Page 7

Sugar didn’t sit in the chest like this. Rosine did. It warmed under his ribs—quiet, constant, impossible to set down.

She had told him once—steel under sugar—what she wanted and in what order: independence before love, her own shop before anyone’s family, safety before she risked her heart. He could honor that. So, he kept his hands to himself and his help busy for her—quietly nudging a lease forward, smoothing deliveries, pointing her toward the few names whose yes would matter—while Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s house rules kept them decent in the building. She could never know how hard the waiting was, only that he waited because she asked. Wanting did not excuse haste. It sharpened his patience.

Fear ran simpler for him: lose her to danger, or to a life he couldn’t make safe. Either loss was unthinkable.

And whenever it was too hard to keep his hands to himself, he went outside, like this night. There was something powerful about standing guard in the dark in front of the only blue building that attracted the ruling class every night. He liked being the gatekeeper. It was a pivotal role in chess, and he was beginning to believe in life, too. Guard first; win after.

Mist pushed under the arch. Finger on the House list, he marked the solvent and nodded at the wolves to bar the rest—no credit, no entry.

A carriage rolled to a careful stop. The door opened to a dark coat under pale lamplight and a fur-lined impatience personified.

“Count Pembroke,” the coachman announced.

The Count stepped down first, well-groomed in the tired way of men who stay up past their best hour. Behind him, the countess emerged—a fine fox stole, eyes sharp like broken glass. She looked at the Den as if it might bite, and she had already decided to let it.

“Will you be long?” the countess asked, low, the fur at her throat lifting with her breath.

“Not long, my dear,” the earl said. “A few games only—hopefully I’ll bring back enough to make a dent against our obligations.” He touched her gloved fingers; she withdrew with reluctance and stepped back toward the carriage.

“I’ll wait for you,” she murmured, and the door closed as softly as a sigh.

But before the count entered the Lyon’s Den, a cane tapped the blue-painted front wall. Mrs. Dove-Lyon hated such disrespect, and Sander felt the same. If he couldn’t even knock properly, he was already treating the esteemed Lyon’s Den as a specimen to touch only with a stick. Sander kept his face House-blank, hands easy at his sides, while every nerve marked the angle of the cane and the man who held it. He could not show recognition; he could not show that the baker behind these walls was the prize. Give me a reason to bar you, he thought. Give me a reason to keep you from her.

“Richard Nagy,” came the flat introduction. So he had forgotten Sander—good. Let him see only a wolf at a door. He wasn’t more than a wolf who’d escorted Nagy to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. A gatekeeper of no importance as far as Nagy was concerned. We’ll see about that. Last time, Nagy’s gaze had lingered too long on Rosine; Sander filed the memory in the same place he kept knives. “I will not be long,” Nagy pressed on as if Sander had already allowed him entrance and then inclined his head toward the earl with courtly curiosity. “Pray, my lord, what pastime detains you at a place such as this?”

“Chess,” Pembroke replied, bland as cream. “Only games of wit.”

“Then you’re safe enough here,” Sander said evenly. “The Unlawful Games Act frowns on hazard and faro, not chess. We mind the law to the letter.” In other words, we’ve been expecting you. The dice were hidden, the cards locked away.

“How very modern,” Nagy said, and his glance slid back to Sander. “Do not delay me.”

Sander kept the chain in place. “You’re not on the list.” He let it sound administrative, not personal. Not on the admissions ledger; on a different list he kept in his head.

Nagy tapped his cane at the threshold as if it conferred rights. He wore gloves that creaked when tightened. “I answer to the Austrian legation,” Nagy said, holding up a seal that meant “influence,” not “law.”

“You answer to my list,” Sander said evenly. “If you wish to enter, you must come escorted.” House rule—cover enough to hold the line while he kept Rosine out of reach. Fists would please him; restraint would protect her. He chose restraint.

Nagy’s civility slanted toward the newcomers. “Aren’t I with you, Count Pembroke?” he inquired with a shallow bow. “Or shall we revisit the—”

“No need.” The count hmphed and gave Sander a shrug. But his glove tightened, eyes sliding away from Nagy for a breath too long—tell of a hook already set. Debt? Letter? Favor owed. Whatever it was, Nagy held the line, and Sander could tell, and that made Nagy twice as dangerous to the one person Sander meant to protect.

Nagy’s eyes skimmed nose, mouth, and lingered where men like him always lingered. The pause was a press, like pressing the flat edge of a knife that could turn any moment on its blade. Again, he seemed to decide whether Sander was worth remembering as a person or merely something to be sorted by kind.

“A Jew at the door of a house of quality,” he said, low. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon keeps curious company.”

Sander kept his expression blank and let the insult pass over him like rain, filing it with the other tells—voice, cane, the little hunger in the eyes. Rosine wanted safety before anything else; that meant giving this man nothing to push against. He could carry the ugliness if it spared her.

Sander slid the chain free without haste and opened only as far as his shoulder. When he lifted the admissions ledger and passed it to Titan, the wolf standing guard inside, he said, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon needs me upstairs,” which meant as much as “this is a threat I must handle.”

Titan nodded once—two fingers to his breastbone, confirming that he’d understood—and stepped into Sander’s place. “Go,” Titan said. “I have the door.”

He took the inner route that brushed past the hall shared with the way to the kitchen because it was the way the staff took to get from the downstairs kitchens to the upstairs gambling halls. Heat spilled out, carrying vanilla and cardamom. A single metal tray rang faintly; dough sighed as it took shape under practiced hands. He didn’t look in but let the warmth pass over his skin like daylight and kept walking. Not yet; keep her safe first, kiss her later.

Nagy came after him, cane thumps marking steps. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Nagy declared. “Why are you taking me this way?”

“Because you follow me if you wish to see her,” Sander said. “And you follow House rules.”

Up the stairs, the carpet quieted their feet. Sander opened the office door without knocking.