Read Chapter 15: The Gambler's Reprisal

The smoking room was a cathedral of male vanity—mahogany walls, leather chairs, the low hum of cigars and quiet laughter. Julian stood at the threshold a moment too long, letting the warmth wash over him like a liar testing the depth of a river before crossing.

Lord Ashworth occupied the far corner, not in a chair but *in* the corner itself, as if the room had been built around him. A decanter of brandy sweated on the table beside him. Two glasses. One already poured.

"You're punctual," Ashworth said, not looking up. He was studying a folded paper in his hands. "That's either discipline or desperation. Both are useful."

Julian crossed the carpet, feeling the eyes of other men slide off him like water off oil. He sat across from the earl without being invited. "You wanted to discuss the debt."

"I wanted to discuss many things." Ashworth set the paper down. His face was pleasant the way a knife's edge is pleasant—thin and precise, promising a cut. "But let's start with the debt. The original sum. Five thousand pounds, owed to my family's bank since 1908. You know this."

"I do."

"And you've been unable to pay it for four years."

"I've been *unable* to do many things." Julian kept his voice even. "But you didn't summon me to hear my excuses."

"No." Ashworth smiled. He produced a second paper from his coat, unfolded it, and slid it across the table. "I summoned you to show you this."

Julian looked down. It was a promissory note, handwritten, bearing his signature—a signature he'd given in a moment of desperation during a loop he'd thought forgotten. The date was April 12, 1912. Two days ago. The sum was twenty thousand pounds.

His blood went cold.

"I've never seen that note," he said carefully.

"No." Ashworth's smile widened. "But you signed it. I watched you sign it. In a version of events that technically hasn't happened yet." He leaned back, folding his arms. "You're not the only one who remembers, Mr. Cross. I've been recalling fragments for weeks now. Snatches of conversations that never occurred. Faces of dead men who should still be breathing. And then—" he tapped the note, "—I found this in my own hand. Locked in my safe, written by me, addressed to me, explaining everything."

Julian's throat tightened. "What did it say?"

"That you and I have the same problem." Ashworth's eyes were pale, almost colorless in the lamplight. "We are both trapped on a ship that cannot stop sinking, and you've been spending your loops trying to save *her*." He said the word like it tasted of ash. "Meanwhile, I've spent mine trying to save myself. And so far, neither of us has succeeded."

The brandy sat untouched between them. Julian wished he could drink it, but he suspected it was part of the trap—some small courtesy that would loosen his tongue.

"You're saying you remember the loops."

"Not all of them. Fragments. Like dreams you can't quite shake." Ashworth's jaw tightened. "But I remember enough. I remember dying. I remember the water. I remember the way it felt to watch the lights go out and know my name would be nothing but a footnote in someone else's tragedy."

Julian said nothing. The room's murmur had faded to a distant hum in his ears.

"So here's my proposal," Ashworth continued. "You're going to help me survive this ship. And in exchange, I'll destroy that note—all your notes, every debt you've accumulated across every version of this week. We walk off this boat together, or we don't walk off at all."

"And if I refuse?"

Ashworth's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then I go to the captain. I tell him there's a madwoman claiming the ship will sink—a Miss Evelyn Ashworth who's been consorting with servants and spreading panic in steerage. I tell him you're her accomplice. I have enough money and enough name to make sure you're both locked in the brig by nightfall."

The threat hung in the air, sharp and precise as a blade.

Julian studied the man across from him. Lord Ashworth was not a fool—that was the worst of it. He was a predator who'd learned to count the seconds between heartbeats. And now he'd learned to count the loops.

"You don't know everything," Julian said.

"I know enough."

"You know I've been trying to change the course of this ship. But you don't know *why* I care about Evelyn. You don't know what's at stake beyond your own skin."

Ashworth's eyebrow rose a fraction. "Enlighten me."

Julian thought of Evelyn's face—the way she'd looked at him in Margaret's cabin, the journal pressed against her heart, the truth of her lineage burning in her eyes. He thought of Margaret's sacrifice, the hairpin, the meeting at Lifeboat 6 at 4:00. And he thought of Fleet, the man who'd rewound time itself, who'd warned that their interference was corrupting everything.

"If I help you," Julian said slowly, "there are conditions."

"Name them."

"You don't touch Evelyn. You don't threaten her. You don't so much as *look* at her in a way she might find unpleasant."

Ashworth's laugh was a dry, papery sound. "You're in love with her."

"I'm in *contract* with her," Julian corrected. "The distinction matters."

"To you, perhaps." Ashworth reached for the brandy, finally taking a sip. "Fine. I'll stay clear of your heiress. But you'll be my shadow until we reach New York. You'll tell me everything you know about the sinking—the exact hour, the exact sequence of events. And you'll make sure I'm on a lifeboat before the water touches my shoes."

Julian's stomach turned. He'd spent countless loops trying to save *more* people, not fewer. Sitting here, bartering his knowledge for one man's survival felt like a betrayal of every ghost he'd ever watched go under.

But Ashworth had the note. And Ashworth had the captain's ear. And if Julian walked away now, Evelyn would be the one to pay.

"One more condition," Julian said.

"I'm listening."

"There's a meeting at Lifeboat 6 at four o'clock today. A woman named Margaret O'Leary intends to give up her place so someone else can survive." He paused. "You'll make sure she's not stopped. You'll make sure she gets her chance."

Ashworth's expression flickered—something like curiosity, something like recognition. "Margaret O'Leary."

"You know her."

"I know *of* her." He set down the glass. "She used to be my mother's lady's maid. Years ago. Before she disappeared with a child that wasn't hers to keep."

The words landed like stones in still water. Julian felt the ripple travel through him—the confirmation of everything Evelyn had discovered, the truth of her bloodline, the reason Ashworth had been hunting her across all these years.

"She's not your concern anymore," Julian said.

"Is she Evelyn's concern?"

Julian didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Ashworth studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Done. I'll keep my men away from her. I'll make sure no one interferes with this meeting at Lifeboat 6. And you—" he extended his hand across the table, "—will owe me nothing but your silence about tonight."

Julian looked at the offered hand. It was a gambler's move—a gesture of trust that was really a gesture of control. He could refuse. He could walk away and risk everything.

Or he could shake, and let the devil into their plans.

He took the hand. The grip was cold and brief, and when they separated, Julian felt the weight of the bargain settle onto his shoulders like a coat made of stones.

"Where is Evelyn now?" Ashworth asked.

"Somewhere safe."

"Nowhere on this ship is safe." Ashworth rose, smoothing his waistcoat. "But that's the beauty of our arrangement, isn't it? We're going to make sure this ship never touches the water again—at least not the way history intended." He paused at the door, turning back. "One more thing, Mr. Cross. The man you spoke of—Fleet. The one who warned you about corrupting the timeline."

"What about him?"

"He came to me too. Three loops ago. Offered me a deal." Ashworth's smile was thin and sharp. "He said if I helped *him* keep Evelyn off the ship, he'd make sure I survived. I declined."

Julian's chest tightened. "Why?"

"Because I've learned to smell a lie, and Fleet stinks of one. But here's the thing you should know, Mr. Cross—" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "He's not trying to stop the sinking. He's trying to *rearrange* it. And whatever he's planning to do at that boat at dawn has nothing to do with saving souls."

Ashworth walked out, leaving Julian alone with the brandy and the echo of those words—and the cold certainty that they'd just made a deal with one devil to protect themselves from another.