Hours later, long after the last gamer had left the Angel, Cross sat at his desk, attempting to calculate the evening’s take for the third time. And failing for the third time.
Failing, because he could not eradicate the vision of blond, bespectacled Philippa Marbury charging down the rear steps of Dolby House toward him. Indeed, every time he attempted to carry a digit from one column to the next, he imagined her fingers threading through his hair or her lips curving beneath his hand, and he lost the number.
Cross did not lose numbers. Much of his adult life had been spent in punishment for being unable to lose numbers.
He bowed over the book again.
He’d added three lines of the column before the pendula on his desk caught his attention, and he remembered her soft touch setting the drops in motion. Temptation flared, and he imagined that same touch setting other things in motion. Like the fastenings on his trousers.
The nib of his pen snapped against the ledger, sending a splatter of ink across the ecru page.
She thought him safe.
And with any other woman, he was. With any other woman, he was safety incarnate.
But with her . . . his control—that which he valued above all else—hung by a thread. A delicate, silken thread, soft as her hair. Her skin. Her voice in the darkness.
With a groan, he shoved his hands through his hair and pushed his chair away from the desk, tilting it back against the wall and spreading his legs wide. He had to exorcise her memory from this place. Everywhere he looked—the abacus, the globe, the damned desk—everything was sullied with her. He was almost certain that he could still smell her there, the lingering scent of sunlight and fresh linen.
Goddammit.
She’d ruined his office . . . as thoroughly as if she’d marched into the room and removed all her clothes.
And laid herself across his desk, wearing nothing but her spectacles and her little crooked smile, her skin pale and beautiful against the ebony.
He closed his eyes, the vision altogether too easy to conjure. He pinned her with one hand just below her beautiful white breasts, their tips the color of her lips—fresh peaches drizzled with honey. His mouth watered; he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from leaning over her, from taking one of those perfect nipples into his mouth and tasting her. He’d spend an age on those breasts, teasing her until she was writhing beneath him, savoring her until she was desperate for him to move on—begging him to move lower.
And only when she begged would he give her what they both wanted—spreading her thighs, running his hands over her soft, creamy skin, and—
A knock on the door sounded like a rifle’s report. His chair slammed to the floor, punctuated by his wicked curse.
Whoever it was, Cross was going to murder him. Slowly. And with great pleasure.
“What?” he barked.
The door opened, revealing the founder of The Fallen Angel. “A fine welcome.”
Cross considered leaping over the desk and strangling Chase. “I must have said it wrong. Barring the club being aflame, you are unwelcome.”
Chase did not listen, instead closing the door and dropping into a large wing chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Cross scowled.
His partner shrugged. “Let’s say the club is aflame.”
“What do you want?”
“The book.”
Gentlemen’s clubs across London prided themselves on their betting books, and the Angel was no different. The massive leather-bound volume was used to catalog all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager—no matter how trivial—in the book, and the Angel took a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.
Chase dealt in information, and loved the book for the secrets it revealed about the club’s membership. The insurance it provided.
Cross set the heavy tome on the desk.
Chase did not reach for it. “Justin tells me that you were not here for most of the evening.”
“Justin needs a sound thrashing for all the information he gives you regarding our whereabouts.”
“I care less about the others’ whereabouts these days,” Chase said, extending one arm and setting the massive globe in motion. “I’m chiefly concerned with yours.”
Cross watched the globe spin, hating the realization that the last person to interact with the giant orb had been Philippa Marbury and resenting Chase’s touching it. “I don’t know why.”
“Knight is easier to watch when I know where to find him.”
Cross’s brows rose. Surely he had misunderstood. “Are you suggesting that I ignore the fact that he has ruined my brother-in-law, threatened my sister’s safety, and blackmailed me?”
“No. Of course not.” Chase stopped the globe, one long finger on the Sahara. “And I care not a bit about whether you marry the girl or not. But I want you to be careful about the way you choose to punish Knight. He will not take kindly to half measures.”
Cross met his partner’s gaze. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you have one chance to do this. You establish our might wholly, or not at all.”
“I have plans for wholly.”
“There is a reason why his largest players do not have memberships to the Angel. They are not men we would ordinarily welcome at our tables.”
“Maybe not. But respect tempts them. Power. The chance to rub elbows with those who have it, those who are titled. The chance to play the Angel.”
Chase nodded, reaching for a box of cigars on a nearby table. “Where were you tonight?”
“I do not require a keeper.”
“Of course you do. You think I don’t already know where you were?” The words came from behind a cloud of smoke.
Irritation flared. “You did not have me followed.”
Chase did not respond to the anger. “I don’t trust Knight around you. The two of you have always had a . . . troublesome . . . rapport.”
Cross stood, towering over the desk and his partner. “You did not have me followed.”
Chase rolled the cigar between thumb and finger. “I do wish you had scotch in here.”
“Get out.” Cross had had enough.
Chase did not move. “I didn’t have you followed. But I see now that it would have been edifying had I done.”
Cross swore, brutal and barbaric.
“You have had a bad night, haven’t you? Where did you go?”
“I saw my sister.”
Chase’s golden brows rose. “You went to Needham’s ball?”
I also saw Philippa Marbury. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to tell Chase that. Instead, he said nothing.
“I take it the meeting did not go well,” Chase said.
“She wants nothing to do with me. Even when I told her I would take care of Knight, she had little to say. She didn’t believe me.”
Chase was quiet for a long moment, considering the situation. “Sisters are difficult. They do not always respond well to the dictates of older brothers.”
“You would know that better than anyone.”
“Would you like me to speak with her?”
“You think far too highly of yourself.”
Chase smiled. “Ladies tend to welcome me with open arms. Even ladies like your sister.”
Cross’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t want you near her. It’s bad enough she’s to deal with Digger . . . and with me.”
“You wound me.” Chase savored the cigar. “Will she stay away from him?”
He considered the question, and his sister’s fury earlier in the evening. Lavinia had been seventeen when Baine died, when Cross left. She’d been forced into a marriage with Dunblade because he’d been willing to take her on—despite her imperfections.
Imperfections Cross had caused.
Imperfections that should have been overlooked—would have been if she’d been able to escape their mother’s sorrow and their father’s wrath. If she hadn’t been forced to survive on her own, with no one to help her.
Without a brother to keep her safe.
No wonder she did not believe him when he told her he would repair the damage Knight and her husband had done. Anger and frustration and not a small amount of self-loathing flared. “I don’t know what she’ll do. But I know Knight won’t do anything to jeopardize his daughter’s marriage.”
“We should have ruined him years ago.” When Cross did not reply, Chase added, “You’ve always had too soft a spot for him.”
Cross lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Without him . . .”
White teeth flashed. “You wouldn’t have us.”
Cross laughed at that. “When put that way, perhaps I shouldn’t hesitate in ruining him.”
Chase savored a long puff on the cigar, thinking before saying, “You have to keep up the ruse until you’re ready to take him out. To protect Lavinia.” Cross nodded. “Temple said you’re planning to use the ladies? You realize you’ll need me to get the ladies.”
Cross raised a brow. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Are you sure? They like me a great deal.”
“I am sure.”
Chase nodded once. “I wonder what the daughter is like.”
“She’s Knight’s progeny, so I’m guessing either a raving bitch or a poor soul.”
“She’s also a woman, so those are the two most likely options, of course.” A pause. “Perhaps you should marry her. It did wonders for Bourne.”
“I am not Bourne.”
“No. You’re not.” Chase sat up, spinning the globe once more and looking around the room. “It is a wonder you can find anything in here. I’ve half a mind to have the girls come in and clean up.”
“Try it.”
“Not worth your wrath.” Chase tamped out the cigar and stood, coming nearer and tapping one finger on the enormous betting book. “It’s late, and I am for home, but before I go, I thought perhaps you’d like to make a wager.”
“I don’t wager in the book. You know that.”
One of Chase’s golden brows rose. “Are you certain you don’t want to make an exception for this one? You’ve excellent odds.”
Unease settled in Cross’s chest, and he folded his arms, leaning back in his chair to level his partner with a cool look. “What is it?”
“Lady Philippa Marbury,” Chase said.
Unease turned to dread. Chase knew. It was not a surprise. Not really. Chase always knew everything. Still, Cross was not required to admit it. “Who?”
Chase cut him a look. “Is this how it is to be then? You’re going to pretend not to know to what I am referring?”
“No pretending about it,” Cross made a show of leaning back in his chair. “I haven’t any idea what you’re on about.”
“Justin let her in, Cross. Pointed her in the direction of your office. And then he told me about it.”
Goddammit. “Justin is a gossiping female.”
“Having one or two of them around can be rather helpful, I find. Now, about the girl.”
Cross scowled, his mood turning from dark to deadly. “What of her?”
“What did she want here?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“But it might be Bourne’s concern, so I ask nonetheless.”
If he had my sister in his clutches, I’d consider doing his bidding.
Bourne’s words echoed through Cross on a tide of guilt.
“What she wanted is irrelevant. But it’s worth mentioning that Knight saw her.”
A casual observer would not have seen the slight stiffening of Chase’s spine. “Did he recognize her?”
“No.” Thank God.
Chase heard the hesitation in the word. “However?”
“She intrigued him.”
“I’m not surprised. Lady Philippa is an intriguing sort.”
“That’s a mild way of putting it.” He did not like the understanding that flashed in his partner’s eyes at the words.
“You haven’t told Bourne?”
For the life of him, Cross didn’t know why. Bourne was widely considered one of the coldest, hardest men in London. If he thought for one moment that Pippa was in danger, Bourne would destroy the threat with his bare hands.
But Cross had promised to keep her secrets.
The world is full of liars.
The words whispered through him. There was no reason to keep his promise to the lady. He should tell Bourne. Tell him, and be through with it.
And yet . . .
He thought of her earlier in the evening, smiling happily at her hound, the expression on her face sending a thread of warmth through him even now. He liked to watch her smile. He liked to watch her do just about anything.
He liked her.
Shit.
“I took care of it.”
Chase was quiet for a long moment before repeating, “You did.”
Cross resisted the urge to look away. “The girl came to me.”
“I remain unclear on those particulars.”
“You needn’t know everything.”
One side of Chase’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “And yet, I so often do.”
“Not this.”
Chase considered him for a long moment, a battle of will. “No. It seems not.”
“You’ll refrain from telling Bourne?”
“Unless he requires telling,” Chase said, leaning back in the chair. “And besides, telling Bourne won’t help my end of the wager.”
He shouldn’t care.
But the echo of Pippa’s soft touch and her strange words had clearly made him as mad as she was. “What are the terms?”
Chase grinned, all white teeth. “One hundred pounds says she’s the woman who breaks you of your curse.”
His curse.
It took everything he had not to react to the words. To the taunt in them.
One golden brow rose. “Not willing to take it?”
“I don’t wager in the book,” Cross repeated, the words coming out like gravel.
Chase smirked, but said nothing, instead standing, limbs unfolding with an uncanny grace. “Pity. I thought for sure that would make me a quick hundred.”
“I did not know you were short on blunt.”
“I’m not. But I do like to win.”
Cross didn’t reply as his partner left, the sound of the large mahogany door closing softly the only sign that Chase had been there at all.
Only then did Cross release the long breath he’d been holding.
He should have taken the wager.
Chase might know more than most about the secrets of London’s elite, but there was one fact that was beyond doubt.
Cross would not touch Philippa Marbury again.
He couldn’t.
Pippa, it’s time to try your dress.”
The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby’s words—part excitement, part scolding—drew Pippa’s attention from where she’d been watching the mass of bodies weaving in and out of the shops on Bond Street. While Pippa liked the window of Madame Hebert’s shop very much—it afforded a rather spectacular view of the rest of the London aristocracy going about their daily business—she did not particularly care for dressmakers. They, like dancing, were not her preferred way of spending time.
But wedding dresses required modistes. As did trousseaus.
And so, here she was, at what would most certainly be the longest trip to the dressmaker in the history of dress shopping.
“Philippa!” She snapped her attention from the group of men across the street at the entrance to Boucher & Babcock’s Tobacconist and toward her mother’s sharp, excited cry from the inner fitting room of the shop. “Come see your sister!”
With a sigh, Pippa turned from the window and pushed her way through the curtains, feeling as though she were steeled for battle. The velvet drapes hadn’t returned to their place when she came up short, taking in Olivia, petite and perfect on a raised platform at the center of the room, in what had to be the most beautiful wedding dress ever made.
“Olivia,” Pippa said quietly, shaking her head. “You are . . .”
“Gorgeous!” the marchioness exclaimed, clapping her hands together in maternal glee.
Olivia fluffed the skirts of the lovely ivory lace and grinned. “Absolutely stunning, aren’t I?”
“Stunning,” Pippa agreed. It was the truth after all. But she could not resist adding, “And so modest.”
“Oh, tosh,” Olivia said, turning to look more carefully in the mirror. “If you cannot tell the truth in Hebert’s back room, where can you? Dressmaker’s shops are for gossip and honesty.”
The seamstress—widely acknowledged as the best in Britain—removed a pin from between her lips and pinned the bodice of the gown before winking at Pippa from her position behind Olivia’s shoulder. “I could not agree more.”
Olivia was unable to take her eyes off her reflection in one of the score of mirrors placed around the room. “Yes. It’s perfect.”
It was, of course. Not that Olivia needed a dress to make her beautiful. The youngest, prettiest Marbury sister could wear a length of feed sack fetched from the Needham Manor stables and still look more beautiful than most women on their very best days. No, there was little doubt that two weeks hence, when Olivia and Viscount Tottenham stood in St. George’s in front of all of London society, she would be a stunning bride—the talk of the ton.
Pippa would no doubt pale in comparison as she played her part in the double wedding.
“Lady Philippa, Alys is ready for you.” The dressmaker pulled her from her thoughts with a wave of one long arm, adorned with a scarlet pincushion, in the direction of a young assistant standing near a tall screen on one end of the room, a mass of lace and silk in her hands.
Pippa’s wedding gown.
Something turned deep within, and she hesitated.
“Go on, Pippa. Put it on.” Olivia looked down at the dressmaker. “It’s very different, I hope. I wouldn’t like us to be thought to wear the same dress.”
Pippa had no doubt that, even if the dresses were an exact copy, there would be no mistaking the two brides on the fast-approaching day.
Where the four older Marbury daughters had been landed with flat, ashy blond hair, skin either too ruddy (Victoria and Valerie) or too pale (Pippa and Penelope), and bodies either too plump (Penelope and Victoria) or too lean (Pippa and Valerie), Olivia was perfect. Her hair was a lush, sparkling gold that shimmered in the sunlight, her skin was clear and pink, and her shape—the ideal combination of curved and trim. She had a body that was made for French fashion, and Madame Hebert had designed her a dress to prove it.
Pippa doubted the dressmaker—best in London or no—could do the same for her.
The gown was over her head then, the sound of fabric rustling in her ears chasing away her thoughts as the young seamstress tightened and fastened, buttoned and tied. Pippa fidgeted through the process, keenly aware of the harsh lace edging against her skin, of the way the stays threatened to suffocate.
She had not yet seen herself in it, but the dress was remarkably uncomfortable.
When Alys had completed her work, she waved Pippa out into the main room, and for one small moment, Pippa wondered what would happen if, instead of emerging to the critical gaze of her sister and mother and the finest dressmaker this side of the English Channel, she fled into the rear of the shop and out the back door.
Perhaps then she and Castleton could forgo the entire wedding and simply get to the marriage bit. That was, after all, the important part of it all, wasn’t it?
“This shall be the wedding of the season!” Lady Needham crowed from beyond the screen.
Well . . . perhaps marriage was not the most important part for mothers.
“Of course it shall,” Olivia agreed. “Didn’t I tell you that, Penny-disaster or no, I would marry well?”
“You did, my darling. You always achieve that which you set your mind to.”
Lucky Olivia.
“My lady?” The young seamstress looked confused. Pippa gathered that it was not every day that a bride was so hesitant to show off her wedding gown.
She stepped around the screen. “Well? Here I am.”
“Oh!” Lady Needham nearly toppled from her place on a lavishly appointed divan, tea sloshing from her cup as she bounced up and down on the sapphire fabric. “Oh! What a fine countess you shall make!”
Pippa looked past her mother to Olivia, who was already back to watching the half dozen young seamstresses on their knees, pinning the hem of her gown, lifting flounces and moving ribbons. “Very nice, Pippa.” She paused. “Not as nice as mine, of course . . .”
Some things did not change. Thankfully. “Of course not.”
Madame Hebert was already helping Pippa up onto her own raised platform, pins lodged firmly between the dressmaker’s teeth as she cast a disparaging gaze along the bodice of the gown. Pippa turned to look at herself in a large mirror, and the Frenchwoman immediately stepped into her line of vision. “Not yet.”
The seamstresses worked in silence as Pippa ran the tips of her fingers over the bodice of the gown, tracing the curves of lace and the stretches of silk. “Silk comes from caterpillars,” she said, the information a comfort in the odd moment. “Well, not precisely caterpillars—the cocoons of the silkworm.” When no one replied, she looked down at her hands, and added, “The Bombyx mori pupates, and before it can emerge as a moth—we get silk.”
There was silence for long moments, and Pippa looked up to discover everyone in the room staring at her as though she had sprouted a second head. Olivia was the first to reply. “You are so odd.”
“Who can think of worms at a time like this?” the marchioness chimed in. “Worms have nothing to do with weddings!”
Pippa thought it was rather a perfect time to think of worms. Hardworking worms that had left the life they’d known—and all its comforts—and spun cocoons, preparing for a life they did not understand and could not imagine, only to be stopped halfway through the process and turned into a wedding gown.
She did not imagine that her mother would care for that description, however, and so she said nothing as the woman began to pin, and the bodice of the gown grew tighter and tighter. After several long moments, Pippa coughed. “It’s rather constricting.”
Madame Hebert did not seem to hear her, instead pinching a quarter of an inch of fabric at Pippa’s waist and pinning it tight.
“Are you sure—?”
Pippa tried again before the modiste cut her a look. “I am sure.”
No doubt.
And then the dressmaker stepped away and Pippa had a clear line to the looking glass, where she faced her future self. The dress was beautiful, fitted simply to her small bust and long waist without making her look like any kind of long-legged bird.
No, she looked every inch a bride.
The dress seemed to be growing tighter by the moment. Was such a thing possible?
“What do you think?” the dressmaker asked, watching her carefully in the mirror.
Pippa opened her mouth to respond, not knowing what was to come.
“She adores it, of course!” The marchioness’s words came on a squeal. “They both adore them! It shall be the wedding of the season! The wedding of the century!”
Pippa met the modiste’s curious chocolate gaze. “And the century has barely begun.”
The Frenchwoman’s eyes smiled for the briefest of instants before Olivia sighed happily. “It shall indeed. And Tottenham shan’t be able to resist me in this dress. No man could.”
“Olivia!” the marchioness said from her place. “That is entirely unladylike.”
“Why? That is the goal, is it not? To tempt one’s husband?”
“One does not tempt one’s husband!” the marchioness insisted.
Olivia’s smile turned mischievous. “You must have tempted yours once or twice, Mother.”
“Oh!” Lady Needham collapsed back against the settee.
Madame Hebert turned away from the conversation, waving two girls over to work on Pippa’s hem.
Olivia winked at Pippa. “Five times, at least.”
Pippa could not resist. “Four. Victoria and Valerie are twins.”
“Enough! I cannot abide it!” The marchioness was up and through the curtains to the front of the shop, leaving her daughters to their laughter.
“That you might some day be wife to the prime minister worries me not a small amount,” Pippa said.
Olivia smiled. “Tottenham enjoys it. He says the European leaders will all appreciate my increased character.”
Pippa laughed, happy for the distraction from the unsettling view of the bride in the looking glass. “Increased character? That is a kind way of putting it.”
Olivia nodded, waving the dressmaker over. “Madame,” she said, quietly, “now that our mother is gone, perhaps we could discuss the particulars of tempting one’s husband?”
Pippa’s brows rose. “Olivia!”
Olivia waved away the scolding and pressed on. “The trousseaus my mother ordered . . . they’re filled with cotton and linen night rails, aren’t they?”
Madame Hebert’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I would have to pull the orders, but knowing the preferences of the marchioness, there is little designed to tempt in the collections.”
Olivia smiled her sweetest, brightest smile. The one that could win any man or woman in creation. The one that made her the favorite Marbury girl Britain-wide. “But there could be?”
“Oui. The bedchamber is my specialty.”
Olivia nodded once. “Excellent. We both require your very best in that area.” She waved a hand at Pippa. “Pippa most of all.”
That set her back. “What does that mean?”
“Only that Castleton seems the type to require guideposts along the way.” Olivia looked to the seamstress, and added, “I don’t suppose guideposts are an option?”
The Frenchwoman laughed. “I make certain they find their way.”
Guideposts. Pippa recalled her hand on Castleton’s the prior evening. The way he’d smiled down at her, and she’d felt not a twinge of temptation. Not a hint of the knowledge that she sought.
Perhaps Pippa required guideposts.
How was one to know?
“I’m not worried,” Olivia said, her eyes flashing with a knowledge beyond her years, rubied hand tracing the edge of her gown. “Tottenham has no difficulty finding his way.” Pippa felt her jaw go lax. The words called to mind thoughts of much more than kissing. Olivia looked at her and laughed. “You needn’t look so shocked.”
“You’ve—?” She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “More than the kissing? With the tongues?”
Olivia smiled and nodded. “Last night. There was still kissing, though. And a lovely amount of tongue. In intriguing locations.” Pippa thought perhaps her eyes would roll from her head. “You did not have a similar experience, I gather?”
No!
“How? Where?”
“Well, there’s the answer to my question,” Olivia said dryly, inspecting one long lace sleeve. “I should think the ordinary way. As for when and where, you’d be surprised by how resourceful an intelligent, eager gentleman can be.”
Little Olivia, the youngest Marbury. Deflowered.
Which made Pippa the only Marbury to remain . . . flowered.
Olivia lowered her voice, and added, “I hope for your sake that Castleton discovers his resourcefulness. It’s a very rewarding experience.”
Pippa shook her head. “You—” She didn’t know what to say.
Olivia gave her a look of surprise. “Really, Pippa. It’s perfectly normal for betrothed couples to . . . experiment. Everyone does it.”
She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Everyone?”
“All right, apparently not everyone.”
Olivia turned back to the seamstress to discuss the line of her dress, or the cut of the fabric, or something equally inane, unaware of the thoughts rioting in Pippa’s head.
Experiment.
The word echoed through her, a reminder of her encounter with Mr. Cross. She had planned to gain a semblance of understanding prior to marriage, knowing that her interactions with her husband would be rudimentary at best.
But she’d never once imagined that Olivia would . . . that Lord Tottenham and Olivia would . . . had . . . had knowledge of each other. In the biblical sense.
Castleton had never even tried to kiss her. Not in two years of dancing around the edge of courtship. Not in a month of official courtship. Not even last night, at their betrothal ball, after she’d touched him. He’d had plenty of opportunity to ferret her away as they’d stood to one side of the room in stilted silence.
But he hadn’t.
And she hadn’t thought it at all uncommon.
Until now.
Now, when she required experimentation more than ever.
And she’d wagered away her opportunity for it. Utterly.
I will refrain from asking any other men to assist in my research.
The wager rang in her ears as though she’d spoken the words aloud, there and then. She’d wagered and lost. She’d given her word. But now, as her heart and mind raced, she found herself desperate for a solution. It was one thing, after all, for her not to have the experience she wished on her wedding night; it was another entirely for her not to have the experience she was expected to have.
She was to be married altogether too quickly. She caught her own gaze in the mirror. She was wearing her wedding gown, for heaven’s sake.
There was so little time. Research was imperative. With, or without him.
Perhaps she ought to ask Olivia.
Her gaze slid to her sister’s perfect pink smile—filled with knowledge that Pippa hadn’t before seen but could absolutely now identify.
She needed to act. Immediately.
And like that, the solution was clear.
She had to get to the Angel.
With that keen awareness rocketing through her, Pippa stared at her younger sister, beautiful in her own wedding gown, and announced, the words, not entirely false. “I am unwell.”
Olivia snapped her attention back to Pippa. “What do you mean you are unwell?”
Pippa shook her head and put a hand to her stomach. “I am feeling quite . . . unwell.” She considered the girls at her feet, working furiously, ants charging a discarded sweet at a picnic.
“But what of your gown?” Olivia shook her head.
“It’s lovely. And fine. But I must remove it.” The girls looked up in unison. “Now.”
She had research to conduct. Pressing research.
She looked to Madame Hebert. “I cannot stay. I shall have to come back. What with how unwell I feel.”
The Frenchwoman watched her carefully for a long moment. “Of course.”
Olivia looked horrified. “Well, whatever you feel, I don’t wish to catch it.”
Pippa descended from the platform, hurrying for the changing screen. “No. I wouldn’t like for that. For you to feel . . .”
Madame Hebert filled in the rest. “Unwell?”
Pippa supposed that the repetition of the word might be odd. “Sick,” she blurted out.
Olivia’s pert nose wrinkled. “For heaven’s sake, Pippa. Go home. But take a hack. Mother and I will need the carriage to carry all our parcels.”
She did not wait to be told twice. “Yes. I think I shall do just that.”
Of course, she didn’t.
Instead, she restored her clothing to normal, assured her mother that she would be thoroughly safe to make her way home, and left the dress shop, her destination clear and unequivocal.
Head down, cloak tight around her, Pippa headed right down Bond and across Piccadilly, where she and her maid entered a hack together on one side, and Pippa slid across the seat, pulled up the hood of her cloak and whispered a plea for secrecy before exiting, alone, directly through the door on the opposite side.
She slipped, unnoticed, down a narrow alleyway that ran behind St. James’s and counted the buildings from the rear—one, two, three—before stopping before a heavy steel door and giving it a good, firm rap.
No one answered.
She redoubled her efforts. Banging on the steel with the flat of her palm, making an utter racket.
If she were found—
There were a hundred ways to finish that question. Best not to dwell on them.
She knocked again, harder. Faster.
And then, after what seemed like an age, a hidden slot slid open at the center of the great steel door, and black eyes met hers, irritation quickly giving way to surprised recognition.
“What in hell?” The voice was muffled by the steel.
“I am Lady Philippa Marbury,” she announced, but the words were lost in the sound of the slot closing, several locks being thrown on the opposite side of the door, and the scrape of steel on stone.
The door opened, revealing a great, yawning blackness and the largest, most dangerous-looking man she’d ever seen, tall and broad with a scar at his lip and a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once.
A thread of uncertainty coiled through her as she opened her mouth to speak. “I am . . .”
“I know who you are,” he said curtly. “Get in here.”
“I don’t—” she started, then stopped. “Who are you?”
He reached out, one massive hand grasping her arm and pulling her into the club. “Did it not occur to you that someone might see you out there?” he said, poking his head out the door and looking first one way, then the other, down the alley before, satisfied that she had not been seen, closing the door, throwing the locks and turning away from her, pushing through another set of curtains and into a beautifully appointed hallway before bellowing, “What in hell do we pay doormen for? Why isn’t there anyone manning the goddamned door?”
She called out from her place in the entryway. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone manning most of your doors at this time of day.”
The enormous man turned back to her, curiosity in his gaze. “And, how would you know that?”
“I’ve been here before,” she said, simply.
He shook his head, smiling wryly. “Does Bourne know that Penelope is giving her sister tours?”
“Oh, you misunderstand. I haven’t come here with Penelope. I was here with Mr. Cross.”
That set the large man back. “Cross,” he said, and Pippa noticed the shift in his tone. Disbelief. Maybe something else.
She nodded. “Yes.”
His black brows rose. “Cross,” he repeated. “And you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Yes. Well, not regularly, but I did have good reason to call on him earlier in the week.”
“Did you.”
The words were not a question, but she answered nonetheless. “Yes.” She hesitated, then added, “Though it might be best if you not tell him I am here today.”
His gaze turned knowing. “Might it.”
Too knowing.
She extended her hand. “I’m afraid you have the better of me, sir. I’ve not made the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
He gave her proffered hand a long look before meeting her gaze once more, as though giving her the chance to change her mind. “I am Temple.”
The Duke of Lamont.
The murderer.
She stepped back, her hand falling involuntarily at the thought before she could stop it. “Oh.”
His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Now you’re wishing you hadn’t come here after all.”
Her mind raced. He wouldn’t hurt her. He was Bourne’s partner. He was Mr. Cross’s partner. It was the middle of the day. People were not killed in Mayfair in the middle of the day.
And for all she’d heard about this dark, dangerous man, there wasn’t a single stitch of proof that he’d done that which he was purported to have done.
She extended her hand once more. “I am Philippa Marbury.”
One black brow arched, but he took her hand firmly. “Brave girl.”
“There’s no proof that you’re what they say.”
“Gossip is damning enough.”
She shook her head. “I am a scientist. Hypotheses are useless without evidence.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Would that the rest of England were as thorough.” He released her hand and held back the curtain, allowing her entry into the hallway, lushly appointed with wall coverings of silk and velvet that Pippa could not resist reaching out to touch.
“Bourne isn’t here,” he said.
She smiled. “I know. He’s in Surrey with my sister. I am not here for him.”
He hesitated in his long strides, and she took a moment to marvel at the way such a large man—one who was clearly no stranger to violence and brutality—could move with such grace, shifting his weight to stay his forward movement.
And then he was moving again, as though he’d never paused. “And not for Cross, either?”
“No. He doesn’t enjoy my company.”
The words were out before she could stop them, and Temple caught her gaze. “He said that?”
She shrugged, adjusting her spectacles. “Not in so many words, but he made it clear he wasn’t interested in assisting me with my project, so . . .”
“Which project?” he prodded.
My ruination. She couldn’t say that.
“A piece of research with which I had hoped he would . . . aid me.”
Temple flashed her a smile. “And what about me? I could aid you.”
She considered the offer for a long moment. No doubt, this man could answer all of her questions. And then some.
But he wasn’t Cross.
She resisted the thought and the discomfort that came with it, instead focusing on the duke who turned to face her, absently opening one of what seemed like an endless string of closed doors and stepping aside to let Pippa into a large room, at the center of which stood two tables, covered in green baize.
“No, thank you. I promised Mr. Cross I wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off.
“Wouldn’t what?” he prompted.
“Wouldn’t ask another man.”
His eyes went wide briefly. “Now that sounds like fascinating research.”
She ignored the words, turning to face him, hands clasped tightly as he closed the door behind them and pocketed the key. “But he didn’t say anything about women.”
He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
She took a deep breath. “I require an audience with one of your ladies.”
“My ladies?”
She waved one hand in the air, absently. “Your, in the plural. Your ladies.” When he did not reply, she blurted out her clarification. “Your prostitutes.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and Pippa wondered if, perhaps, she had not spoken.
And then he laughed, big and booming.
And she wondered if she’d made a serious mistake.