His eyes went wide. “A carriage owned by whom?”
She tilted her head, thinking. “I’m not certain.”
He honestly thought he might have gone mad. “You accepted transportation in a strange carriage to the back entrance of the most notorious gaming hell in London—”
“Which my husband owns,” she said, as though it should make a difference.
“Wrong answer, darling.” He took a step back, forcing himself to lean on the billiard table. “You came here in a strange carriage.”
“I thought you had sent it!”
“Well, I didn’t!” he thundered.
“Well, that’s not my fault!”
They both went silent, her furious retort echoing around the little room, their breath coming hard and fast.
He was not going to let her win. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“My invitation included a password,” she said, and he heard the pleasure in her voice. She was enjoying his surprise.
She came closer, and he was drawn to the way her skin glistened in the light. He took a deep breath, telling himself it was meant to be calming and not because he was desperate to catch her delicate scent—like the violets that grew in Surrey summer. “Did anyone see you come in?”
“No one but the coachman and the man at the door who took the password.”
The words did not appease. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I had no choice.”
“Really? No choice but to leave our warm, comfortable home in the dead of night and come to my place of business—a place to which I expressly told you never to come? A place that is not at all the kind of place that women of your ilk should be?”
She stilled, her blue eyes glittering with something he did not recognize. “First of all, it is not our home. It is your home. Though I can’t imagine why you even have it considering how little time you spend there. It’s most certainly not my home, though.”
“Of course it is.” What was she talking about? He’d virtually handed the house over to her.
“No. It isn’t. The servants answer to you. The post comes to you. For heaven’s sake, you won’t even let me reply to social invitations!” He opened his mouth to retort but found he had no defense. “We’re supposed to be married, but I haven’t any idea of how that house operates. Of how you live. I don’t even know your favorite pudding!” The words were coming faster and more furious now.
“I thought you didn’t want a marriage based on pudding,” he said.
“I don’t! At least, I didn’t think I did! But since I know virtually nothing else about you, I would settle for pudding!”
“Figgy pudding, darling,” he mocked. “You’ve made it my favorite.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “I should like to drop a figgy pudding on your head.”
Cross snickered, and Michael remembered that they had an audience. He slid a look at his partner. “Out.”
“No. He invited me here. Let him stay.”
Cross raised a brow. “It’s hard to say no to a lady, Bourne.”
He was going to murder the ginger-topped beanpole. And he was going to enjoy it. “What are you doing inviting my wife out of her home in the dead of night?” he asked, unable to keep himself from taking one menacing step toward his former friend.
“I assure you, Bourne, I am so enjoying watching your wife run you in circles that I wish it had been me who had sent the invitation. But it wasn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?” Penelope interjected. “You did not send the invitation? If not you, then who?”
Bourne knew the answer. “Chase.”
Chase was unable to stay out of the affairs of others.
Penelope turned on him. “Who is Chase?”
When Bourne did not answer, Cross did, “Chase is the founder of The Angel, my lady, who brought us all into partnership.”
Penelope shook her head. “Why would he invite me to billiards?”
“An excellent question.” He turned to Cross. “Cross?”
Cross crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. “It seems Chase feels the lady is owed a debt.”
One of Bourne’s brows rose, but he did not speak.
Penelope shook her head. “Impossible. We’ve never met.”
Michael narrowed his gaze on Cross, who smiled, and said, “Sadly, Chase is always one step ahead of the rest of us. If I were you, I would simply accept payment.”
Penelope’s brows rose. “In visits to a gaming hell?”
“It seems that is the offer.”
She smiled. “It would be rude to refuse.”
“Indeed it would, my lady.” Cross laughed, and Michael despised the familiarity in the sound.
“She’ll accept invitations to The Angel from Chase, or anyone else, over my dead body,” he growled, and Cross seemed, finally, to recognize that he was serious. “Get out.”
Cross looked to Penelope. “I shall be just outside should you need me.”
The words set Bourne further on edge. “She won’t need you.”