“They never seem like the kind of men who would ruin you,” Georgiana replied.
They had lied so much to each other. It was hard to imagine the truth between them. She shook her head, spoke the words that she thought whenever he was near, and she ached for his touch, and she wished for more than one night. One week. “It is too dangerous.”
“For whom?”
An excellent question. “For both of us.”
The door opened, revealing Bourne. He crossed the room, not even looking at Georgiana, focused only on his wife, beaming at him from her place by the pram. He smiled, pulling her into his arms. “Hello, Sixpence, I would have come more quickly, but they only just told me you were here.”
Penelope smiled. “I came to see Stephen.” She nodded at the pram. “Doesn’t he look just like Temple?”
Bourne leaned over the sleeping child. “He does, indeed. Poor thing.”
Mara laughed. “I shall tell him you said it.”
He smiled. “I shall tell him first.” He looked to Georgiana, his smile fading. “But first, I’ve something to tell you.” He moved to sit in one of the large chairs, pulling Penelope down to his lap, placing a large hand over the place where his second child grew. “West went to Tremley today.”
She did not hide her surprise. “Why?”
Bourne shook his head. “It is unclear. But it was early, and he was not entirely welcome.” He paused. “And then he was somewhat irritated that we were following him.”
Her eyes widened. “You were seen?”
“It was Mayfair at nine o’clock in the morning. It’s not easy to hide.”
She sighed. “What happened?”
“He hit Bruno.” Bourne shrugged. “Bruno hit back, if that’s any consolation.”
It wasn’t.
“But the point is, there’s something there. He didn’t just want Tremley for the papers. He wanted him for more. And you should also know that he is furious with us.”
“With who?”
“With the Angel. And I think you’re the one to talk him down, so—”
A sharp knock sounded, interrupting the words, heralding one of the handful of people who knew that the owners’ suite existed. Pippa moved to the door, cracked it. Turned back. “I believe my line is, Something wicked this way comes.”
She opened the door wide to reveal Duncan West.
What in hell was he doing here?
Bourne was out of his chair instantly, setting Penelope on her feet as Georgiana headed for West, who was stepping over the threshold and into the room, his gaze taking in everything from the stained glass behind her to her aristocratic companions, finally settling on her. She saw irritation in his eyes when he looked at her, as though he had not been expecting her.
As though he had been expecting another.
But behind the irritation, somewhere in the depths of his beautiful brown eyes, she saw something else. Something akin to thrill. She knew it, because she felt it, too. Felt it, and feared it.
She stopped short. “Who let you in?”
He met her gaze, spoke. “I am a member of the club.”
“Members are not allowed in this room,” she said. “Members are not even allowed on this floor.”
“Perhaps you ought to tell that to Bourne.”
“I was going to say,” Bourne said from the doorway, ignoring the look she sent in his direction, “that you should know I invited him up.”
Anger flared, hot and unwelcome. She turned on her partner. “You had no right.”
Bourne raised a supercilious brow. “I am an owner, too, am I not?”
Her gaze narrowed. “You violate our rules.”
“Don’t you mean Chase’s rules?” Bourne said, and Georgiana wanted to slap his face for the sarcasm in the words. “I wouldn’t worry. Chase seemed to forget those rules in certain cases.”
She did not misunderstand. At one point or another all three of the women in the room had been invited to The Fallen Angel by Chase, without the permission of their husbands. She didn’t care that Bourne was somehow viewing West’s invitation as retribution, she was too busy being furious at him for ignoring the rules. For smugly disregarding their partnership.
For the way he seamlessly stripped her of power here—the only place where she had any power to begin with.
Before she could argue with him, West spoke. “Where is he?” West’s words were clear and firm in the dimly lit room, as though he fully expected to be heard and responded to despite the fact that he did not belong here.
Despite the fact that she did not want him here.
“Where is who?” she replied.
“Chase.”
He had not come to see her. Of course, she should have known it. She should not be surprised. But she was, nonetheless; after all, they had spent much of the prior evening together, and . . . shouldn’t he wish to see her? Or was that mad?
Should she not wish him to wish to see her?
The thought ran through her head and disgusted her with its stupid, simpering simperingness. And then she was disgusted with the fact that she could not think of a better word than simperingness.