Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover (The Rules of Scoundrels 4)

“And you will care for her.”

One of the viscount’s brows rose. “If you do not, yes.”

The insolence from the titled pup made Duncan want to upend the hazard table from whence he’d come. He could not care for her. He would not saddle her with his life. With his secrets.

And she did not wish them.

What if we married?

For however long he lived, he would remember that question, spoken softly in his arms – the little possibility that came on a silly dream. When he breathed his last, in prison or at the end of a rope, that question would be his last thought.

It did not matter that she hadn’t meant it. Not the way he wished.

She wished the title. She wished safety and comfort and propriety for her daughter. And he knew better than any how important those were. How much she would give up for them.

And he would give them to her.

The viscount punctuated the thought. “You should be the one to care for her.”

“I will be,” he said. “This is how I will do it.”

Langley considered him for a long moment before nodding once. “Then if she will have me, I will have her.”

Duncan hated the way the words rioted through him, the visceral fury that came with them. The way he wanted to rail against God and the world that this was his fate – to love a woman he could not have.

But instead of that, he said, “If there is ever anything I can do for you, my lord, my papers are at your disposal.”

Langley rocked back on his heels. “I may come and see you sooner than you think.”

The viscount turned away, and Duncan was left alone at the edge of the casino floor, watching the crowds, waiting for her.

“I see your membership has been reinstated,” the Marquess of Bourne said at his elbow. “So you can see the fruits of your very idiotic labor?”

Duncan winced at the words, but did not resist them. He’d put a price on Chase’s head, and by extension, on this place and all her owners. Instead, he asked, “What is she planning?”

“All I know is that she’s about to make a damn mistake. But no one tells Chase how to live.”

“What mistake?” Duncan asked, not taking his gaze from the crowd. Desperate to find her. To stop her from doing whatever it was she was going to do. He’d made the mess of posting a reward for Chase’s identity – it should be he who cleared it up.

“She wouldn’t tell us anything else. Only that it was her decision to make – which is debatable at best – and some idiocy about us all having families now, and plenty of money, and the club having run its course.”

Dread pooled deep within. “She’s giving up the club?”

But why?

“In Chase’s fashion, she’s thought it all through,” Bourne said, exasperation in his tone, as though this were the whim of a silly girl and not the destruction of years of her work and dreams.

Duncan swore roundly.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He couldn’t allow it. He could save her in another way. He searched for her again. “Where is she?”

“Knowing Chase, she’s going to make an entrance.” Bourne paused. “It goes without saying that if she is hurt in any way… if Caroline is marked in any way by this night…”

Duncan met the marquess’s eyes. “I would expect repercussions.”

“Repercussions,” Bourne scoffed. “We will disappear you, and you will never be found.”

“I assume you were sent with precisely that message?”

“That, and one other,” Bourne said. “You should not let her go.”

His went cold at the words, then hot. “I don’t follow.”

Bourne smirked, but did not take his gaze from the crowds. “You’re the smartest man I know, West. You follow perfectly well.”

You should not let her go.

As if he had a choice.

The crowd grew more and more raucous – drink flowed freely throughout the casino, and every table on the floor was filled with gamers basking in the glow of chance. The place was alive with sound, the calls of the croupiers, the cheers of the audience at hazard, the groans of those at roulette. He imagined he could hear the rasp of the cards at vingt-et-un as they slid over the baize, each sound more lush and magnificent than it had ever been – because he now knew it was her doing… her creation.

“I will say this for her, though,” Bourne said, watching the floor, considering the sheer number of gamers before them. “If we close our doors for good tonight, it will be with a bigger take than we’ve ever had.”

“I have to stop her.”

Bourne raised a brow. “I confess, I had hoped you would consider doing so. I’ve a family to feed.”

The Marquess of Bourne had enough money and land to feed all the families in Britain, but Duncan had other things to do than joust with the man. “Where would she be?”

Bourne looked up, to the stained glass, where Lucifer tumbled to the casino floor. “If I had to guess…”

Duncan was on his way, pushing through the crowds, weaving between tables, headed for the heavily guarded door at the far end of the room. He was nearly there when he heard his name, behind him, in a voice that at The Fallen Angel was equally familiar and foreign.

After all, the Earl of Tremley was not a member.

Duncan said as much, and Tremley smiled, coming closer. “I was invited tonight. By your Anna. I was told she was pretty, but once one meets her – she is – glorious.”

The words sent fury through Duncan, who could not bear the thought of Georgiana and Tremley breathing the same air, let alone being in the same room. “What have you done?”

“Nothing that you didn’t do yourself,” Lord Tremley sneered. “Indeed, you painted with a rather broad brush – five thousand pounds for Chase’s identity? You think he will simply lay back and let the hordes come to find him? I got it done.”

He froze. “Got what done?”

“Your girl. We made a trade. It was really quite sweet.”

No.

Duncan knew what was to come before Tremley revealed it. “She did it for you, the poor creature. Thinking that if she revealed Chase’s secrets, she would save you.” He looked to West. “We both know that’s not true.”

She was doing it to save him.

She’d said as much, hadn’t she?

Tremley had given her a choice: her club or him.

I choose you.

She’d made the choice without hesitation.

It is time for you to trust me.

He could not let her ruin her life. Could not let her give up this world that she had worked so hard to build. Something danced at the edge of his thoughts – something that did not sit well. Her plan – if it was to be a public reveal – would not help Tremley. If the whole world had Chase’s identity, Tremley was still beholden to the Angel, which held his secrets.

But now, he knew how to make Georgiana dance.

And Tremley would do it. Forever. He would hold Georgiana and this place in his sway with the same simple threat he’d held over Duncan for a lifetime.

And Duncan had had enough.

He’d spent years waiting for Tremley to report his crimes, to send him to prison, to string him up. He’d spent years amassing fortune and favor to ensure that, should it ever happen, someone somewhere would care for Cynthia. He’d groveled and scraped and done Tremley’s bidding.

But he was done.

He opened his mouth to tell the earl just that when a cacophony of shouts came from across the room, where Georgiana stood, dressed head to toe in scarlet, atop a hazard field. Behind her, Lucifer fell.

She was going to do it.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” she called out, moving her arms to indicate that they should settle. “And ladies.” She looked to a small band of masked women at the edge of the room.

A man on the floor by the table reached for her slipper. West was already in motion, heading to destroy the vermin, whe

n she stepped on the blackguard’s wrist, eliciting a sharp cry. “Oh,” she said, all smiles. “Do excuse me, Lord Densmore. I did not know your hand was so near to my foot.”

He stopped, a roomful of masculine laughter crashing around him as she continued, “We are all so happy that you have joined us for what will be a supremely edifying evening.”

Shit.

She was going to do it.

He was moving toward her, but the crowd was thick and would not budge. This was, after all, the strange occurrence for which they’d been waiting.

“As you know, our dear friend Duncan West has put out a reward for Chase’s identity …”

West froze as her words were met with a chorus of boos and hisses and hear-hears. Several men nearby clapped him on the back. “She’s after you, West,” one man whispered.

“And we have no doubt that very soon, one of you enterprising gentlemen will discover the truth about the founder of the Angel.” She paused. “Five thousand pounds is, after all, a great deal of money to a motley group that loses blunt so well.”

More laughter, but Duncan ignored it, desperate to get to her. To stop her, however he could.

“But we believe in fairness here! Or, at least, we believe that money should be flowing into our pockets, instead of out! And so it is time for a confession…” She paused for dramatic effect, and he realized he would not reach her in time.

She spread her arms wide. “I am Chase!”

It hadn’t occurred to him that they wouldn’t believe her, but as the laughter that came with the pronouncement rippled over them, he realized how he could save her, and the club, and how he could set them all free.

How many times had she told him?

People believe what they wish to believe.

And not one of the men in attendance wanted to believe that Chase was a woman.

He took to the nearest faro table, pulling himself up, standing to face her. “I shan’t pay until you provide proof, Anna,” he said, injecting his tone with relaxed teasing. He looked out across the room. “Would anyone else like to make an announcement? I’ll repeat myself, here in this glorious place Chase built. Five thousand pounds for his identity. I’ll pay this very night.”

He stopped, and prayed that one of her business partners was smart enough to see what he was doing.

Cross stood first, climbing high on a roulette table. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe that I am Chase, will you, West?”

Duncan shook his head. “I will not.”

“Nor I?” Temple was on a vingt-et-un table at the other end of the room. He reached down and pulled his wife up onto the table with him. “Perhaps the duchess?”

Her Grace called out, “I am Chase!”

And the room laughed.

One by one, men and women beholden to Georgiana claimed Chase for themselves from around the room. The club’s security detail, the pit boss, Bourne, croupiers, the women who worked the floor of the Angel. Two footmen. The club’s French chef somehow heard the commotion, came in from the kitchen, climbed up on a roulette table and proclaimed herself, “La Chasse.”

And then others got in on the fun – men who had never met her, never come close to her. They simply wanted the laugh that came when someone proclaimed, “I am Chase.”

Each time it was offered to the room – a bold, firm “I am Chase” – the gamers on the floor laughed, and Chase became myth. Legend.

For certainly there was no single Chase, not if all these people admitted to being the man behind the stained glass window, watching from his domain high above their world.

Duncan looked to Georgiana, standing, incredulous, on her table, watching her world stand for her. Without hesitation.

She met his gaze, and he saw the tears glistening in those eyes. He wanted to climb over the tables to get to her, to tell her how much she was loved. To tell her how remarkable she was.

“No!” The Earl of Tremley howled from his place on the floor of the casino, and Duncan turned to find the man clamoring to get to him. “It’s not true!” Tremley cried, high-pitched and nasal as he climbed up onto another table, facing him. “You only play at this game with your whore to keep your own history secret!”

Silence fell at the anger in the earl’s tone.

Duncan’s heart began to pound as Tremley turned to the room. “Ask yourselves, who is this man who runs your newspapers? Where did he come from? How did he rise?”

Duncan looked to Georgiana, taking in her wide, frightened gaze, knowing that this was the end – that Tremley would reveal everything, and with that, he would lose everything.

And strangely, as he waited for the axe to fall, the only thing he cared was that Georgiana was safe.

Tremley asked one final question. “What is his name?”

There was silence as Tremley’s words echoed through the room.

Duncan was holding Georgiana’s gaze, ready for what came next, so he saw it when she replied, her red lips curving into a bold smile that did not reach her eyes.

Her eyes were too full of fear.

“Don’t tell us his name is Chase, my lord.”

And with that single, well-placed sentence, she set the casino to laughing, his beautiful, brilliant love. She saved him. Just as he had saved her, in front of the wide world, where none but the two of them could see it.

At the laughter, Tremley went mad, reaching into his coat to remove a pistol, turning it on West. “I am through with you.”

The laughter in the casino died the moment Tremley extracted his pistol, quickly replaced by shock.

Georgiana could think only of Duncan.

She had not just saved him in one way to lose him in another. She looked across the room at Bourne and Temple, both of whom were headed for the place where Tremley stood, but they were too far and the club was too full. They’d never get to him in time.

Duncan raised his hands into the air. “My lord,” he said. “You do not want to do this.”

Tremley laughed, “There are few things in the world I want to do more than this. How dare you think you can use my sins against me? Does it not occur to you who I am?”

“I know who you are,” Duncan said. “Many people do. Everyone here. And if you kill me, they will know it.”

“But they won’t care.”

“I think they will,” she announced, impressed that she was able to keep the fear from her tone. Terrified that he would shoot.

Terrified that she would lose Duncan before she had a chance to tell him how much she loved him. Terrified of life without him.

Tremley turned the weapon on her, and she’d never in her life been more grateful than when Duncan was no longer in harm’s way. “They certainly won’t care if I kill you.”

“No!” Duncan’s shout came loud and clear and full of fury, and from the corner of her eye, Georgiana saw him running for the earl, leaping from table to table.

Georgiana focused on the pistol, wondering if Tremley had the courage to pull the trigger. Wondering who would care for Caroline if she were killed.

Wondering who would love Duncan if she were killed.

Wishing she’d had the courage to tell him she loved him. Just once.

“Tell me, my lord,” a strong, clear voice rang out next to Georgiana, and she turned to see a masked woman, standing on a table behind Duncan. “Who will care if I kill you, you treasonous bastard?”

It was Lady Tremley.

Georgiana placed the voice a split-second before Duncan leapt to tackle Tremley to the ground, and a gunshot sounded in the massive room.

Tremley and Duncan fell from the tables, and Georgiana was instantly in motion, heading for them, her heart in her throat, before they hit the ground.

The crowd went wild, screaming and scattering, nearly trampling each other in their rush to get away from the weapon and the scene of the murder. Georgiana couldn’t find Duncan – between the smoke from the pistol’s report, and the crush of people, she could not see him..

She flew over the tables, staying on high ground, leaping from roulette to faro to vingt-et-un to hazard, crossing the casino floor to where he had been moments earlier.

Praying that he was safe.

When she found him, he was on the floor, on his back, eyes closed. She leapt down beside him, crying his name. “No…” she whispered, putting her hands to his chest, unbuttoning his coat. “No no no no.” The word became her chant as she slid her hands into his jacket, throwing the lapels back, searching his chest for blood or a wound. Or anything.

He captured her hand in his. “Stop.”

Her breath caught. “You’re alive.”

He opened his eyes. “I am.”

She burst into tears.

“Oh, love,” he said, sitting up and pulling her into his arms. “No. Don’t cry.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Christ,” he whispered to the hair there. “You were magnificent. You saved me, you gorgeous, perfect girl.”

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

He shook his head. “I am not.” He looked past her, finding Tremley’s motionless body on the floor nearby. “The lady is an excellent shot.”

Tremley was dead.

Duncan straightened his coat, feeling in his pockets for brief moments before he turned back around to look at the floor.

“What is it?” she asked.

He leaned over, lifted something from the carpet nearby. “In your desperation to touch me, you nearly lost my most prized possession.” He straightened, brandishing a feather.

Her feather.

Plucked from her coif on the first night they’d met as Georgiana and West, at the Worthington Ball.

The tears came again as she watched him slip the feather into his coat pocket, against his heart. He reached for her, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t cry, darling. I am well. Sound. Here.”

But for how long?

“I thought he was going to kill you,” she said, hating the way the words shook from her, the way her body had gone cold and shaking in the wake of his near loss. “I thought I would lose you.”

“He didn’t kill me,” he promised. “And you’ll never lose me. You’ve ruined me for all others. Forever.”