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At least for now.

“Puck,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said again, pleasantly. The wolf stepped to Nagy’s shoulder with the kind of courtesy that brooks no argument.

“Your road is at the door, Mr. Nagy,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon added, voice mild enough to slice.

He sputtered—words about ledgers, licenses, committees—real teeth, not bluster, sharp enough to nick. “Enjoy your little triumph,” he said, pulling his coat close as though it were armor. “London is larger than your reach.”

“And yet,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied, “our games reached you.” She inclined her head, nothing more.

Puck escorted him out. The door settled. The room exhaled.

Sander stood in the light, hands at his sides, the set of his shoulders unbowed. One by one, the aristocrats drifted away—promises of rematches, compliments for “the lady in charge,” warm farewells for the mistress of the House. Rosine held to her post, breath tight and fierce, and let pride and fear braid themselves into something steadier.

“I knew you two would save the Lyon’s Den if your love for each other and futures were at stake.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon exhaled and walked toward the stairs leading to her office. From the stairs, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice carried like a well-placed bell. “Sander, do stop smoldering at my chandeliers and go claim your bride; she’s not made of sugar.”

“She’s so much sweeter,” Sander said as his face built a grin brighter than sunshine.

Heat leaped to Rosine’s cheeks; Sander’s mouth tilted, the smallest, happiest surrender she’d ever seen.

And now, I can’t wait to kiss her.

Chapter Nineteen

One week later…

The pounding on Rosine’s bed came far too early for a Monday. She groaned, pulling the blanket over her head.

“Up, up!” Marta hissed, tugging at the blanket.

Bridget was no kinder. She yanked the pillow away with a grin that could only mean mischief. “Bath ready. Don’t argue.”

Rosine sat bolt upright, blinking. “Bath? At nine in the morning? Have you both gone mad?”

Her protests died when she saw their faces—bright, conspiratorial, almost giddy.

“Move,” Marta said, shoving her toward the corner where steam rose faintly from a copper tub. “Wash. Quickly.”

“I have work tonight—”

“Not yet, you don’t,” Bridget cut in. “Today, you have something else first. We’ll mind the kitchen.”

Confusion fluttered in Rosine’s chest, chased by a strange excitement. They were hiding something from her. Something big.

And then the door opened.

All three froze.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon never came to the servants’ quarters. Her presence here was like a queen stepping into a scullery—impossible, unthinkable. And yet, there she was, draped in black velvet, the edge of her veil catching the dim light.

In her hands, she carried a gown.

Rosine’s breath caught. “You’ll need this.”

It was the kind of gown she had only ever seen from a distance, hanging off the shoulders of wealthy patrons as they swept up the Den’s grand stairs. Silk, the color of midnight, with a shimmer like starlight. Embroidery curling over the bodice in silver thread. Sleeves just short enough to bare the wrist, delicate enough to make a girl feel both strong and impossibly fragile.

“For me?” Rosine whispered.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon set the gown upon the cot as though it were an offering at an altar. Her voice was calm, but her eyes flickered with something harder, sharper. “For you. A carriage will escort you shortly. And yes, Sander is waiting.”