And that legend had offered its own protection, giving her the freedom to move about the floor, to interact with members, and to play her part without fear of threat. No member of the club was willing to risk his membership for a taste of Anna.

She stood at the center of the casino floor, loving the massive room filled with gamers and tables, cards and dice, wins and losses. Every inch of the place was hers, every corner in her dominion.

It was a heady pleasure, this place of sin and vice and secrets – the throngs before her swayed in excitement, vibrating with desire and nerves and greed. London’s wealthiest and most powerful sat here night after night, money in their pockets and women in their laps, and played at chance, never knowing – or perhaps never acknowledging – that they would never beat the Angel. They would never win enough to reign here.

The Fallen Angel had its monarch.

It was the greed that kept them here – desperation for money, for luxury, for the win. Whatever club members wanted was theirs for the taking, often before they recognized the desire that ran hot within. And because of that, the club was marked the greatest in London’s history.

As White’s and Brooks’s and Boodle’s were for public schoolboys, the Angel was for men. And to gain entrance to the club, they would reveal all their secrets.

Such was the draw of sin.

And it was a pretty, pretty draw.

Her gaze landed on a collection of tables at the center of the casino floor, where roulette wheels spun in a blur of red and black, wagers strewn across green baize. It was her favorite place in the hell, in the middle of everything, where she could survey all she owned from its heart. She adored the sound of ivory balls on mahogany wheels, the clatter of the spin, the collective breath holding of the gamers at the table.

Roulette was like life; its utter unpredictability made it immensely rewarding when it delivered a win.

She turned slowly, searching the crowd for West, resisting the pounding of her heart, the excitement of the hunt for the man who held near-equal power in this room. She resisted, too, the way he made her feel, as though she’d met her match.

She knew she should be nervous at his summons… but she could not resist the temptation he represented.

Georgiana was bound by propriety around him.

Anna, however… Anna could flirt. And she found she was looking forward to seeing the man again.

The thought had barely come when she was captured from behind, heavy steel arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clear off the floor. She resisted the urge to scream in surprise as a hot, drunken voice breathed at her ear, “Now, here’s a treat.”

She was trapped against the man, on show for the entire floor of the club – a score of members, who lacked either the courage or the stupidity required to approach her, stood, mouths agape, watching. Not one came to her defense. She watched a croupier at a nearby hazard field reach beneath the table, to no doubt pull a cord that would ring a corresponding bell in any number of rooms abovestairs.

Security summoned, Georgiana turned her head, craning to identify the large man who held her in his grasp. “Baron Pottle,” she said calmly, letting her weight fall dead in his arms. “I suggest you restore me to the earth before one of us is hurt.”

He lifted her into his arms, feet in the air, skirts tumbling back to reveal ankles which received a collective leer before he said, “Hurting is not what I have in mind, darling.”

She leaned away from his alcohol-laden breath. “Nevertheless, you shall be hurt if you don’t put me down.”

“And who’ll do that?” he slurred. “Chase?”

“Anything is possible.”

Pottle laughed. “Chase hasn’t shown his face on the floor in six years, love. I doubt he’ll do it for you.” Prediction made, he leaned in. “And besides, you’ll like what I have in store for you.”

“I highly doubt that.” She squirmed in his arms, but he was stronger than he looked, dammit. And the idiot drunken aristocrat was going to kiss her. He licked his lips and came closer even as she craned backward – but there was only so far a woman could escape when held in a man’s arms. “Baron Pottle,” she said, “this shan’t end well. For either of us.”

The assembled crowd snickered, but no one came to her aid.

“Come now, Anna. We’re both adults. And you’re a professional,” Pottle said, lips closer, a hairsbreadth from her. “I’d like a ride. It’s not as though I won’t pay you, and handsomely. And who’s going to stop me?”

It was only then that Georgiana realized that, were she not who she was, with the protection of The Fallen Angel and all of its power behind her, no one would stop him. Women with her reputation, with her past, were not worth fighting for.

And shockingly, it was that thought, and not the physical experience, that wreaked havoc. Security would come, she thought, trying to keep the thought alive as she fought the anger and frustration and humiliation of the moment.

Pottle’s lips were on hers now. Two dozen so-called gentlemen watched, and not one willing to help.

Cowards. Every one of them.

“Release the lady.”

Chapter 5

… That said, fortune hunters might have cause to worry, as Lady G—’s charm and grace threaten to result in the ton forgetting her past and instead promising her a bright future…

… We are told a certain Baron P— is sleeping off his drink and regretting a night at his club. We recommend averting one’s gaze from his right eye, as the shine of it threatens to blind the unsuspecting…