The Frenchwoman watched her carefully for a long moment. “Of course.”
Olivia looked horrified. “Well, whatever you feel, I don’t wish to catch it.”
Pippa descended from the platform, hurrying for the changing screen. “No. I wouldn’t like for that. For you to feel . . .”
Madame Hebert filled in the rest. “Unwell?”
Pippa supposed that the repetition of the word might be odd. “Sick,” she blurted out.
Olivia’s pert nose wrinkled. “For heaven’s sake, Pippa. Go home. But take a hack. Mother and I will need the carriage to carry all our parcels.”
She did not wait to be told twice. “Yes. I think I shall do just that.”
Of course, she didn’t.
Instead, she restored her clothing to normal, assured her mother that she would be thoroughly safe to make her way home, and left the dress shop, her destination clear and unequivocal.
Head down, cloak tight around her, Pippa headed right down Bond and across Piccadilly, where she and her maid entered a hack together on one side, and Pippa slid across the seat, pulled up the hood of her cloak and whispered a plea for secrecy before exiting, alone, directly through the door on the opposite side.
She slipped, unnoticed, down a narrow alleyway that ran behind St. James’s and counted the buildings from the rear—one, two, three—before stopping before a heavy steel door and giving it a good, firm rap.
No one answered.
She redoubled her efforts. Banging on the steel with the flat of her palm, making an utter racket.
If she were found—
There were a hundred ways to finish that question. Best not to dwell on them.
She knocked again, harder. Faster.
And then, after what seemed like an age, a hidden slot slid open at the center of the great steel door, and black eyes met hers, irritation quickly giving way to surprised recognition.
“What in hell?” The voice was muffled by the steel.
“I am Lady Philippa Marbury,” she announced, but the words were lost in the sound of the slot closing, several locks being thrown on the opposite side of the door, and the scrape of steel on stone.
The door opened, revealing a great, yawning blackness and the largest, most dangerous-looking man she’d ever seen, tall and broad with a scar at his lip and a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once.
A thread of uncertainty coiled through her as she opened her mouth to speak. “I am . . .”
“I know who you are,” he said curtly. “Get in here.”
“I don’t—” she started, then stopped. “Who are you?”
He reached out, one massive hand grasping her arm and pulling her into the club. “Did it not occur to you that someone might see you out there?” he said, poking his head out the door and looking first one way, then the other, down the alley before, satisfied that she had not been seen, closing the door, throwing the locks and turning away from her, pushing through another set of curtains and into a beautifully appointed hallway before bellowing, “What in hell do we pay doormen for? Why isn’t there anyone manning the goddamned door?”
She called out from her place in the entryway. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone manning most of your doors at this time of day.”
The enormous man turned back to her, curiosity in his gaze. “And, how would you know that?”
“I’ve been here before,” she said, simply.
He shook his head, smiling wryly. “Does Bourne know that Penelope is giving her sister tours?”
“Oh, you misunderstand. I haven’t come here with Penelope. I was here with Mr. Cross.”
That set the large man back. “Cross,” he said, and Pippa noticed the shift in his tone. Disbelief. Maybe something else.
She nodded. “Yes.”
His black brows rose. “Cross,” he repeated. “And you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Yes. Well, not regularly, but I did have good reason to call on him earlier in the week.”
“Did you.”
The words were not a question, but she answered nonetheless. “Yes.” She hesitated, then added, “Though it might be best if you not tell him I am here today.”
His gaze turned knowing. “Might it.”
Too knowing.
She extended her hand. “I’m afraid you have the better of me, sir. I’ve not made the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
He gave her proffered hand a long look before meeting her gaze once more, as though giving her the chance to change her mind. “I am Temple.”
The Duke of Lamont.
The murderer.
She stepped back, her hand falling involuntarily at the thought before she could stop it. “Oh.”
His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Now you’re wishing you hadn’t come here after all.”
Her mind raced. He wouldn’t hurt her. He was Bourne’s partner. He was Mr. Cross’s partner. It was the middle of the day. People were not killed in Mayfair in the middle of the day.
And for all she’d heard about this dark, dangerous man, there wasn’t a single stitch of proof that he’d done that which he was purported to have done.