A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows. “It’s a silly rule, don’t you think? I mean, the female sex has had access to bipedal locomotion since . . . well . . . Eve.”
Cross had known many many women in his lifetime. He’d enjoyed their company, their conversation, and their curiosity. But he’d never once met a woman as strange as this one. “Nevertheless, it is 1831. In the present day, females such as you use carriages. And they do not frequent gaming hells.”
She smiled. “Well, not precisely such as me, as I walked, and here I am. In a gaming hell.”
“Who let you in?”
“A man. He appeared eager to do so when I announced myself.”
“No doubt he was. Bourne would take pleasure in destroying him if your reputation had suffered.”
She considered the words. “I hadn’t thought of that. Indeed, I’ve never had a protector.”
He could protect her.
Where had that come from?
No matter. “Lady Philippa, it appears that you require an army of protectors.” He returned his attention to the ledger. “Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor inclination to enlist. I trust you can see yourself out.”
She advanced, ignoring him. He looked up, surprised. People did not ignore him. “Oh, there’s no need to Lady Philippa me, really. Not considering my reason for being here. Please, call me Pippa.”
Pippa. It suited her. More so than the fuller, more extravagant version of the name. But he had no intention of calling her such a thing. He had no intention of calling her at all. “Lady Philippa”—he let the name stretch between them purposefully—“it is time for you to leave.”
She took another step in his direction, one hand coming to rest on the large globe to the side of his desk. He slid his gaze to the place where her flat palm smothered Britain and resisted the urge to draw cosmic meaning from the gesture.
“I am afraid I cannot leave, Mr. Cross. I require—”
He didn’t think he could bear her saying it again. “Ruination. Yes. You’ve made your purpose clear. As I have similarly made my refusal.”
“But . . . you can’t refuse.”
He returned his attention to the ledger. “I’m afraid I have.”
She did not reply, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers—those strange, improper fingers, trailing the edge of his ebony desk. He waited for them to stop. To still. To go away.
When he looked up, she was staring down at him, blue eyes enormous behind the round lenses of her spectacles, as though she would have waited a lifetime for him to meet her gaze. “I selected you, Mr. Cross. Quite carefully. I have a very specific, very clear, very time-sensitive plan. And it requires a research associate. You, you see, are to be that associate.”
A research associate?
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
“What research?”
Damn.
Her hands came together, tightly clasped. “You are quite legendary, sir.”
The words sent a chill through him.
“Everyone talks about you. They say you are an expert in the critical aspects of ruination.”
He gritted his teeth, hating her words, and feigned disinterest. “Do they?”
She nodded happily and ticked items off on her fingers quickly as she spoke. “Indeed. Gaming, spirits, pugilism, and—” She stopped. “And—”
Her cheeks were awash in red, and he wanted her to consider the rest. To hear its absurdity. To stop this madness. “And . . . ?”
She righted herself, spine straight. He would have wagered everything he had on her not replying.
He would have lost.
“And coitus.” The word was soft, and came on a firm exhale, as though she’d finally said what she’d come to say. Which couldn’t be possible. Surely he’d misheard her. Surely his body was responding incorrectly to her.
Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she took another breath and continued. “That’s the bit at which you are purported to be the most proficient. And, honestly, that’s the bit I require.”
Only years of playing cards with the most skilled gamers in Europe kept Cross from revealing his shock. He took a good, long look at her.
She did not look like a lunatic.
In fact, she looked rather ordinary—hair an ordinary blond, eyes an ordinary blue, slightly taller than average, but not too tall as to draw attention to herself, dressed in an ordinary frock that revealed a perfectly ordinary expanse of plain, pure skin.
No, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter of one of the most powerful peers in Britain, was anything other than a perfectly ordinary young woman.
Nothing, that was, until she opened her mouth and said things like, bipedal locomotion.
And coitus.
She sighed. “You are making this very difficult, you know.”
Not knowing quite what to say, he tried for, “I apologize.”
Her gaze narrowed slightly behind her spectacles. “I am not certain I believe your contrition, Mr. Cross. If the gossip in ladies’ salons across London is to be believed—and I assure you, there is a great deal of it—you are a proper rake.”