A Rogue by Any Other Name (45 page)

“It will ruin me.”

“That is my dearest hope.” Michael waited for the moment of victory. For surprise and regret to flash across the other man’s face before he looked up from the paper and admitted defeat. But when Langford met Michael’s gaze over the yellowed parchment, it was not defeat that shone in his eyes.

It was admiration. “How long have you been waiting for this moment?”

Michael shuttered his gaze, forcing himself to lean back in his chair, shielding his surprise. “Since you took everything from me.”

“Since you lost everything to me,” Langford corrected.

“I was a child then, with only a handful of games behind me,” Michael said, anger rising. “No longer. I know now that you pushed the game. That you threw it, let me win until it was all there in one enormous bet.”

“You think I cheated?”

Michael’s gaze did not waver. “I know you did.”

A ghost of a smile—enough to prove Michael right—crossed Langford’s lips before he returned his attention to the damning paper. “So now you know. The child was my brother’s whelp, born of a local farmer’s daughter. The woman I married was useless—large enough dowry but unable to birth a child. I paid the girl and took the child as my own. Better false heir than none at all.”

Tommy had always been different from this man, never as cool, never as calculating. Now it all made sense, and Michael found that somewhere, deep within, buried where he did not think there was emotion to be found, he felt sympathy for the boy who had once been his friend—the boy who had tried so hard to be a son to his father.

The viscount went on. “There were only a handful of people who were close enough to recognize that my wife never bred.” He lifted the note, a small smile on his lips. “I see now that even they were not to be trusted.”

“Perhaps they decided it was you who was without honor.”

One of Langford’s brows rose. “You continue to blame me?”

“You continue to deserve it.”

“Come now,” Langford scoffed. “Look around you. You built this place; you rebuilt your life, your fortunes. What would you do if you were forced to give them away? To pass them off to someone who’d never had a hand in their growth? In their success? Are you saying you would not do the very same thing I did?” The older man set the paper to the table. “It would be a lie. You have as little conscience as I, and there’s the proof.”

He leaned back in his chair. “It’s a shame I was saddled with Tommy and not you; you would have made me a fine son, with how well you learned the lessons I taught you.”

Michael resisted the urge to recoil at the words, at the implication that he and Langford were similar, even as he recognized their truth. And loathed it.

His gaze flickered to the note on the table, its weight at once immense and nothing at all. There was a roar in his ears as he registered the importance of what he had done. Of what he was doing.

Unaware of Michael’s thoughts, Langford said, “Let us come down to business. I still have the rest—everything your father passed to you. Your entire past. You think I didn’t expect you to do something like this?” He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I.” He set the stack on the table. “Is
vingt-et-un
still your game? My legacy against yours.”

And when Michael saw it there, laid out on the green baize in calculated clarity, understanding rocketed through him. He’d replayed that fateful night hundreds of times—thousands of them—watching the cards flip over and slide across the baize into their seats, counting the ten, fourteen, twenty-two that had marked the end of his inheritance and his youth.

And he’d always thought it was the moment that marked the end of everything that was good about him.

It wasn’t.

But this would be.

He thought of Penelope in his arms, her lips soft against his, the hitch in her breath as she begged him not to come here. Not to do this. The way she’d looked him straight in the eye and asked him not to give away his final chance at good—the last vestige of his decency.

Not to let revenge overshadow love.

He reached for the stack of deeds on the table, sifting through them, spreading them across the felt. Wales, Scotland, Newcastle, Devon—a collection of houses amassed by generations of marquesses—once so vitally important to him . . . now a collection of brick and mortar.

Only the past. Not the future.

Nothing without Penelope.

What had he done?

Dear God. He loved her.

The realization struck him like a blow, utterly out of place, and more powerful than anything else. And he hated himself for not having had the chance to tell her.

And, as though he’d conjured her up, suddenly she was there, her voice rising from outside the door. “You may attempt to stop me with your silence and your . . . enormity . . . but make no mistake about it, I
will
enter that room!”

Michael stood to watch the door of the room spring open, revealing a confused Bruno and, just behind him, an irate Penelope. The guard lifted his hands in a helpless expression that would have amused Michael if they were in a different time and place. Bruno did not seem to understand what to do with this small, strange woman who had the strength of ten men. Of twenty.

She pushed past him and into the room, chin up, shoulders square, anger and frustration and determination on her lovely face.

And he’d never wanted her so much in his life.

But he did not want her anywhere near Langford. He approached her, pulling her aside, and saying quietly, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

He turned to Cross, who had appeared in the doorway next to Bruno. “You were to take her home.”

Cross lifted a shoulder in a lanky shrug. “The lady is rather . . . unbiddable.”

Penelope turned a smile on the tall, ginger-haired man. “Thank you. That might well be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

Michael had the distinct impression that this entire evening was about to get out of hand. Before he could say any more, Penelope moved past him, farther into the room. “Lord Langford,” she acknowledged, looking right down her nose at the man.

“Penelope,” the older man said, unable to keep the surprise from his gaze.

“It’s Lady Bourne to you.” The words were cool and cutting, and Michael was sure she’d never been more beautiful. “Come to think of it, it was always lady to you. And you never referred to me as such.”

The older man’s gaze narrowed in irritation, and Michael had an intense urge to put a fist into the viscount’s face for the look.

It was not necessary. His wife was more than able to care for herself. “You don’t like that, I see. Well, let me tell you what I don’t like. I don’t like insolence. And I don’t like cruelty. And I most definitely don’t like you. It is time you and I have it out, Langford, because while you might have stolen my husband’s lands and funds and reputation, and you might have been a truly horrendous father to my friend, I absolutely refuse to have you take another thing from me, you despicable old man.”

Michael’s brows went up at the words. He should stop her, he knew.

Except, he found he didn’t want to.

“I do not have to listen to this.” Langford turned a mottled, unpleasant shade of red and shot up from his chair in irate disbelief. He looked to Michael. “Control your female before I am forced to do it for you.”

Michael came forward, fury roaring through him at the threat. Penelope turned to face him before he could get to the viscount, strong as steel. “No. This is not your battle.”

He was struck dumb at the words though he should not be surprised; his wife kept him in a perpetual state of speechlessness.
What in hell was she talking about?
This
was absolutely his battle.
As if he’d not been waiting for this moment for almost a
decade,
Langford had just threatened the only thing he held dear.

He stilled at the thought.
The only thing he held dear.

It was true. There was Penelope, and there was everything else. All the land, the money, The Angel, the revenge . . . none of it was worth even a fraction of this woman.

This marvelous woman who had turned her back on him once more.

She faced his enemy and waved a hand at the door, where Bruno and now Cross stood, looking very serious and very frightening. “Would you care to attempt escape before I am through?”

Michael couldn’t help it. He grinned. She was a warrior queen.

His
warrior queen.

“You have lived a life too free of consequence, Langford, and, while I assure you that I would dearly enjoy your losing everything you care for in one fell swoop, I fear that it would take too great a toll on those I love.”

She looked to the table, taking in the papers there, immediately understanding the situation. “It’s to be a wager, then? Winner take all?” She looked at Michael, her eyes wide with emotion for a fraction of a second before she shuttered her gaze. He recognized it anyway—disappointment. “You were going to wager?”

He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d decided before she entered that it wasn’t worth it . . . that none of it was worth risking her happiness. Their future.

But she’d already turned to the door. “Cross?”

Cross straightened. “My lady?”

“Bring us a deck.”

Cross looked to Bourne. “I don’t think—”

Bourne nodded once. “The lady wants a deck.”

Cross went nowhere without his cards, and he crossed the room, withdrawing them, and extending the deck to Penelope.

She shook her head. “I intend to play. We require a dealer.”

Michael’s gaze snapped to her as Langford sneered, “I will not play cards with a
woman.
”

She took the seat at one side of the table. “I usually will not play cards with men who rob children of their inheritance, but tonight appears to be one for exceptions.”

Cross looked to Michael. “She is incredible.”

Possessiveness flared as he took his seat, eyes on his wife. “She is mine.”

Langford leaned toward Penelope, fury in his gaze. “I don’t play cards with women. And I certainly don’t play them with women who have nothing I want.”

Penelope reached into her bodice and withdrew a paper of her own, setting it on the table. “On the contrary, I have something you desperately want.” Michael leaned forward to get a better look at the paper, but Penelope covered it with her hand. When he looked up, her cool blue gaze was on the viscount. “Tommy is not your only secret, is he?”

Langford’s gaze narrowed, furious. “What do you have? Where did you get it?”

Penelope raised a brow. “It seems that you’ll be playing cards with a woman after all.”

“Anything you have will ruin Tommy as well.”

“I think he’ll be fine if it is allowed out. But I assure you, you will not be.” She paused. “And I think you know why.”

Langford’s brows snapped together, and Michael recognized the frustration and anger on the other man’s face as he turned to Cross. “Deal the cards.”

Cross looked to Michael, the question in his gaze as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud. Michael had not wagered in nine years. Had not played a single hand of cards, as though he’d been waiting all that time for this night, this moment, when he would wager against Langford again . . . and this time, win.

But as he watched his wife, proud and glorious, take on the man he’d spent so much of his life hating, he realized that the wicked desire that had gnawed at him for the last decade every time he thought of Langford and the lands he’d stolen was gone, lost along with his desire for revenge.

They were his past.

Penelope was his future.

If he could deserve her.

“The lady plays for me.” He lifted the proof of Tommy’s legitimacy from where it sat in front of him and placed it on the table in front of her. She snapped her attention to him, her eyes clear and blue and filled with surprise as she registered the meaning of the move. He would not ruin Tommy. Something flashed across her face . . . a mix of happiness and pride and something else, and he made the decision in that moment to bring it back again and again, every day. It was gone in an instant, replaced by . . . sudden trepidation.

“You have what you want, love. It is yours.” He raised a brow. “But I would not stop if I were you. You’re on a winning streak.”

She looked to Langford’s wager—Michael’s past—and he wanted to kiss her thoroughly for the emotion that showed on her face . . . nervousness and desire . . . desire to win.

For him.

She nodded to Cross, who took the change in stride, shuffling the deck with quick, economical movements. “One hand of
vingt-et-un.
Winner take all.”

Cross dealt the cards, one down, one up, and it occurred to Michael that the game was not for ladies. While the rules were deceptively simple, Penelope had likely never played, and without a very good stroke of luck, she would find herself crushed by a veteran player like Langford.

As Michael considered the possibility—that after all this time he would have come so close to destroying Langford and restoring the lands of the marquessate, and failed—he realized that for too long he’d considered those things to be the markers of his redemption. Now, however, he knew the truth.

Penelope was his redemption.

In front of her, facing up, was the four of clubs. He watched as she lifted the corner of the other card, looking for any indication of what she might have. Nothing impressive, he was guessing. He turned to Langford, facing a ten of hearts, left hand flat on the table, as ever.

Cross looked to Langford, who tapped his flat palm once on the table. “Hold.” A decent hand.

Langford had likely come to the same conclusion as Michael—that Penelope was a novice, and like all novices, she would overhit.

Cross looked to Penelope. “My lady?”

She nibbled at her lower lip, drawing Michael’s attention. “May I have another?”

One side of Michael’s mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. So polite, even as she wagered for more than a million pounds’ worth of real estate in the most exclusive of London’s gaming hells.