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.”