She extended her hand once more. “I am Philippa Marbury.”
One black brow arched, but he took her hand firmly. “Brave girl.”
“There’s no proof that you’re what they say.”
“Gossip is damning enough.”
She shook her head. “I am a scientist. Hypotheses are useless without evidence.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Would that the rest of England were as thorough.” He released her hand and held back the curtain, allowing her entry into the hallway, lushly appointed with wall coverings of silk and velvet that Pippa could not resist reaching out to touch.
“Bourne isn’t here,” he said.
She smiled. “I know. He’s in Surrey with my sister. I am not here for him.”
He hesitated in his long strides, and she took a moment to marvel at the way such a large man—one who was clearly no stranger to violence and brutality—could move with such grace, shifting his weight to stay his forward movement.
And then he was moving again, as though he’d never paused. “And not for Cross, either?”
“No. He doesn’t enjoy my company.”
The words were out before she could stop them, and Temple caught her gaze. “He said that?”
She shrugged, adjusting her spectacles. “Not in so many words, but he made it clear he wasn’t interested in assisting me with my project, so . . .”
“Which project?” he prodded.
My ruination. She couldn’t say that.
“A piece of research with which I had hoped he would . . . aid me.”
Temple flashed her a smile. “And what about me? I could aid you.”
She considered the offer for a long moment. No doubt, this man could answer all of her questions. And then some.
But he wasn’t Cross.
She resisted the thought and the discomfort that came with it, instead focusing on the duke who turned to face her, absently opening one of what seemed like an endless string of closed doors and stepping aside to let Pippa into a large room, at the center of which stood two tables, covered in green baize.
“No, thank you. I promised Mr. Cross I wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off.
“Wouldn’t what?” he prompted.
“Wouldn’t ask another man.”
His eyes went wide briefly. “Now that sounds like fascinating research.”
She ignored the words, turning to face him, hands clasped tightly as he closed the door behind them and pocketed the key. “But he didn’t say anything about women.”
He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
She took a deep breath. “I require an audience with one of your ladies.”
“My ladies?”
She waved one hand in the air, absently. “Your, in the plural. Your ladies.” When he did not reply, she blurted out her clarification. “Your prostitutes.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and Pippa wondered if, perhaps, she had not spoken.
And then he laughed, big and booming.
And she wondered if she’d made a serious mistake.
Chapter Seven
“In order to produce quality silk, the silk maker (NB: sericulturist) ensures a careful diet of mulberry leaves for his worms, taking care that no odd foodstuffs (or even odors) come into contact with the creatures. Once they have eaten their fill, the worms pupate, spinning their cocoons and, when several days have passed, the sericulturist thwarts their incubation and halts the emergence of the moth mining the cocoons for silk.
I have no intention of allowing this to happen to me.
Thank goodness for loopholes logical thinking.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 25, 1831; eleven days prior to her wedding
Temple’s laughter echoed through the small, locked room. “Your Grace?” she prompted.
His laugh stopped, as quickly as it had started. He did not respond, instead moving past her to the bookcase that dominated the far end of the room. He inspected the books for a long moment.
He was sending her home. Likely looking for a book to keep strange, scientific Philippa Marbury occupied until he could notify someone of her presence. “I don’t need a book,” she said, “I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.” He didn’t reply. “Please don’t tell Bourne. Or my father.”
He slid a red leather-bound volume from a high shelf. “Tell them what?”
The question was forgotten as the wall moved, swinging inward to reveal a yawning, black space.
Pippa gasped and came closer to inspect it. “I’ve never . . .” She reached for the bookcase, peering down what seemed to be an endless corridor. She looked to him, unable to keep the smile from her face. “It’s a secret passageway.”
Temple smiled. “It is.” He handed her a candle and replaced the book, waving her into the mysterious space. But not before she saw the volume that unlocked this impressive secret.
Paradise Lost.
Pippa stepped into the blackness.
Indeed.