Sarah MacLean: No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Undefeated throughout London—throughout Europe, many wagered—it was Temple who stood in the ring each night, wounds rarely scarred over before they threatened to bleed again, knuckles wrapped in long strips of linen. There, in the ring, he faced his next opponent—a different man each night, each one believing Temple could be bested.

Each one believing himself the man to reduce the great, immovable Temple to a mass of heavy flesh on the floor of the largest room of London’s most exclusive gaming hell.

The draw of The Fallen Angel was powerful, built upon tens of thousands of pounds wagered each evening, on the promise of vice and sin that called to Mayfair at sunset, on the men of title and wealth and unparalleled worth who stood shoulder to shoulder and learned of their weakness from the rattle of ivory and the whisper of baize and the spin of mahogany.

And when they had lost everything in the glittering, glorious rooms above, their last resort was the room that lurked below—the ring. The underworld over which Temple reigned.

The Angel’s founders had created a single path of redemption for these men. There was a way those who lost their fortune to the casino could regain it.

Fight Temple.

Win.

And all was forgiven.

It had never happened, of course. For twelve years, Temple had fought, first in dark alleys filled with darker characters for survival, and then in lower clubs, for money and power and influence.

All the things he’d been promised.

All the things he’d been born to.

All the things he had lost in one, unremembered night.

The thought crept into the rhythm of the fight and for a barely-there moment, his body weighed heavy on his feet, and his opponent—half Temple’s size and a third of his strength—landed a blow, forceful and lucky, at the perfect angle to jar the teeth and bring stars to the eyes.

Temple danced backward, propelled by the unexpected cross, pain and shock banishing thought as he met the triumphant gaze of his unnamed opponent. Not unnamed . Of course he was named. But Temple rarely spoke the names. The men were merely a means to his end.

Just as he was a means to theirs.

One second—less—and he had regained his balance, already feinting left, then right, knowing his reach was half a foot longer than that of his foe, sensing the ache in his opponent’s muscles, understanding the way the younger, angrier man fell victim to fatigue and emotion.

This one had much to fight for: forty thousand pounds and an estate in Essex; a farm in Wales that bred the best racehorses in Britain; and a half-dozen paintings from a Dutch master for whom Temple had never cared. A young daughter’s dowry. A younger son’s education. All of it lost at the tables above. All of it on the line below.

Temple met his opponent’s gaze, seeing the desperation there. The hate. Hatred for the club that had proven to be his downfall, for the men who ran it, and for Temple most of all—the centurion who guarded the hoard thieved from the pockets of fine, upstanding gentlemen.

That line of thinking was how the losers slept at night.

As though it were the Angel’s fault that loose purse strings and unlucky dice were a disastrous combination.

As though it were Temple’s fault.

But it was the hate that always lost them. A useless emotion born of fear and hope and desire. They did not know the trick of it—the truth of it.

That those who fought for something were bound to lose.

It was time to put this one out of his misery.

The cacophony of calls from the edges of the ring rose to a fever pitch as Temple attacked, sending his opponent scurrying across the sawdust-covered floor.

Where he had once toyed with the other man, his fists now delivered unsympathetic, unwavering blows, connecting in a barrage of hits. Cheek. Jaw. Torso.

The other man reached the ropes marking the edge of the ring, tripping backward into them as Temple continued his assault, taking pity on this man who had hoped he might win. Had hoped he might beat Temple. Might beat the Angel.

The final blow stole the strength from his opponent, and Temple watched him collapse in a heap at his feet, the din of the crowd deafening and laced with bloodlust.

He waited, breath coming harsh, for his opponent to move. To rise to his feet for a second bout. For another chance.

The man remained still, arms wrapped about his head.

Smart .

Smarter than most of the others.

Temple turned, meeting the eyes of the oddsmaker at the side of the ring. Lifted his chin in a silent question.

The older man’s gaze flickered over the heap at Temple’s feet, barely settling before moving on. He raised a gnarled finger and pointed to the red flag at the far corner of the ring. Temple’s flag.

The crowd roared.

Temple turned to face the enormous mirror that stretched along one side of the room, meeting his own black gaze for a long moment, nodding once before turning his back to the reflection and climbing between the ropes.

Pushing through the throng of men who paid good money to watch the fight, he ignored the reach of the grinning, cheering multitudes, their fingers clamoring for a touch of the sweat-dampened skin turned black with ink that encircled his arms —something they could brag about for years to come.

They’d touched a killer and lived to tell the tale.

The ritual had made him angry at the beginning, then proud as time marched.

Now, it left him bored.

He threw open the heavy steel door that lead to his private rooms, allowing it to swing shut behind him, already unraveling one long strip of linen from his aching knuckles. He did not look back when the door slammed closed, knowing none on the floor of the fight would dare follow him into his dark, underground sanctum. Not without invitation.

The room was dark and quiet, insulated from the public space beyond, where he knew from past experience that men were rushing to claim their winnings, a handful helping the loser up, calling for a surgeon to wrap broken ribs and assess bruises.

He tossed the length of linen to the floor, reaching in the darkness for a nearby lamp and lighting it without faltering. Light spread through the room, revealing a low oak table, bare save a neat stack of papers and an ornately carved ebony box. He began to unravel the bandage from the other fist, gaze settling on the papers, now unnecessary.

Never necessary.

Adding the second strip of fabric to the first, Temple crossed the near-empty room, reaching for a leather strap affixed to the ceiling, allowing his weight to settle, flexing the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. He could not help the long breath that came with the deep stretch, punctuated by a quiet knock on a second door at the dark end of the room.

“Come,” he said, not turning to look as the door opened and closed.

“Another falls.”

“They always do,” Temple completed the stretch and faced Chase, the founder of The Fallen Angel, who crossed the room and sat in a low wooden chair nearby.

“It was a good fight.”

“Was it?” They all seemed the same these days.

“It’s remarkable that they continue to imagine they might beat you,” Chase said, leaning back, long legs extending wide across the bare floor. “You’d think by now, they’d have given up.”

Temple moved to pour a glass of water from a carafe nearby. “It’s difficult to turn from the promise of retribution. Even if it’s the barest promise.” As one who had never had a chance at retribution, Temple knew that better than anyone.

“You broke three of Montlake’s ribs.”

Temple drank deep, a rivulet of water spilling down his chin. He swiped the back of his hand across his face and said, “Ribs heal.”