The window was a warning to the men below—a reminder of their place, of how close they were to their own fall. It was a manifestation of the temptation of sin and the luxury of vice.
But for the owners of the Angel, the window was something else.
It was proof that those banished into exile could become rulers in their own right, with power to rival those they’d once served.
Cross had spent the last six years of his life proving that he was more than a reckless boy cast from society, that he was more than his title. More than the circumstances of his birth. More than the circumstances of his brother’s death. More than what came after.
And he would be damned if he would let Digger Knight resurrect that boy.
Not when Cross had worked so hard to keep him at bay.
Not when he had sacrificed so much.
His gaze flickered over the men on the floor of the hell. A handful at the hazard tables, another few playing ecarte. The roulette wheel spun in a whir of color, a fortune laid out across the betting field. He was too far away to see where the ball fell or to hear the call of the croupier, but he saw the disappointment on the faces of the men at the table as they felt the sting of loss. He saw, too, the way hope rallied, leading them into temptation, urging them to place another wager on a new number . . . or perhaps the same one . . . for certainly luck was theirs tonight.
Little did they know.
Cross watched a round of vingt-et-un directly below, the cards close enough to see. Eight, three, ten, five. Queen, two, six, six.
The deck was high.
The dealer laid the next cards.
King. Over.
Jack. Over.
There was no such thing as luck.
His decision made, he turned back to his partners. “I won’t let him ruin my sister.”
Bourne nodded once, understanding. “And you won’t let Temple kill him. So . . . what? Marry the daughter?”
Cross shook his head. “He threatens mine; I threaten his.”
Temple’s brows shot up. “The girl?”
“He doesn’t care an ounce for the girl,” Cross said. “I mean the club.”
Bourne propped one arm on the end of his cue. “Knight’s.” He shook his head. “You’ll never convince his membership to leave him. Not without inviting them to join us.”
“Which won’t happen,” Temple said.
“I don’t need them all to leave him for good,” Cross said, several steps ahead. “I need them to leave him for one night. I need to prove that his kingdom exists only because of our benevolence. That if we had the mind to do so, we could destroy him.” He turned back to the floor of the club. “She arrives in six days. I need the upper hand before then.”
I need control.
“Six days?” Temple repeated, grinning when Cross nodded. “Six days makes it March the twenty-ninth.”
Bourne whistled. “There’s the upper hand.”
“Pandemonium.” The word hovered in the dark room, a solution that could not have been better devised if the devil himself had done it.
Pandemonium—held every year on the twenty-ninth of March—was the one night of the year when the Angel opened its doors to nonmembers. An invitation provided its bearer with access to the casino floor from sundown to sunup. With one, a man could steep himself in sin and vice and experience the clandestine, legendary world that was The Fallen Angel.
Each member of the club received three invitations to Pandemonium—small, square cards so coveted that they were worth thousands of pounds to men desperate to join the club’s ranks. Desperate to prove their worth to the owners of the Angel. Certain that if they wagered enough, they might leave with a permanent membership.
They rarely did.
Most often, they left with pockets thousands of pounds lighter and a tale with which to regale their friends who had not been so lucky to receive an invitation.
Cross met Temple’s gaze. “Every man who gambles regularly at Knight’s is desperate for access to the Angel.”
Bourne nodded once. “It’s a good plan. One night without his biggest gamers will prove we can take them whenever we like.”
“There are how many . . . thirty of them?”
“Fifty, more like,” Bourne said.
Cross returned his attention to the floor of the club, his mind racing to formulate a plan, to set the gears in motion. He would save his family.
This time.
“You’ll need someone on the inside to identify the men.”
“I have her,” he said, watching the wagers below.
“Of course,” Temple said, admiration in his tone. “Your women.”
“They aren’t mine.” He made sure of it. Not one of them had ever come close to being his.
“Irrelevant,” Bourne said. “They adore you.”
“They adore what I can do for them.”
Temple’s tone turned wry. “I’ll bet they do.”
“What of your sister?” Bourne asked. “The only way the threat works is if she stays away from him. Dunblade as well.”
Cross watched the men below, absently calculating their bets—how much they usually wagered, how much the take was when their hand was lost. How much was risked when they won. “I shall speak with her.”
There was a long silence that he did not misunderstand. The idea that he might speak to his sister—to any member of his family—was a surprise. Ignoring his partners’ shock, Cross turned to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Why are there so few members here tonight?”
“The Marbury betrothal ball,” Bourne said, his words punctuated by the crack of ivory on ivory. “I understand my mother-in-law has invited the entire peerage. I’m surprised the two of you did not receive invitations.”