Temple led the way down the hallway, and Pippa’s heart pounded, her excitement growing exponentially as they moved deeper into the passage. There were no doors that she could see, and the wall curved in what seemed like an enormous circle. “What is on the other side of this wall?”
Temple did not hesitate. “Nothing of import.”
“Oh, yes. I believe that.”
He laughed. “Perhaps Cross will show you someday. Or Lady Bourne.”
Her brows shot up. “Penelope knows?” It was hard to imagine her proper sister exploring a secret passageway in a notorious men’s club. But then, Penelope was married to one of the owners. “I suppose she does.” It was unfortunate that she could not ask Penelope her questions without rousing suspicion.
Not suspicion. Utter panic.
Not that panic was necessary. After all, if Penelope could know the secrets of the club, why not Pippa?
Because Pippa did not have a protector here.
Not really.
After what seemed like an eternity, Temple stopped and placed his hand flat on the exterior wall of the corridor. Like magic, a door opened as if from nowhere.
He let her into an alcove off the main floor of the Angel, closing the door behind them with a soft click. She turned to inspect the wall, running her fingers along the textured silk. It was only because she knew there was one that she found the seam. She turned wide eyes on her companion. “That is remarkable.”
He didn’t immediately reply, instead staring blankly at the wall for a long moment, as though seeing it for the first time and understanding that the rest of the world did not include secret passageways and curved walls and mysterious men. When realization struck, he smiled. “It is, rather, isn’t it?”
“Who designed them?”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dim space. “Cross.”
Her hand went back to the invisible seam in the wall. Of course he had.
“Temple!”
The bellow surprised her, but Temple seemed prepared for it, stepping through the curtains at the entrance to the alcove. He revealed himself to the room at large . . . and a stream of excited French. The enormous man raised his hands as if in surrender and made his way across the casino floor, out of sight. Pippa poked her head out to watch.
There was a woman at the far end of the room, cheeks red, hair asunder, wearing a black apron and . . . was that a fish in her hand? Either way, she was cursing like a sailor. A French sailor.
She switched to English. “That imbecile Irvington sent word that he is bringing a collection of his imbecile friends for dinner. And he thinks to tell me how to prepare his fish! I cooked for Charles the Second! He should get down on his knees and thank God himself that I am willing to cook for Idiot Irvington the First!”
Pippa was fairly certain that he was not the first Irvington to be an idiot. Nor the first to be insensitive. Nor unpleasant.
“Now Didier—” Temple began in perfect French, his voice low and smooth, as though he were speaking to some kind of untamed animal.
And perhaps he was. “You will send word to that cretin and tell him that if he does not want to eat the fish the way I wish to cook it, he may find another fish . . . and another chef . . . and another club!” The last fairly shook the rafters of the massive room.
Not a dozen feet from where the strange woman stood, the door to Mr. Cross’s office flew open. “What in hell is going on?”
Pippa’s breath caught as the man emerged, tall and lanky and unshaven. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up, and her gaze flew to those long, lean forearms, where muscle curved and rippled over bone. Her mouth went dry. She’d never thought of the forearm as being particularly interesting, but then it was not every day that she saw such a fine specimen.
Yes. It was the anatomy in which she was interested. The bones.
Radius. Ulna.
That did help, to think of the bones.
The cook waved her fish. “Irvington thinks to criticize my sauce! The imbecile would not know a proper sauce if he had a quart of it in his pocket!”
Mr. Cross rolled his eyes. “Didier . . . return to your kitchen and cook your fish. Irvington will eat what we tell him to eat.”
The chef opened her mouth.
“He will eat what we serve him and shan’t know any better.”
“The man has the palate of a goat,” the cook grumbled.
Temple grinned, hands outstretched. “Well, for all our sakes, I hope you do not serve him poisson en papier maché.”
The cook smiled at that. As did Pippa. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I, but he and his friends like to lose, so we keep him nonetheless.”
The fight seemed to go out of the cook. “Very well,” she said, wielding the fish in one hand. “I will cook him fish.”
“Perhaps not that exact fish,” Cross said, wryly.
Pippa laughed, forgetting herself, forgetting that sound carried—quick and loud across a cavernous room. His grey eyes snapped to her location. She pulled her head back into the alcove, pressing her back to the wall, heart pounding.
“Now Cross,” she heard Temple cajole from his place on the casino floor.
There was no reply. Pippa strained to hear what happened next, edging closer to the exit, eager for any indication that he’d seen her, that he’d noticed her.