlow.”
Earl Harlow.
It had been years since he’d heard it spoken aloud.
Temple—the fourth owner in the Angel—had said it once on the day Cross’s father had died, and Cross had attacked his unbeatable partner, not letting up until the massive man had been knocked off his feet. Now, Cross held back the fury that surged at the name with a smirk. “If your daughter marries me, she gets a filthy title—covered in ash and soot. It will gain you no respect. She shan’t be invited into society.”
“The Angel will get you your invitations.”
“I have to want them, first.”
“You’ll want them.”
“I assure you, I will not,” Cross promised.
“You haven’t a choice. I want them. You marry my daughter. I forgive your brother-in-law’s debts.”
“Your price is too high. There are other ways to end this.”
“Such a difficult choice you leave me with. Which do you think would be worse for the children, the scandal I can bring to their name? The quiet punishment I can call upon their father some night when he least expects it? Prostitution for their mother? With all that red hair, I assure you, there are some who would pay handsomely to take her to bed—with or without the limp.”
And, like that, the rage came. Cross lunged across the desk, pulling Knight from his chair. “I will destroy you if you touch her.”
“Not before I destroy them.” The words were choked from Knight, but their truth was enough to set Cross back. Knight sensed the change. “Isn’t it time you keep someone in your family safe?”
The words rocketed through him, an echo of the hundreds of times he’d thought them himself. He hated Knight for them.
But he hated himself more.
“I hold all the cards,” Knight repeated, and this time, there was no smugness in the tone.
Only truth.
Chapter Five
“Inquiry reveals that the human tongue is not one muscle, but rather eight unique muscles, half of which are anchored to bone—the glossus muscles—and half of which are integral to the shape and function of the larger organ.
While this additional research has cast an impressive light on an area of human anatomy of which I had been previously unaware, I remain unclear on the value of the muscle in question in activities unrelated to eating and articulation.
I may have to ask Olivia to elaborate. Solution not ideal.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 24, 1831; twelve days prior to her wedding