And that only served to make Penelope more angry.
Suddenly, she was feeling quite reckless indeed.
“Where is the club?”
The housekeeper’s eyes went wide. “I am sure I do not know.”
“Funny, because I am sure that you do.” She did not lower her voice, letting it call down to the other woman without remorse. “I am sure you know everything that goes on in this house. All the comings and goings. And I am sure that you know that my husband spends his evenings at his club instead of here.”
For a long moment, Mrs. Worth did not speak, and Penelope wondered, fleetingly, if she had the authority to dismiss the insolent, beautiful woman. Finally, she waved one hand and began her climb once more. “Tell me or don’t. If I must, I shall hire myself a hack and go looking for it.”
“He would not like that.” The housekeeper was following her now, down the long upper corridor to Penelope’s bedchamber.
“No. He wouldn’t. But I find I have little interest in his likes or dislikes.” Indeed, her lack of interest in those things was rather freeing, she was discovering. She opened the door to her chamber and crossed the room to her wardrobe, from which she extracted a large cloak. Turning back, she met the lovely housekeeper’s wide-eyed gaze.
And paused. Perhaps this was Michael’s raven-haired goddess. Perhaps it was Mrs. Worth who held his heart and his mind and his evenings. And as she studied the housekeeper’s porcelain face, measuring the woman’s height, the way she would fit against Michael, the way she would suit him so much better than Penelope suited him, Mrs. Worth smiled. Not just a smile, really. A wide, welcoming grin. “Mr. Alles. He is not your lover.”
The idea that a servant would say something so utterly inappropriate set Penelope back for a moment before she answered, in all honesty. “No. He is not.” And, as the gloves were off, “And you are not Michael’s mistress.”
Surprise had the housekeeper speaking without thought. “Dear God, no. I wouldn’t have him if he begged.” She paused. “That is . . . I didn’t mean . . . he’s a good man, my lady.”
Penelope exchanged her white kidskin gloves for navy blue suede. As she fitted the fingers to her hand, she spoke honestly. “He’s a horse’s bottom. And I am not entirely certain I would have him if he begged either. Except for the fact that I am married to him.”
“Well, if you’ll beg my pardon, you should absolutely not have him until he begs. He shouldn’t be leaving you so . . .”
“Regularly?” Penelope filled in the gap, deciding that perhaps she had misjudged the housekeeper. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Worth, I do not believe that begging is in my husband’s repertoire.”
The housekeeper smiled. “You are welcome to call me Worth. It’s what all the others call me.”
“The others?”
“The other partners in The Angel.”
Penelope’s brows snapped together. “How do you know my husband’s partners?”
“I used to work at The Angel, scrubbing pots, plucking chickens, whatever needed to be done.”
Curiosity flared. “How did you end up here?”
A cloud passed over the other woman’s face. “I aged into my body. People began to notice.”
“Men?” It didn’t have to be a question. Penelope knew the answer. A face like Worth’s could not hide for long even in the kitchens of a gaming hell.
“The employees did everything they could to keep the members from getting too close—not just to me—to all the girls.” Penelope leaned forward, knowing what was coming. Loathing it. Wishing she could erase the words before they were spoken. “But I was careless. Powerful men can be persistent. Wealthy men can be a temptation. And the entire sex are pretty liars when they want to be.”
Penelope knew it. Her husband was as silver-tongued as they came.
Worth’s smile was sad. “Bourne found us.”
Penelope watched as the other woman ran a finger across the gilded frame of a large oil painting on the wall. “He was furious,” she said, knowing instinctively that—whatever his faults—her husband would never have stood for such behavior.
“He nearly killed the man.” Penelope felt a surge of pride as Worth continued. “For all his darkness . . . for all his selfishness . . . he’s a good man.” She stepped back, assessing Penelope’s garments. “If you’re going to march into The Angel, you’re going to have to enter through the owner’s entrance. It’s the only way you’ll get onto the main floor. And you’ll need a cloak with a larger hood if you’re going to keep your face covered.”
Penelope hadn’t thought of that. She crossed the room, passing into the dimly lit hallway beyond. “Thank you.”