“Precisely,” he said, taking a long step over a stack of newspapers, ignoring the scent of fresh linen and sunlight that curled around her. Around him.
“Indeed, bringing a chaperone to ‘London’s most notorious gaming hell’ would have been rather more mad, don’t you think?” She reached out and ran one finger along the massive abacus. “This is beautiful. Do you use it often?”
He was distracted by the play of her long, pale fingers over the black rounds, by the way the tip of her index finger canted slightly to the right. Imperfect.
Why wasn’t she wearing gloves? Was there nothing normal about this woman?
“No.”
She turned to him, her blue eyes curious. “No, you don’t use the abacus? Or no, you don’t think that coming with a chaperone would have been mad?”
“Neither. The abacus is unwieldy—”
She pushed one large disc from one side of the frame to the other. “You can get things done more quickly without it?”
“Precisely.”
“The same is true of chaperones,” she said, serious. “I am much more productive without them.”
“I find you much more dangerous without them.”
“You think me a danger, Mr. Cross?”
“Cross. No need for the mister. And yes. I think you a danger.”
She was not insulted. “To you?” Indeed, she sounded pleased with herself.
“Mainly to yourself, but if your brother-in-law should find you here, I imagine you’d be something of a danger to me, as well.” Old friend, business partner, or no, Bourne would have Cross’s head if Lady Philippa were discovered here.
She seemed to accept the explanation. “Well then, I shall be quick about it.”
“I’d rather you be quick about leaving.”
She shook her head, her tone rising just enough to make him aware of it. Of her. “Oh no. I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, I have a very clear plan, and I require your assistance.”
He had reached his desk, thank God. Lowering himself into the creaking chair, he opened the ledger and pretended to look over the figures there, ignoring the fact that her presence blurred the numbers to unintelligible grey lines. “I am afraid, Lady Philippa, that your plan is not a part of my plans. You’ve come all this way for nothing.” He looked up. “How did you come to be here, anyway?”
Her unwavering gaze wavered. “The usual way, I imagine.”
“As we’ve established, the usual way involves a chaperone. And does not involve a gaming hell.”
“I walked.”
A beat. “You walked.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“In broad daylight.” There was an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
“You walked across London—”
“Not very far. Our home is—”
“A half mile up the Thames.”
“You needn’t say it as though it’s Scotland.”
“You walked across London in broad daylight to the entrance of The Fallen Angel, where I assume you knocked and waited for entry.”
She pursed her lips. He refused to be distracted by the movement. “Yes.”
“On a public street.”
“In Mayfair.”
He ignored the emphasis. “A public street that is home to the most exclusive men’s clubs in London.” He paused. “Were you seen?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Mad. “I assume you know that ladies do not do such things?”
A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows. “It’s a silly rule, don’t you think? I mean, the female sex has had access to bipedal locomotion since . . . well . . . Eve.”
Cross had known many many women in his lifetime. He’d enjoyed their company, their conversation, and their curiosity. But he’d never once met a woman as strange as this one. “Nevertheless, it is 1831. In the present day, females such as you use carriages. And they do not frequent gaming hells.”
She smiled. “Well, not precisely such as me, as I walked, and here I am. In a gaming hell.”
“Who let you in?”
“A man. He appeared eager to do so when I announced myself.”
“No doubt he was. Bourne would take pleasure in destroying him if your reputation had suffered.”
She considered the words. “I hadn’t thought of that. Indeed, I’ve never had a protector.”
He could protect her.
Where had that come from?
No matter. “Lady Philippa, it appears that you require an army of protectors.” He returned his attention to the ledger. “Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor inclination to enlist. I trust you can see yourself out.”
She advanced, ignoring him. He looked up, surprised. People did not ignore him. “Oh, there’s no need to Lady Philippa me, really. Not considering my reason for being here. Please, call me Pippa.”
Pippa. It suited her. More so than the fuller, more extravagant version of the name. But he had no intention of calling her such a thing. He had no intention of calling her at all. “Lady Philippa”—he let the name stretch between them purposefully—“it is time for you to leave.”
She took another step in his direction, one hand coming to rest on the large globe to the side of his desk. He slid his gaze to the place where her flat palm smothered Britain and resisted the urge to draw cosmic meaning from the gesture.
“I am afraid I cannot leave, Mr. Cross. I require—”
He didn’t think he could bear her saying it again. “Ruination. Yes. You’ve made your purpose clear. As I have similarly made my refusal.”