When Pippa was no more than six or seven, the five daughters Marbury had been paraded about for a musical interlude (as hosts’ children often were) like little blond ducks before a gathering of peers at a country house party, the details of which she could no longer remember.
As they exited the room, an older gentleman with laughing eyes had stopped her and asked which instrument she preferred to play. Now, had the gentleman inquired such a thing of Penelope, she would have answered with complete assurance that the pianoforte was her favorite. Had he asked Victoria or Valerie, the twins would have replied in unison that they enjoyed the cello. And Olivia would have won him with her five-year-old smile—coy even then—and told him that she liked horns.
But he’d mistakenly asked Pippa, who had proudly announced that she had little time for music, as she was too busy learning general anatomy. Mistaking the gentleman’s quiet shock for interest, she’d then proceeded to lift the skirts of her pinafore and proudly name the bones of her foot and leg.
She got as far as the fibula before her mother had arrived, shrieking her name against the quiet musical backdrop of society’s laughter.
That was the first time Pippa realized that she was odd.
It was also the first time she’d ever been embarrassed. It was a strange emotion—entirely different from all the others, which seemed to fade with time. Once one had eaten, for example, it was difficult to recall the precise characteristics of hunger. Certainly, one remembered wishing one had food, but the keen desire for sustenance was not easily recalled.
Similarly, Pippa was no stranger to irritation—she had four sisters, after all—but she could not exactly remember the way it felt to be utterly, infuriatingly irritated with any one of them. Lord knew there had been days when she could have cheerfully pushed Olivia from a moving carriage, but she couldn’t resurrect the emotion now.
She could remember, however, the hot embarrassment that came with the laughter at that country gathering as though it had happened yesterday. As though it had happened moments ago.
But what had actually happened moments ago seemed somehow worse than showing half of the Beau Monde one’s seven-year-old ankles. Being labeled the strangest Marbury from such a young age allowed for one to develop something of a thick skin. It took much more than snickers from behind fans to rouse Pippa’s embarrassment.
Apparently, it took a man refusing her request for ruination.
A very tall, clearly intelligent, obviously fascinating man.
She had done her best—laid out her proposal in detail, appealed to him as a man of science—and still, he’d refused.
She hadn’t considered that possibility.
She should have, of course. She should have recognized it the moment she stepped inside that glorious office—filled with all manner of interesting things—should have known that her offer would not intrigue him. Mr. Cross was obviously a man of knowledge and experience, and she was the fourth daughter of a double marquess, who could name all the bones in the human body and was therefore somewhat abnormal.
It mattered not a bit that she required a research associate and that she had a mere fourteen days—just 336 dwindling hours—to resolve all her questions regarding her future marriage.
He’d obviously completed plenty of his own experimentation and did not require a research associate.
Not even one who was willing to pay him.
Looking around the large, empty main room of the casino, she supposed she should not have been surprised by that either. After all, a man who owned a casino that dealt in the kind of finances accounted in the large, leather-bound ledger she’d discovered when she’d entered his office was not the kind of man who could be tempted by twenty-five pounds. Or fifty.
That, she should have considered.
It was a pity, really. He’d seemed altogether promising. The most promising option when she’d conceived of the plan, several nights earlier after reading the text of the ceremony to which she would be a party in two weeks’ time.
Carnal lust.
Procreation.
It was wrong, was it not, that a woman was made party to such things without any experience? Without even a sound explanation of the items in question? And that was before the priest even came to the bits relating to obedience and servitude.
It was all entirely unsettling.
Even more unsettling when she considered how disappointed she’d been that Mr. Cross had refused her.
She would have liked to have spent more time with his abacus.
Not just the abacus.
Pippa did not believe in lying, either to herself or to others. It was perfectly fine if those around her wanted to hide the truth, but she had found long ago that dishonesty only made for more work in the long run.
So, no, it was not only the abacus that intrigued her.
It was the man himself. When she’d arrived at the club, she’d expected to find the Cross of legend—handsome and clever and charming and able to strip the clothes from any female in his presence in a matter of seconds . . . without the use of his hands.
But she hadn’t found that man at all. There was no doubt he was clever, but there hadn’t been much charm at all in their interaction, and as for handsome—well, he was very tall, all long limbs and sharp angles, with a mop of finger-combed ginger hair that she would never have imagined he’d have. No, he wasn’t handsome. Not classically.
He was interesting. Which was much better.
Or worse, as the case may be.
He was clearly knowledgeable in the areas of physics and geography, and he was good with numbers—she would wager that the lack of scratch paper on his desk pointed to his ability to calculate the ledger in his head. Impressive, considering the sheer quantity of numbers held therein.
And he slept on the floor.
Half-nude.
That part was rather curious.
Pippa liked curious.
But apparently he did not. And that was critical.
She’d gone through a great deal of trouble concocting a plan, however, and she would not let the contrariness of one man—however fascinating—get in her way. She was in a gaming hell, after all. And gaming hells were purported to be filled with men. Surely there was another man who might be more amenable to her request. She was a scientist, and scientists were nothing if not adaptable.
Pippa would, therefore, adapt and do whatever it took to gain the understanding that she required to ensure that she was completely prepared on the evening of her marriage.
Her marriage.
She didn’t like to say it—she didn’t like to even think it—but the Earl of Castleton wasn’t exactly the most exciting of potential husbands. Oh, he was fair to look at and titled, which her mother appreciated. And he had a lovely estate.
But he wasn’t very smart. Even that was a generous way of putting it. He’d once asked her what part of the pig the sausage came from. She did not want to even consider what he believed the answer to be.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry him. He was no doubt her best option, dull or less than brilliant or otherwise. He knew he lacked intellectual prowess and seemed more than willing—eager, in fact—to have Pippa help him manage his estate and run his house. She was looking forward to it, having read a number of texts on crop rotation, modern irrigation, and animal husbandry.
She would be an excellent wife in that sense.
It was the rest about which she had questions. And she had fourteen days in which to discover the answers.
Was that too much to ask?
Apparently so. She cast a look at the now-closed door to Mr. Cross’s rooms, and felt a pang of something not altogether pleasant in her chest. Regret? Discontent? It did not matter. What mattered was, she had to reconsider her plan.
She sighed, and the noise swirled around her, drawing her attention to the enormous, empty room.
She had been so focused on finding her way to Mr. Cross’s private offices earlier that she hadn’t had an opportunity to explore the casino itself. Like most women in London, she’d heard the gossip about The Fallen Angel—that it was an impressive, scandalous place where ladies did not belong. That it was on the floor of the Angel and not that of Parliament where men forged the future of Britain. That it was the owners of the Angel who wielded London’s most insidious power.
Considering the quiet, cavernous room, Pippa conceded that it was certainly an impressive space . . . but the rest of the gossip seemed slightly exaggerated. There wasn’t much to say about this place except that it was . . .
Rather dark.
A small row of windows near the ceiling on one side of the room was the only source of light, allowing a few errant rays of sunshine in. Pippa followed one long shaft of light, peppered with slow, swirling particles of dust, to where it struck a heavy oak table several feet away, lighting thick green baize painted in white and yellow letters, numbers, and lines.
She approached, a strange grid of numbers and words printed down the long oval coming into view, and she could not resist reaching down to run her fingers across the fabric, along the markings—hieroglyphs to her—until she brushed up against a row of perfect white dice stacked against one wall of the table.
Lifting a pair, she examined the perfect dimples in them, testing the weight of the little ivory squares in her palm, wondering at the power they held. They seemed innocuous enough—barely worth considering—and yet, men lived and died by their toss. Long ago, her brother-in-law had lost everything on one wager. True, he’d earned it all back, but Pippa wondered at the temptation that made one do something so foolish.
No doubt, there was power in the little white cubes.
She rattled them in her palm, imagining a wager of her own—imagining what it would take to tempt her to game. Her research. An understanding of the secrets of marriage, of married life. Of motherhood. Clear expectations for that too-cloudy future.
Answers. Where she had none.
Information that would ease the tightness in her chest that cloyed every time she considered her marriage.
If she could wager for that . . . she would.
She rotated the dice in her hands, wondering at the wager that would bring revelation before she could establish her fate, however, a thunderous pounding at the door of the club gained her attention with its loud and unceasing racket. She set the dice on the edge of the hazard table and moved toward the noise before realizing that she had nothing to do with the door in question and should, therefore, not open it.
Bang.
Bang bang.
She cast a furtive look about the massive room. Surely someone heard the clatter. A maid, a kitchen girl, the bespectacled gentleman who had facilitated her own entrance?
Bang bang bang.
No one appeared to be in hearing distance.
Perhaps she should fetch Mr. Cross?
The thought gave her pause. Or, rather, the way the thought brought with it a vision of Mr. Cross’s disheveled ginger hair standing at haphazard angles before he ran his fingers through it and restored it to right gave her pause. The strange increase of her heartbeat at the thought gave her pause. She wrinkled her nose. She did not care for that increase. It was not altogether comfortable.
Bangbangbangbangbang.
The person at the door seemed to be losing patience. And redoubling commitment.
Clearly, his or her matter was urgent.
Pippa headed for the door, which was masked behind a set of heavy velvet curtains that hung from twenty feet up, solid mahogany standing barely open, shielding a small, dark entryway, quiet and unsettling—a River Styx between the club and the outside world.
She moved through the blackness to the exterior steel door, even larger than its interior partner, closed against the day beyond. In the dim light, she ran her hand along the seam where door met jamb, disliking the way the darkness suggested that someone could reach out and touch her without her ever even knowing he was there. She threw one bolt and another before turning the massive handle built into the door and pulling it open, closing her eyes instinctively against the grey March afternoon that seemed somehow like the brightest summer day after her time in the Angel.
“Well, I’ll tell you, I hadn’t expected such a pretty greeting.”
Pippa opened her eyes at the lecherous words, raising her hand to help her vision adjust to the light.
There were few things she could say with certainty about the man in front of her, classic black hat banded in scarlet silk and tilted to one side, silver-tipped walking stick in one hand, broad-shouldered, and handsomely dressed, but she knew this—he was no gentleman.
In fact, no man, gentle or otherwise, had ever smiled at her the way this man did—as though he were a fox, and she were a hen. As though she were a houseful of hens. As though, if she weren’t careful, he would eat her and wander off down St. James’s with a feather caught in his wide, smiling teeth.
He fairly oozed reprobate.
Any intelligent woman would run from him, and Pippa was nothing if not intelligent. She stepped backward, returning to the darkness of the Angel.
He followed.
“Yer a much better door-man than the usual lot. They never let me in.”
Pippa said the first thing that came to mind. “I am not a door-man.”
His ice blue eyes glowed at the words. “You are no kind of man, love. Ol’ Digger can see that.”
The exterior door closed with a loud bang, and Pippa started at the noise, backing toward the hell once more. When her back came up against the interior door, she edged through, pushing aside the curtains.
He followed.
“Perhaps you’re The Fallen Angel herself, then?”
Pippa shook her head.
It seemed to be the answer he was looking for, his teeth flashing in the dim light of the casino floor. He lowered his voice until it was more rumble than sound. “Would you like to be?”
The question hovered in the fast-closing space between them, distracting her. She might not know this man, but she knew, instinctively, that behind his weathered smile he was a rogue and perhaps a scoundrel, and that he knew much about vice in all forms—knowledge she had been seeking when she’d arrived here not an hour ago, prepared to request it from another man. A man who had shown absolutely no interest in imparting it.
So when this man, wicked and carefree, questioned her, she did as she always did. She answered him truthfully. “As a matter of fact, I do have some questions.”
She surprised him. His strange blue eyes widened just barely before narrowing in a wide, jolly grin. He laughed, bright and bold. “Excellent!” he boomed, and reached for her, wrapping one strong arm about her waist and pulling her to him, as though she were a rag doll and he a too-eager child. “I’ve answers aplenty, pet.”
Pippa did not like it, the feeling of being possessed by this too-bold man, and she reached out to brace herself against his chest, her heart pounding even as she realized that she might have said the entirely wrong thing to the entirely wrong person. He thought she wanted to . . .
“My lord,” she rushed to stop him. “I did not mean . . .”
“While I’m no lord, moppet, I should certainly like to be yours,” he laughed, pressing his face into her neck. Pippa struggled against the caress, trying not to inhale. He smelled of perspiration and something sweet. The combination was not pleasant.
She turned her head away, pushing against his chest again, wishing she’d thought this entire thing through slightly more clearly before leaping to converse with this man. He laughed and pulled her closer, promising her more than she’d bargained for with the tightening of his arms and the press of his soft lips against the curve of her shoulder. “C’mon, love, Uncle Digger’ll take care of you.”
“I am not certain the caring to which you refer is at all unclelike,” Pippa pointed out, trying to be as stern as possible as she attempted to extricate herself from his embrace. She looked around wildly; surely there was someone in this massive building who was willing to help her. Where was that someone?
Digger was laughing again. “Yer an exciting one, aren’t you?”
Pippa held her head back as far as she could, not wanting to make contact again. “Not at all. In fact, I’m the very opposite of exciting.”
“Nonsense. Yer here, aren’t you? If that ain’t exciting, I don’t know what is.”
He had a point. But even Pippa knew ceding such a point would start them down an unpleasant path. Instead, she stiffened, and used every ounce of her lady’s education.
“Sirrah!” she said firmly, writhing in his arms, eel-like, trying to force his hand. “I must insist you release me!”
“Come on, lovely . . . let’s go for a spin. Whatever yer gettin’ here . . . I’ll double it at my hell.”
Double what?
Now was not the time to consider the answer. “As tempting as that offer is—”
“I’ll show you a thing or two about temptation, I will.”
Oh dear. This wasn’t going at all according to plan. She was going to have to scream for help. Screaming was so emotional. Not at all scientific.
But desperate times required . . . well. She took a deep breath, ready to scream as loudly as she could, when the words shot across the quiet room like a bullet.
“Get your hands off her.”
Both Pippa and Digger froze at the sound, low and soft and somehow perfectly audible. And vicious. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at Mr. Cross, tall and trim, that crop of thick ginger hair now perfectly tamed, as though he would have it no other way. He’d also tucked in his shirt and donned a coat in what she assumed was a nod to civility, but it was irrelevant now, as civil was about the last word she would use to describe him.
Indeed, she had never seen anyone so furious in her life.
He looked like he might kill something.
Or someone.
Possibly her.
The thought returned her to sense, and she began to struggle again, moving scant inches before Digger’s superior strength won the day, and she was hauled to his side like a haunch of prize meat. “No.”
Cross’s grey gaze settled on the place where Digger’s hand sat, wide and possessive against her midriff. “It was not a request. Release the girl.”
“She came to me, Cross,” Digger said, laughter in his voice. “Led me right into temptation, she did. I believe I’ll be keepin’ her.”
“That is entirely untrue.” Pippa instinctively defended herself, struggling against the fox’s grip, silently willing Cross to look her in the eye. “You knocked!”
“And you answered, pet.”
She scowled and looked to Cross.
He did not meet her gaze. “She does not look as though she is interested in being kept.”
“I most certainly am not,” Pippa agreed.
“Release the lady.”
“Always so generous, callin’ the Angel’s birds ladies.”
Pippa stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I am a lady.”
Digger laughed. “With airs like that, you might fool someone one of these days!”
Irritation flared. She’d had enough of this man. Craning her neck to meet his blue eyes, she said, “I see I made an immense mistake by even conversing with you, Mr.—” She paused, waiting for him to do right and provide his surname. When he didn’t, she pressed on. “Mr. Digger. I assure you I am quite thoroughly a lady. Indeed, I am soon to be a countess.”
One of his black brows rose. “Is that right?”
She nodded. “Quite. And I don’t imagine you’d like to be on the wrong side of an earl’s favor, would you?”
Digger smiled, reminding her of a fox once more. “It wouldn’t be the first time, moppet. Which earl?”
“Don’t answer that,” Mr. Cross snapped. “Now, Digger.”
The man holding her released her, his touch a slow, unsettling slide against her midsection. The moment she could be free, she hurried to stand next to Mr. Cross, now paying her even less mind, if it was possible. He was advancing on Digger, his words casual, belying the threat that oozed from him with every movement. “Now that’s out of the way, perhaps you could explain what in hell you are doing in my hell?”
Digger remained focused on her, more thoughtfully, even as he replied. “Now, now, Cross. You forget yourself. I was simply coming over to give you some information I thought you might appreciate—bein’ right neighborly if you ask me.”
“We’re not neighbors.”
“Nevertheless. I’ve information you’ll be wantin’.”
“There’s no information you have that I could possibly want.”
“No? Not even information about your sister?”
Cross stiffened, corded tension tightening the long column of his neck and through the lean muscle of his back, pulling him straighter, taller than before.
Digger pressed on, “I’m guessin’ you not only want it . . . you’re willin’ to pay for it.”
The air thickened. She’d always heard the expression and thought it utterly silly. Certainly, air thickened with fog or with smoke . . . she’d even allow for it thickening with the stench of Olivia’s perfumes . . . but she’d always considered the very idea of emotion impacting the density of gas rather ridiculous—a silly, clichéd turn of phrase that should be exiled from English.
But this air did thicken, and she found it difficult to draw a deep breath, leaning forward in anticipation.
“Lord knows she ain’t comin’ to you herself, you fine cheat.”
Pippa gasped at the insult. Surely, Mr. Cross would not allow it to stand. But he seemed not to hear the personal slight. “You will not touch my sister.”
“It ain’t my problem if the ladies are drawn to me,” Digger said. “A gentleman doesn’t turn ’em away if they’re askin’ for a minute or two.” His eyes slid to Pippa once more. “Ain’t that right, Lady Soon-to-be-a-countess?”
“I find it difficult to believe either that ladies are drawn to you or that, in such a case, you would act the part of a gentleman,” Pippa retorted.
“Cor! Listen to this one!” Digger laughed, the sound booming around the floor of the hell. “She’s a little mink.”
Pippa narrowed her gaze. “I believe you are looking for the word minx.”
“No, I found just the right word. You’re a mink. All sharp teeth and”—his lecherous gaze slid over her—“I’m bettin’ very soft fur. Tell me, Cross, ’ad a feel yet?”
Pippa did not understand the words’ meaning, but when Mr. Cross lunged at Digger, hands like lightning clutching the older man’s lapels with wicked force, she had no doubt that she’d been thoroughly insulted. “You will apologize to the lady.”
Digger pulled away from the grip without much effort, straightening his maroon frock coat. “Ah, not yet then, I’m guessin’,” he said smartly. “But not long of a wait now, neither. Not yer usual type, I’ll say.” He bowed low, a teasing gleam in his eye. “My apologies, Lady Soon.”
Her teeth clenched at the mocking name.
Mr. Cross spoke, quiet menace in his tone. “Leave this place.”
“Don’t you want to hear what I came to say?”
His hesitation was so slight . . . a half second . . . less. But Pippa heard it. “No.”
One side of Digger’s mouth crooked up in a smirk. “You will change your mind. I give you two days.” He waited a beat, and Pippa had the distinct impression that there was an invisible knife hovering between these two men, each strong in his own way. She wondered who held the weapon.
Digger drove its point home. “You never could resist family matters.”
Mr. Cross lifted his chin defiantly.
Digger tipped his hat to Pippa, using the movement to give her a proper leer. “As for you, Lady . . . this won’t be the last time we meet.”
“If you know what’s best for you, it will be.” Mr. Cross’s words were cold and unwavering, leaving no room for resistance.
“Nonsense. The lady ’as questions.” Digger’s blue eyes bored into hers. “I’ve answers, I do.”
Mr. Cross took a step toward them, a low, dark sound rumbling in his throat, catching Digger’s attention. He turned his wicked smile on Mr. Cross. “Another reason for you to come see me, then.”
Mr. Cross’s fury was unmistakable, sending a ripple of something not altogether pleasant through her. “Get out.”
Digger did not seem impressed, but he did not tarry. “Two days, Cross.”
With an insolent wink for Pippa, he was gone.
They stood in silence for a long moment, watching the thick velvet curtains sway with his exit, listening for the heavy sound of the main door closing behind him before Pippa released the breath she had not known she had been holding.
At the sound, Cross turned on her, grey eyes flashing and furious. “Perhaps you would like to explain how it is that you are still here?”