Apprehension dimmed in his gaze. “The spread of civilization.”

“In your case,” she said, smiling, “new opportunities for investment.”

“I ought to invest in cartography.” He studied the boundaries delineated on the map. “For all this will change with the end of the war with France. Will you take a commission?”

Anne laughed. “I have merely an appreciation for mapmaking, not an aptitude.”

His gaze flicked up to her. “I’ll hire men to teach you, if you desire.”

She laughed again, thinking he jested, but saw his sincerity. “Studying them contents me. If you wish to have a map drawn, it would be far wiser to engage an experienced cartographer.”

“As you wish. But if you change your mind, you’ve but to say the word.” He bent to examine the map once more. She stared at his lowered head, his hair pulled back into a simple queue, yet burnished as gold.

He would give her everything, just as she would hold nothing back from him. She believed herself utterly open to him, yet she knew this was not entirely true.

She had not informed him of Lord Whitney’s letter, and its secret lay in her heart like a waiting poison.

He was in a fever of impatience. He left Exchange Alley as soon as business had concluded for the day. Normally, he stayed until the last bleary trader or investment seeker staggered from the coffee houses. He had been the first to arrive, last to leave.

Now, he strode down Lombard, the sun still high. It had been a good day’s work. Between his own instincts and his visions of the future, he would net himself a very fine profit. But he had not been working entirely on his own. Anne provided him with a steady stream of coins from England’s most ancient and esteemed families. Lord Kirton, who had publicly called Leo a “baseborn scoundrel,” would find his investment in South American coffee to be a poor one after hurricanes destroyed his crops. Leo had counterinvested in another coffee harvest. His fortunes would rise, and Kirton would suffer.

Leo walked quickly toward home, barely hearing the tolling of Saint Mary-le-Bow’s bells. Over the past week, since he and Anne had consummated their marriage, he had become a man on a rack, torn between two needs.

Building his fortune, destroying his enemies—these were the demands of the day. He awoke every morning in a fever of impatience, needing to devastate those in his path, to have more. It fueled his daylight hours, like tinder thrown upon flame, yet the fire’s demands never ceased. He wanted his coffers overflowing, and the power to crush those who opposed him, consigning them to a life of humiliation and poverty. The greater his fortune, the more power he wielded. And he would use it like a vengeful god.

The demands of the night, those were the sweet to his days’ metallic taste. Even now, hastening through the streets of London, past Gray’s Inn, need to see Anne pulsed through him.

This week with Anne ... He’d never experienced its like. Their bedsport was delicious, especially as they both grew more confident with each other. Every night, after exhausting himself and her, he sank into a profound slumber, his arms wrapped around her, soft and slumberous and murmuring contentment.

Oh, but it was more, so much more, than the pleasure their bodies gave each other. With her, he found himself ... comfortable. For the first time in perhaps the whole of his life. All of his other identities—upstart, knave—fell away. She did not judge him for his choices, had no expectations for him to be anything other than himself. Even with the Hellraisers, he kept part of himself guarded as he acted the part of rake and libertine.

He played no roles with Anne. For the first time in his life, he simply was. The way she wanted him.

A man could grow used to that. A man might want that plainness of self every day, every moment.

As he turned onto Southampton Row, his step quick, he felt the force of his two hungers drumming through him. His hunger for power never ceased, could not be sated. It was the cold bite of steel always present.

Anne was his other hunger, yet this was a pleasurable desire. Pursuing and feeding it became its own reward.

Someone called his name. Leo intended to ignore the man, but hurried footsteps sounded behind him. “I say, Bailey!”

It was Robbins, a coal magnate with whom Leo had done business with many times before. And to great profit. With an inward sigh, Leo stopped, allowing Robbins to catch up with him.

“Afternoon,” Leo said, trying to remain civil, though he merely felt impatience to be home.

Robbins puffed, his face reddened, then grinned. “No wonder you put all the other men of commerce to shame. It seems you are always going to or from the Exchange.”

“There is no spontaneous generation for money,” answered Leo. “Someone must be there to make it.”

“Yes, however, one needs to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors.”

“So I do.” Leo thought of Anne’s joy when he gave her the maps and globes, and had never enjoyed his wealth more.

“But when? You’re coming from the Exchange now, and just last night, I saw you at Crowe’s Coffee House, in discussion with Vere and Delfort, the cotton importers.”

Leo frowned. “I was at home with my wife last night. You must be mistaken.”

Yet Robbins seemed adamant. “Think I can’t recognize the Demon of the Exchange?”

Leo grew truly irritated. He just wanted to get home to see Anne, not argue with Robbins as to where he was or was not last night. Leo knew exactly where he had been—studying maps, having supper, and then making love with his wife.

“Get yourself to Bond Street and be fitted for a pair of spectacles.” He strode away, ignoring Robbins’s stuttered shock at being dismissed so rudely.

Anticipation coursed through him as he reached home. The moment a footman opened the door, Leo asked, “Where is my wife?” Already striding up the stairs, he threw the servant his hat and overcoat.

“She’s in the downstairs parlor, sir. With a visitor.”

Leo stopped, his hand on the railing. “Who’s the visitor?”

“Lord Wansford, sir.”

His father-in-law. The first call the man had paid since Leo had wed his daughter. Frowning, Leo turned and headed back down the stairs. This was not how Leo had planned on spending the afternoon.

Yet he felt a buoyancy within him when he saw Anne in the parlor, perched there on the sofa, a dish of tea in her hand, with cool city light in her hair and along her shoulders. She set down her tea and rose to meet him, smiling.

“Here you are,” she murmured.

What was this strange sensation? This sharp tug in the center of his chest? God, was it ... did he feel ... happiness?

He reached for her, but remembered just in time that they weren’t alone. A brief kiss had to content him, and then he turned to face Lord Wansford.

The man was everything Leo’s father had not been. Round, where his father had been lean. Complacent, where his father had been determined. And at the end of his life, his father’s clothing had all been impeccable. Plain, but expertly made, and new. The embroidery on Wansford’s waistcoat blurred as its stitches came up, and the lace at his wrists bore stains of wine and tobacco. A shabby man, his father-in-law.

“An unexpected honor,” Leo said, bowing.

Wansford returned the bow. “No, you are kindness itself to receive me.”

“You can see your daughter is well cared for.”

Anne blushed, tugging on the kerchief she had tucked into the neck of her gown. Leo’s teeth had left faint red marks upon the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and her moans still resounded in his ears.

“Oh, Anne.” The baron seemed surprised to recall that his daughter was in the room. “Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you hale. Your mother sends her regards. And I see you’re looking very ... prosperous, my child.” He eyed the gold-and-emerald pendant hanging from her choker.