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

“A woman cannot be too careful, Your Grace.” It was her turn to raise her voice. To play to the crowd. To win their laughter. She smiled at him, bright and brilliant, and he wished they were anywhere but here. “But what of my challenge? Are we not evenly matched now that you’ve taken my blade?”

The crowd erupted in guffaws and a chorus of oh-hos, and Temple realized what she was doing. “Not in the ring, my love. But perhaps we can find another place to . . . discuss it.”

The men chortled, and she stiffened in his arms, her words carrying across the room. “I don’t think so. You hold a debt of mine. I am here to win it back. ’Tis the way of the Angel, is it not?”

Oooh, sang the crowd.

He shook his head slowly, playing to the crowd even as he spoke to her, quiet and serious. “I don’t fight women.” Remembering the first time he’d said it to her. The man he was then. Unsure of himself. Uncertain of his actions. No longer.

She curled one of the hands on his chest into a fist. “And tell me, Your Grace, have any of them ever challenged you here? In the ring?”

“She’s got a point, Temple!” someone in the assembly cried out.

“I’ll give you a hundred pounds to let me accept the challenge for you, Temple!”

“A hundred only? I’ve got five for a chit like that! I’d wager she’s glorious in the sheets!”

He released her and turned toward the words to find Oliver Densmore, the biggest ass in London, hanging on the ropes, tongue fairly hanging out of his mouth.

Temple resisted the urge to kick the man’s teeth in.

“Well, Your Grace?” Mara distracted him. “Have you ever had a challenge from one of my sex?”

The word sex rioted through him like a blow, and he was suddenly certain that she was the most skilled opponent he’d ever faced in this ring. “No.”

She turned in a slow circle to show her masked face to the room, finally stopping and facing the mirror where the women no doubt tittered and gossiped and wondered about her.

She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled, the expression wide and welcome, and for the first time since they’d met on that dark London street, he wondered what it would be like for that smile to be commonplace in his life. To know it well. “Ah,” she said, the words carrying through the room. “So you forfeit.”

He hesitated, not liking the thread of unease that came with the words. “No.”

She turned to the oddsmaker, whose wide eyes were in danger of escaping his head. “Is that not the way of the bouts, sirrah? The fight happens, or the fighter forfeits?”

The older man opened his mouth and closed it, looking to Temple for guidance. Smart man.

Temple crossed his arms over his chest and saved the poor git. “There are other ways to fight. Other ways for me to win.”

She turned then, looking over her shoulder, those lips curved and calm and defiant. And unbearably tempting. “Other ways for me to win, you mean.”

The crowd went wild. They adored her, this mysterious woman who seemed to have Temple and the rest of the world wrapped about her finger.

And somehow, in that moment, he did, too.

He was beside her in an instant, collecting her in his arms, pulling her tight to him, and taking her lips. Claiming her in front of God and London. Tasting her sweetness. Her spice. The roar of those assembled faded away as he consumed her, the kiss too rough, too searing, until he realized that she was matching it with her own passion. Her own fervor.

She’d felt it, too.

She wanted him just as he wanted her.

What a disaster. One he would worry about later.

He kissed her again and again, his hands coming to cup her face and hold her still as he claimed her with lips and tongue and teeth until the whole world had disappeared and there was nothing but her. And him. And this moment. And the way they matched.

The way she saw him.

The way he saw her.

But they weren’t alone, of course. And he was close to ravishing her in front of all of London.

Christ. He was kissing her in front of all of London.

He was ruining her.

He stopped, lifting his mouth from hers, loving the way she followed his lips, loving the way she ached for him as he ached for her.

No.

She was ruined. As though she were the whore he’d called her. The whore he’d meant them to think her. Except now the plan seemed flawed.

Christ. What had he done?

It had been the goal, had it not? Retribution? But somehow, it was all wrong. The plan hadn’t included desire. Or passion. Or emotion.

What had she done to him?

She lifted one auburn brow. “Well, Your Grace? Do you fight? Or forfeit?”

“Neither.”

He did not wait for her to reply, instead lifting her into his arms, grateful that her mask was still affixed to her face, and carrying her from the ring, the cheers of all of London in his ears.

It would have been an excellent plan, if not for the man blocking his path.

Christopher Lowe.

Heart pounding, Mara was caught up in Temple’s arms, too distracted by the strength of him and the excitement of their verbal bout and the euphoria of her unsettling him to realize that he’d stopped. She didn’t notice until he set her down, her body sliding along his until her feet found the sawdust-covered floor.

“Lowe,” he said, low and dark, and she spun toward the word. He was revealing her now? She supposed it was a good move. The checkmate of their game.

But disappointment came, nonetheless.

Until she realized he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her, over her right shoulder, into the eyes of her brother, who stood several feet away, on the edge of the ring, frustration and something worse in his gaze. Something unsettling. Something incalculable.

“You think you have won? You think you can take everything of mine . . .” He paused. “And my sister?”

The room went silent, every man present leaning forward to hear the conversation.

She stepped toward her brother, knowing that he was furious. Eager to calm him. To keep him from Temple. From ruining her plans. From ruining what she was building.

The good and the bad.

Temple stopped her with a hand on her arm, immediately placing himself between her and her brother. Kit was already shaking his head, coming forward, driven by stupidity, his voice loud and angry. “All of London thinks you a winner. A hero. But the Killer Duke is nothing more than a coward.” He looked to Mara, and she saw the loathing there, her father’s as much as Kit’s. “A coward and a whoremonger.”

The gasp that rippled through the room was Mara’s as much as any others’. The words were a blow, dealt from the one man who should have been concerned for her reputation. Temple would have to fight him now. He wouldn’t have a choice, and Kit knew it. One did not call a man a coward and not receive a fight. She stepped toward him, wanting to stop it. Wishing she could hurt him herself.

Temple’s arm came across her chest. He turned to her. Spoke softly, for her ears only. “No. This is my fight.”

There was anger in his gaze, too. But it was different, somehow.

It was for her.

Who was this man?

Kit did not see the anger, too blinded by his own bluster. “You won’t fight the one man who has an honest reason for it.” He lifted his fists. “But now I am here, and you can’t ignore me. You’ll fight me.”

The words unlocked the men assembled. They moved in a wave of humanity, bombarding the bookmakers around the room, each eager to place their bets.

“It’s the Fight of the Century!” someone called out.

“Two hundred on Temple for an immediate win!” Another cried, “A single round—repeated!”

“Fifty say

s Temple breaks three of Lowe’s ribs!” A deep voice called.

“I’ve seventy-five on the Killer Duke earning his moniker again!”

London had been waiting for this fight for a decade. For longer. The Killer Duke versus the brother of his kill. The ultimate David and Goliath.

Kit’s words from their meeting days earlier echoed through her. I am not free of this. And now, neither are you. He would ruin everything. Lose it all, again. And destroy everything she’d worked for in the process. Temple would get his vengeance; she would get nothing.

The thought should have brought resignation. Should have brought devastation. Should have come on the urge to flee. But instead, it brought sadness, for hadn’t there been a time, a moment, when she’d had a taste of what it would be to win it all? The money, the orphanage . . . the man?

She pushed the thought away.

He was not for winning. Certainly not by her.

She didn’t deserve him.

Now, after this, he would be rid of her.

Temple turned to her, pushing her back to the ropes. “Temple,” she said quietly, not knowing how she would finish.

This wasn’t my plan.

I didn’t know he was here.

Win.

He didn’t look at her. It was as though she didn’t exist. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. All she wanted was for him to see her. All she wanted was to go back. To the dressmaker. To the night on the street outside his home. To twelve years earlier.

All she wanted was to change it.

“Temple,” she said, again, wishing his name said all of it.

He ignored her, lifting her over the ropes and passing her down to the Marquess of Bourne standing on the other side. Bourne caught her and held her, keeping her safe from the throngs around them. “He should kill you for setting him up.”

Dear God. They couldn’t possibly think she’d planned this.

He couldn’t possibly.

Except, it was precisely what she would have thought, if the situation was reversed.

And she and Temple were two sides to the same coin.

She would tell him everything once he’d won. All of it. From the beginning. She would tell him that the money belonged to the orphanage. That she fought for the boys, and nothing else. That she did not wish him ill.

That she wished him to win.

But for now, she had no choice but to watch the bout. Temple faced Kit—faced her—and she saw that this was nothing like the fight with Drake. There was emotion in his eyes this time. Anger. Fury.

More.

He dragged his foot through the sawdust in a powerful, undeniable beginning.

Or perhaps it was an end.

The fight began, and even now, Temple followed his own rules. Allowing Kit the first move. Her brother grabbed at Temple with vicious intensity, landing a blow to the eye.

She hadn’t expected the sound of flesh on bone, the way fists fell with hollow thuds. The way knuckles slapped against bone. The sound turned her stomach as she watched Temple take first one hit, then another, then a third. And then, as though he’d been counting the blows, offering them for free before forcing her brother to pay for them, he came at Kit the way she’d always heard he fought.

His fists landed like thunder, pummeling Kit’s abdomen and sides, until her brother turned from the assault, taking a moment to find his breath. To find his strength. And went at Temple again.

Perhaps he was named because he was built like stone, impenetrable. Unbeatable. As though the world could come to an end, and Temple alone would survive. His fists rained down upon her brother. Jabbing and crossing and cutting until Kit fell away, coming to rest on the ropes mere inches from her, one eye nearly shut from the blows.

She might hate him at times. He might no longer be the boy she’d known—the one she’d left—but he was still her brother. And she did not wish him dead. She pled with him. “Kit! Stop this! He’ll kill you!”

He met her gaze, and she expected to see pain or regret or surprise there . . . but instead, she saw something unexpected. Hatred. “You chose him.”

She shook her head, instinctively. “No.” It wasn’t true. Was it? She’d chosen the boys. She’d chosen their safety.

And then . . . somehow, she’d chosen Temple.

The thought shocked her. Dear God. Had she chosen him?

Would he allow it? Her gaze flickered to him, coming at them. Coming to fetch Kit. Temple’s eyes found hers instead. Cold. Hard.

Betrayed.

She hated that look. Couldn’t face it. Turned back to her brother, who smiled, the way he always had when they were children and he was about to do something that they would enjoy, but that would no doubt earn him a beating from their father.

And then he reached for the floor of the ring.

For her knife.

She saw the gleam of silver before anyone else.

Mara gasped and screamed out, “No!”

But it was too late. He went at Temple without finesse—with sheer, unmitigated force.

Her gaze flew to Temple, who was not watching Kit.

He was watching her.

Dear God.

“He’ll kill you!” The same words, now with a different meaning. “No!” She was a madwoman, breaking free of Bourne’s grasp and pushing toward the ring, grasping at the ropes, trying to get to Temple.

Trying to save him.

The words were lost in the roar of the crowd, in the way they seethed and barked and howled like dogs on the hunt for blood.

Kit gave it to them.

The knife landed hard and deep in Temple’s chest, blood blooming from it like a perverse blossom.

She froze at the sight, halfway into the ring as someone caught her by the waist, pulling her back with wicked strength. She didn’t notice her scream until it was out and earsplitting.

And, for the first time since he’d taken to the ring twelve years earlier, the Killer Duke fell.

She couldn’t stop watching, unable to tear her gaze from the awkward angle of his legs and the river of blood pouring from him, spreading dark and ominous over the sawdust on the floor. A tall, ginger-haired man was in the ring then, on his knees at Temple’s side, stripping off his coat, barking orders, bending over to inspect the wound.

And then Mara couldn’t see at all, her view blocked by the dozen men already in the ring, trying to get to him. Each eager to be the first to make the call.

“He’s dead!”

“No,” she whispered, refusing to believe it.

What had she done?

Temple was too strong, too big, too alive for it to be true. She struggled against the arms holding her in an iron grip, desperate to be free. Desperate to get to him. To prove the words wrong. “No. It can’t be true.”

The arms around her tight almost to the point of pain. Bourne’s voice was a vicious promise at her ear. “You shall pay dearly if it is.”

Chapter 12

The men of The Fallen Angel stood watch over their fallen comrade.

It had taken three men to carry Temple from the ring—Bourne; Asriel; and Cross, the club’s financier—and the trio was winded when they barreled through the great steel door into Temple’s private rooms—the place he had crafted for quiet and peace.

They’d cleared the large, low table, and lay him on it before lighting every candle in the room. Without needing to be asked, Asriel left in search of hot water, linen, and a surgeon, though there was no promise that a surgeon could help. There was no promise that anyone but God himself could help. And to the owners of The Fallen Angel, God had rarely taken kindly.

Cross moved with quick, economical precision to investigate the wound. “Stay awake, you heavy bastard. You’re too big to fall.”

Temple struggled. “I shouldn’t be here

,” he said, his thoughts clouded and his tongue heavy. “I’ve a fight.” Cross angled one of Temple’s arms outward to test the location of the knife and Temple bowed off the pallet at the pain, fighting the movement.

“You’ve had a fight,” Justin, the club’s majordomo, said quietly from a few feet away. “You’ve had two.”

Temple shook his head, the movement loose, like a broken doll, a sign of delirium. “No. He’s run the dice too far this time. Too long. There are too many of them.”

Bourne came to hold him down, swearing harshly. “That was a long time ago, Temple. Years. We don’t run dice on the streets anymore.”

The door to the room opened, and neither man looked toward the sound. This room was as secure as if the King himself were here, clinging to life. If someone were entering, it was because they had access to the darkest secrets of the club.

“Justin, get back to the floor.” Chase had arrived. “We do not stop the fleecing of the aristocracy simply because Temple’s suffered a flesh wound.”

Bourne cut Chase a wicked look. “It took you long enough to get here.”

“I was the only one who remembered that we have a club to run. Where will Temple be if we bankrupt ourselves while he convalesces?”

Cross did not look up from the knife. “This is more than a flesh wound.”

Temple struggled against his partners’ hold. “I have to get to the fight! Bourne can’t beat them!”

“We beat them together,” Bourne said quietly, his face pale with frustration and worry. “We fought them together.”

Temple’s eyes shot open and he met Bourne’s gaze. “We will lose.”

Bourne shook his head. “Not with the devil on our side. Chase came.”

“I saved your ass then,” Chase said, leaning in, something catching in the words—something the founder of the Angel would never dream of admitting to. “I saved it then, just as we shall save it now.”

Temple shook his head. “I have to fight . . .” The words faded away, and he went limp on the pallet.

Bourne turned instantly to Cross, his voice gravel. “Is he—”

Cross shook his head. “No. Passed out.” He inspected the place where the knife was buried deep in Temple’s chest, thick and deep halfway between shoulder and breast. “It might not be fatal.”