She waved the paper that had been delivered earlier that day. “Would you like to see my invitation?”
“No.” He stepped aside to let her in.
“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed, as she pushed past him into the little entryway, watching as he closed the door behind her with an ominous thud. He did not look at her; instead, he sat on a stool perched near the door, lifted a book from a nearby shelf, and began to read by the light of a wall sconce.
Penelope blinked at the tableau. Apparently he was a man of letters.
She stood quietly for a long moment, uncertain of her next move. He seemed not to notice.
She cleared her throat.
He turned a page.
Finally, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
He did not look up. “Yes?”
“I am Lady—”
“No names.”
Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“No names on this side.” He turned another page.
“I—” She stopped, uncertain of what to say. This side? “All right, but I . . .”
“No names.”
They remained in silence for a little longer until she could not bear it a moment more. “Perhaps you could tell me if I am to stand here all night? If so, I would have brought a book of my own.”
He looked up at that, and she took pleasure in the way his black eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she’d surprised him. He pointed to the far end of the entryway, where another door loomed in the darkness. She hadn’t seen it earlier.
She moved toward it. “Billiards is through here?”
He watched her carefully, as though she were a specimen under glass. “Among other things, yes.”
She smiled. “Excellent. I would ask for your name so I might thank you properly, sir, but . . .”
He returned to his book. “No names.”
“Precisely.”
She opened the door, letting in a shock of light from the corridor beyond. She looked back at the strange man, impressed by the play of golden light across his dark skin, and said, “Well, thank you just the same.”
He did not reply, and she stepped into the brightly lit hallway, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving her alone in the new space. The hallway was wide and long, spanning in both directions, and the candles lit every few feet blazed against the gilded décor, making the entire space warm and bright. The walls were covered in a paisley pattern of scarlet silk and wine-colored velvet, and Penelope could not help but reach out to touch them, loving the way the plush gave beneath her touch.
A burst of feminine laughter came from one end of the hallway, and she headed for it instinctively, not knowing what she would find, but feeling strangely prepared for whatever was to come next. She edged down the hallway, her fingers trailing along the wall, tracking her movement past one closed door after the next. She paused before an open door, the room beyond empty save for a long table, and she stepped inside without thinking to get a closer look.
There was a green baize field set deep into the table—several inches down—and the soft fabric was embroidered in crisp, clean white thread with a grid of numbers that ran its length and breadth. Penelope leaned over to inspect the confusion of carefully wrought text—the mysterious combination of numbers, fractions, and words.
She reached out to run one gloved finger along the word Chance, a thrum of excitement coursing through her as she traced the curve of the C and the looping H.
“You’ve discovered hazard.”
She gasped in surprise and spun toward her name, hand at her throat, to find Mr. Cross standing in the doorway of the room, a half smile on his handsome face. She stiffened, knowing that she’d been caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to . . . There was no one in the . . .” She trailed off, deciding silence a better choice than carrying on like an imbecile.
He laughed and came forward. “No need to apologize. You’re a member now and can move about freely.”
She tilted her head. “A member?”
He smiled. “It is a club, my lady. Membership is required.”
“I’m only here for billiards. With Michael?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.
Cross shook his head. “With me.”
“I—” She stopped, her brows knitting together. Not with Michael. “The invitation was not from him.”
Cross smiled, but Penelope was not comforted. “It was not.”
“Is he not here?” Would she not see him here, either?
“He’s here, somewhere. But he does not know you are here.”
Disappointment flared.
Of course he didn’t.
He was not interested in spending the evenings with her.
On the heels of that thought came another. He was going to be furious.
“It came from you.”
He tilted his head. “It came from The Angel.”
She considered the words, and their mystery. The Angel.
“It’s more than an invitation isn’t it?”
Cross lifted one shoulder. “You know the password now. That makes you a member.”