“Bollocks the lower hells,” Croix spat. “What will people think? What will it take? I’ll pay double . . . triple. She’s plenty of money.”

Bourne was nothing if not a businessman. “You marry the girl and pay your debts, with interest, and we shall reinstate your membership.”

“What do I do until then?” The sound of the earl’s whine was unpleasant.

“You might try temperance,” Temple offered, casually.

Relief made Croix stupid. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows what you did.”

Temple stilled, his voice filled with menace. “And what was that?”

Terror removed the minimal intelligence from the earl’s instincts, and he threw a punch at Temple, who caught the blow in one enormous fist and pulled the smaller man toward him with wicked intent.

“What was that?” he repeated.

The earl began to mewl like a babe. “N-nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll leave. Now. I swear. Please . . . d-don’t hurt me.”

Temple sighed. “You’re not worth my energy.” He released the earl.

“Get out,” Bourne said, “before I decide that you are worth mine.”

The earl fled the room.

Bourne watched him go before adjusting the line of his waistcoat and straightening his frock coat. “I thought he might soil himself when you took hold of him.”

“He would not be the first.” Temple sat in a low chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

Bourne brushed a hand across the half-inch linen cuff that peeked out from underneath his coat, making certain the swath of white fabric was even before returning his attention to Temple and pretending not to understand the question. “To do what?”

“To restore your clothing to perfection.” One side of Temple’s mouth curled in a mocking smile. “You’re like a woman.”

Bourne leveled the enormous man with a look. “A woman with an extraordinary right hook.”

The smile became a grin, the expression showing off Temple’s nose, broken and healed in three places. “You aren’t honestly suggesting that you could beat me in battle, are you?”

Bourne was assessing the condition of his cravat in a nearby mirror. “I’m suggesting precisely that.”

“May I invite you into the ring?”

“Anytime.”

“No one is getting into the ring. Certainly not with Temple.” Bourne and Temple turned toward the words, spoken from a hidden door at the far end of the room, where Chase, the third partner in The Fallen Angel, watched them.

Temple laughed at the words and turned to face Bourne. “You see? Chase knows enough to admit that you’re no match for me.”

Chase poured a glass of scotch from a decanter on a nearby sideboard. “It has nothing to do with Bourne. You’re built like a stone fortress. No one is a match for you.” The words turned wry. “No one but me, that is.”

Temple leaned back in his chair. “Anytime you’d like to meet me in the ring, Chase, I shall clear my schedule.”

Chase turned to Bourne. “You’ve paupered Croix.”

He stalked the perimeter of the room. “Like sweets from a babe.”

“Five years in business, and I remain surprised by these men and their weakness.”

“Not weakness. Illness. The desire to win is a fever.”

Chase’s brows rose at the metaphor. “Temple is right. You are a woman.”

Temple barked in laughter and stood, all six and a half feet of him. “I have to get back to the floor.”

Chase watched Temple cross the room, headed for the door. “Haven’t had your brawl tonight?”

He shook his head. “Bourne snatched it out from under me.”

“There’s still time.”

“A man can hope.” Temple left the room, the door closing firmly behind him, and Chase moved to pour another glass of scotch, walking it to where Bourne stood staring intently into the fireplace. He accepted the offering, taking a large swallow of the golden liquor, enjoying the way it burned his throat.

“I have news for you.” Bourne turned his head, waiting. “News of Langford.”

The words washed over him. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this precise moment, for whatever it was that would come spilling from Chase’s mouth next. For nine years, he’d been waiting for news of this man who had stripped him of his past, his birthright.

His history.

Everything.

Langford had taken it all that night, all the lands, the funds, everything but an empty manor house and a handful of acres of land at the center of a larger estate—Falconwell. As he’d watched it all slip away, Bourne hadn’t understood the older man’s motives—hadn’t known the pleasure of turning an estate into a living, thriving thing. Hadn’t understood how much it would smart to turn it over to a mere boy.

Now, a decade later, he did not care.

He wanted his revenge.

The revenge he’d been waiting for.

It had taken nine years, but Bourne had rebuilt his fortune—doubled it. The money from the partnership in The Angel, along with several lucrative investments, had given him the opportunity to build an estate that rivaled the most extravagant in England.

But he’d never been able to reclaim what he’d lost. Langford had kept it all in a tight grip, unwilling to sell it, no matter how much he was offered, no matter how powerful the man who offered. And very powerful men had offered.