There was a knock at the door, and, for a tense moment, Andreas did nothing. Finally, he turned and barked for the person to enter. Stanley peeked around the corner and met Roman's eyes, then pattered across the floor. "A note for you, sir." He extended his hand.

"From whom?"

"Don't know, sir. Didn't say. Liveried chap."

Roman took the envelope and flipped it. An ornate seal fastened the flap. Andreas said something to Stanley, then the boy's footsteps faded. Roman broke the seal and emptied the contents into his hand. A well-known object fell into his palm.

Roman stared at the single black shovel printed on the paper in his palm. The twin to the card slipped down his back earlier that eve. Obviously retrieved from the deck by the sender. He could hear Andreas swear as he caught sight of it. Roman flicked the card onto the table in front of him.

He wondered what the sender would one day ask of him. Or of them. But Roman would go to his death and take the whole of London with him before allowing Andreas to pay the price as well.

Of course, Roman didn't have to initiate this particular game. He could leave events as they were, the cheat, the threat, fading to obscurity. Find the girl later and spark a different game. Not use the opportunity within his grasp.

He threw the dice on the table. Sixes. Andreas's swearing echoed in his mind.

What the h.e.l.l was it about Charlotte Chatsworth that called to him? He narrowed his eyes, thinking about what he was going to do to her to determine the answer.

Chapter 4.

C harlotte perched stiffly on the carriage seat as it rocked them to their destination-somewhere east of Mayfair. She could almost feel the polish slip from the buildings and roads as they ventured into a seedier section of town.

Her father sat across from her, his back as straight as hers-like a board propped against the cushions behind. He hadn't had a drink all day, and the strain of it was starting to pull at his eyes, deepening the creases there at the edges. She knew his abstinence was likely to end as soon as he delivered and washed his hands of her.

"Lord Downing and Mr. Trant demanded to attend the exchange."

The exchange. Her father's marker for hers.

She didn't respond or change her expression.

"Stop staring at me in that way," he said harshly. "If anyone can talk Merrick around, it's Downing."

"I thought you said the man would destroy us if the bet weren't satisfied?"

Bennett sneered, but there was fear there, deep in his expression. "Downing wields enough power to negotiate with Merrick. And you were smart enough to become friends with that wife of his. He might get Merrick to take something else."

There was that pinched look to his features again, and she wondered what her father had tried, and failed, to negotiate. What else did the Chatsworths have to "take?"

"And what might Downing then ask?"

"That will be dealt with when it occurs." He licked his lips-he needed such a thing to occur, for his fear was far too palpable. She tried not to let the feeling bind her too, but nausea rose from the pit anyway. "I am sure you will be able to flap your lashes and get us out of it entirely. That wife of Downing's is soft in the head."

Charlotte wondered if Miranda knew what was to happen tonight and what her reaction had been or would be. Soft in the head she was not. Charlotte could almost see her stowing away in her husband's carriage, coming to rescue her.

Charlotte allowed the image to warm her a little. But she was too used to rescuing herself.

She was a rational girl. She had to be to survive. And she was of the ton, where s.e.x was often a tool of the trade. Something that was bartered. For marriage, mistresses, pride, money. And obviously for debts to be paid.

She had been silly last night to let her desperation show through. This would be a cold business transaction. Part and parcel of something that she would do in order to survive in this world and keep it clean for Emily.

The fact that Charlotte was in her third season with virginity and heart intact made her think perhaps she was truly the ice queen she was called. Doomed like her mother for a frosted marriage bed and a brittle future of turning the other cheek.

But she'd use the cold. Use her mind and social standing to ascend the peak. She'd host elaborate parties. Rule the ton. Sit high on top, untouchable and likely acidic. Eyes jaded and brittle, like some of the matrons and dowagers who decided the fates of all.

If she had been married her first season, she would already be in the running for a cicisbeo or two. Perhaps a man to warm her, to make her laugh, to stop the constant push of the balloon.

The start of her first season had been magical. Her second, increasingly chaotic. Now in her third, she felt the stretch of skin about her mouth like a sunburn that never eased.

"And if this Merrick does not accept alternatives?"

She had heard of the Merricks. Nothing very specific-they were whispered about in back rooms, the topic of conversation deemed unsuitable for ladies' ears. They owned a number of very fashionable-and a number of very seedy-clubs in London. The young men-about-town frequented the more fashionable establishments, though occasionally those fresh from school, without a care in the world, ventured into the latter. Usually with nothing left in their pouches-or of their pride-when they emerged. Lucky to emerge physically unscathed.

She had never cared much about listening to such talk except to curse gambling in general. She wished now that she had paid closer attention. Hadn't Margaret Applewood said something about one of the men in a hushed conversation in a retiring room last week?

There had been a lot of t.i.ttering going on, but Charlotte had shoved that conversation along with a dozen others out of her mind, thinking them inconsequential to her present course.

"Then Downing will keep silent about the whole matter," her father said. "And we will deal with Trant. You will do what you must to keep him at arm's length until we can get Binchley or Knowles to come round. We must move forward quickly now regardless," he said, wiping his hand along his thigh.

She chose the better part of valor and didn't respond.

She should have sent a note to Miranda. Surely she would know about the Merricks as she knew far more about what happened outside the ton. Or Downing would have filled her in, if not. But Charlotte had been unable to set her humiliation to paper. To make it real.

She had hoped with each pa.s.sing hour that her father would appear and say the matter had been resolved. A vain hope that she had clung to until the end. Until she had stepped foot inside the conveyance.

The carriage stopped, and she took a series of deep breaths as she felt the vehicle shift to indicate the unknown coachman had dismounted and was about to open the door.

She pulled her mourning net farther down and descended onto the uneven pavement of a back alley. Dark shapes slithered along the walls, and scuttling noises conjured images of things better left to nightmares. Raucous laughter boomed from somewhere in the distance, indicating a lively part of town on the other side of the buildings. But the voices were far enough away that she and her father would most likely be unaided when they were mugged here and left for dead.

Her father walked briskly toward the back door of a large building and rapped on the wood with his cane. He whispered something briefly to a head that poked around the edge.

The door opened, and her father gestured sharply for her to move.

Upon entering, she could see a short corridor and a heavy door. From the voices and light emerging from the crack beneath the oak, it was likely the floor of a gaming h.e.l.l. Lovely.

Her father snapped his fingers, and she followed numbly up a set of stairs, away from the voices. Stepping from the landing, she noticed that Downing and Trant were standing halfway down the hall to her right.

Charlotte allowed a grim little smile to form behind her veil when her father made a cutting motion toward her. She stopped, while her father walked toward the men to discuss her fate, as if she were a goat in a stall.

She stared straight ahead at the corridor in front of her instead.

She didn't know what she'd expected. Peeling paint or dents and holes from cracked elbows and skulls. But it was a plain hallway, nothing extraordinary. Lamps hung every few paces-more light than she'd expected.

She wondered if this was a gaming establishment or a gaming h.e.l.l.

Morbid humor, unfortunately, didn't seem to help her nerves. She swallowed and tried to focus elsewhere. From her vantage point, she could see in both directions.

A door opened down the empty hallway near an extinguished lamp that dulled the light in that one small area.

A woman emerged, tears streaking her cheeks as she stepped into the light. A well-made man followed her, his shadowed back to Charlotte as he closed the door with one hand. Something about him put Charlotte on edge. Tall, though not overly so, he looked strong enough to handle himself in a fight yet not tire easily the way a heavier man might.

He reminded her of the man from the ribbon shop. Standing as if he owned the place. Well dressed. Hair that seemed to reflect the golden light of the hall for a brief moment when he parted from the shadow.

He made a violent motion with his hand, and the woman flinched. Charlotte did as well. She could see livid marks crisscrossing the woman's face as her cheek touched the lamplight-as if someone had taken a shallow blade to her skin a few nights before.

Prost.i.tutes could often be found near Covent Garden, and she had seen quite a few, even when her father tried to hurry her through the gates. The woman's face looked cleaner than most, as if she had recently taken a bath, but her hair was wild, as if she had forgotten how to use a comb.

The man held out something, and the woman paused, then s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his hand. She looked at her closed fist, nodded at something he said, then turned and ran down the hall and through a door at the end.

The man was likely the woman's handler. She had heard of them. He had probably beaten her too, cut her up. The stories that people liked to tell at parties often grew quite lurid in the details of what happened on the London streets.

And here she was in the midst of the carnage, sold to a man who played in the game.

The man turned fully into the light, and her thoughts stopped churning. Her entire body stopped. And she could still feel the ripped fabric of the dress where her pin and her jerking had irreparably torn it, a dress currently buried in the dark recesses of her armoire.

"You."

There was a distant expression on his beautiful face for a moment before he caught sight of her. The shadow immediately cleared, and the edges of his mouth curved, lifting the edge of the thin scar along his cheek, as if he knew exactly who she was behind her dark veil. As if the sound of her voice had been imprinted upon him.

"Me."

He looked even more angelic than he had before, only the scar showing him of the earthly plane. Blond hair curled at the edges of his face, iced eyes were warmed by the lamps, and the lights caused a halo of gold to appear about his crown. He was garbed once more in impeccably tailored clothes.

But this time, there were no visible speckles of blood on his sleeves. Only the metaphorical kind.

Her mouth moved without thought. "Shouldn't you be in prison?"

"Should I?" He lifted a brow, walking toward her. A lazy gait that she shouldn't have seen as prowling, stalking her, but the jump of her heart wasn't listening.

"I told the patrolman. He ran off to arrest you." What was she doing? Telling him that she had sent the watch after him? Even with her father only two dozen paces away, she still had the distinct impression that this man could take them all down before she so much as made a peep. Murder her father, Trant, and Downing with one hand as he pressed her against the wall with the other.

"Patrolman? Ah, you mean Robert?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. She took a step back toward the others, not taking her eyes from him.

"An old family friend, Robert. It pays to have friends in many places." The edge of his mouth curled, and he continued toward her in that same lazy, stalking gait.

"So you just, what, beat Mr. Hunsden? Nearly kill a man? And get naught but a friendly visit from the watch?"

"Don't feel sorry for Noakes." There was something dark in his eyes. "Don't waste a thought for him." The darkness lingered for a long moment before it cleared. "As for Hunsden, he is as well as he was when last you saw him. Perhaps requiring a new pair of trousers, but otherwise, physically untouched."

She took another step back as he advanced, hating the need to retreat but not feeling stupid enough to indulge in holding her ground.

"What . . ." She swallowed. "What are you doing here?"

He watched her for a moment, his eyes roving her veil as if they had successfully pierced the dark fabric and were tracing her features. Or as if he already had them committed to memory and was playing the image through. He raised a brow, something darkly amused in his eyes. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged for a moment. She squared her chin, pushing dark thoughts aside. "I am here on business."

"What a surprise." He ran a hand along the wall, cresting over the bend in the hall, as he closed the gap between them. "I am as well."

"Not for a pleasure visit?"

He lazily surveyed her. "I do so hope that too."

She tried to say something rational through the fl.u.s.ter he caused, gazing instead over his shoulder in the direction of the woman who had fled. "You are looking for another victim?"

His brows furrowed for a second, then eased. "Ah, you mean Marie. No, I a.s.sure you that I have been saving myself for the night to come." He seemed to find something terribly amusing about that.

"I see." She tried to think of something else to say as he pressed closer.

"Do you? Will you oblige me then?" His voice was low and smooth, nearly whispered. He lifted her hand, the back of his lips only touching lightly but searing her skin beneath the silk.

Everything froze for a moment. Even the flickering lamps seemed to pause, flames surging upward and waiting. She tore her hand away, hardly able to breathe.

"No."

She had never been so near to a man who set her on edge. She had never had a man set her on edge. And she didn't find the feeling particularly pleasant. Her breath was harsh and odd in her chest. Frozen without the cold. Her hands were trembling, and she was just thankful that she wasn't holding a gla.s.s or some other piece that might give her away.

"No?" One long finger slowly lifted the middle of her veil to form a triangle of cloth. He was even more golden when un.o.bstructed from view. His eyes sought the pulse at her throat-just as they had done in the ribbon shop-and his lips slowly curved. "Folly indeed, but worth it in the end, I think."

"Merrick."

Her father's voice was crisp. But the heat in the eyes of the man in front of her, the increase in the curve of his lips, kept her attention.

Then the single, uttered word registered.

Panic initiated and spread in all directions. No, it wasn't possible. But she could hear the footfalls behind her. The men drawing alongside her again.

Her heart stopped for a second time.

"Merrick, I didn't see you come up."

Having his ident.i.ty confirmed just made the halt lengthen. One absent beat, then two. She didn't know if the organ would restart.

She watched the beautiful face of the man, who continued to lazily a.s.sess her, to drink in her reaction, all dark amus.e.m.e.nt that she was suddenly putting the pieces together, before he glanced away, dropping his finger and her veil, to answer her father.

He, standing with the flush hand, and she, carrying the discards.

"Chatsworth."

"If I could have a moment to speak with you."

Roman Merrick-good G.o.d, she had never heard or kept the knowledge of the Merrick brothers' first names, or else she would have put it together sooner-smiled charmingly. "Surely."