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.”
“But . . . you can’t refuse.”
He returned his attention to the ledger. “I’m afraid I have.”
She did not reply, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers—those strange, improper fingers, trailing the edge of his ebony desk. He waited for them to stop. To still. To go away.
When he looked up, she was staring down at him, blue eyes enormous behind the round lenses of her spectacles, as though she would have waited a lifetime for him to meet her gaze. “I selected you, Mr. Cross. Quite carefully. I have a very specific, very clear, very time-sensitive plan. And it requires a research associate. You, you see, are to be that associate.”
A research associate?
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
“What research?”
Damn.
Her hands came together, tightly clasped. “You are quite legendary, sir.”
The words sent a chill through him.
“Everyone talks about you. They say you are an expert in the critical aspects of ruination.”
He gritted his teeth, hating her words, and feigned disinterest. “Do they?”
She nodded happily and ticked items off on her fingers quickly as she spoke. “Indeed. Gaming, spirits, pugilism, and—” She stopped. “And—”
Her cheeks were awash in red, and he wanted her to consider the rest. To hear its absurdity. To stop this madness. “And . . . ?”
She righted herself, spine straight. He would have wagered everything he had on her not replying.
He would have lost.
“And coitus.” The word was soft, and came on a firm exhale, as though she’d finally said what she’d come to say. Which couldn’t be possible. Surely he’d misheard her. Surely his body was responding incorrectly to her.
Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she took another breath and continued. “That’s the bit at which you are purported to be the most proficient. And, honestly, that’s the bit I require.”
Only years of playing cards with the most skilled gamers in Europe kept Cross from revealing his shock. He took a good, long look at her.
She did not look like a lunatic.
In fact, she looked rather ordinary—hair an ordinary blond, eyes an ordinary blue, slightly taller than average, but not too tall as to draw attention to herself, dressed in an ordinary frock that revealed a perfectly ordinary expanse of plain, pure skin.
No, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter of one of the most powerful peers in Britain, was anything other than a perfectly ordinary young woman.
Nothing, that was, until she opened her mouth and said things like, bipedal locomotion.
And coitus.
She sighed. “You are making this very difficult, you know.”
Not knowing quite what to say, he tried for, “I apologize.”
Her gaze narrowed slightly behind her spectacles. “I am not certain I believe your contrition, Mr. Cross. If the gossip in ladies’ salons across London is to be believed—and I assure you, there is a great deal of it—you are a proper rake.”
Lord deliver him from ladies and their flapping tongues. “You should not believe everything you hear in ladies’ salons.”
“I usually do not, but when one hears as much about a particular gentleman as I have heard about you . . . one tends to believe there is a kernel of truth in the gossip. Where there is smoke, there is flame and all that.”
“I cannot imagine what you have heard.”
It was a lie. Of course he knew.
She waved one hand. “Well, some of it is utter nonsense. They say, for example, that you can relieve a lady of her clothing without the use of your hands.”
“Do they?”
She smiled. “Silly, I know. I definitely do not believe that.”
“Why not?”
“In the absence of physical force, an object at rest remains at rest,” she explained.
He couldn’t resist. “Ladies’ clothing is the object at rest in this particular scenario?”
“Yes. And the physical force required to move said object would be your hands.”
Did she have any idea what a tempting picture she’d painted with such precise, scientific description? He didn’t think so. “I am told they are very talented.”
She blinked. “As we have established, I have been told the same. But I assure you, sir, they do not defy the laws of physics.”
Oh, how he wanted to prove her wrong.
But she had already moved on. “At any rate. This one’s maid’s sister, that one’s cousin’s friend, the other’s friend’s cousin or maid’s cousin . . . women talk, Mr. Cross. And you should be aware that they are not ashamed to reveal details. About you.”
He raised a brow. “What kind of details?”
She hesitated, and the blush returned. He resisted the pleasure that coursed through him at the pretty pink wash. Was there anything more tempting than a woman flushed with scandalous thoughts?
“I am told you are the kind of gentleman who has a keen understanding of the . . . mechanics . . . of the act in question.” She was utterly, completely matter-of-fact. As though they were discussing the weather.
She had no idea what she was doing. What beast she was tempting. What she did have, however, was courage—the kind that was bound to drive fine, upstanding ladies directly into trouble.
And he knew better than to be a party to it.
He placed both hands on the top of his desk, stood and, for the first time that afternoon, spoke the truth. “I am afraid you were told wrong, Lady Philippa. And it is time for you to leave. I shall do you a service and neglect to tell your brother-in-law that you were here. In fact, I shall forget you were here at all.”
She stilled for a long moment, and he realized that her lack of movement was out of character. The woman had not been still since he’d woken to the soft sound of her fingertips sliding over the pages of the ledger. The fact that she was still now unnerved him; he steeled himself for what came next, for some logical defense, some strange turn of phrase that would tempt him more than he was willing to admit.
“I suppose it will be easy for you to forget me.”
There was nothing in the tone to suggest that she angled for a compliment or a refusal. Nothing he would have expected from other women. Though he was coming to realize that there was nothing about Lady Philippa Marbury that was at all like other women.
And he was willing to guarantee that it would be impossible to forget her.
“But I’m afraid that I cannot allow it,” she pressed on, frustration clear in her tone as he had the impression that she was speaking to herself rather than to him. “I have a great deal of questions, and no one to answer them. And I’ve only fourteen days to learn.”
“What happens in fourteen days?”
Dammit. He didn’t care. He shouldn’t have asked.
Surprise flashed at the question, and he had the sense that she had forgotten him. She tilted her head again, brow furrowed as though his query was ridiculous. Which, of course, it was.
“I am to be married.”
That, he knew. For two seasons, Lady Philippa had been courted by Lord Castleton, a young dandy with little between his ears. But Cross had forgotten her future husband the moment she’d introduced herself, bold, brilliant and not a little bit bizarre.
There was nothing about this woman to indicate that she would make an even-halfway-decent Countess of Castleton.
It’s not your problem.
He cleared his throat. “My very best wishes.”
“You don’t even know who my husband is to be.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Her brows shot up. “You do? How?”
“Aside from the facts that your brother-in-law is my business partner, and that the double wedding of the final sisters Marbury is the talk of the ton, you will find that there are few things that happen at any level of society about which I do not know.” He paused. “Lord Castleton is fortunate indeed.”
“That’s very gracious of you.”
He shook his head. “Not grace. Truth.”
One side of her mouth twitched. “And me?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. She’d be bored of Castleton within twenty-four hours of their marriage. And then she’d be miserable.
It’s not your problem.
“Castleton is a gentleman.”
“How diplomatic,” she said, spinning the globe and letting her fingers trail across the raised topography on the sphere as it whirled around. “Lord Castleton is indeed that. He is also an earl. And he likes dogs.”
“And these are the qualities women seek in husbands these days?”
Hadn’t she been about to leave? Why, then, was he still speaking to her?
“They’re better than some of the lesser qualities with which husbands might arrive,” she offered, and he thought he heard an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
“For example?”
“Infidelity. Tendency toward drink. Interest in bull-baiting.”
“Bull-baiting?”
She nodded once, curtly. “A cruel sport. For the bull and the dogs.”
“Not a sport at all, I would argue. But more importantly, are you familiar with a great deal of men who enjoy it?”
She pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose. “I read quite a bit. There was a very serious discussion of the practice in last week’s News of London. More men than you would think seem to enjoy its barbarism. Thankfully, not Lord Castleton.”
“A veritable prince among men,” Cross said, ignoring the way her gaze narrowed at the sarcasm in his tone. “Imagine my surprise, then, to find his future countess at my bedside this very morning, asking to be ruined.”
“I did not know you slept here,” she said. “Nor did I expect you to be asleep at one o’clock in the afternoon.”
He raised a brow. “I work quite late.”
She nodded. “I imagine so. You really should purchase a bed, however.” She waved a hand toward his makeshift pallet. “That cannot be comfortable.”
She was steering them away from the topic at hand. And he wanted her out of his office. Immediately. “I am not interested, nor should you be, in aiding you in public ruination.”
Her gaze snapped to his, shock in her eyes. “I am not requesting public ruination.”