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 lo
oked 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?”
Chapter Three
“It occurs to me that I should have considered this course of action prior to now. After all . . . if one wishes to understand the inner workings of the goose, one must observe the gander.
The common grey goose (Anser anser) boasts one of the most easy to identify ganders in the entire goose genus. Ganders are larger than females, with broader heads and longer necks, and when they reach sexual maturity, they have a tendency toward aggressive behavior around female geese. Interestingly, males can also display intensely protective behavior toward females, though it’s often difficult to distinguish between the two types of conduct.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 22, 1831; fourteen days prior to her wedding
In the interest of self-preservation, Pippa said the first thing that came to mind. “He knocked.”
“And it did not occur to you that one knocking at the door to a gaming hell might not be the kind of person with whom you would wish to become acquainted?”
For someone with a reputation for being charming and affable, he did not seem to be at all such. “I am not an imbecile, Mr. Cross.”
He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Speaking the words does not make them so, Lady Philippa.”
She considered lifting her skirts and naming all the bones in her foot. Instead, she stayed quiet.
“Remaining silent might well be the first intelligent thing you’ve done today.”
“There was no one else to answer. I waited. Indeed, I was rather surprised that the gentleman was allowed to bang upon the door to his
heart’s content.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “I assure you, such neglect will not occur again. And, for the record, Digger Knight is no gentleman.”
“Yes. I gather that now.” Her blue eyes narrowed behind thick lenses. “Of course, by the time I realized it . . . he was already in.”
“Would you like to explain why his hands were on your person?”
She thought it best not to reply to that. She would not like the situation to be misconstrued.
He pounced on her hesitation. “Did you ask for it? Was he your next choice for research partner?”
She hedged, looking to the door, considering escape. “Not . . . precisely.”
I do have some questions. He wouldn’t like to know she’d said that.
He took a step toward her, blocking her exit. “How, precisely?”
She looked up at him, feeling more guilty than she should. After all, it wasn’t as though she’d tossed herself into the man’s arms. “Did you proposition him?”
“No!” She did not hesitate. She hadn’t. Exactly.
He heard the thought as though she’d screamed it. “I’m not certain I believe you. After all, you propositioned me not thirty minutes ago.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.” If you’d said yes, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
“No?” He rocked back on his heels.
“No!” She exhaled on a huff of displeasure. “You were part of a plan.” A plan you then thoroughly mucked up.
His gaze was narrowed on her, as though he could hear her thoughts. “I suppose that makes sense in a strange way.” He turned away from her, stalking across the dark floor of the club, tossing back, “I suggest you return home and await your brother-in-law, Lady Philippa; he will no doubt come looking for you when I tell him that you’re a complete madwoman.”
He could not tell Bourne. Bourne would tell Father, and Father would lock her away in Surrey until the morning of the wedding. Without question. And Pippa would be without the information she required. Without the security knowledge brought. Without the safety of it. She could not allow it.
“No!” she cried across the room.
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 4