No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(21)

It did not take a brilliant mind to hear the insinuation. To understand the foulness in the words. A lesser man would have allowed rage to come without seeing all the pieces in play, but Cross was not a lesser man.

He did not simply hear the threat. He heard the offer.

“You will not speak to my sister again.”

Knight dipped his head. “Do you really believe you are in a position to make such a pronouncement?”

Cross stood, transferring his coat to the crook of one arm. “I will pay the debts. Double them. I’ll send the draft around tomorrow. And you will steer clear of my family.”

He turned to leave.

Knight spoke from his place. “No.”

Cross stopped, looking over his shoulder, allowing emotion into his tone for the first time. “That is the second time you have refused me in as many days, Digger. I do not like it.”

“I’m afraid the debt cannot be repaid so easily.”

Digger Knight had not made his name as one of the most hardened gamers in London by playing by the rules. Indeed, it was Knight’s penchant for rule-breaking that had saved Cross’s hide all those years ago. He’d enjoyed the way Cross’s mind had worked. He’d forced him to reveal how he counted the deck, how he calculated the next card, how he knew when and how much to bet.

How Cross always won.

At the tables, at least.

He turned back to his nemesis. “What, then?”

Digger laughed, a full-throated, heaving-bellied guffaw that had Cross gritting his teeth. “What a remarkable moment . . . the great Cross, willing to give me whatever I want. How very . . . responsible of you.” There was no surprise in the tone, only smug satisfaction.

And that’s when Cross realized that it had never been about Dunblade. Knight wanted something more, and he’d used the only thing Cross held dear to get it.

“You waste my time. What do you want?”

“It’s simple, really,” Knight said. “I want you to make my daughter a countess.”

If he’d been asked to guess the price Knight would place on his sister’s reputation and the safety of her children, Cross would have said there was nothing that could surprise him. He’d have been prepared for an offer to become part-owner in the Angel, for a request for the Angel’s floor boss or bouncers to come work for Knight’s, or for Cross himself to take up post at Digger’s hell.

Cross would have expected extortion—a doubling of the debt, a tripling of it, enough to level a financial blow. He would even have imagined some proposal of joint partnership between the clubs; Knight loathed the way The Fallen Angel had catapulted to aristocratic success in a matter of months after opening, while Knight’s remained a mediocre, second-rate hell that collected the peers rejected by the Angel’s rigorous standards of membership.

But never, ever would he have imagined this request.

So he did the only thing one could do in this situation. He laughed. “Are we listing the things we would like? If so, I should like a gold-plated flying apparatus.”

“And I would find a way to give it to you if you held in your hands one of the few things I hold dear.” Knight stamped out his cheroot.

“I was not aware that you held Meghan dear.”

Knight’s gaze snapped to Cross’s. “How do you know her name?”

A hit.

Cross considered what he knew of Knight’s only child, the information he’d learned from the files kept locked away in the inner safe of the Angel. The ones that held the secrets of their potential enemies—politicians, criminals, clergy with a love of fire and brimstone, and competitors.

The information was as clear as if Knight’s file were spread on the desk between them.

Name: Meghan Margaret Knight, b. 3 July 1812.

“I know quite a bit about young Meghan.” He paused. “Or should I call her Maggie?”

Knight collected himself. “I never cared for it.”

“No, I don’t imagine you did, what with the way it oozes Irish.” Cross draped his coat over the back of the chair, enjoying the small amount of control he had gained. “Meghan Margaret Knight. I’m surprised you allowed it.”

Knight looked away. “I let her mother name her.”

“Mary Katharine.”

Mary Katharine O’Brien, Irish, b. 1796, m. Knight—February 1812.

“I should have known you would have information on them.” He scowled. “Chase is a bastard. One day, I’m going to give him the pounding he deserves.”

Cross folded his arms at the reference to his partner, and founder of The Fallen Angel. “I guarantee that will never happen.”

Knight met his eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful. After all, you know about the girl already. It will be like marrying an old friend.”

Residence: Bedfordshire; small cottage on the High Street.

Knight sends £200, 4th of every month; does not visit and has not seen the girl since mother and child were sent away, October 1813.

Girl raised with a governess, speaks mediocre French.

Attended Mrs. Coldphell’s Finishing School for Girls—day student.

“Since when do you give a fig about your daughter?”

Knight shrugged. “Since she’s old enough to be worth something.”

There was one more line, written in Chase’s bold, black scrawl.