“How is that possible?”
Knight leaned back in his chair, rolling the crystal tumbler in his hands. “The man likes the tables. Who am I to stop him?”
Cross resisted the urge to reach across the table and grab the older man by the neck. “Ten thousand pounds is more than liking the tables, Digger. How did it happen?”
“It seems the man was given a line of credit he could not back.”
“He has never in his life had that kind of money.”
Knight’s tone turned innocent and grating. “He assured me he was good for it. I can’t be held responsible for the fact that the man lied.” He met Cross’s eyes, knowledge glittering there. “Some people can’t help it. You taught me that.”
The words were meant to sting—to recall that long-ago night when Cross, barely out of university, bright-eyed and cocksure, had played the tables at Knight’s and won. Over and over, he’d mastered vingt-et-un—unable to do anything but win.
He’d gone from hell to hell for months, playing one night here, two there, convincing every onlooker that he was simply lucky.
Every onlooker but Digger. “So this is your revenge? Six years in the making?”
Knight sighed. “Nonsense. I’m long past it. I never believed in revenge served cold. Always liked my meals hot. Better for the digestion.”
“Then clear the debt.”
Knight laughed, his fingers spreading wide over his mahogany desk. “We’re not that even, Cross. The debt stands. Dunblade’s a fool, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m owed. It’s business, I’m sure you’ll agree.” He paused for a long moment, then, “It’s a pity he’s a peer. Debtor’s prison might be better than what I have in store for him.”
Cross did not pretend to misunderstand. He ran a hell himself, after all, and knew better than anyone what secret punishments could be meted out to peers who thought themselves immune to debt. He leaned forward. “I can bring this place to rubble. We’ve half the peerage in our membership.”
Knight leaned forward as well. “I don’t need half the peerage, boy. I have your sister.”
Lavinia.
The only reason he was here.
A memory flashed, Lavinia, young and fresh-faced, laughing back at him as she pulled ahead on her favorite chestnut mare along the Devonshire cliffs. She was youngest by seven years, spoiled rotten and afraid of nothing. It was no surprise that she had come to face Knight. Lavinia had never been the kind to stay quiet—even when it was best for everyone.
She’d married Dunblade the year after Baine had died and Cross had left home; he’d read about the marriage in the papers, a fast courtship followed by an even faster wedding—via special license to skirt the issue of the family’s state of mourning. No doubt their father had wanted the marriage done quickly, to ensure that someone would marry his daughter.
Cross met Knight’s brilliant blue gaze. “She is not a part of this.”
“Oh, but she is. It is interesting how ladies manage to get themselves into trouble, isn’t it? No matter how hard one tries to keep her at bay, if a lady has it in mind to meddle, meddle she will,” Knight said, opening an ornate ebony box on his desk and extracting a cheroot and tapping the long brown cylinder, once, twice on the desk before lighting it. After a long pull on the cigarette, he said, “And you have two on your hands. Let’s talk about my new acquaintance. The lady from yesterday. Who is she?”
“She is no one of consequence.” Cross caught the misstep instantly. He should have ignored the question. Should have brushed past it. But his too-quick answer revealed more than it hid.
Knight tilted his head to one side, curious. “It seems that she is very much of consequence.”
Dammit. This was no place, no time for Philippa Marbury with her enormous blue eyes and her too-logical mind and her strange, tempting quirks. He pushed back the thoughts.
He would not have her here.
“I came to discuss my sister.”
Knight allowed the change in topic. Too easily, perhaps. “Your sister has character, I will say that.”
The room was warm and far too small, and Cross resisted the urge to shift in his seat. “What do you want?”
“It isn’t about what I want. It’s about what your sister has offered. She’s been very gracious. It appears the young lady will do anything to ensure that her children are safe from scandal.”
“Lavinia’s children will remain untouched by scandal.” The words were firm and unwavering. Cross would move the Earth to ensure their truth.
“Are you sure?” Knight asked, leaning back in his chair. “It seems they are rather close to quite devastating scandals. Poverty. A father with a penchant for gambling away their inheritance. A broken mother. Add all that to their uncle—who turned from family and society and never looked back, and . . .” The sentence lingered, completion unnecessary.
It wasn’t true.
Not all of it.
He’d never turned from them.
Cross narrowed his gaze. “You’ve lost your accent, Digger.”
One side of Knight’s mouth kicked up. “No need to use it with old friends.” Knight took a long pull on the cheroot. “But back to those lucky young boys. Their mother is a strong one. She’s offered to repay me. Pity she doesn’t have any money.”
It did not take a brilliant mind to hear the insinuation. To understand the foulness in the words. A lesser man would have allowed rage to come without seeing all the pieces in play, but Cross was not a lesser man.