It was the vingt-et-un table that caught his eye first, five seated across from the dealer, each with an ace or a face card up, the dealer staring at a two. The game went fast; not one man hit. On the flop, every player had twenty or higher.
A near mathematical impossibility.
The thought was chased away by a cheer to his left, where a hazard table celebrated a successful roll, the dice in midpass down the table toward the roller. Cross watched the next toss. Six. Three. “Nine again!” the croupier called.
His heart began to pound.
He came down from the table, distracted by the game, unable to keep himself from watching the next cast. Six. Three. “Huzzah!” those watching the game cried.
“What luck!” called the gamer in possession of the dice, turning to face his growing crowd, his face shielded from Cross. “I’ve never been so lucky!”
“Who is it?” a voice asked at his shoulder.
“If you can believe it,” came the response, “it’s Castleton.”
“Lucky bastard!” Disbelief.
“Well, he’s to marry tomorrow . . . so he deserves one night of bachelorhood to tide him over, don’t you think?”
Castleton.
Married tomorrow.
For a moment, Cross forgot the thread of uncertainty that had drawn him to the game, distracted by the reminder that Pippa was to marry tomorrow. This man, who stood at a hazard table.
Six. Three.
Winning.
Something was off.
He raised his head, scanning the crowd, his attention called to the door to the back rooms, where a great, hulking man towered above the rest of the room.
His brows knit together.
What in hell was Temple doing here?
“Two hundred and fifty quid on number twenty-three!” Christopher Lowe made an exorbitant bet at the roulette wheel to Cross’s right, and Cross could not help but turn to watch as the ball rolled in the track, around and around until it landed in a red groove.
Twenty-three.
The entire table cheered; Lowe had risked a fortune, and won nearly nine thousand pounds.
Lowe, who had never won a single thing in his life.
“What did I say?” the young man crowed. “I’m lucky tonight, lads!”
There’s no such thing as luck.
Something was off.
He pushed through the crowd, each person with whom he came into contact more and more elated with the breathlessness of winning, with the excitement of the flop of the ace, the roll of the hard six, the spin of the wheel, which seemed to be stuck on red . . . everyone ignoring him as he passed among their masses until they finally parted and he had a clear view of Temple, several yards away.
The massive partner of The Fallen Angel was not alone. At his side stood a reedy younger man in an evening suit that hung a touch too large on his shoulders. The man wore a cap pulled low over his brow, making it impossible for Cross to see his face . . . there was something familiar about the way he carried himself. Something unsettling.
It was only when the stranger turned to speak in the ear of one of Knight’s girls, passing her a little pouch, that Cross saw the glint of gold at his temple.
Spectacles.
At her temple.
Philippa.
She turned to him, as though he’d said her name aloud, and smiled an enormous, brilliant smile—one that made his blood pound and his heart ache. How had he ever even imagined that she was a man? She looked scandalous and beautiful and absolutely devastating, and he was suddenly quite desperate to get to her. To touch her. To kiss her. To keep her safe.
Not that it made him want to murder her any less.
He reached for her instinctively, and Temple stepped in, placing enormous hands on Cross’s chest, and said, “Not now. If you touch her, everyone will guess.”
Cross didn’t care. He wanted her safe. But Temple was as strong as he was right. After a long moment, he said, “I shall want my time in the ring with you for this.”
Temple smirked. “With pleasure. But if she pulls it off, my guess is that you’ll be thanking me for it.”
Cross’s brows snapped together. “Pulls it off?” He turned to Pippa. “What have you done?”
She smiled as though they were at tea. Or Ascot. Or walking in the park. Entirely calm, utterly sure of herself and her actions. “Don’t you see, you silly man? I’m saving you.”
The cheers from the gamers around them were impossible to ignore at that point, the thrill of winning was deafening. He didn’t need to look to see what she’d done. “You fixed the tables?”
“Nonsense.” Pippa grinned. “With what I know of Digger Knight, I would wager everything you have that these tables were already fixed. I unfixed them.”
She was mad. And he loved it. His brows rose. “Everything I have?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t very much, myself.”
She was wrong, of course. She had more than she knew. More than he’d dreamed.
And if she asked, he’d let her wager with everything he owned.
God, he wanted her.
He looked around them, registering the flushed, excited faces of the gamers nearby, not one of them interested in the trio standing to the side. No one who was not playing was worth the attention. Not when so many were winning so much.
She was running the tables at one of the most successful casinos in London. He turned back to her. “How did you . . .”
She smiled. “You taught me about weighted dice, Jasper.”
He warmed at the name. “I didn’t teach you about stacked decks.”
She feigned insult. “My lord, your lack of confidence in my intelligence wounds me. You think I could not work out the workings of deck stacking myself?”
He ignored the jest. Knight would kill them when he discovered this. “And roulette?”
She smiled. “Magnets have remarkable uses.”
She was too smart for her own good. He turned to Temple. “You allowed this?”
Temple shrugged one shoulder. “The lady can be very . . . determined.”
Lord knew that was true.
“She knew what she wanted,” the enormous man added, “and we all wanted it as well.”
“Temple was very gracious. As was Miss Tasser,” Pippa added.
Cross’s mind was spinning. Miss Tasser. Sally had helped.
Do not doubt for one moment that what’s done was done for her. Not you.
This is what Sally had meant. The run on Knight’s, not Cross’s, engagement.
Pippa’s insane plan.
But they hadn’t considered everything. They hadn’t considered what would happen when she was discovered. When Knight returned to the floor and understood what they’d done.
“You have to leave here. Before Knight discovers it and everything goes wild. Before he discovers you. You’ll be destroyed, and everything I worked for will be—” He was growing panicked by the idea that she might be hurt. That Knight might react with wicked intent.
“I am not leaving.” She shook her head. “I have to see this through to the end!”
“There is no end, Pippa.” He reached for her again, desperate to touch her, and Temple stopped him once more. Cross stopped. Collected himself. “Dammit. Knight is the best in the business.”
“Not better than you,” she said.
“Yes, better than me,” he corrected her. “There’s nothing he cares about more than this place. Than its success. And all I care about—” He trailed off, knowing he shouldn’t say it. Knowing he couldn’t stop himself. “All I care about is you, you madwoman.”
She smiled, her beautiful blue eyes softening behind her spectacles. “Don’t you see, Jasper? You’re all I care about as well.”
He shouldn’t like the words. Shouldn
’t ache for them. But he did, of course.
She moved toward him, and he would have opened his arms and taken her to bed then and there if Temple hadn’t stepped in, looking anywhere but at them. “Can’t you two have your private moments in private? Without me near?”
The words served as a reminder of where they were. Of the danger she was in. He turned to face the room, searching for Knight, finding him, fury in his gaze as he watched the floor, sensing with the keen understanding of a man who had done this for his entire life that something was wrong. That there was too much glee on the floor. Too much winning.
His gaze settled on Cross’s over the crowd, and knowledge flared in the older man’s eyes. He turned and gave instructions to his pit boss, who took off at a run—likely for fresh dice and decks—before Knight started toward them, determination in every step. Cross faced Pippa. “You must go,” he said. “You cannot be caught. You’re to marry tomorrow. I shall take care of this.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. This is my plan—crafted for you. For Lavinia. To ensure that Knight can never do his damage again. I shall finish it.”
Ire rose. “Pippa, this is bigger than anything you can imagine. You did not plan for an exit. Knight is not worried. He knows that he will restore the tables to working order tonight, and all these people will stay and gamble back their winnings. Gamers do not stop at the top of their streak.”
She smiled. “You think I do not know that? Need I remind you that I learned about temptation from a very skilled teacher?”
Now was not the time to think of their lessons. He resisted the flash of skin and sighed at the words. “I think you could not have prepared for it. I think that, short of burning this place to the ground, there is no amount of coordinated planning that could convince five hundred gaming addicts to leave their winning tables.” He turned back to Knight, registering the old man’s movement. Closer. “And I think I’m through with this conversation. You will return home with Temple, and you will marry tomorrow, and you will live the life you deserve.”
“I don’t want it,” she said.
“You don’t have a choice,” he replied. “This is the last thing I will give you. And it is the only thing I will ever ask of you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re asking!”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.”
I’m asking you to walk away before I find I can no longer bear to be without you.
He feared it might be too late, as it was.
“Leave, Pippa.” The words were a plea, coming on a wave of panic he did not care for. This woman had shattered his control, and he hated it. Lie. “I shall fix this.”
She shook her head. “You once promised that when we wagered at my tables, we would play by my rules.”
He wanted to shake her. “These are not your tables!”
She smiled. “But they are my rules, nonetheless.” She turned to Temple. “Your Grace? Would you do the honors?”
Temple lifted a finger to his thrice-broken nose and brushed the tip. From a hazard table nearby, a loud, innocent voice piped up, “My word! That’s a great deal of winnings!” Castleton. Stupid, simple Castleton was in on the plan . . . had they all gone mad?
Cross looked to Temple, who smirked and shrugged one shoulder. “The lady made the arrangements.”
“The lady deserves a sound thrashing.”
Pippa wasn’t watching him. “You don’t mean that.”
He didn’t, but that was beside the point.
Castleton was chattering again. “I hear that Knight doesn’t usually keep much cash on hand, though. I hope he’s enough to cash me out!”
There was a pause at the table as his words sunk in, then a mad dash for each man to collect his notes and winnings and rush to the cash cages. Within seconds, the shouts echoed through the room.
“Knight can’t cover the wins!”
“Cash out now, before it’s too late!”
“Don’t be left with blank notes!”
“You’ll lose everything if you don’t hurry!”
And like that, the tables were empty . . . they were all headed to the cash cages, where two startled bankers hesitated, not knowing how to proceed.
She’d thought of an exit. He should have expected it, of course. Should have known that Philippa Marbury would wage war like she did everything else . . . brilliantly. Eyes wide, he looked first to Pippa, then to Temple, who smirked, folded his arms, and said nothing.
It was remarkable.
She’d done it.
She was remarkable.
Cross caught Knight’s gaze, wide with shock before it slid to Pippa and narrowed in recognition, then fury.
But the club owner could not act on that anger . . . as he was too close to losing everything he’d built. He took to a tabletop once more, calling out affably, “Gents! Gents! This is Knight’s! We ain’t no haphazard organization! We’re well able to pay our debts! Get back to the tables! Play some more!”
His big grin was sinfully tempting.
There was a pause as the sheep turned to their shepherd, and for one moment, Cross thought the desire to win would run the tables.
Until Castleton saved them all, the earl’s clear, disarming voice rising above the crowd once more. “I’d just as soon have this money now, Knight . . . then I know you’re good for it!”
And the press toward the cages began anew, men shouting and pushing until it was close to a riot.
Knight wouldn’t be able to cover these winnings. They’d paupered him.
Pippa had paupered him.
Because she loved Cross.
Because she cared for his future.
His future, which was bleak indeed without her.
He could not linger on the thought, however, as they were jostled by a wall of gamers pressing toward the cages furiously, desperate for their money. Pippa was carried several feet by the wave of bodies. He reached for her, trying to catch her hand and pull her back, her fingers slipping through his as she fell, swallowed up by the furious crowd.
“Pippa!” he yelled, tossing himself into the fray, pulling men from the place where he had last seen her, tossing them aside until he found her, curled into a ball, hands around her head, a heavy boot connecting with her stomach.
He roared his anger, grasping her unwitting attacker by the collar and planting his fist in the man’s face once, twice, before Temple caught up with him. “Let me have him,” Temple said. “You see to your lady.”
Your lady.
She was his.
Would ever be.
He turned the man over to Temple without a second glance, crouching to uncover Pippa’s face, where one lens of her spectacles had been smashed and a wicked red streak had already bloomed high on one cheek. Suppressing his rage, he stroked his fingers carefully across the place where she’d clearly received a blow. “Can you move?”
She nodded, shaky, and he lifted her in his arms—not caring that he was revealing her as something more than a strange, thin man in an ill-fitting suit—protecting her.
She pressed her face to his neck. “My hat—”
It had been lost in the fray, and her blond hair was loose around her shoulders. “Too late for it now,” he said, desperate for escape.
But there was nowhere to go. Everywhere he looked were angry throngs of gamblers, desperate for their winnings, frustration and greed and his and Temple’s attacks turning them into a terrifying, raging horde.
Moving as quickly as he could, he crouched and pushed Pippa beneath the hazard table where Castleton had started it all, taking a boot to the ribs with a wince before climbing into the space with her, covering her with his body and wrapping his arms about her head to keep her from errant blows.
“Temple—” she said, struggling beneath him.
“Will be fine,” he assured her, adoring the way that she cared for his friend. “He’s a professional fighter—he shall love every minute of this. At least until I have a moment to tear him limb from limb for allowing you to carry out this utterly insane scheme.” He stroked her hair back. “Let me look.”
“It was not insane!” she protested, turning her wound toward him, one hand coming up to test the swelling at her eye. “Ow.”
He ran his fingers over the red welt once more, hating the way she winced. “Gorgeous girl . . .” he whispered, removing her glasses and pressing a kiss to her temple, the corner of her lips, the soft skin at the side of her neck. She was safe. He let out a ragged breath, and said, “I should thrash you.”
“Why me?” she said, eyes wide.
He shot a look at thundering boots beyond the table. “You started a riot.”
“Not on purpose,” she defended, turning to look. “I hypothesized that they would leave, not stampede.”
At another time, when he was less worried for her safety, he would have smiled at the words. Not now. “Well, your hypothesis was incorrect.”
“I see that now.” She paused. “And technically, you started the riot.”
“I thought you were—” He stopped, a chill racing through him. “Pippa, if anything had happened to you . . . You could have been killed,” he thundered, his muscles trembling under the strain of his worry and his desire to do something—to return to the fray and fight until the fear was gone, until she was safe.
“I was with Temple,” she whispered.
“Temple isn’t enough. Temple cannot keep you safe,” he said into her hair, letting himself feel gratitude that he’d found her before all this happened, before Knight or half a dozen other nefarious characters discovered her. “Temple doesn’t love you,” he said.
She stilled beneath him, raising one hand to his cheek. “And you do?”
He wouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t even think it. It would only make things worse. Worse than being trapped in the middle of a riot, alone, beneath a hazard table for God knew how long with the most irresistible woman in Britain. In Europe. On Earth.
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 34
