“Hazard is a problematic game—one that appears one way and plays another. For example, one casts two dice, thinking the roll will sum between one and twelve, but a roll of one is completely impossible . . . and rolls of two and twelve nearly so. Why then, when the fallacies of the game are so obvious, does it call so loudly to gamers?
There may be geometry to this game of chance—but there is sacredness to it as well.
It occurs that the sacrosanct rarely makes scientific sense.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 27, 1831; nine days prior to her wedding
There was nothing in the wide world that Cross would have refused her in that moment.
Not when she had spent the last hour tempting him with her big blue eyes and her quick mind and that lovely, lithe body that made him desperate to touch her. When the women had come, he’d thought of nothing but protecting her from discovery, shielding her with his body and hating himself for ever even considering bringing her here to this dark, filthy place that she did not deserve.
That did not deserve her.
As he did not deserve her.
He should tell Bourne everything and let his partner beat him to within an inch of his life for ever even thinking of ruining Philippa Marbury. For even dreaming of being this close to her. Of being tempted by her.
For she was the greatest lesson in temptation there ever was.
When she’d toppled from the carriage straight into his arms, he’d thought he was done for, her lithe lines and soft curves pressed against him, making him ache. He’d been sure that moment was the ultimate test . . . the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, setting her on her feet and stepping back from the precipice.
Reminding himself that she was not for him.
That she never would be.
But that had been easy compared to minutes later when, pressed between him and the stone façade of the club, she’d turned and spoken to him, her breath fanning his jaw, making his mouth dry and his cock hard. That had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
He’d come close to kissing her and putting them both out of their misery.
God help him, for a moment, he thought she would take the decision out of his hands and take matters into her own.
And he’d wanted it.
He wanted it still.
Instead, she’d asked him to continue this madness—to bring her inside the hell and give her the lesson he’d promised. To teach her about temptation.
She thought him safe. Scientific. Without danger.
She was mad.
He should pack her back into that carriage and see her home, without a second thought. He should keep her far from this place filled with peers who would find immense entertainment in her presence here, and in the gossip her presence would fuel.
There were rules on this side of the hell, of course—the ladies allowed membership were expressly forbidden to reveal the secrets to which they were exposed. And as women with secrets of their own who craved their time at the club, they were careful to follow those rules.
But it would not change the threat to Pippa.
And he would not have it.
“I shouldn’t take you inside,” he replied, the words lingering between them.
“You promised.”
“I lied.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care for liars.”
She was teasing him. He heard the soft laughter in the words. But whether there or not, he also heard the truth in them. And he wanted her to care for him.
The thought came like a blow, and he straightened instantly, suddenly eager to be away from her.
It was not her.
It couldn’t be.
It was the special circumstance of her. It was that she was the first woman he’d allowed this close, this frequently, in six years. It was that she smelled of light and spring, and that her skin was impossibly soft, and the way her pretty pink lips curved when she smiled, and that she was smart and strange and everything that he’d missed about women.
It was not her.
It was everything. With Knight and Lavinia and the rest of his world crashing down around him, the last thing he needed was Pippa Marbury in his club. In his life. Causing trouble. Taking over his thoughts.
The madness would go away the moment he was rid of her.
He had to be rid of her. Tonight.
He ignored the thread of irritation that coursed through him at the thought and rapped on the steel door.
“That’s a different rhythm than the one the ladies used.”
Of course, she would notice that. She noticed everything, with her great blue eyes.
“I am not the ladies.” He heard the terseness in his tone, refused to regret it as the door opened.
She did not seem to notice it. “Everyone has a different knock?” She followed him into the entryway, where Asriel sat in his usual place, reading by the dim light of a wall sconce.
The doorman cast his black gaze over first Cross, then Pippa. “She’s not a member.”
“She’s with me,” Cross said.
“A member of what?” Pippa asked.
Asriel returned to his book, ignoring them both. Pippa tilted to see the book in Asriel’s hand. Her head snapped up, eyes meeting his in disbelief. “Pride and Prejudice?”
He snapped the book shut and looked at Cross. “She’s still not a member.”
Cross cut him a look. “We are lucky, then, that I am an owner.”
Asriel seemed not to care much either way.
Pippa, however, appeared not to be able to help herself. “Perhaps we should start again? We were not properly introduced. I am—”
Asriel cut her off. “Cross.”
“I confess, I am happy to see that she is just as maddening for others as she is for me.” He paused. “Vallombrosa?”
If Asriel thought anything of the request, he did not show it. “Empty. Everyone is at the fight. If you don’t want her seen without a mask, I would stay clear of it.”
As though Cross would not have thought of that himself.
“That’s the second time someone has mentioned a fight,” Pippa interjected. “What does that mean?”
Asriel was quiet for a long moment. “It means there is a fight.”
Her brows rose. “You are not the most forthcoming of gentlemen, are you?”
“No.”
“You’re ruining my fun,” she said.
“That is not uncommon.”
Cross resisted the urge to laugh. Pippa would not be the first to attempt to engage Asriel in conversation, and he was willing to wager that she also would not be the first to succeed.
She tried, nonetheless, with a wide, friendly smile. “I do hope we shall meet again. Perhaps we could have a reading club of sorts. I’ve read that one.” She leaned in. “Have you reached the part where Mr. Darcy proposes?”
Asriel narrowed his gaze on Cross. “She did that on purpose.”
Pippa shook her head. “Oh, I did not ruin it. Elizabeth refuses.” She paused. “I suppose I did ruin that. Apologies.”
“I find I like your sister much more.”
Pippa nodded, all seriousness. “That is not uncommon.”
At the repetition of Asriel’s words, Cross did laugh, and when he tried to hold it back, it came out in a strangled mess—one Asriel correctly identified with a scowl. Cross took his cue, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain and taking care that they would not be seen before leading Pippa down the long, narrow passageway to Vallombrosa, one of a handful of hazard rooms on the ladies’ side of the club.
She entered ahead of him, turning slowly once inside, taking in the small, lavishly appointed chamber designed for private games. “This building is remarkable,” she said, reaching up to unbutton her cloak. “Truly. Every time I come, there is a new piece available for exploration.”
She removed her cloak, revealing a simple green walking dress—entirely ordinary, one might even say uninteresting in comparison to the silk and organza creations that the rest of the women who frequented this side of the club wore on a regular basis. The neckline was high, the sleeves long, and the skirts heavy—a combination that should have cooled Cross’s response to their interaction in the alleyway—but Pippa could have been wearing a lace negligee for how the vision of her in that plain frock impacted him.
It did too good a job hiding her.
He wanted it off.
Immediately.
He cleared his throat and took her cloak, draping it over the back of the chaise. “It is designed to make you feel that way. Visitors are left wondering what they might have missed.”
“So they are tempted to return?” The question was rhetorical. She was learning. “Is that the goal for tonight? To tempt me with your pretty rooms and your secret passageways?”
He was not sure what the goal for tonight was anymore. All the clear thoughts he’d had, the perfectly controlled plans for her lesson, they’d been muddled by her presence.
She turned away from him, moving to inspect an oil painting that took up a large section of one wall. It depicted four young men playing a dice game on a cobblestone street by the light of a pub. “Speaking of secret passageways,” she asked, “I’m very impressed by your architectural skill.”
“Temple talks too much.”
She smiled. “Do all the rooms have them?”
“Most of them. We like to have means for escape.” The place where her jaw met her neck cast the most intriguing shadow. Cross wondered at the feel of the skin there. Silk or satin?
“Why?”
He focused on the question. “There are many who would like to see us destroyed. It is a benefit to be able to move about without risk of discovery.”
She turned to face him, eyes wide. “Is that not what the man reading Pride and Prejudice is for?”
“In part.”
“People get past him?”
“It is not unheard of. I once awoke to a woman in my office. I assure you, she had not been invited. And only yesterday, I found her on the floor of the casino.”
She smiled at the reference. “She sounds like a special case.”
Indeed.
“I do not care for the idea that you might have to flee from some nefarious character.”
He resisted the thrum of pleasure that coursed through him at the idea that she might care for him at all. “Do not concern yourself. I rarely flee.”
He moved past her, rounding the table to put distance and mahogany between them. She stayed where she was. “Does this room have one?”
“Maybe.”
She looked around, eyes narrowed, carefully considering each stretch of wall. “And if it did, where would it lead?”
He ignored the question, reaching for the dice on the hazard table, lifting them, testing their weight. “Would you like to ask questions about the architecture? Or would you like your lesson?”
Her gaze did not waver. “Both.”
The answer did not surprise him. Philippa Marbury was a woman so intrigued by knowledge that she would find it tempting on a variety of topics—not simply sex. Unfortunately, her innate curiosity was one of the most tempting things he’d ever experienced.
His goal for the evening returned.
She had to lose.
If she lost, he could regain his sanity.
Reclaim his control.
That alone was worth it.
He tossed the dice in her direction. “Both it is.”
Her eyes lit as though he’d just offered her jewels. “Who were the women outside?”
He shook his head. “It’s not that easy, Pippa. The lesson is about temptation. You want to know more . . . you have to win it.”
“Fine.”
“And you have to wager.”
She nodded once. “I have five pounds in my reticule.”
He smirked. “Five pounds will not do. It is not enough for the lesson for which you ask.”
“What, then? I have nothing else of value.”
You have your clothing. It took everything in his power not to say the words. “I would like to buy back your time.”
Confusion furrowed her brow. “My time?”
He nodded. “If you win, I tell you what you wish to know. If you lose, you lose time for this insane research project. There are what, eleven days left before you marry?”
There were ten. He had deliberately miscalculated.
She corrected him, then shook her head firmly. “We have an agreement.”
Perhaps, but he had all the power. At least, in her mind. “Then I suppose there is no lesson.”
“You said you wouldn’t renege. You promised.”
“And as I said before, my lady, scoundrels lie.” Not always because of their nature, he was realizing. Sometimes they lied to preserve their sanity. He moved for the door. “I shall send someone with a hooded cloak to escort you from the club and return you home.”
He was at the door, hand to handle, when she said, “Wait.”
He steeled his countenance and turned back. “Yes?”
“The only way I get my lesson is to wager?”
“Think of it as double the research. Lessons in gaming are an adventure many women would not pass up.”
“It’s not an adventure. It’s research. How many times must I tell you?”
“Call it whatever you like, Pippa. Either way, it’s something you desire.”
She looked to the hazard table, longing in her gaze, and he knew he’d won. “I want the gaming.”
“This is it, Pippa.”
She met his gaze. “My first lesson in temptation.”
Clever girl. “All or nothing.”
She nodded. “All.”
Clever, doomed girl.
He moved back to the table and handed her a pair of ivory dice. “On the first roll at the Angel, a seven or eleven wins. Roll a two or three, and lose.”
Her brows rose. “Only a two or three? How did I lose on a nine during our first meeting?”
He couldn’t stop his smirk. “You offered better odds; I took them.”
“I suppose I should know better, gaming with a scoundrel.”
He tilted his head toward her. “I imagine you’ve learned the lesson since.”
She met his gaze, eyes large behind her spectacles. “I’m not so sure.”
The honest words went straight through him, bringing desire and something even more base with them. Before he could reply, she was casting the dice.
“Nine,” she said. “My lucky number?”
“Already an inveterate gamer.” He collected the dice and handed them back to her. “The play is simple. Roll a nine again, and you win. Roll a seven, and you lose.”
“I thought a seven was a win.”
“Only on the first roll. Now you’ve established that your main is nine.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care for those rules. You know as well as I that the odds of rolling a seven are better than of doing the same with any other number.”
“Care for them or not, those are the rules to which you agreed when you chose hazard.”
“I didn’t chose it,” she grumbled, even as she tested the dice in her palm. She wasn’t leaving.
He leaned against the table. “Now you see why gambling is a very poor idea, indeed.”
She cut him a look. “I think it is much more likely that I see why you are a very rich man, indeed.”
He smiled. “No one forced you into the game.”
Her brows rose. “You did just that!”
“Nonsense. I gave you something to risk. Without it, there is no reward.”
She looked to the table skeptically. “I am fairly certain that there will be no reward anyway.”
“One never knows. Some espouse the benefits of Lady Luck.”
One of her golden brows rose. “A lady, is she?”
“It has to do with her being so very changeable.”
“I take no small amount of offense to that. I am in no way changeable. When I make a promise, I keep it.”
She tossed the dice, and a memory flashed of their first meeting.
I dislike dishonesty.
“Two and four,” she announced. “Six. What now?”
He lifted the dice and passed them to her again. “You roll again.”
“I have not won?”
“If it is any consolation, you have not lost, either.”
She rolled three more times, a ten, twelve, and eight, before wrinkling her nose and saying, “Why, precisely, does this make men do silly, untenable things?”
He laughed. “At the Angel, onlookers can bet on anything related to the game. The outcome of the individual roll, whether any one throw will be higher or lower than the last, the precise combination of pips on the die. When someone at the table is winning on every toss, the game becomes very exciting.”
“If you insist,” she said, sounding utterly disbelieving as she threw the dice again, rolling a six and three. “Oh!” she cried out. “A nine! I won! You see? Luck is on my side.”
She was smiling, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the win. “And now you see why men enjoy the games so well.”
She laughed and clapped her hands together. “I suppose I do! And now, I receive the answer to a question!”
“You do,” he agreed, hoping she’d keep her queries to the club.
“Who were the women outside?”
He reached for the dice. “Members.”
“Of the Angel?” she fairly squeaked, reaching out to accept the ivory weights. “I thought it was a men’s club?”
“It is more than it seems. This is not, technically, the Angel.”
Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
“That is another question.” He nodded to her hand. “The games are more complicated upstairs, but for the purposes of our game, we shall keep with the same. You win with a nine.”
She tossed again. Six and three.
“I win again!” She crowed, smile widening into a full-on grin. He could not help matching it as he shook his head and retrieved the dice. “What is it?”
“It does not have a name. We refer to it as the Other Side. It is for ladies.”
“Which ladies?”
He handed her the dice.
She rolled a five, then a ten, then a nine. “Huzzah!” she cried, meeting his surprised gaze. “You didn’t think I would win again.”
“I confess, I did not.”
She smiled. “Which ladies?”
He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Suffice to say, ladies who wish to remain anonymous. And have their own adventures.”
She nodded. “Why should men have access to the wide world and women . . . not?”
“Precisely.”
She paused, then blurted, “Will there be pain?”
He nearly choked.
She mistook the sound for misunderstanding, apparently.
“I mean, I know there will likely be pain for me. But will it hurt him as well?”
No. No, he will find pleasure like he’s never known.
Just as you would if I had anything to do with it.
He held back the words. “No.”
Relief shone in her eyes. “Good.” She paused. “I was concerned that it might be possible to perform incorrectly.”
Cross shook his head once, firmly. “I think you won’t find it difficult to learn.”
Pippa smiled at that. “Anatomy helps.”
He did not want to think about her understanding of anatomy in this context. He did not want to imagine how she would use her simple, direct words to guide her husband, to learn with him. Cross closed his eyes against the vision of those words, of that knowledge on her lips. “Castleton may be a fool, but he’s not an idiot. You needn’t worry about his not understanding the mechanics of the situation.”
“You shouldn’t call him that.”
“Why not? He isn’t my betrothed.” Cross lifted the dice, offered them to her. When she reached to take them, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his palm around her fingers—holding her still. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, softly, “Pippa.”
Her gaze locked instantly with his. “Yes?”
“If he hurts you . . .” He paused, hating the way her eyes went wide at the words.
“Yes?”
If he hurts you, leave him.
If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.
“If he hurts you . . . he’s doing it wrong.” It was all he could say. He released her hand. “Roll again.”
Four and three.
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I lost.”
“One less day of your research. That makes nine days.”
Her eyes went wide. “An entire day? For one poor roll?”
“Now you know what it feels like to lose as well as win,” he said. “Which is more powerful? The risk? Or reward?”
She thought for a long moment. “I’m beginning to see it.”
“What is that?”
“Why men do this. Why they stay. Why they lose.”
“Why?”
She met his eyes. “Because the winning feels wonderful.”
He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they tempted him to show her how much more wonderful he could make her feel than those cold dice. “Do you wish to continue?”
Say no, he urged her. Pack up and return home, Pippa. This place, this game, this moment . . . none of it is for you.
As she thought, she worried her lower lip between her teeth, and the movement transfixed him, so much so that when she finally released the slightly swollen flesh, and said, “I do,” he had forgotten his question.
When he did not immediately offer up the dice, she extended her hand. “I would like to roll again, if you don’t mind.”
He did mind. But he relinquished the ivory cubes and she tossed them across the baize with gusto.
“Eight days.” She scowled at the four and three at the far end of the table.
“Again,” she said.
He handed her the dice.
She rolled.
“Seven days.”
She turned a narrow gaze on him. “Something is wrong with the dice.”
He collected the ivory cubes and offered them to her, palm up. “Temptation is not always a good thing.”
“It is when one is preparing to tempt one’s spouse.”
He’d almost forgotten her goal. God, he didn’t want to teach her to tempt another man. He wanted to teach her to tempt him.
He wanted to teach her to let him tempt her.
She took the dice. “Once more.”
He raised a brow. “If we had sixpence for every time those words were spoken beneath this roof, we would be rich men.”
She rolled an eight, and met his gaze. “You are rich men.”
He grinned, passing her the ivory blocks once more. “Richer.”
She rolled once—eleven—twice—four—a third time. “Ah-ha!” she celebrated. “Six and three! Again!” She turned to him, something familiar in her eyes—the heady thrill of the win. He’d seen it countless times in the gaze of countless gamers, and it never failed to satisfy him. That look meant one, unassailable truth: that the gamer in question was in for the night. But now, with Pippa, it failed to satisfy. Instead, it made him ache with desire.
Desire to see the same thrill far from a gaming table, as she won something else entirely.
As she won him.
She reached for her reticule. “I have been keeping a log of my research questions.” Of course she had. God knew what extravagant queries Lady Philippa Marbury had in the name of research. She opened the book, worried her lower lip as she considered the considerable amount of text there, and Cross knew, with the keen understanding of one who had been around a number of enormous wagers in his time, that she was about to ask something outrageous.
He turned away from her and the table, walking to a small sideboard and extracting a bottle of Chase’s finest whiskey, blessedly stored there for trials just such as this one. Pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he looked over his shoulder to find her watching him carefully, paper in hand. “Would you like a drink?”
She shook her head instantly. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”
His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Ladies don’t drink whiskey, do they?”
She shook her head, matching his smile with her own. “The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I assure you.”
He toasted her and drank the entire glass in one great swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat—embracing its distraction. “Your question?”
She did not answer for a moment, and he forced himself to look in her direction, where he found her gaze trained on the crystal tumbler he clutched in his hand. He set it on the sideboard with a thud, and the soft sound pulled her from her reverie. She dipped her head, focusing on the small book in her hands.
Because she was not looking at him, it gave him leave to watch the pink wash over her cheeks as she framed the question that was sure to destroy his sanity.
God, he loved to watch her blush.
“I suppose I shall start at the beginning. It appears that I’m utterly lacking in knowledge of the basics. I mean, I understand dogs and horses and such, but humans . . . well, they’re different. And so . . .” She paused, then rushed forward, the words pouring out of her. “I wonder if you could explain the use of the tongue.”
The words were a blow, one of Temple’s strong, unpulled punches, and—just as it happened inside the ropes—it took a moment for the ringing in Cross’s ears to subside.
When it did, she had grown impatient, adding softly, “I understand it has its uses in kissing. And other things, too, if Olivia is to be believed—which she isn’t all the time. But I don’t know what to do with it, and if he were to kiss me . . .”
If he were to kiss her, Cross would take great pleasure in destroying him.
It took every ounce of his strength to keep from leaping over the table, lifting her in his arms, pressing her back against the wall, and ravishing her. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come, but knowing, without a doubt, that if she said one more perfectly reasonable, rational, insane thing, he would not be able to resist her.
Before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door, and he was saved.
Or perhaps ruined.
Either way, Pippa was saved.
They both looked to the door, surprised and confused by the sound for an instant before he was moving to open it, using his tall frame to block the view into the room.
Chase stood on the other side of the door.
“What is it?” Cross snapped. Smirking, Chase attempted to see past him into the room. Cross narrowed the gap between door and jamb. “Chase,” he warned.
There was no mistaking the smug laughter in Chase’s brown eyes. “Hiding something?”
“What do you want?”
“You have a visitor.”
“I am otherwise occupied.”
“Intriguing.” Chase attempted another look into the room, and Cross could not help the low, unintelligible threat that came at the movement. “Did you just growl? How primitive.”
Cross did not rise to his friend’s bait. “Tell someone to handle it. Handle it yourself.”
“As the it in this scenario is your . . . Lavinia, I am not certain you would like me handling it.”
Lavinia.
Surely he’d misunderstood. “Lavinia?”
“She is here.”
She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t risk herself. She wouldn’t risk her children. Fury flared, hot and quick. “Are we simply allowing entry to every woman in London these days?”
Chase was still attempting to see inside the room. “Some of us are more to blame for the recent rash of peeresses than others. She is in your office.”
Cross swore, harsh and soft.
“Shame on you. In front of a lady, no less.”
He closed the door on Chase’s smug face, turning to Pippa.
What a disaster.
She and his sister, under the same, scandalous roof, and it was his fault.
Goddammit.
He was losing control of the situation, and he did not care for it.
She had edged closer, her curiosity making her brave, and she was only a few feet from him. Two minutes earlier, and he would have closed the distance and kissed her senseless.
But Chase’s intrusion was best for both of them, clearly.
Perhaps he could will it to be true.
He had to deal with his sister.
Now.
“I shall be back.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’re leaving me?”
“Not for long.”
She took a step toward him. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
Thank God for that.
He took a step back, reaching for the handle of the door. “I will be back,” he repeated. “You’re safe here.” He opened the door a crack, knowing that there was little he could do. Lavinia could not be left alone in the casino.
Not that Pippa was entirely trustworthy. Indeed, this lady could wreak no small amount of havoc if she were left to her own devices here, on the Other Side.
For a moment, he hovered between staying and going, finally meeting her big blue eyes and saying in his most commanding tone, “Stay.”
Lord, deliver him from women.
Did he think her a hound?
Pippa circled the hazard table, absently collecting the dice and rotating them over and over in the palm of her hand.
She hadn’t heard much, but she’d heard Cross say her name.
Felt the keen disappointment that came—altogether irrationally—with the syllables on his tongue.
He’d left her, for another woman. For Lavinia. The woman from the gardens.
With nothing more than a masterful, “Stay.”
And he hadn’t even answered her question.
She hesitated, turning to face one long edge of the table, placing her hands on the finely carved mahogany bumper that kept the dice from rolling right off the table and clattering to the floor. She tossed the dice that she had been clutching in frustration, not watching as they knocked against the wood and tumbled to a stop.
The man would learn quickly that she was in no way houndlike.
Leaning over the table, she stared long and hard at the hazard field, mind racing, the green baize, with its white and red markings, blurring as she considered her next course of action. For she certainly was not going to stand by and wait in this tiny, constricting chamber as all manner of excitements occurred in the club beyond.
Not while he scurried off to do whatever it was scoundrels did with women for whom they pined.
And he certainly pined for this Lavinia person.
He’d pined enough that he’d met her clandestinely, at Pippa’s betrothal ball. He’d pined enough that he chased after her today. And he clearly pined enough that honoring his commitment to Pippa was easily forgotten in Lavinia’s presence.
Suddenly, her chest felt quite tight.
Pippa coughed, standing straight, her gaze falling on the closed door to the little room where he’d left her. She lifted one hand to her chest, running her fingers along the bare skin above the edge of the wool bodice, attempting to ease the discomfort.
She took a deep breath, the thought of Cross’s rushing through the gaming hell and into the welcoming arms of his lady—who had clearly realized he was a man worthy of forgiving—overwhelming all others.
She was likely beautiful, petite, and perfectly curved. No doubt, she was one of those ladies who knew precisely what to say in any situation and never ever found herself saying the wrong thing or asking an inappropriate question.
Pippa would wager that his Lavinia could not name a single bone in the human body.
No wonder Cross adored her.
The tightness in her chest became an ache, and Pippa’s hand stilled.
Oh, dear. It was not physiological. It was emotional.
Panic flared. No.
She leaned back over the table, closing her eyes tightly and sucking in a long breath. No. She wouldn’t allow emotion into the scenario. She was here in the interest of discovery. In the name of research.
That was all.
She opened her eyes, searched for a point of focus, and found the dice she’d tossed earlier.
Six and three.
Her gaze narrowed on the winning toss.
Six and three.
Suspicion flared. She collected the dice. Rolled again. Six and three.
Inspected them carefully. Rolled again. Six and three.
Just one die. Three.
Three.
Three.
Her eyes went wide as understanding came. The die was weighted. The dice were weighted.
She hadn’t won.
He’d let her win.
He’d been directing the game all along.
There’s no such thing as luck.
He’d lied to her.
He’d been working the game, no doubt with losing dice, too . . . planning to fleece her of all her research plans, planning to take from her these last weeks of freedom before she was Countess Castleton. He’d stolen from her!
Worse, he’d stolen from her and left her to meet another woman.
She stood straight, scowled at the door where she’d seen him last.
“Well,” she said aloud to the empty room, “that won’t do.”
And she headed for the door, putting all her strength into the movement when she reached for the door handle, and found the door locked.
A little sound escaped her, a cross between shock and indignation, as Pippa tried the door again, certain that she was mistaken. Sure that there was no possible way that he had locked her in a room in a gaming hell.
After cheating her.
No possible way.
After several attempts, Pippa was confident of two things: First, he had indeed locked her in a room in a gaming hell after cheating her. And second, he was clearly mad.
Crouching low, she peered through the keyhole into the hallway beyond. She waited a few moments, uncertain of what precisely she was waiting for, but waiting nonetheless. When no one appeared or passed through the corridor on the other side of the door, she stood, pacing away from the door and back again, confronting the wide oak.
She had only one course of action. She had to pick the lock. Not that she’d ever done such a thing before, but she’d read about the practice in articles and novels and, honestly, if small children could accomplish the task, how difficult could it be?
Reaching up, she removed a hairpin and crouched low once more, jamming the little strip of metal into the lock and wiggling it about. Nothing happened. After what seemed like an eternity of attempting the impossible, growing more and more infuriated at her situation and the man who had caused it, Pippa sat down with a huff of frustration and returned the hairpin to its rightful place.
Apparently, there were a number of small children in London who were significantly more accomplished than she. She cast an eye at the enormous painting she’d noticed before. No doubt the young men in the oil would have no trouble at all with the lock. No doubt, they would have a half dozen ways of escaping this small room.
Like a secret passageway.
The thought had her on her feet in seconds, one hand against the silk wall coverings, tracing the edge of the small room in search of a secret door. It took her several minutes to check every inch of wall, from one side of the painting to the other, finding nothing out of the ordinary. There was no secret passage. Not unless it was into the painting itself.
She eyed the painting.
Unless.
Grabbing one side of the massive frame, she pulled, and the painting swung out into the room, revealing a wide, dark corridor.
“Triumph!” she crowed to the room at large before lifting a candelabrum from the nearby table and stepping into the corridor, pulling the wide door closed behind her with a thud.
She couldn’t help her self-satisfied smile. Cross would be shocked indeed when he unlocked her cage and discovered her gone.
And he would deserve it, the rogue.
As for Pippa, she would be wherever this passageway led.