Two nights later, Emily skipped the Wharton ball, tired of the wallflowers and the charade. For the moment, their debtors were satisfied, though how long that would last was a question she preferred not to answer. Her brother had gone out, as usual, with his wild friends—she truly hated the group of rich, spoiled lords he traipsed about with—eschewing her offer of a cozy family night at home. It was difficult not to be angry about being cast aside so easily, particularly with all she did to keep him out of debtor’s prison.

Admittedly, her brother remained ignorant of the fact she had taken to thievery to help clear their debts. But he did know she had taken over managing their accounts and ensuring the bills were paid. Considering how dire things were when she did so, how could he not wonder at the sudden dearth of collectors knocking at their door? Even if he imagined her as some kind of wizard with the finances, should he not at least be more grateful? Perhaps more resolved not to be such a spendthrift? More ashamed of the fact his sister had had to save his title and the roof over their heads? She sighed. Not Arthur. No, he had chosen to go carousing with his cronies yet again, in lieu of spending time with her.

Despite his obtuseness about their finances, he was still her brother. He was still the one who had pushed little Johnny Redmond into the mud after the boy pulled her hair—and not for the first time—when they were children. Arthur was the one who would sneak into her room when she was sick and bring her sweetmeats he’d filched from the cook. And when their parents had died ten years earlier in a house fire, thanks to her father drunkenly stumbling into a gas lamp, Arthur was the one who had made sure that she had her first season as soon as their year of mourning ended. Little good it did her in catching a husband, though.

The household had retired for the night, and she was on her way upstairs when the front door slammed open. Her brother spilled unceremoniously through the entry and onto the foyer floor, landing with his arms and legs all askew. Shocked by his disgraceful sprawl, she flew down the stairs, concerned he was injured. As she came to the bottom of the steps, she could hear him moaning. And then his head flopped to his right and toward her, revealing his split lip, black eye, and bloody nose. Pulling up short at the reek of alcohol, she looked down at the mess that was her brother. “Arthur, what on earth has happened?”

His only response was another moan.

With a sigh of resignation, she knelt next to him and tried to assess how badly he was hurt.

Behind her, Palmer, their longtime butler, scuffed into the foyer. “My lady, is everything well?”

“I fear not, Palmer. Lord Dunmere seems to have gotten himself foxed, as well as soundly trounced. Do help me get him up and into the study for now. Then we can assess his apparent injuries.”

“Very good, my lady.” Palmer knelt on Arthur’s other side and helped shoulder his weight as they hauled him up and into the next room.

As they settled him on the leather couch, her brother roused. “Emily! What the blazes are you doing in Lucifer’s?”

She wanted to moan herself upon hearing his question. It was bad enough handling the multitude of collectors and merchants knocking on their doors, but now he had taken to visiting gambling hells?

“Palmer, would you please see that Mrs. Halliwell puts a good beef stock on? I suspect we shall need it in a few hours.”

“Of course, my lady.” Palmer bowed and left her alone with her brother.

Arthur had dozed off again, so she set to searching his pockets. She needed to know what he’d been up to, and chances were his pockets would tell the tale. Inside one, she found a slip of paper with a long list of numbers and initials jotted down. As she continued searching his interior coat pockets, her hands shook. If the list was what she suspected—IOUs—they were in serious trouble. By the time she found the second list—bigger in both length and in denominations—fury, fear, and desolation overwhelmed her. With a rough shake of her brother’s shoulder, she woke him once more. “Arthur. Arthur, you will wake up this instant and tell me what is going on!”

“Emily?” He sat up slowly, looking blindly around with his damaged left eye. “I must be batty with drink.” He rubbed his face and peered right past her again. Then he flopped back on the couch and groaned. “Bloody hell. She’ll kill me when she finds out about what I owe Lucifer.”

“Arthur. I already know. I am standing right here.” She wanted to hit her idiotic brother, but his face was already battered enough for one night.

Opening both eyes, the left one only a slit, he peered at her. “Double damn. I’d hoped you were a figment of my imagination.”

“Well, I’m not. Now, time to tell me what you’ve done.” She held up the slips of paper she’d found.

“Bollocks. You found ’em. You always were too quick for me, little Em.” He slurred the last part so badly, she had to stop and think to be sure she understood what he was saying.

“Don’t you dare trot that old nickname out now. It will do you no good with me. I found them all, Arthur. By my accounting, nearly a thousand pounds in IOUs.” She had to work very hard not to shriek the words.

“Oh good, she didn’t find the fiver.” His mumbled relief punched her square in the gut.

“No, I didn’t find the fiver. But now that I know, who do you owe a fiver to? And what exactly is a fiver?” Her fury was quickly rising and drowning the fear and desolation. Her brother had gone out and beggared them by losing a fortune they did not have in one single night, or so it seemed.

“Five thousand pounds.” He moaned and slung an arm over his eyes, but when his limb hit his black eye, he winced in pain. “And to Lucifer himself.”

Emily felt all the blood drain from her head as her stomach twisted in her belly. How did one gamble so much money away? Fighting off the nausea, she pushed herself to focus on the immediate issue. “All right. Arthur, who beat you up?”

She was getting angrier and angrier, and not just with her brother, but with all men. With a society that wouldn’t allow grown women to walk alone, but would stand by and watch as young men drove their families into the poorhouse with nary a twitch.

After all, lords will be lords. The notion made her want to stamp her foot and wave her fist at such inequity.

But more importantly, his behavior—not unlike her father’s selfish drunkenness—felt like yet another betrayal. Another instance of a man putting his own desires before the needs of his family. The needs of the very ones who depend upon him for their survival. Fury seared through her and made her hands clench into fists as she fought the urge to slap him across the face. But further violence served no purpose. Her brother was already so battered.

“Oh, that was some of Lucifer’s goons. It was a friendly reminder that the first of my debts are coming due and I have yet to make a payment. Now leave off, lil Em.” He slurred even more as he rolled over toward the back of the couch. “So tired.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” She turned on her heel and went to the kitchen. There she found a rag and some cool water. Once she returned to the study, she placed the damp rag on her brother’s eye and covered him with a blanket. There was little else she could do for him until morning, so she went to bed. Of course, she doubted she would be sleeping much, not with the realization that her brother had just put them so far in hock, she would have to rob a bank to save them. Anger had long since overridden the exhaustion that had tugged at her earlier as she had planned to retire. Perhaps a book might help clear her mind and allow her to rest.

* * *

The next afternoon, Emily slipped out of the house after her lady’s companion, great-aunt Hortense, had gone upstairs for her afternoon nap. She found herself knocking on the door of Lucifer’s, all the while willing her hands to cease their shaking. At this point, she wasn’t sure they would ever stop trembling. As the door opened, her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the large and terribly scarred man who appeared.

He looked her up and down. “We ain’t giving to charity.”

Then the door began to close.

With a harrumph of indignation, she slapped her hand on the door and jammed the rather insubstantial toe of her kid boot into the opening. “I am not here soliciting donations. I wish to speak with the proprietor.”

“There ain’t no such thing here.” The words came out more of a rumble than proper communication.

But Emily persevered. “The owner. I would like to speak with the owner, please.”

The man stopped and considered her request. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? He’s not taking callers.”

And the door resumed closing.

She held fast. “I am here about my brother’s debt. I am sure he will see me about the five thousand pounds Lord Dunmere owes him.”

The man paused again, opened the entry, and waved her in. Once she was inside, he closed the door, cutting off the majority of the light that had shone into the space. A few streaks slipped past heavy curtains to highlight bits of burgundy and gold in the medium-size foyer.

“Wait here,” he said, and then he walked away. Lumbered, really, but she was too nervous to be amused by the awkward gait of the huge man.

Curiosity and an irrepressible need to move about had her looking inside the adjacent rooms. The two spaces appeared as mirror images of each other. The same colors and decorations, same tables and chairs. She was inspecting one of them when the shuffle of footsteps alerted her to the arrival of someone. She spun about to find another tall man looming over her as a beam of light splashed across him.

“I was told an elegant-but-persistent lady wished to see me about a rather large debt.”

A dichotomous picture of a ruffian who must have employed the most talented of valets stood before Emily.

She blinked slowly. While he was burly and somewhat menacing, his finely turned cravat and impeccably groomed beard suggested the beast had been civilized. She certainly hoped that was true for her sake. “You are the owner of this establishment?”

He nodded and took a step back, almost as though shrinking away from the light, which made it hard to inspect him further in the shadows. “Frank Lucifer, at your service. And you are?”

“Lady Emmaline Winterburn. My brother is the Earl of Dunmere.”

She resisted the urge both to curtsey and to follow the mysterious man out of the light. Though being illuminated so her every expression was visible felt like a distinct disadvantage at the moment.

“Ah, yes.” He bowed to her. “Welcome to Lucifer’s. Please, come upstairs, where we may better conduct business.”

The man took her hand and placed it on his arm, as comfortable with the gesture as any gentleman of her acquaintance. They walked through the foyer and up the stairs. There, they strolled along a gallery that overlooked the main rooms she had been peeking at earlier.

“I’ve never seen you here before, have I?” he asked.

“Of course not. That would be inappropriate. This visit is also unsuitable, though unfortunately necessary.”

“Yes, I rarely see ladies of such quality and breeding.” His gaze swept her from head to toe in the much-better-lit area they walked through. They continued all the way to the end, and then he stopped before a set of double doors and opened one. “Please, join me.”

Fear had her belly flipping as she stepped into what she was sure would turn out to be his bedroom, whereupon he would proceed to ravish her. Except, she walked into a well-lit office that boasted an elegant mahogany desk that would have given any lord she’d ever met a serious case of envy. The beautifully carved wood piece made a bold statement about both the man and his expectations. It also shifted her hope for how the conversation might go. Perhaps Mr. Lucifer would prove to be more of a gentleman than she had anticipated.

The man in question followed her into the room and indicated a chair on one side of the desk.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lucifer.” She took the offered seat and waited as he prowled around the massive piece of furniture.

“Now, what may I do for you?” He settled back into his chair and waited.

Everything about the man was dark and forbidding. She took in his sun-bronzed skin, midnight hair, and eyes so dark as to appear black. His intense gaze left her feeling much like a butterfly pinned for inspection. Fidgeting in her seat, she tried to find the words to express what she needed. “I understand my brother owes you a rather large sum of money, and that payment is due in the next few months.”

“That is correct. In fact, the first thousand pounds is due by the end of the month. Do you need the exact figure?” His dark gaze held her in her seat.

Her heartbeat sped up as her palms grew damp. “I do not. What I need is time, Mr. Lucifer.”

His brow creased. “I have given your brother the standard payment schedule. He agreed to it before I loaned him the money, which he then proceeded to lose.”

“Back to you, no doubt,” she snapped, her nerves fraying under the stress.

The darkly handsome man grinned at her. “Indeed, I believe a fair portion of that money—if not all of it—was, in fact, lost at my tables. However, that does not alleviate the debt he owes me.”

She wanted to smack the smirk right off the man’s face. “It does not. However, I had hoped that you might take pity on me, if not him, and give us a bit more time to get the money together. We’ve had”—she hesitated, grappling for the best turn of phrase—“a bit of a challenging year. We are certainly good for the debt, but a year would be far more manageable than three months to repay you without further damaging our financial situation.”

The man frowned. “And why is your situation different from that of any other bloke who comes into my establishment and requests a loan because they do not have the blunt to play?” He leaned on the desk. “Why should you have a year when the standard agreement for repayment is four months?”

Emily’s heart sank. Despite his handsome features and pretty manners, the man was proving to be as unfeeling and hardened as she had originally expected. “I see. I should have expected someone who makes their fortune on the foul luck of others would not have a heart. May I make one stipulation to my brother’s agreement?”

His smile long gone, Lucifer sat back in his chair. “You may make a request.”

“I would like you to promise me that you will not make further loans to my brother, nor will you allow him to gamble in your establishment.”

Emily waited, her heart constricting painfully.

“You do pay attention to details, do you not?” A grudging respect shone in his eyes as he assessed her.

“Someone must. Do you agree?” She pressed her request.

One brow rose near his hairline. “And should I refuse? What will you do?”

“Mr. Lucifer, you know very well I have little recourse should you refuse. It is unkind of you to point that out to a lady who has come to you for some assistance for her rather precarious position. I shall ensure you are paid, regardless. What I am asking for is an opportunity to ensure my brother does not continue to beggar us.”

“You do realize there are infinite options for a man who has the determination to gamble away his family’s fortune.”

“I am no fool. But this would be one less option for me to worry over.” She folded her hands together in her lap, hoping for even this small boon.

“You have caught me in a weak moment. I respect a lady who has the gumption to take a thing head-on without sniveling or batting her lashes. Despite it being generally bad for business, I shall bar your brother. But do not bandy that information about London. I do not need a string of women in here begging for the same service. I have a business to run.”

“You have my word, Mr. Lucifer.” She rose and turned to walk out. “You will hear from me in a few weeks to arrange payment.”

She had reached the office door when he stopped her with a question. “How are you going to manage the debt?”

She froze and considered how she was going to do exactly that. Two of her favorite books came to mind, A General History of the Pyrates and Rookwood: A Romance. Sailing the high seas wasn’t terribly practical, but then, neither was becoming a highwayman. Although… both had a common element. Theft on its own, however, was imminently practical when one regularly received invitations to balls in all the wealthiest homes.

She decided to be frank with Mr. Lucifer. He likely wouldn’t believe her anyway. “I plan to steal the money.”

As expected, he laughed loudly as she retraced her steps through the building. At the door, she found the man with the scars waiting for her. He quickly opened the door and then locked it behind her as she stepped out onto the street.

It seemed she had some planning to do.