... Lady G— once more, dear readers! Beautifully turned out at the opera in robin's egg blue. And there has never been a more beautiful chick to emerge from such a casing. The aristocracy is no doubt thrilled by the lady's return and very eager to witness her rise...

... With the three owners' impressive marriages in the last twelve months, we recommend that women on the hunt limit their search to members of a certain casino. We are coming to believe that there is something remarkable in its water supply...

The gossip pages of The News of London, April 24, 1833

"Chase is halfway to sleeping with Duncan West," Bourne said, taking his seat at the owners' table, tumbler of scotch dangling from his fingers.

She'd done her best to avoid her partners since the embarrassing incident involving West and Temple two days earlier. In fact, she'd almost skipped the faro game that stood for the owners of the Angel every Saturday evening. She'd almost taken to her rooms in frustration and embarrassment.

But she was not a coward, and her partners would have happily called her one if she'd missed the card game.

Nevertheless, it did not mean that she was required to tolerate their questioning.

She pretended Bourne had not spoken, and leaned forward to collect her cards from the table, used only for this game. She, Temple, and Cross played while Bourne occupied the fourth chair with his scotch. The Marquess of Bourne had lost everything in a game of cards on the day he'd turned eighteen, and had not played since.

Unfortunately, he attended the games nonetheless, complete with his foolish grin. He did not seem to care that she had not replied to his initial overture. Instead, he continued, "Though it sounds to me that there would not have been much sleeping involved."

"I should never have saved your asses all those years ago," she said.

Six years earlier, Temple and Bourne had been running dice games on the edge of Seven Dials, and they'd made more than a few enemies. On the night Georgiana had decided to offer them the chance to enter into partnership with her, she'd saved them, quite luckily, from a group of ruffians who would have taken their money and left them for dead.

"Probably," he said happily as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "But lucky for all of us, you didn't."

She scowled at him. "It is not too late to have you handled."

"As you are occupied with handling West, I cannot imagine you would have the time for Bourne," Cross said as he took the round.

She tossed her cards to the table, turning wide eyes on him. "You, as well?"

He smiled, there, then gone. "I'm afraid so."

"Traitor." She looked to Temple. "And you? Do you have insults to add to the pile?"

Temple shook his head as he shuffled the cards, the waxed paper flying through his fingers before he dealt the cards expertly around the table. "I want nothing to do with this. In fact, if my memory of the event were wiped clean, I would not be unhappy about it." He closed his eyes. "Like seeing one's sister in the nude."

"I was not nude!" she protested.

"It was close enough."

"Was it?" Bourne asked, his curiosity piqued.

"It was nowhere near close enough," she insisted.

"But you would have liked for it to have been?"

Yes. No. Perhaps. Georgiana pushed the unwelcome response aside. "Don't be ridiculous."

Bourne turned to Temple. "Do you think we should tell her that she didn't answer the question?"

She looked down at her cards, cheeks hot. "I hate you."

"Which one of us?" Temple asked, playing a card.

"All of you."

"It's a pity, as we are your only friends," Bourne said.

It was true. "And asses every one of you."

"They say you can tell a man by his friends," he replied.

"It is a good thing I am a woman," she said, discarding.

"Which Temple can now confirm." Bourne paused. "Why do you think none of us have ever had cause to see for ourselves before now?"

Death was too kind for Bourne. He deserved some kind of torture. She glared at him, considering any number of medieval devices. Temple laughed. "We've already established that she's more sister than seductress. None of us would consider it."

"I considered it," Bourne said, refilling his drink. "Once or twice."

The entire table looked to him.

"You did?" Cross asked, voicing all their shock.

"We can't all be as saintly as you are, Cross," Bourne replied. "I thought better of it."

She raised a blond brow. "By 'thought better of it,' I assume you mean that you realized I wouldn't have had you if you were the last man in London?"

"You wound me." He placed a hand over his heart. "Truly."

In the six years since the owners of The Fallen Angel had come together with the singular purpose of proving themselves more powerful than the aristocracy, there had been little time and even less interest for anything that detracted from such a goal. Truly, it had only been in the last year, once the club was everything they had planned it to be, that Bourne, Cross, and Temple had made time for love.

Or, rather, that love had ensnared them.

She played another card. "God protect Lady Bourne, as she surely has her work cut out for her. I feel I should apologize to her for my hand in your match."

Georgiana had been instrumental in matching each of her partners with their wives – none more so than Bourne's. Lady Penelope Marbury had once been betrothed to Georgiana's brother, but the match was imperfect, and Georgiana had used her own scandal to extract the Duke of Leighton from his impending marriage, leaving Lady Penelope a spinster for nearly a decade... until Bourne desired her for himself.

Georgiana had been only too happy to repay her debt to the lady.

Temple laughed. "You don't regret a moment of your meddling."

She'd played a similar hand in Temple's match to Miss Mara Lowe, now Duchess of Lamont. And in Cross's match to Lady Penelope's sister, Lady Philippa, now Countess Harlow.

Bourne grinned, all wolf. "Nor should she regret it. I ensure my lady is quite happy with her match."

She groaned. "Please. Say no more."

"Here is something," Cross interjected, and Georgiana was grateful for the impending change of topic.

There were a dozen things he could have said. A hundred. The four present ran a casino. They traded in secrets of the richest and most powerful people in Britain. The building they were in boasted a remarkable collection of art. Cross's wife cultivated beautiful roses. And yet, he did not speak of any of those things. Instead, he said, "West is not a bad choice."

She turned surprised eyes on him. "Not a bad choice for what?"

"Not what," he corrected. "Whom. For you."

She wished there was a window somewhere nearby. Something through which she could leap. She wondered if she could ignore the statement. She looked to Bourne and Temple, hoping they might find the statement as preposterous as she did.

They didn't.

"You know, he's not wrong," Bourne said.

Temple spread his massive legs wide. "There's no one else who matches her in power."

"Except us," Bourne said.

"Well, of course," Temple said. "But we're spoken for."

"He hasn't a title," she said.

Temple's brows rose. "That's the only reason you don't consider him a reasonable choice?"

Dammit. That's not what she'd meant at all. "No," she said. "But it would help if the rest of you remembered that I'm in need of a title. And I've selected it. Langley will not meddle in my affairs."

Cross laughed. "You sound like a villain in a romantic novel."

She rather felt like one with the direction in which this conversation was moving.

As though she had not spoken, Bourne added, "West is talented, rich and Penelope seems to think he's handsome. Not that I have any idea why." He grumbled the last.

"Pippa feels the same way," Cross said. "She says it is an empirical fact. Thought I myself have never trusted grown men with hair that color."

"You realize you haven't a leg to stand on when it comes to hair color," Temple said.

Cross ran a self-conscious hand through his ginger locks. "Irrelevant. It's not me Chase thinks is handsome."

"I am sitting right here, you know," she said.

They did not seem to care.

"He's a brilliant businessman and rich as a king," Bourne added. "And if I were a betting man, I'd lay money on him eventually holding a seat in the House of Commons."

"You are not a betting man, though," Georgiana pointed out. As though it would stop him.

"He doesn't have to be. I'll put money on it," Cross said, "I'll happily mark it in the book."

The betting book. The Fallen Angel's betting book was legendary – an enormous leather-bound volume which held the catalogue of all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager – no matter how trivial – in the book, and the Angel bore witness, taking a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.

"You don't wager in the book," Georgiana said.

He met her gaze. "I shall make an exception."

"For West running for Minister of Parliament?" Temple asked.

"I don't care about that at all," Cross said, throwing a card down. "I've one hundred pounds that says that West is the man who breaks Chase of her curse."

She narrowed her gaze on the ginger-haired genius, recognizing the words. She'd made the same wager an age ago. She'd won.

"You shan't have my luck," she said.

He smirked. "Care to wager on it?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I shall happily take your money."

"Mistake," Bourne said. "He's clearly after you. It's a good bet."

"Well, he's after Anna, at least," Temple corrected.

"It's only a matter of time before he puts two and two together and discovers that Anna is Georgiana. Especially now that he's..." Bourne waved a hand in her direction. "Sampled the wares, so to speak."

She'd had enough. "First of all, there was no sampling of anything. It was a kiss. And second of all, he already knows that Anna and Georgiana are one and the same."

The other three went silent.

She added, "Well. Miracle of miracles, I've rendered the three of you silent. The rest of London would be shocked beyond reason to discover that the owners of The Fallen Angel were nothing more than chattering magpies."

"He knows?" Cross was the first to talk.

"He does," she said.

"Christ," Bourne said. "How?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does if others know, too."

"No one else knows," she said. "No one else has looked too long at Anna's face. They're too interested in her other assets."

"But West has looked at her face. And Georgiana's. And realized the truth." This, from Temple.

"Yes." The word made her feel guilty. As though she could have changed the situation. And perhaps she could have.

"You should never have brought him into this," Bourne said. "He's too quick. Of course he discovered you are both women. He was bound to. He likely knew the moment he agreed to help you land Langley."

She did not reply.

"But he doesn't know about Chase?" Cross asked.

She stood from the table, moving to the stained glass window that covered a full wall of the room, massive and menacing, depicting the fall of Lucifer. Hundreds of pieces of colored glass meticulously assembled to reveal the enormous angel – four times the size of the average man – as he tumbled from Heaven. From the casino floor, far below, it appeared that he was cast from light into darkness, from perfection into sin.

Destroyed and, in destruction, renewed. A king in his own right, with power unrivaled by all but one. Georgiana sighed, suddenly keenly aware of how powerless second-most-powerful could be.

"No," she said. "And he won't know who Chase is."

That, she could promise.

"Even if he did," Temple said. "He's to be trusted."

Georgiana had spent years working with the worst of humanity – learning them, judging them. She knew good men and bad. A day ago, she would have said that Temple was right. That West was to be trusted.

But that was before he'd kissed her.

Before she'd been drawn to him as she'd been drawn to another, long ago. One whom she'd trusted with her heart. With her hope. With her future.

One who had betrayed her without hesitation, and taken everything she'd given, ensuring that she would never be able to give it to another.

Ensuring that she would never want to.

Now, she did not trust her instincts around West. Which meant she had to rely on a different set of skills. "How do we know that?" she asked Temple, setting her cards on the table, no longer interested in the game. "That he is to be trusted?"

Temple shrugged one massive shoulder. "We've trusted him for years. He's never betrayed us. You're paying him handsomely with Tremley's file... there's no reason to believe that he'll do anything but help. As always."

"Unless he discovers Chase," Cross said. "Now that she's under his skin, he'll be livid if he feels he's been duped."

Bourne nodded. "There's no 'feels' about it. He has been duped."

"I don't owe him anything," she said. The three men cut her identical looks. "What is it?"

"He knows you're not simply Anna," Cross said.

"And he's not able to keep his hands off you," Temple said. "If he finds that you're also Chase..."

She did not like the words, or the implication that West was more connected to her life than she imagined. Nor did she like the way that implication made her feel – as though she couldn't quite take a deep breath. She'd felt this way before, and she did not fancy feeling it again.

She channeled Chase, remembering the shadow that had crossed his face as he'd discussed the Earl of Tremley. Eleven years. Remembering the threat he'd voiced – the hint that if she did not provide him with information on Tremley, he would release her secrets. He was a smart man – one who knew what he wanted. "What do we know about him?"

Bourne's brows rose. "West?"

She nodded. "What's in his file?"

"Nothing," Cross said absently, collecting the cards and shuffling once more. "There's a sister." Cynthia West. A pretty girl, welcome in Society despite her lack of breeding. West's money had purchased her support. "Unmarried."

Georgiana nodded, knowing better than anyone what was inside the slim file in her safe. "And nothing else."

"Nothing at all?"

She'd looked a few times in the early years, but she'd stopped as West had become ally in her battle with Society. "Not much," Bourne replied. "His initial funding came from an anonymous donor for the gossip rag, which came to pay for the other papers. I've looked for evidence of the donor for years, but no one seems to know anything about it, except that there was a fair amount of money involved."

"Nonsense," Cross said. "There's always a trail when it comes to money."

"Not this money," Bourne replied.

"Family money?"

"He's not landed. There appears to be no one but the sister," she said.

"So, he had a mysterious benefactor," Temple said. "So did we at the beginning." The Duke of Leighton had bankrolled his sister's whim, with the understanding that no one ever know his identity – a condition to which Georgiana had been only too happy to agree.

She met the Duke of Lamont's black gaze. "You're saying he's a man with no secrets."

"I'm saying that he's a man with no interesting secrets."

She shook her head. "Everyone has an interesting secret. West is man enough to have more than one. So tell me, why don't we know them?"

Temple's gaze narrowed on her. "You can't mean to search for them."

She did not like the condemnation in his tone. "You've never stopped me before. When we founded this casino, it was with the understanding that you were in charge of the ring, Bourne the tables, Cross the books. And I was in charge of the information we needed to ensure that the venture succeeded."

Cross spoke up. "If you do this, you play with fire. He has a great deal of power."

"As do I."

"But his power grows as Chase's is diminished. Your secrets will destroy you."

"West won't discover the truth."

Cross did not look so certain. "They always learn the truth."

"Who?"

He did not answer the question, which suited her fine, as she did not like the hint of what he might have said. "Do not tempt the lion, Anna. Not this one. Not one who is so much a friend."

She thought of the kiss earlier in the evening. There was nothing about it that was friendly. Indeed, it had pleasured and tempted and teased and devastated, but it had not been friendly. It had done nothing but make her want him, and she knew that wanting a man was not the same as trusting him. She'd learned that the last time she'd been kissed. The first time she'd been kissed.

She needed protection from him.

Not him. The thought whispered through her.

Perhaps it was right. Perhaps she did not need protection from him. Perhaps she needed protection from herself. From how he made her feel.

But either way, one thing was certain.

"Friend or foe, he knows my secrets." She looked to her partners. "I need to know his."

She was saved from having to face their questions by a knock at the door. Cross called for the newcomer to enter – only a handful of people knew the owners' suite existed, each person trusted without question.

Justin Day, the casino's pit boss, entered, finding her instantly, and crossing the room to her.

"Is it done?" she asked.

The majordomo nodded once. "Burlington, Montlake, and Russell, each happy to end their suit."

Bourne turned curious. "Suit of whom?"

Temple replied, "Aren't they all after the Earl of Holborn's girl?"

Four heads turned in the duke's direction. Georgiana voiced their collective disdain. "Your newfound interest in Society is terribly unsettling."

Temple shrugged one enormous shoulder. "They are after her, though, aren't they?"

Not since Lady Mary Ashehollow called Caroline a whore, they weren't.

She did not reply, and neither did Justin. "There is more," he said.

She turned to a nearby clock, noted the time, and knew without asking what news he brought. "Lady Tremley."

Justin nodded. "At the ladies' entrance."

Bourne's brows rose. "How did you know that?"

"What is she doing here?" Cross asked.

"She was invited," she said, drawing a dark look from her partners.

"We did not discuss inviting her," Temple said.

No, they hadn't. She had sent the invitation within the hour of West's leaving, several days earlier.

She did not tell them the whole truth, afraid that they might reject West's request. Afraid they would not realize how much she needed West. The fear made her angry. She did not like feeling out of control. "I made a decision for all of us."

"She's dangerous. Tremley is dangerous," Bourne warned. "If she offers his information – if he finds out —"

"I am not a child," she reminded him. "I can connect the spots. What of the lady?"

Justin said, "Bruno says she's a black eye."

"Ah. Vengeance, thy name is woman."

"If her husband is such a coward that he must resort to beating his wife, I'll personally help her exact it," Bourne said.

Justin replied. "She asks for Chase."

"She shall have Anna instead." She turned and smoothed her skirts.

Bourne met her gaze. "Be careful. I don't like you dressed like a whore when none of us are there to protect you."

"This isn't a dark alley in the East End."

"Chase," he said, using the name he'd given her a half decade earlier, reminding them all of their history. "This is much more dangerous."

She smiled, warm with the knowledge that they worried about her, this motley band of rogues she'd amassed. "Yes, but it is danger of my own design. I'm native to it."

Bourne looked to the stained glass, his gaze lingering on Lucifer's wings, useless as he fell. "It does not mean that there won't come a day when it will swallow you up."

"Possibly," she allowed. "But it won't be today." She followed his gaze to the window, where the beautiful blond angel tumbled into Hell. "Today, I reign."

In minutes, she was belowstairs, at the ladies' entrance to the club, where Bruno, one of the Angel's main security detail, stood watch in the dim light. Next to him was Lady Tremley, a beautiful woman in her twenties who sported one of the worst shiners Georgiana had ever seen, despite the Angel being known for its nightly bare-knuckle fights.

With a nod to Bruno, she opened the door to a small antechamber off the dark entryway. "My lady," she said quietly, startling the other woman. "Will you join me?"

Lady Tremley looked skeptical, but followed Georgiana into the room, taking in the sitting room, appointed as though it were prepared for ladies of the ton to take their afternoon tea instead of gambling and gossiping and playing at life as their husbands did.

Georgiana indicated a settee, upholstered in blue velvet. "Please."

The lady sat. "I asked to see Mr. Chase."

And Chase she saw.

Georgiana sat across from Lady Tremley. "Chase is indisposed, my lady. He sends his regards, and hopes you will consider speaking to me instead."

The marchioness took in the low neckline of Georgiana's dress, the height of her pale blond wig, the dark kohl around her eyes, and saw what everyone saw when they looked at her. A skilled prostitute. "I don't think —"

A rap came on the door, and Georgiana opened it to receive a package from Bruno, who was long-skilled in the art of knowing what the founders of The Fallen Angel required without being asked. Closing the door, she approached the lady, extending the linen parcel, filled with ice. "For the eye."

The marchioness took it. "Thank you."

"We know about bruises here." Georgiana sat. "All sorts."

They remained unspeaking as Lady Tremley held the compress over her eye. Georgiana had had this precise meeting too many times to count, and she recognized the lady. A woman eager for something more than that which life had offered her. Eager for something that would entertain and enrich and engage. Something that would change her in some small, private way, allowing her to suffer through her long days of propriety. And if the black eye were to be considered, something that would see her through long days of marriage, as well.

The key was to let the lady speak first. Always.

After long minutes, Lady Tremley lowered the ice and unlocked herself. "Thank you."

Georgiana nodded. "Of course."

"I am sorry."

It always began this way. With apology. As though the lady had some hand in the cards she had been dealt. As though she weren't simply made female and, therefore, less than.

"There is no need to be." It was the truth.

"Surely you have something else..." The lady trailed off.

Georgiana waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing of import."

Lady Tremley nodded once, looking down to confess to her skirts, "I judged you harshly when you appeared."

Georgiana laughed. "You think you are the first?" She leaned back in her chair. "I am Anna."

The marchioness's eyes went wide. Georgiana was used to shock from proper ladies when she treated them as equals. It was the first test; the one that proved their mettle. "Imogen."

The lady passed.

"Welcome to The Fallen Angel, Imogen. You may trust that whatever is said between us is shared only with Chase."

"I have heard of you. You're his..." She stopped, rethinking the word doxy, choosing a rhyming one instead. "His proxy."

"Among other things."

The lady hesitated, fiddling with the gold satin. Georgiana thought it was not a common action for the wife of one of the King's closest councilors. "I received an invitation from Mr. Chase. I am told there is a woman's club."

Georgiana smiled. "No sewing circles or reading societies to be found, I am afraid."

Lady Tremley's gaze turned shrewd. "I am not as simpering as you might imagine."

Georgiana let her attention fall to the bruise on the lady's face. "I don't imagine that you are simpering at all."

Lady Tremley flushed, but Georgiana didn't imagine that it was embarrassment that caused it. No doubt, if the woman were here, she'd long passed embarrassment at her husband's actions. She was well into anger. "I understand that to gain acceptance, I must provide information."

Georgiana was still for a long moment. "I don't know where you would have heard such a thing."

Imogen's gaze narrowed. "I am not a fool."

"Who is to say that Chase does not already have this information? As you must have heard, we've a file thick as his thumb on every important man in London."

"He does not have this," the lady said, lowering her voice and looking to the door. "No one has this."

Georgiana did not believe that for a moment. "Not even the King?"

The lady shook her head. "It would ruin Tremley. Forever." There was something in the words, eagerness. Excitement. The heady triumph that comes with revenge.

Georgiana leaned back. "We are aware that your husband steals from the exchequer."

Lady Tremley's eyes went wide. "How do you know that?"

It was true.

How had West known it, dammit?

How had West known it and she hadn't?

She collected herself, took a second run. "And we know that he pays it to fund the arming of our enemies."

The lady looked as though the wind had been taken from her sails, even as years of practice kept Georgiana from leaning forward in her seat and asking, Truly? Because she hadn't entirely believed it when West had said it. If it were true, after all, the earl was guilty of treason. And he would hang for it if it were ever let out.

It was the kind of information that a man would kill to keep secret. And from the look of his wife's face, he was not a man to hesitate when it came to violence.

Georgiana spoke again. "I am afraid, my lady, that the price of your entry to The Fallen Angel will be proof of these things that we know. However, before we continue, you must be very certain that you are willing to offer this proof freely to Chase. To the Angel." She paused. "You should understand that once it is ours, given in exchange for membership, we reserve the right to use it. At any time."

"I understand." The marchioness's gaze was full of eager triumph.

Georgiana leaned forward. "You understand that you speak of treason."

"I do."

"That he would hang if he were discovered."

Triumph turned dark. Cold. "Let him hang."

One of Georgiana's blond brows rose at the unfeeling words. That Tremley was a bastard was of little surprise. That his wife was a Boadicea was entirely the opposite. "Fair enough. Do you have proof?"

The marchioness reached into her bodice and extracted several pieces of torn paper, singed around the edges. She thrust them in Georgiana's direction. "Show him these."

Georgiana opened the slips of paper, piecing them together on the red silk of her skirts. She scanned the incriminating text on them. Looked up at the wife. "How did you —"

"My husband is less intelligent than the King gives him credit for. He tosses his correspondence into the fire, but he does not wait to ensure that it is incinerated."

"Then —" Georgiana began.

Imogen finished the sentence. "There are dozens more."

Georgiana was silent for a long moment, considering the implications of this woman. Of her stolen letters. Of the way they might help her this very night.

They would win her Duncan West's help and, by extension, they would secure her future and that of her daughter.

New information always gave her a heady thrill, but this – it was a good day.

"I am certain I speak for Chase when I say, 'Welcome to The Other Side.'"

Lady Tremley smiled then, and the expression opened her, removed the weathered lines of her face. Returned her youth.

"You are welcome to stay," Georgiana said.

"I should like to explore a bit. Thank you."

The lady did not understand. "Longer than an evening, my lady. The Other Side is not simply a place to game. If you wish sanctuary, we can provide it."

The smile disappeared. "I don't require it."

Georgiana cursed the world into which they were born – where women had little choice but to accept the danger in their everyday lives. The great irony of ruin was this – once survived, it brought freedom with it. Not so for women of propriety, of good standing. Of good marriage.

Bad marriage, more like.

Georgiana nodded, standing and smoothing her skirts. She had witnessed this particular circumstance enough times that she knew better than to force the issue. "If you ever do..." She trailed off, letting the rest of the sentence hang between them.

Lady Tremley did not speak, but she did stand.

Georgiana opened the door, and gestured into the lush hallway beyond. "The club is yours, my lady."