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 Piccadill
y, 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.
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?
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