No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

by Sarah MacLean

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Temple could weather the storm of scandal that would no doubt come with her reveal to all of London.

  But would he ever be able to forget what it was she had done to him?

  She shook her head. “Do you have everything you require from me, Mr. West?”

  Duncan West knew the end of a conversation when he reached one. “I do.”

  “And you shan’t tell him I was here?”

  “Not until after the story runs.”

  “Which will be?”

  He consulted his calendar. “Three days.”

  Her chest constricted at the words. Three days to leave London. To get as far and fast and secret as she could. Three days to give him his freedom. And then, she would have to start forgetting him.

  For both their sakes.

  She left West’s offices, careful to pull her cloak tightly around her and bring her hood low over her face before exiting to the street, where a cold, wet mist settled over London—the worst of English winter weather. She was instantly freezing, wishing for warmer boots. For a warmer cloak. For a warmer clime.

  For Temple, who was always warm. Like a fireplace.

  She longed for him. Ached for him.

  She walked for a half mile, maybe more, before she realized that a carriage was following her, nearly at her shoulder, moving at her pace—fast when she sped up, slow when she slowed down. She stopped, turning to the great black conveyance, devoid of crests or any identifying marks.

  It stopped, too.

  The outrider leapt down from the back and opened the door, lowering the steps before he offered her a hand to help her inside. She shook her head. “I’m not going in there.”

  The young man looked confused, until a fall of violet silk peeped out at the doorway. “Do hurry, Miss Lowe,” called a familiar female voice from inside, and Mara could not help but move closer. “The heat is all going out of the carriage.”

  Mara poked her head into the doorway.

  Anna—the woman she’d befriended at the Angel—was inside. Mara’s eyes went wide. “You!”

  Anna smiled. “Me, indeed. I shan’t hurt you, but I would prefer a warm conversation over a cool one.”

  Mara hesitated. “You are not here to return me to Temple.”

  The other woman shook her head. “Not unless you decide you would like to be returned to him.”

  “I shan’t decide that.”

  “That’s that, then.” She wrapped her cloak about her and shivered, obviously. “Now please, come in and close the door.”

  She did, the warming bricks on the floor of the coach too welcome to ignore. Anna tapped the roof of the carriage, and the great black conveyance began to trundle down the street.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Mara started with the most obvious question first.

  The other woman’s lips curved in a lovely smile. “I didn’t. But Temple did.”

  “You followed him.”

  “He may know you better, but I know women better.” She paused, “Also, I doubt any woman would pass up a chance to spend the morning with Duncan West.”

  Mara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  Anna rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Any woman who is not madly in love with Temple.”

  “I’m not—” she started, but stopped before the protest could fully form. She was, after all, madly in love with Temple.

  “I know you are,” Anna said. “Which is why I am here.” Mara’s brow furrowed, and Anna waved a hand broadly. “Someone has got to set you straight. We thought Temple would do it himself, but he seems too all-consumed to think intelligently.”

  Mara waited, quite desperate for whatever words might come out of this woman’s mouth. She didn’t know what she was expecting, honestly, but she did know that she was not expecting her to say, “You didn’t ruin Temple’s life.”

  She was growing tired of having a collection of strangers tell her that she was wrong. “I suppose you are an expert in the subject of ruin?”

  Anna’s lips twitched. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “I was not. Not when you blooded the bed and left him holding the responsibility for your death. Not when his father exiled him and the rest of the aristocracy shunned him.

  “Nor was I there when he spent his first night under Temple Bar, or when he began leading with his fists or when he and Bourne concocted their idiot plan to run dice games among the worst of London.”

  Mara went cold at the words, hating that this woman knew so much of Temple’s past. But Anna seemed not to mind, instead pushing forward. “But I was there when they started the Angel. When he started the life he has now, as the winningest fighter Britain has ever seen. I was there when he won his first bout in the ring at the Angel. And I was there as his coffers and his standing and his respect throughout London grew.”

  “It isn’t respect,” Mara corrected, the words sharp on her tongue. “It’s fear. And undeserved fear. They think him the Killer Duke, because I made him so.”

  Anna smiled. “I think it’s charming that you think he’s never done a damn thing in his life that earned that moniker.”

  Mara’s brow furrowed. “Nothing like what he’s thought to have done.”

  Ana lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “Either way. It’s respect. And fear. And one without t’other isn’t worth the ink it takes to write either one alone.” She paused, the carriage rocking beneath them, the cold drizzle turned to sleet on the window outside. “And either way, Temple likes it.”

  Perhaps it was true.

  “He’s money and friends and a club that any man would kill for. And he’s got the half of London that matters—the one that judges a man on work and not blood—on his side. And he likes it all.”

  Was she right, this strange, mysterious woman? Did he enjoy this life he led? Or did he regret every moment that he did not have the life she’d stolen from him?

  “The only thing it’s missing is you.” She stilled at the words, and Anna saw it. Pressed on. “Come back to the Angel. Ask him yourself.” She leaned forward. “Come back, and let him show you how much he loves you.”

  The words ached, the offer so very tempting. She did not wish to run. “I owe it to him to leave. I owe it to him to give him back everything I took. To wipe the slate clean.”

  “Even if you are right, even if such a thing were possible,” the other woman said, “don’t you also owe him a chance at happiness?”

  He’d called her the woman he loved.

  And he was the man she loved.

  Was that all that was required for happiness?

  God in Heaven, if she thought she might be able to make him happy, she would race into his arms. She met Anna’s gaze in the dim light. “Sometimes love is not enough.”

  Anna nodded. “God knows that is true. But in this case, you don’t only have love, do you?”

  It was hard to imagine they had even that. After a decade of hatred and lies and scandal. Longer. But they shared strength. And a past bigger than themselves.

  Anna placed a gloved hand over Mara’s, clasped together in her lap. “You once told me you did not have friends.”

  Mara shook her head. “I don’t. Not really.”

  “You have him.”

  The words summoned tears once more. She knocked on the roof of the carriage as she had seen the woman do earlier. As if on strings, it slowed to a stop, and the footman came to open the door and lower the step. Mara stepped down, promising herself she would not turn back.

  Even when Anna called out, “Do consider what I’ve said, Miss Lowe. You are welcome at the club any time.”

  Chapter 20

  The floor of the Fallen Angel was packed with gamers. During Temple’s recovery, in the absence of a fight on whi
ch to bet, club members were perfectly content to throw their money away on dice and cards. When wagering was involved, The Angel was more than happy to accommodate desire, and all of the staff—from footmen and croupiers to companions and cooks—was on hand to help do so.

  Temple made his way through the owners’ entrance of the club, Lavender at the crook of his arm, pushing his way onto the main floor of the hell, gaze sliding over the throngs of men clad in their perfectly tailored suits, all in danger of losing their fortunes to the casino, and all enjoying every second of it.

  On any other night, he would have enjoyed the view. Would have found Cross and asked him about the evening’s take. Would have played a round or two of vingt-et-un himself.

  But tonight, he prowled the edge of the room, silent, frustrated.

  Furious that now the rest of the aristocracy seemed to accept him, tipping heads and patting his shoulder in acknowledgment.

  He was one of them, again, as though the last twelve years had never happened.

  But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as he couldn’t find her.

  He ached from a day on horseback in the rain, from his futile search for her, a beautiful needle in the filth-ridden haystack of London in December. He’d gone to the orphanage, and to West, and to the orphanage again. He’d checked the post, paid a fortune to the postmaster for information on his human cargo for the day, worried that she might have left the city already.

  An eloping couple and two gentlemen had left on the North Road, headed for Scotland. But, even though apparently the female half of the elopers was quite attractive, the postmaster assured him that she was not auburn-haired, and her eyes were perfectly ordinary.

  She was not Mara.

  He should have been happy she was still here. But, instead, he was furious that she had so easily disappeared. There was no sign of her. It was as though she had vanished like smoke. If he didn’t know better, he might think she’d never been there in the first place.

  Except she’d left her gloves. And her pig.

  And a hole in his chest. His lips twisted wryly as his wound throbbed at the thought. Two holes, he supposed—one healing, and one life-threatening.

  He rolled his bad shoulder under his coat, the pain from the wound radiating down his arm and stopping at the elbow. He worked his fingers in his sling. Nothing. Exhaustion did little to help the damage to the feeling there, he knew, but he could not rest. Not before he found her.

  If he was crippled when it was over, so be it.

  At least he’d have her.

  Frustration flared at the thought. Where in the hell was she?

  He looked up to the ceiling, his gaze falling on the great stained-glass window that marked the center of the main room of The Fallen Angel. Lucifer, falling from Heaven. In a stunning array of stained glass, the Prince of Darkness was depicted in free fall, halfway between paradise and inferno, a chain about his ankle, his scepter in one hand, and his wings wide and useless behind him as he tumbled into the pit of the casino.

  Temple had never thought much about the window, except to appreciate its message to the members of the club—while the aristocracy might have banished him, Bourne, Cross, and Chase, the scoundrels who owned London’s most legendary gaming hell, would reign more fearful, more powerful, than ever before because of it.

  Chase had a flare for the dramatic.

  But now, as he considered the great stained glass, as he watched Lucifer fall, he realized how massive he was. How strong. Somehow, the window maker had captured the rise and fall of muscle and sinew in the mottled panes of glass. And Lucifer’s strength was useless in this moment. He could not catch himself. Could not stop himself from landing wherever it was that God had cast him.

  And standing there with his weak arm and the utter sense of futility that washed over him as he realized that he could not find the woman he loved, Temple felt for the Prince of Darkness. All that beauty, all that power, all that strength. And still he landed himself in Hell.

  Christ.

  What had he done?

  “You brought a pig into my casino.”

  Temple looked to Chase. “Has anyone seen her?”

  Chase’s gaze grew serious. “No.”

  Temple wanted to shout his fury at the truth in the words to the rafters. He wanted to tip over the nearest hazard table and rip the curtains from the walls.

  Instead, he said, “She disappeared.”

  They stood, side by side, watching the floor of the casino. “We still have men looking. Perhaps she will turn up on her own.”

  He cut the founder of The Fallen Angel a look, knowing that such a thing was virtually impossible. “Perhaps.”

  “We shall find her.”

  He nodded. “If it takes me the rest of my life.”

  Chase nodded and glanced away, no doubt uncomfortable with the emotion in his words. Not that Temple cared. “But you did find a pig.”

  He looked down at Lavender’s sleeping face. “Her pig.”

  Chase’s blond brows rose. “The lady owns a pig?”

  “It’s ridiculous.” It was even more ridiculous that he had come to care for the little creature. His only link to her.

  “I think it’s charming. She’s an intriguing woman, your Miss Lowe.”

  Except she wasn’t his. Temple handed Lavender to his friend. “She needs to eat. Take her to the kitchens and see if Didier can find her something to eat.” He was already turning back to the crowd, looking for someone who might know Mara. Perhaps she’d had a friend when she was a child—someone who might have offered her a bed.

  But what if no one offered her a bed? What if she was on the streets even now, cold and without a place? He’d slept on the cold London streets once. The idea of her alone—freezing—

  She didn’t even have gloves.

  His heart pounded with panic and he shook his head to clear it. She was no fool. She would find somewhere to sleep.

  But with whom?

  Panic flared once more.

  Chase was still talking, and Temple listened if only to have something else to think on. “Didier is French. The pig might end up in a stew.”

  Temple looked back. “Don’t you dare let her cook my pig.”

  “I thought it was Miss Lowe’s pig?” Temple was tempted to clear the smug smile from his friend’s face.

  “As we are to be married, I prefer to think of her as our pig.”

  Chase grinned. “Excellent. I shall do my best to help.”

  “Don’t help. I’m through with you meddling. Feed the pig. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  “Feed the pig.”

  For a moment, Temple thought Chase might ignore the instructions and meddle anyway, but the club’s majordomo appeared at their shoulders. “We’ve a visitor.”

  For a moment, Temple thought it might be Mara. “Who?”

  “Christopher Lowe. Here to fight Temple.”

  Chase’s gaze narrowed. “Bring him to my offices. And fetch Asriel and Bruno. He’ll get his fight. But it won’t be with Temple. And it won’t be fair.”

  “No.” Temple said.

  Chase looked to him. “Your arm isn’t healed.”

  “Bring him to me,” Temple said, ignoring his partner’s words. “Now.”

  Within minutes, Lowe was on the floor of the club, flanked by Bruno and Asriel. “You made a mistake in coming here.”

  “You turned my sister into a whore.”

  Temple’s good hand fisted, and he desperately wanted to destroy this boy. “Your sister is going to be my duchess.”

  “I don’t care what she will be. I’ve no use for her.” The words were slurred and angry. Lowe had been drinking, possibly since he’d left his sister the night before. “You ruined her. Probably did twelve years ago. Probably took all the valuable bit
s before you passed out.”

  Fury flared. “You should not be allowed to breathe the same air she breathes.”

  Lowe’s gaze narrowed. “She sent me away, you know. With a few shillings. Barely enough to get me from the city.”

  “And you lost it.”

  Lowe did not have to admit it. Temple could see it in the boy’s face before he whined, “What was I to do? Head off to make my fortune with three shillings? She wanted me to wager it. She wished me to lose.” His eyes turned hateful. “Because of you. Because you turned her into your whore.”

  Temple’s desire to destroy Lowe grew with every word. “Call her a whore again, and I shall make your poverty the least of your concerns.”

  Drink and desperation made Lowe stupid enough to smile at that. “Then you will fight me? I get my chance at my debt, you get your chance to protect my sister’s honor?” He stilled. “Where is the bitch, anyway?”

  Fury came hot and instant, and Temple grabbed Lowe’s wilted cravat in his good hand, lifting him clear off the floor before saying, “You should have taken the chance she gave you. You should have run. I promise you, whatever you face out there is nothing compared to what I shall do to you in the ring.”

  Temple dropped the other man in a heap to the ground, ignoring the coughing and sputtering from below as he followed him down, crouching, taking Lowe’s chin in hand and tilting him up to face him. “Get yourself a second. I’ll meet you in the ring in a half an hour.” If he couldn’t have her, he could have his fight. Temple stood, adding, “You’re lucky I don’t lay you out here and now. It will teach you to speak ill of the woman I love.”

  “Cor! Listen to that! You love her,” Lowe sneered. “What utter shite.”

  Temple did not look back, instead stalking away, heading for his rooms, already removing his cravat. The casino was silent as a grave, all the gamers having stopped their bets to watch Temple go mad.

  Because of that, he heard it when Chase said quietly, “Well.”