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.
Chapter Seven
“In order to produce quality silk, the silk maker (NB: sericulturist) ensures a careful diet of mulberry leaves for his worms, taking care that no odd foodstuffs (or even odors) come into contact with the creatures. Once they have eaten their fill, the worms pupate, spinning their cocoons and, when several days have passed, the sericulturist thwarts their incubation and halts the emergence of the moth mining the cocoons for silk.
I have no intention of allowing this to happen to me.
Thank goodness for loopholes logical thinking.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 25, 1831; eleven days prior to her wedding
Temple’s laughter echoed through the small, locked room. “Your Grace?” she prompted.
His laugh stopped, as quickly as it had started. He did not respond, instead moving past her to the bookcase that dominated the far end of the room. He inspected the books for a long moment.
He was sending her home. Likely looking for a book to keep strange, scientific Philippa Marbury occupied until he could notify someone of her presence. “I don’t need a book,” she said, “I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.” He didn’t reply. “Please don’t tell Bourne. Or my father.”
He slid a red leather-bound volume from a high shelf. “Tell them what?”
The question was forgotten as the wall moved, swinging inward to reveal a yawning, black space.
Pippa gasped and came closer to inspect it. “I’ve never . . .” She reached for the bookcase, peering down what seemed to be an endless corridor. She looked to him, unable to keep the smile from her face. “It’s a secret passageway.”
Temple smiled. “It is.” He handed her a candle and replaced the book, waving her into the mysterious space. But not before she saw the volume that unlocked this impressive secret.
Paradise Lost.
Pippa stepped into the blackness.
Indeed.
Temple led the way down the hallway, and Pippa’s heart pounded, her excitement growing exponentially as they moved deeper into the passage. There were no doors that she could see, and the wall curved in what seemed like an enormous circle. “What is on the other side of this wall?”
Temple did not hesitate. “Nothing of import.”
“Oh, yes. I believe that.”
He laughed. “Perhaps Cross will show you someday. Or Lady Bourne.”
Her brows shot up. “Penelope knows?” It was hard to imagine her proper sister exploring a secret passageway in a notorious men’s club. But then, Penelope was married to one of the owners. “I suppose she does.” It was unfortunate that she could not ask Penelope her questions without rousing suspicion.
Not suspicion. Utter panic.
Not that panic was necessary. After all, if Penelope could know the secrets of the club, why not Pippa?
Because Pippa did not have a protector here.
Not really.
After what seemed like an eternity, Temple stopped and placed his hand flat on the exterior wall of the corridor. Like magic, a door opened as if from nowhere.
He let her into an alcove off the main floor of the Angel, closing the door behind them with a soft click. She turned to inspect the wall, running her fingers along the textured silk. It was only because she knew there was one that she found the seam. She turned wide eyes on her companion. “That is remarkable.”
He didn’t immediately reply, instead staring blankly at the wall for a long moment, as though seeing it for the first time and understanding that the rest of the world did not include secret passageways and curved walls and mysterious men. When realization struck, he smiled. “It is, rather, isn’t it?”
“Who designed them?”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dim space. “Cross.”
Her hand went back to the invisible seam in the wall. Of course he had.
“Temple!”
The bellow surprised her, but Temple seemed prepared for it, stepping through the curtains at the entrance to the alcove. He revealed himself to the room at large . . . and a stream of excited French. The enormous man raised his hands as if in surrender and made his way across the casino floor, out of sight. Pippa poked her head out to watch.
There was a woman at the far end of the room, cheeks red, hair asunder, wearing a black apron and . . . was that a fish in her hand? Either way, she was cursing like a sailor. A French sailor.
She switched to English. “That imbecile Irvington sent word that he is bringing a collection of his imbecile friends for dinner. And he thinks to tell me how to prepare his fish! I cooked for Charles the Second! He should get down on his knees and thank God himself that I am willing to cook for Idiot Irvington the First!”
Pippa was fairly certain that he was not the first Irvington to be an idiot. Nor the first to be insensitive. Nor unpleasant.
“Now Didier—” Temple began in perfect French, his voice low and smooth, as though he were speaking to some kind of untamed animal.
And perhaps he was. “You will send word to that cretin and tell him that if he does not want to eat the fish the way I wish to cook it, he may find another fish . . . and another chef . . . and another club!” The last fairly shook the rafters of the massive room.
Not a dozen feet from where the strange woman stood, the door to Mr. Cross’s office flew open. “What in hell is going on?”
Pippa’s breath caught as the man emerged, tall and lanky and unshaven. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up, and her gaze flew to those long, lean forearms, where muscle curved and rippled over bone. Her mouth went dry. She’d never thought of the forearm as being particularly interesting, but then it was not every day that she saw such a fine specimen.
Yes. It was the anatomy in which she was interested. The bones.
Radius. Ulna.
That did help, to think of the bones.
The cook waved her fish. “Irvington thinks to criticize my sauce! The imbecile would not know a proper sauce if he had a quart of it in his pocket!”
Mr. Cross rolled his eyes. “Didier . . . return to your kitchen and cook your fish. Irvington will eat what we tell him to eat.”
The chef opened her mouth.
“He will eat what we serve him and shan’t know any better.”
“The man has the palate of a goat,” the cook grumbled.
Temple grinned, hands outstretched. “Well, for all our sakes, I hope you do not serve him poisson en papier maché.”
The cook smiled at that. As did Pippa. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I, but he and his friends like to lose, so we keep him nonetheless.”
The fight seemed to go out of the cook. “Very well,” she said, wielding the fish in one hand. “I will cook him fish.”
“Perhaps not that exact fish,” Cross said, wryly.
Pippa laughed, forgetting herself, forgetting that sound carried—quick and loud across a cavernous room. His grey eyes snapped to her location. She pulled her head back into the alcove, pressing her back to the wall, heart pounding.
“Now Cross,” she heard Temple cajole from his place on the casino floor.
There was no reply. Pippa strained to hear what happened next, edging closer to the exit, eager for any indication that he’d seen her, that he’d noticed her.
Silence.
For what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, unable to resist, she peered carefully around the side of the enclosure.
To find Mr. Cross standing not six inches away, arms folded over his chest, waiting for her.
She started at his nearness, and said the first thing that came. “Hello.”
One ginger brow rose. “Hello.”
She stepped out to face him, hands clasped tightly in front of her. The cook and Temple were turned toward them, curiosity in their stares. As though this confrontation were somehow stranger than a Frenchwoman brandishing a trout on the floor of a casino.
Well, it wasn’t.
Pippa knew that with utter certainty.
She met Mr. Cross’s cool, grey gaze, and waited for him to say something else.
He did not.
Fine. She could wait. She’d waited before.
Except, after what seemed like a quarter of an hour, she could no longer bear it. “I suppose you are wondering how it is that I came to be here.”
“You are becoming quite a lurker, Lady Philippa.”
She straightened. “I do not lurk.”
“No? My office? Your balcony? Now here . . . in my club . . . in a dark alcove? I would call it lurking.”
“The balcony was mine,” she couldn’t help but point out. “If anyone was lurking, it was you.”
“Mmm.” He narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps you would like to explain your current location?”