A Rogue by Any Other Name (28 page)

Bourne’s lady.

A shiver of awareness shot through Penelope at the description—one she did not want and still could not resist. One she planned to use to her full advantage that night as she gave her husband a significant piece of her mind.

But the door opened all the way then, revealing a carnival of movement and sound, and Penelope forgot her immediate goal.

She pulled her cloak tightly around her, grateful for Worth’s counsel and for the too-large hood casting her into shadow while she watched those around her hover over their cards, track the little ivory ball in the roulette wheel, follow their dice across the rich, green baize, as it tumbled in the winds of fate.

It was adventure in its basest, purest form.

And she loved every inch of it.

No wonder Michael spent so much of his time here; this was his goddess, his raven-haired beauty. And she could not blame him. It was a magnificent mistress.

The men in their stark, black coats and their perfectly pressed cravats, the butlers who traveled the floor of the casino with trays laden with scotch and brandy, and the women in their revealing bodices, each a more brilliant color than the last. They were painted and primped, coiffed and colored, and Penelope wanted to
be
them. For one, fleeting moment, to know what it was to hold fortune in her hand. To throw the dice and know the thrill of exploit.

But it was the stained-glass mural, massive and undeniably beautiful, that had her catching her breath. A great, stunning portrait of Lucifer, chain around his ankle wrapping twice around his leg before trailing off into the abyss, his scepter, snapped in half, still held in one hand, his crown in the other. The massive angel fell, his wings no longer able to keep him in flight, headfirst into the flames of hell.

It was at once beautiful and grotesque—the perfect backdrop for this den of vice.

She kept her head down and moved through the crowd, loving the way the bodies moved her through their mass. She allowed them to guide her, and she promised herself that she would stop at the first table she found along the path.

It was the roulette table, and her heart leapt to her throat in a mix of gratitude and excitement. She knew this game. Knew its rules. Knew it was pure, unbridled luck. And she wanted to try hers.

For suddenly she felt very lucky, indeed.

She met the eyes of the tablemaster, who raised a brow and waved his long rake above the field. “Gentlemen . . . lady,” he intoned seriously, “your bets, please.”

Her hand was already in her pocket, already toying with the coins there. She pulled out a shiny gold sovereign, running her thumb across its face, watching the others at the table place their bets. Coins were set on the rich green plush all along the field, and Penelope’s eyes were drawn to a tempting, red space at the middle of the table.

Number twenty-three.

“We await the lady’s wager.”

Her eyes met the dealer’s and she reached out, tentatively, to place a coin on the baize, loving the way the gold glinted in the candlelight.

“No more bets, please.”

And then the wheel was in motion, and the ball was spinning along the gutter, the sound of ivory against steel a temptation in itself. Penelope leaned forward, eager for an unobstructed view, her breath catching in her throat.

“They say that roulette is Lucifer’s game.” The words came at her shoulder, and she could not resist turning toward the voice even as she was careful to keep her cloak pulled low over her face. “Fitting, is it not?”

The stranger placed his hand on the edge of the table, close enough to touch her, and the lingering caress was too slow to be a mistake. She snapped her hand back from the unpleasant sensation.

“Fascinating,” she said, edging away from her unwelcome companion, hoping that the single word would end their conversation. Her attention returned to the wheel, spinning in glorious red and black, too fast to keep track.

“There is a story of a Frenchman who was so caught up in the game, so tempted by the wheel, that he sold his soul to the devil to learn its secrets.”

The wheel was beginning to slow, and Penelope leaned in, understanding that poor Frenchman’s temptation. The man at her side slid one finger down the outside of her arm, sending a shiver of distaste through her and drawing her attention. “What would tempt you to sell your soul?”

She did not have the chance to reply, or to tell her neighbor to remove his hands from her person, as he was instantly yanked from his spot and tossed to the floor several feet away. She turned at the commotion to find Michael stalking the man as he scurried backward, like a crab, into the legs of a group of people who had stopped in the center of the casino floor to watch the drama unfold.

Her husband leaned down and grabbed the man by his cravat, his great hulk blocking the prone man’s face. “You will never touch a lady in this hell again,” her husband growled, raising his fist in a wicked threat.

“Goddammit, Bourne.” The words were strangled from the man’s throat as he lifted his hands to Michael’s wrists. “Lay off. She’s just a—”

Michael’s hand wrapped around the other man’s neck. “Finish the sentence, Densmore, and give me the pleasure of robbing your breath,” he said, low and close to his prey. “If I see it, or hear of you laying a hand on another female here, your membership will not be the only thing you lose. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.” He looked ready to kill, and Worth’s tale echoed through Penelope’s memory.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

Michael tossed him back to the floor and rounded on Penelope, who moved instinctively to push back her cloak. He reached out and grabbed one of her hands, pulling her into an alcove too poorly lit for anyone to see her, stepping close to shield her from prying eyes. “And you,” he whispered, his fury unmistakable. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She met his gaze firmly, refusing to be cowed. It was time for her to act her part—the marchioness out for her adventure. “I was having a fine time before you arrived and caused a scene.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his fingers tightened around her wrists. “
I
caused a scene? Half of London is in this room, and you think a silly cloak will hide you from them?”

She twisted her hands in his grasp, trying to free herself. He did not release her. “It was doing just that. No one noticed me.” He pushed her against the wall, farther into the darkness. “No one
recognized
me.
Now
, of course, they are all wondering who I am.”

“They likely know.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I recognized you the moment I saw you, you foolish woman.”

He had?
She ignored the thrum of pleasure that shot through her and squared her shoulders, refusing to back down.

The roulette croupier appeared at the edge of the alcove. “Bourne.”

Michael shot a look over his shoulder that could have stopped an army. “Not now.”

“Well, considering I’m in full view of half of London, as you are so quick to point out, what’s the worst that could happen?” she asked.

“Let’s see,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you could have been abducted, mistreated,
revealed . . .

Penelope stiffened. “And how would that have been different than my treatment at your hands?” she whispered, keeping her voice low enough so that only he could hear her, knowing she was pushing his limits.

His eyes flashed. “It would be immensely different. And if you can’t see that—”

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend you care a bit about me, or my happiness. It would be the same cell, a different jailer.”

His teeth clenched. “Three minutes in private with that pig Densmore, and you would have seen that I’m a veritable saint compared to some scoundrels. I told you, you were not to come here. Not without me.”

“I find I no longer care for being told what I am not to do.” She took a deep breath, not knowing from where her courage had come, but hoping it would not fail her now, as he looked very, very angry.

And, she realized, very disheveled. His cravat was wrinkled beyond repair, his coat was not straight on his shoulders, and one of his cuffs had disappeared beneath its sleeve.

It wasn’t normal. Not for Michael.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“Bourne.”

The third time the dealer said his name, Michael spun around. “Goddammit. What is it?”

“It’s the lady.”

“What about her?”

Penelope peeked around Michael, pulling her hood forward, making sure she could not be recognized. The dealer’s brows lifted as he offered them both a half smile. “She won.”

A beat, then Bourne said, “What did you say?”

“She won.” The dealer could not mask his surprise. “Number twenty-three. Straight up.”

Michael’s gaze slid to the table, then to the wheel. “She did?”

Penelope’s eyes went wide. “I did?”

The croupier gave her a silly smile. “You did.”

“Send her winnings up to the suite.” In a matter of seconds, Michael had pulled her through a well-guarded door nearby.

As they climbed a long, dark set of stairs, Penelope shored up her courage, prepared to face him. But first, she had to keep up with him. Her hand was tucked into his, and he showed no indication of releasing her as he pulled her down a long hallway and, ultimately, into a large room that would have been completely dark if not for the light from the main floor of the casino pouring through the stained-glass wall at one end of the room—casting the entire space into a mosaic of color.

“How gorgeous,” she whispered, not noticing that he’d let her go before locking the door behind them. “From below, there is no indication that there is anything behind the glass.”

“That’s the point.”

“It’s stunning.” She headed for the window, reaching one hand out to touch a golden panel that made up a lock of Lucifer’s hair.

“What are you doing here, Penelope?”

She snatched her hand back at the question, turning to him, barely able to make him out in the shadows. He seemed to have faded away into the darkness at the far end of the room. Her heart began to pound, and she remembered why she had set out for the club. “There is a conversation we must have.”

“It could not have waited for me to return to Hell House?”

“If I ever believed you would return to the house, my lord, I might have waited,” she said tartly. “As I am unsure of your plans in that regard, I felt it best for me to attend you.”

He crossed his arms across his wide chest, the fabric of his coat straining against his muscled arms. “I’m going to fire the coachman who brought you.”

“Impossible. I came in a hack.” She could not keep the triumph from her voice.

“If Tommy helped you in any way, I shall take great pleasure in destroying him.”

She lifted her chin. “And so we come to it.”

“You are not to see him again.”

She did not care that he towered over her in the darkness, clearly angry with her. For she was angry with him, as well. “I am not so certain that I will follow that order.”

“You will.” He crowded her against the door. “See him again, and I’ll destroy him. Let it be on your head.”

It was the opening for which she had been waiting. “I am told that you plan to destroy him anyway.” He did not deny it, and a sliver of disappointment shot through her. She shook her head. “It’s amazing, how I continue to believe better of you only to be proven wrong.” She spun away from him, heading for the window once more, staring out on the floor. “You’re heartless.”

“It’s best you realize that now, before the days of our marriage grow any longer.”

She spun back toward him, furious at the callous way he referred to their life. To her life. “Perhaps our sham of a marriage isn’t long for this world anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

She gave a little humorless laugh. “Only that you clearly care not a bit for it.”

“Your precious Tommy asked you to run with him, didn’t he?” It was her turn to remain silent. Let him believe what he wanted. He came closer. “Are you planning to go, Penelope? Planning to ruin our marriage and your reputation and your sisters’ names with one selfish choice?”

She could not stop herself from replying. “
I
am selfish?” She laughed, and pushed past him toward the door. “That is amusing, coming from you—the most selfish man I’ve ever known—selfish enough to destroy your friends, and your
wife
in service to your own goals.”

She reached for the door handle, gasping when his hand snaked out of the darkness to capture her wrist. “You are not leaving until this is through. Until you have given me your word that you will stay away from Tommy Alles.”

Of course she wasn’t going anywhere with Tommy. But she refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing that. “Why? Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I left with him? Then you could get your revenge and your freedom in one wide swath.”

“You’re mine.”

She rounded on him. “You are unbalanced.”

“That may be. But I am also your husband. You would do well to remember that fact. And the fact that you pledged to obey me.”

She gave a little, humorless laugh. “And
you
pledged to
honor
me,” she retorted.
And we both pledged to love the other. That hasn’t worked out either.

He stilled. “You think I have done you a dishonor?”

“I think you do me a dishonor every time you touch me.”

He released her then, so quickly it was as though her skin had burned him. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated, uncertain, the argument suddenly moving in a direction with which she was not entirely comfortable.

“Oh no, my lady.” He fairly spat the honorific. She realized she had offended him. “You will answer the question.”

Yes. She would.

“Every time you touch me, every time you show me the slightest interest, it is for your benefit. Your goals. Your revenge, of which I want no part. There is nothing about it that is for me.”

“No?” The words dripped with sarcasm. “Interesting, as you seem to have enjoyed my touch.”