No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Chapter 3

He dreamed of the ballroom at Whitefawn Abbey, gleaming sun-bright in the shade of a thousand candles and the sheen of silks and satins in a myriad of color.

The room belied the darkness that lurked beyond the enormous windows overlooking the massive gardens of the Devonshire estate—the country seat of the Duke of Lamont.

His estate.

He descended the wide marble stairs to the ballroom floor, where a crush of bodies writhed in time to the orchestra situated behind a wall of greenery at the far end of the room. The heat of the revelers overwhelmed him as he made his way through the throngs, pressing against him, pulsing with laughter and sighs, hands reaching for him, touching, grasping. Wide smiles and unintelligible words beckoned him deeper into the mass of people—welcoming him into its center.

Home.

There was a glass in his hand; he lifted it to his lips, the cool stream of champagne quenching the thirst he hadn’t noticed before, but was now nearly unbearable. He lowered the glass, letting it fall into nothingness as a beautiful woman turned and stepped into his arms.

“Your Grace.” The title echoed through him, coming on a wave of pleasure.

They danced.

The steps came from distant memory, a slow, spinning eternity of long-forgotten skill. The woman in his arms was all warmth, tall enough to make him a proper match, and curved enough to fit his long arms.

The music swelled, and still they danced, turning again and again, the sea of faces in the ballroom fading into blackness—the walls of the room falling away as he was distracted by a sudden, heavy weight on his sleeve. He turned his attention to his forearm, wrapped in black wool, pristine but for a sixpence-sized white spot.

Wax, fallen from the chandeliers overhead.

As he watched, the spot liquefied, spreading across his coat sleeve in a thread of molten honey. The woman in his arms reached for the liquid—her long, delicate fingers stroking along the fabric, her touch spreading fire as it crept toward the spot, hot wax coating her fingertips before she turned them up to his gaze.

She had beautiful hands.

Beautiful skin.

She wore no gloves.

He followed the line of her long arm from wrist to shoulder, taking in her piecemeal perfection—the curves and valleys of her collarbone; the long rise of her neck; her angled jaw; her wide, welcoming mouth; long, equine nose; and eyes like none he’d ever seen. One blue, one green.

Her lips curved around the words he’d craved and feared for so long. “Your Grace.”

And, like that, she was in focus.

Mara Lowe.

He woke on the floor of his library, coming to his feet in a mad rush, a foul curse echoing in the blue fog of breaking dawn.

A green and black tartan fell to his feet as he rose, and the fact that the woman had covered him with a blanket after drugging him in the dead of night was no kind of comfort. He imagined her standing over him at his most vulnerable moment, and wanted to roar his anger.

She had drugged him and left.

Again.

On the heels of that thought came another.

Dear God. She was alive.

He hadn’t killed her.

Relief burst full and high in his lungs, warring with frustration and ire.

He wasn’t a killer.

He ran one hand down his face to ease the tightness of the emotion, and noticed that she had not simply left him.

She’d also left a note, scrawled across yesterday’s news, and pinned to his chest with a simple hairpin, as though he were a package to be delivered by post.

He tore the missive from its mooring, knowing that whatever she had to say would do little to assuage his anger.

I had hoped it would not come to this, but I will not be intimidated, and I will not be strong-armed.

He resisted the urge to crumple the note and throw it into the fire. She thought she was the one being strong-armed? When it was he who had been knocked out on the floor of his own study?

The offer is a trade, and nothing less.

When you are in a negotiating frame of mind, I welcome your visit for a discussion of equals.

That would be impossible. He was not nearly mad enough to be her equal.

You will find me at No. 9 Cursitor Street.

She’d left her address. Mistake. She should have run. Not that he wouldn’t have caught her; he would have spent the rest of his life chasing her if she’d run.

He deserved his retribution, after all. And she would give it to him.

Who was this stupid, brave woman?

Mara Lowe. Alive. Found.

Strong as steel.

The thought came, another fast on its heels, and he reached inside his boot, knowing what he would find.

The harpy had stolen her knife.

Within the hour, he was washed and on his way to No. 9 Cursitor Street, uncertain of what to expect. It was possible the woman had run, after all, and as he made his way deeper and deeper into the streets of Holborn, he wondered if she had done just that and left him with directions to her personal cutthroats to finish the job she’d begun the prior evening.

The neighborhood was less than pleasant, even at seven in the morning. Drunks were nestled in doorways of unsavory taverns, empty bottles fallen haphazardly to their sides as they lolled in their early-morning stupors. A haggard prostitute stumbled into the street from an alleyway beyond, eyes bloodshot and heavy as she plowed into him.

Her eyes met his, and he recognized the faraway look in them. “Wot’s a fancy bloke like yerself doin’ ’ere?”

Chasing ghosts.

Like an imbecile.

The prostitute’s touch was everywhere, and he caught her as she searched his coat for his purse.

“No luck today, darling,” he said, extracting the empty hand.

She did not hesitate to lean in, and he steeled himself against her sour breath. “ ’Ow ’bout a bit o’ business, then? I’ve never ’ad one yer size.”

“Thank you,” he replied, lifting her and setting her to the side. “But I’m afraid I’ve an appointment.”

She grinned, two teeth missing. “Tell me, luv. Are you big all over?”

Another man would have ignored the question, but Temple had lived a long time on these streets, and he was comfortable with whores. For years, they’d been the only women willing to keep him company—luckily, he’d never had to settle for ones quite so . . . well used.

Fate had dealt the woman an unfortunate circumstance, a truth that Temple understood better than most. She did not deserve scorn for the way she managed.

He winked. “I’ve never had a complaint.”

She cackled. “Any time you like, luv. A right bargain, I am.”

He tipped his hat. “I shall remember that.” And he was off, down Cursitor, counting the doors until he reached number nine.

The building was out of place—cleaner than all the others on the row, with flower boxes in the windows, each boasting a mass of mums in bright colors—and as he stood outside, staring up at the flagstones, he knew that he’d found the place. And that she hadn’t run.

But why live here, on a filth-ridden street in Holborn?

He raised the knocker and let it fall with a firm rap.

“I see I wouldn’t be the first to sample the wares.” He turned back to the street, where the prostitute stood watching him. She came closer, gaze suddenly knowing. “I know you.”

He looked away.

“Yer the Killer Duke.” He returned his attention to the door, frustration coursing through him. It never went away, that cold thread of anger mixed with something worse. Something far more devastating. “Not that I care, luv. A girl like me can’t be too choosy.”

But he heard the change in her voice. The edge. Wariness and knowledge and a tinge of equality. They both lived in the darkness, after all, didn’t they?

He ignored her, but she continued. “You’ve a boy for MacIntyre?”

He looked to the door again, then back at the woman in the street. “A boy?”

She raised a brow. “Y’ain’t the first y’know. Won’t be the last. It’s the way of it. The way of men. Girls ought to be careful these days. Especially around the likes of you.”

The woman hadn’t met Mara Lowe, evidently.

The door opened, ending the woman’s sermon and revealing a young lady with a cherubic face in the house beyond. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, peering up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

He tipped his hat. “Good morning. I’m here for Mara.”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. MacIntyre, you mean?”

He should have known she wouldn’t be here. Should have known she’d lied to him. Had the woman ever told a truth in her life? “I don’t—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, however, as hell chose that precise moment to break loose inside the house.

A cacophony of shouting erupted from a room beyond his view, and a half-dozen small figures came tearing through the foyer, chased by a handful of slightly larger figures, one of which was carrying—was that a table leg?

Three of the smaller creatures seemed to sense their impending demise and did what any intelligent being would do in such a scenario—ran for the exit. They made a tactical error, however, in that they did not count on either Temple or the young woman to be in the vicinity, and so instead of a straight shot into the street, they found themselves captured like flies in a wide web of skirt.

The trio cried out in frustration. The maid at the door cried out in what Temple could only imagine was terror, and not improperly placed. And the leg-brandishing creature cried out in conquest, leaping onto a small table in the entryway, raising his club high above his head and launching himself into the fray.

For one fleeting moment, Temple admired both the child’s courage and his form in battle.

The girl at the door stood no chance. She toppled like a felled poplar, and the boys scurried from their cambric trap, tumbling across the floor, kicking and screeching and wrestling.

And it was only when squeals began to emanate from the pile that Temple realized he could not in good conscience back away from the door and let the insanity ensue without him.

If these children escaped, they would wreak havoc on London.

He was the only one qualified to contain them. Obviously.

Without asking permission, he stepped over the threshold and entered the house, the door closing behind him with a great thud even as he helped the maid to her feet. Once he had confirmed that all her extremities were in working order, he turned to the more unsettling matter at hand . . . the writhing pile of boys at the center of the foyer.

And then he did what he did best.

He entered the fight.

He pulled boys one by one out of the pile and set them on their feet, removing wooden swords and bags of rocks and other makeshift weapons from hands and pockets before setting them free, placing each of them on the ground with a firm “That’s enough,” before going back to extract the next.

He had taken the last two boys in hand—the one with the table leg and another who was quite small—and lifted them clear off the floor when he saw it, small and pink and unmoving.

He leaned in, still holding the two boys.

“Aww . . .” said the boy with the table leg, seeming not to mind that his feet were dangling two feet above the floor. “She’ll get away.”

Was that a—

The piglet sprang to life with an ear-splitting squeal, running for the nearest room and startling Temple, who leapt back. “Jesus Christ!”

And, for the first time since he’d knocked on the door, there was silence inside No. 9 Cursitor Street.

He turned to face the boys, each of whom was staring up at him wide-eyed.

“What is it?”

None of them replied, instead all looking to their leader, who still held his weapon, but luckily seemed disinclined to use it. “You took the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, accusation and something close to admiration in his tone.

“Your pig startled me.”

The boy shook his head. “Mrs. MacIntyre doesn’t like cursing.”

From what Temple had seen, Mrs. MacIntyre might do well to worry less about the boys’ language and more about their lives, but he refrained from saying as much.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s not tell her it happened.”

“Too late,” said the little one in his other hand, and Temple turned to look at the boy, who was pointing to something behind him.

“I am afraid I already heard it.”

He turned to the voice, soft and feminine. And familiar.

He set the boys down.

She hadn’t run. “Mrs. MacIntyre, I presume?”

Mara did not reply, instead turning to the boys. “What have I said about chasing Lavender?”

“We weren’t chasing her!” several boys cried at the same time.

“She was our booty!” another said.

“Stolen from our treasure!” said the leader of the pack. He looked to Mara. “We were rescuing her.”

Temple’s brow furrowed. “The pig’s name is Lavender?”

She did not look at him, instead letting her attention move from one boy to the next with an expression he found distinctly familiar—an expression he’d seen a million times on the face of his childhood governess. Disappointment.

“Daniel? What did I say?” she asked, staring down the leader of the once-merry band. “What is the rule?”

The boy looked away. “Lavender is not treasure.”

She snapped her attention to the boy on the other side of Temple. “And what else? Matthew?”

“Don’t chase Lavender.”

“Precisely. Even if—? George?”

George shuffled his feet. “Even if she starts it.”

Mara nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve all remembered the rules regarding Lavender, please tidy yourselves and put away your weaponry. It’s time for breakfast.”

A ripple of hesitation passed over the boys, each one of the dozen or so faces peering up at Temple in frank assessment.

“Young men,” Mara said, gaining their attention. “I believe I spoke in proper English, did I not?”

Daniel stepped forward, a small, sharp chin jutting in Temple’s direction. “Who’s he?”

“No one for you to worry about,” Mara assured him.

The boys seemed skeptical. Smart boys.

Matthew tilted his head, considering Temple. “He’s very big.”

“Strong, too,” another pointed out.

Daniel nodded, and Temple noticed that the boy’s gaze tracked the scar high on his cheek. “Is he ’ere to take us? For work?”

Years of practice kept Temple from revealing his surprise at the question, a split second before understanding rocketed through him. The building was an orphanage. He supposed he should have seen that earlier, but orphanages tended to conjure visions of miserable boys in long lines for bowls of steaming grey mush. Not battalions of screaming warriors chasing after pigs.

“Of course not. No one is taking you.”

Daniel turned his attention to her. “Who is he, then?”

Temple raised a brow, wondering just how she’d reply to that. It wasn’t as though she could tell the truth.

She met Temple’s gaze, firm and fierce. “He’s here to exact his revenge.”

A dozen little mouths gaped. Temple resisted the urge to join them. Daniel spoke again. “Revenge for what?”

“A lie I told.”

Christ. She was fearless.

“Lying is a sin,” little George pointed out.

Mara smiled a little, secret smile. “Indeed it is. And if you do it, men like this will come and punish you.”

Like that, she’d turned him into a villain again. Temple scowled as a roomful of round, wide eyes turned on him. He spoke then. “So you see, boys . . . I’ve business with Mrs. MacIntyre.”

“She didn’t mean to lie,” Daniel defended her.

Temple was certain that Mrs. MacIntyre had absolutely meant to lie, but when he looked to the boy, he couldn’t resist saying, “Nonetheless, she did.”

“She must’ve had a good reason. Didn’t you?” A sea of young faces looked to Mara.

Something sparkled in her gaze. Humor? She found this situation amusing? “I did indeed, Henry, which is why I fully intend to make a deal with our guest.”

Over his rotting corpse. There would be no deals. “Perhaps we should discuss the reason, Mrs. MacIntyre.”

She tilted her head, refusing to cower. “Perhaps,” she said, sounding as though she meant the absolute opposite.

It seemed to be enough for most of the boys, but Daniel’s gaze narrowed. “We should stay. Just to be safe,” and, for a moment, Temple saw something eerily familiar in the boy.

Mistrust.

Suspicion.

Strength.

“That’s very kind of you, Daniel,” Mara said, moving to usher the boys through a door on one side of the foyer, “but I assure you, I shall be quite fine.”

And she would be. Temple had no doubt.

Neither did most of the boys, it seemed, who went, as though there had been no pig stealing or chasing or sparring or vaulting through the air or anything else—all except Daniel, who didn’t seem sure, but allowed himself to be filed from the room, looking over his shoulder the whole way, assessing Temple with serious dark eyes.

It had been a long time since someone had so fearlessly faced him.

The boy was loyal to Mara.

Temple was almost impressed, until he remembered the woman in question was a demon and deserved no such loyalty.

When she closed the door firmly behind the pack of boys, he rocked back on one heel. “Mrs. MacIntyre?”

At the pointed question, she darted her attention to the wide-eyed maid, still frozen in place at the door. “That will be all, Alice. Please tell Cook that the boys are ready for breakfast. And send tea to the receiving room for our guest.”

Temple raised a brow. “Even if I were a man who drank tea, I know better than to ingest anything you offer me. Ever again.” He looked quickly to Alice. “No offense, Alice.”

Mara’s cheeks went red. Good. She should be embarrassed. She could have killed him with her reckless behavior.

“Thank you, Alice.” The girl couldn’t have been happier to leave the room.

When she did, Temple spoke. “Mrs. MacIntyre?”

She met him head on. “Yes.”

“What happened to Mr. MacIntyre?”

“He was a soldier,” she said simply, “killed in action.”

He raised a brow. “Where?”

She narrowed her gaze. “Most people are not rude enough to ask.”

“I lack breeding.”

She scowled. “The Battle of Nsamankow, if you must know.”

“Well done. Obscure enough that no one could trace him.” He looked around the foyer. “And respectable enough to land you here.”

She changed the subject. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Not enough arsenic in the scotch?”

“It wasn’t arsenic,” she snapped before lowering her voice. “It was laudanum.”

“So you admit you drugged me.”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“And, to confirm, it was not the first time?” When she did not reply, he added, “The first time you drugged me and ran, that is.”

She exhaled a little huff of irritation before coming forward and taking his arm, ushering him toward the room into which the pig had fled. Her touch was firm and somehow warm even through the wool of his jacket, and he had a fleeting memory of his dream—of her fingers trailing through the drop of wax on his sleeve.

She was unsettling.

No doubt because she was a danger to his life. Both literally and figuratively.

She shut the door, closing them into a clean, unassuming receiving room. A small iron stove stood in the far corner of the space, a fire burning happily inside, warming the piglet who had narrowly escaped certain death only minutes earlier and now appeared to be asleep. On a cushion.

The woman had a pig on a cushion. Named Lavender.

If he hadn’t spent his last several conscious hours in a state of surprise, he would have thought the animal strange. Instead, he turned to face the pig’s owner, who was pressed against the door of the room.

“I did not exactly run,” she qualified. “I left you my address. I practically—no. I definitely invited you to come after me.”

He raised a brow. “How magnanimous of you.”

“If you hadn’t been so angry—” she began.

He couldn’t help but interrupt her. “You think that leaving me unconscious on the floor of my library assuaged my anger?”

“I covered you with a blanket,” she defended herself.

“Silly me. Of course, that resolves everything.”

She sighed, her strange, compelling gaze meeting his. “I did not mean for it to go the way it did.”

“And yet you packed an excess of laudanum for the journey to my home.”

“Well, you’re a bit larger than most men—I had to be prepared with an excess dosage. And you’d taken my knife.”

He raised a brow. “Your sharp tongue will not endear you to me.”

She mirrored his expression. “A pity, as I was doing such a good job of it beforehand.”

A laugh threatened, and he quashed it. He would not be amused by her.

She was toxic. Toxic was not amusing.

She pressed on. “I do not deny that I deserve a modicum of your anger, but I will not be strong-armed.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that word with me. Need I remind you that for the duration of our acquaintance only one of us has drugged the other? Twice?”

A red wash appeared on her cheeks. Guilt? Impossible. “Nevertheless, it seems an apt description of how you might behave with me, Your Grace.”

He wished she’d stop calling him that. He hated the honorific—the way it scraped up his spine, reminding him of all the years he’d longed for it. The years he couldn’t have it, even though it was his by right.

Even though he deserved it.

Of course, he hadn’t known that.

He hadn’t killed her.

The realization remained a shock.

He hadn’t known. All those years—he’d lived with the idea that he might have been a killer. All those years.

She’d stolen them from him.

A wave of anger washed through him, hot and uncomfortable. Vengeance had never been his nourishment, and now, even as he could not resist it, he tasted the bitterness of it on his tongue.

He snapped his attention to her. “What happened?”

Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“Twelve years ago, at Whitefawn. On the eve of your wedding. What happened?”

She hesitated. “You don’t remember?”

“I was quite drugged. So, no, in fact, I don’t remember.”

Not for lack of trying. He’d played the evening over and over in his head, hundreds of times, thousands. He remembered scotch. He remembered wanting a woman. Reaching for one. He couldn’t picture a face, but he remembered strange eyes and auburn curls and pretty curves and laughter that was half innocence, half sin.

And those eyes. No one could forget those eyes. “I remember you were with me.”

She nodded, and pink scored her cheeks again.

He’d known it. It was one of the things he’d never doubted. He’d been young and full of liquor and had never met a woman he couldn’t seduce. Of course he’d been with her.

And, suddenly, he wanted to know everything. He moved closer, noting the way she stiffened, pressing back against the door. “And before you set me up—before you faked your death and ran like a coward—we were alone?”

She swallowed, and he couldn’t help but watch the muscles of her throat, the way the muscles there betrayed her nerves. Her guilt. “Yes.”

She looked down at her skirts. Smoothed them. He noticed she wasn’t wearing gloves—same as the prior evening. As in his dream. But now, in the light of day, he saw the marks of work on them: blunt, clean nails; sun-worn skin; and a ghost of a scar on her left hand, just pale enough to have been long healed.

He did not like that scar.

And he did not like that he’d noticed it.

“For how long?”

“Not long.”

He exhaled a humorless laugh at that. “Long enough.”

Her gaze flew to his, wide and open and filled with . . . something. “Long enough for what?”

“Long enough for you to incapacitate me.”

She exhaled, and he knew she’d hidden something from him. He considered her for a long moment, wishing he were in the ring. There, he saw his opponents’ vulnerability, open and raw. There, he knew where to strike.

Here, in this strange building, in this strange battle with this strange woman, things were not so easy.

“Tell me one thing. Did you know who I was?” For some reason, it mattered.

Her eyes met his, and there was truth in them, for once. “No.”

Of course she hadn’t. So what had she done? What had happened in that pretty yellow bedchamber all those years ago?

Dammit.

He understood combat enough to know that she wouldn’t tell him. And he understood it enough to know that if he showed his interest, she held the power.

And he’d be damned if he gave her any more power.

Today was his. He changed tack.

“You shouldn’t have returned. But since you did, your mistake is my reward. And the world will know the truth about us both.”

Mara was never so grateful in her life as she was the moment he shifted the conversation away from that long-ago night, and back to the matter at hand. She could handle him here. Now. Angry.

But the moment the present clouded over with past, she lost her nerve, uncertain of how to proceed with this enormous brute of a man and the years that had passed since the last time she’d seen him.

She resisted the thought and returned her attention to the matter at hand. “Then you are ready to negotiate?” Pretending not to be overwhelmed by him, she returned to her desk. Sat. “I shall draft the letter to the News today, assuming you are ready to clear the debts in question.”

He laughed. “Surely, you did not think it would be so easy.”

“I would not say easy.” It would not be easy. She’d written the letter a hundred times in her head. A dozen on paper. For years. And it never got easier. “I would say quick, however. Surely that is of interest.”

He raised a brow. “I’ve waited twelve years for this. Neither ease nor quickness is paramount.”

She asked the question despite knowing the answer. “Then what is?”

“Retribution.”

She huffed a little laugh to cover the way the words unnerved her. “What do you plan to do? Parade me through the streets? Tarred and feathered?”

“The image is not entirely unpleasant.” He smiled then, and she imagined he’d smiled that particular smile a hundred times in his club. In his ring. “I do plan to parade you through London. But not tarred and feathered.”

Her brows rose. “What, then?”

“Painted. And primped.”

She shook her head. “They won’t have me.”

“Not like the wealthy heiress you once were, no.”

They’d barely accepted her then. She’d been a threat to everything they were. Everything they had. The pretty young daughter of a wealthy working man. She might have been rich enough, but she’d never been good enough for them.

“They won’t have me in their company.”

“They shall do what I say. You see, I am a duke. And, if I remember correctly, while killer dukes are not favored by the doyennes of the ton, those of us who have not committed murder tend to be well received.” He leaned closer. “Ladies like the idea of dukes.” The words were more breath than sound, and Mara resisted the urge to touch the exposed skin of her neck, to at once rub them away and to keep them there. “And you are mine to do with as I please.”

Her brows knit together at the words. At the way they spread through her, hot and threatening. “And what is that, precisely?”

“Precisely, whatever I desire.”

She stiffened. “I shan’t be your mistress.”

“First, you are in no position to make such demands. And second, I don’t recall offering to have you.”

She went hot with embarrassment. “Then what?”

He shrugged, and she hated him in that moment. “I don’t trust you anywhere near my sleeping form . . . but they needn’t know that.”

The words stung. “Mistress in name only?”

He came closer, close enough to feel the heat of him. “Twelve years of lying to my detriment has no doubt made you a convincing actress. It’s time to use all that practice to lie for my benefit. As I please.”

She straightened her shoulders and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. He was so close—close enough that at another time, in another place, as another woman, she might come up on her toes and press her lips to his.

Where had that thought come from?

She wanted nothing to do with kissing this man.

He was not for kissing. Not anymore.

She pursed her lips. “So you wish to ruin me.”

“You ruined my life,” he said, all casualness. “I think it only fair, don’t you?”

She had been ruined for twelve years—from the moment she’d bloodied the sheets and ran from that room.

She had been ruined before then.

But she’d hidden it well, and she had a houseful of boys to care for. Perhaps her ruin was his due. Perhaps it was hers as well. But she’d be damned if he’d ruin MacIntyre’s and the safe haven she’d built for these boys.

“So I will have to leave. Start over.”

“You’ve done it before,” he said.

As had he.

Vengeance was a pretty thing, wasn’t it?

She straightened her shoulders. “I accept.” For a half second, his eyes went wide, and she took pleasure in his shock. Evidently, he’d underestimated her strength and her purpose. “But I’ve a condition of my own.”

Tell him.

The thought came from nowhere.

Tell him Christopher’s debt included all the orphanage’s funds.

She met his gaze. Cold. Unyielding. Uncaring. Like the eyes of the boys’ fathers.

Tell him that what he does threatens the boys.

“I see no reason why I should allow for any of your conditions,” he said.

“Because you haven’t a choice. I disappeared once. I can do it again.”

He watched her for a long moment, the threat hanging between them, his gaze going dark with irritation. With something worse. Something closer to hate. And perhaps he should hate her. She’d crafted him with the skill of a master sculptor, not from marble, but from flesh and blood and fury. “If you ran, I would find you. And I would take no prisoners.”

The promise was thick with anger and truth.

He would stop at nothing to exact his vengeance. She was at risk, and everything she loved.

But she would not put the boys at risk.

She threw herself into the fray, already considering her next steps . . . how she would protect the boys, the house, and its legacy if he made good on his promise. She straightened her shoulders, and entered the fray. “If you treat me like a whore, you pay me like one.”

The words stung him. She could see it, the blow there and then gone, as though they were in the ring where he reigned. When he did not retaliate, she threw her next punch. “I shall do whatever you ask. However you ask it. I shall play your silly game until you decide to reveal me to the world. Until you decide to send me packing. And when you do, I shall go.”

“For your brother’s debt.”

“For whatever I wish.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a fleeting half smile, and for a moment Mara thought that in another place, in another time, as another woman, she might have enjoyed making him smile.

But right now, she hated it.

“He’s not worth you.”

“He’s not your concern.”

“Why? Some kind of sisterly love?” His eyes blackened, and she let him believe it. Anything to keep him from the orphanage. “His is a face badly in need of a fist.”

Retribution.

“And yet you will not fight him,” she said, feeling angrier than she would have imagined. “Are you afraid to give him a chance?”

He raised a brow, but did not rise to the bait. “I’ve never been bested.”

She smiled. “Did I not best you last night?”

He stilled at the words, then looked up. She saw shock in his black eyes, in the way they widened just barely for just a moment. She resisted the urge to grin her triumph. “You gloat over drugging me?”

She shook her head. “I gloat over felling you. That is the goal, is it not? You owe me the money.”

“In the ring, Miss Lowe. That is where it counts.”

She did smile then, knowing it would annoy him. Hoping it would annoy him. “Semantics. You’re embarrassed to admit I beat you handily.”

“With the help of enough narcotics to take down an ox.”

“Nonsense. A horse, maybe. But not an ox. And you are embarrassed. I work with boys, Your Grace. Need I remind you that I know one who is embarrassed when I see one?”

His gaze grew dark and serious again, and he leaned in, closer to her. Close enough for him to tower over her, more than six feet of muscle and bone, power and might, scars and sinew. He smelled of clove and thyme.

Not that she noticed.

And then he whispered, so close to her ear that she felt the words more than heard them as they sent a chill down her spine. “I am no boy.”

That much was true.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.

It was his turn to smile. “If you wish to fell me, Miss Lowe, I encourage you to meet me in the ring.”

“You will have to pay me for it.”

“And if I don’t agree? What then? You haven’t any choice.”

Truth.

“I also haven’t anything to lose.”

Lie.

“Nonsense,” he said. “There’s always something else to lose. I assure you. I would find it.”

He had her in his trap. She couldn’t run. Not without making sure the boys were safe. Not without securing the money that Kit had lost.

She met Temple’s black gaze, even as he seemed to read her thoughts. “You could run,” he whispered, “but I would find you. And you wouldn’t like what happened then.”

Damn him.

He wasn’t going to agree.

She wanted to scream. Nearly did, until he said, “You won’t be the first woman I have paid to do my bidding . . .”

A vision flashed—arms and legs tangled in crisp white sheets, dark hair and black eyes, and more muscle than one man should have.

“ . . . but I assure you, Miss Lowe, you will be the last.”

The words fell between them, and it took her a moment to refocus her thoughts on them. To realize that he’d agreed. That the orphanage would be saved.

Its price, her ruin. Her life. Her future.

But it would be saved.

Relief was fleeting, interrupted by his low promise. “We begin tonight.”