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“Running a hell is not a crime,” Miss Monroe said smoothly. “It’s a business. A very lucrative one, I might add, frequented almost exclusively by lords.” She smirked. “At least… that was true until a few weeks ago. Now, ladies far outnumber their husbands.” Then her gaze dropped, lowering suggestively toward the space beneath Rivendale’s desk. “I wonder why,” she murmured.

Rivendale didn’t take the bait. Instead, he turned to Lydia. “Are you regretting your decision to bring her yet?”

Lydia let out an exasperated breath. “Hear her out. Please.”

Rivendale’s icy gaze fell on Miss Monroe. How she didn’t flinch, Art didn’t understand.

In fact, she smiled at him.

And not her usual cold smile—no, a real, warm one.

One that actually made her look human, not the queen of the underworld who quite possibly ate her own children.

“Miss Lawless is innocent,” she said simply.

“If you say so,” Rivendale answered dryly.

“I have proof, I promise.”

The marquess raised a brow.

“Persephone’s Heaven—although it officially opened its doors during the masquerade—was operating in a limited capacity for weeks before that,” Miss Monroe explained. “One must always test a product before rolling it out. See how customers react to certain things, determine if anything needs to be added—”

“If I needed a lecture on running a hell,” Rivendale interrupted, “I would have probably committed myself to an asylum—because I’d surely be going mad. Please. Get. To. The. Point.”

Miss Monroe gritted her teeth so hard her jaw snapped. “Fine. I made a wager.”

Lydia slipped her hand into Art’s. He threw her a quick smile and squeezed her fingers.

What in the hell was their plan?

“That I could convince everyone that Mist was a woman,” Monroe continued. “And not just any woman, but a wealthy widow with a distinct shade of hair.”

Rivendale narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I was challenged to it by Lady Wakefield.”

Art turned to Lydia, startled. Of all the things he thought they might come up with, this had not even been on his list.

His little vixen!

Rivendale turned to Art. “Your stepmother.”

Art shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you are. Although, I shouldn’t be. She’s despised me since the day she married my father. She even convinced him to disinherit me in her favor.”

“Is that so?”

Lydia wove her fingers with Art’s, flooding him with warmth.

“If you don’t believe it, I have proof.” Miss Monroe pulled out the large book from her side and plopped it onto the desk.

Both men leaned over it to read the wager and both signatures. Miss Monroe’s and Lady Wakefield’s. How did they manage to pull this off?

“That’s a dangerous wager that could get people hanged,” Rivendale said stonily. “Although I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

“Anything to keep my guests entertained.” Miss Monroe waved a dismissive hand.

“If you’re convinced,” Lydia interjected, “may we ask for assistance?”