“Why would he think that?” she scoffed. “You’ve never given a moment’s thought to us.”
The words stung. “That’s not true.”
She shifted again, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking to her cane again, from wishing he could see her leg. He knew how it pained her; he paid her doctors handsomely to keep him apprised of the seven-year-old injury.
He looked up at her. “Lavinia,” he began. “Please. Sit. We will discuss this.”
She did not sit. “We suffer because of you?”
It did not matter that they suffered because her husband was weak-willed. If Cross were not Cross . . . if he did not have a past with Knight . . . they would be safe. “He threatens you to access me. To take from me what he wants. Stay away from him. I will make this go away. I need four days.”
“What does he want?”
My title. My name. Your children’s inheritance. “It does not matter.”
“Of course it does.”
“No. It does not matter because he will not get it. And he will not get you, either.”
Something flared in her brown eyes, something close to loathing, and she laughed without humor. “I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, my pain has always been the result of your actions, hasn’t it? Why should now be any different?”
Silence stretched between them, the words hovering in the room, their weight familiar and unbearable, echoing the cold accusations of his father that night, seven years ago. It should have been you.
And the keening wails of his mother. If only it had been you.
And of Lavinia’s cries of pain as the surgeons did what they could to set bone and clean wounds, and rid her young, frail body of the fever that had raged, threatening her young life.
Threatening Cross’s sanity.
He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d been consumed with guilt that night, and fear the nights after, that he’d wished over and over, again and again, for years, that it had been him in that carriage. That it had been Baine at home—strong, steady, competent Baine, who never would have left them. Who never would have let her marry Dunblade.
That it had been Cross who had died—so he never would have failed them.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead he said, “I will repair the damage. He will never bother you again.”
That laugh again, hurt and hateful, with more experience than it should hold. “Please, don’t. You are too good at causing damage to have any skill at repairing it.” She added, “I don’t want you in my life. I will deal with him.”
“He won’t see you,” he said. “That is part of our bargain.”
“How dare you negotiate with him on my behalf?”
He shook his head and spoke the truth, tired of holding it back. “He came to me, Lavinia. And as much as you would like to believe otherwise, I couldn’t let him hurt you. I will never let him hurt you.”
The words might have had an impact, but he would never know, because at that precise moment, as they faded into the air around him, there was a loud thump from the opposite side of the large painting that hung on one wall of his office, and a dreadful knowledge settled deep and unpleasant in his gut. He knew what was on the other side of that painting, knew where it led.
Knew, too, with utter certainty, who was standing mere inches away from his office.
Lifting a hand to keep his sister from saying any more, he rounded his desk and grasped one edge of the massive gilt frame, giving the enormous oil painting a heavy yank, opening the secret entrance and revealing a wide-eyed Philippa Marbury, who tumbled out of the passageway beyond, barely catching herself on a nearby table before straightening and facing the occupants of the room.
She did not miss a beat, righting her spectacles and moving past him, into the office, to say, “Hello, Lady Dunblade,” before turning a cool blue gaze on him, triumphantly setting a pair of ivory dice on the edge of his great black desk, and adding, “You, sir, are a liar and a cheat. And I will not be ordered about like a prize hound.”
There was a moment of collective stunned silence, during which Lavinia’s jaw dropped and Cross wondered how precisely his calm, collected life had gone spiraling so completely out of control.
His Lavinia was Lavinia, Baroness Dunblade. A lady.
It was fascinating how simply society rendered invisible those who had suffered unfortunate circumstances. Lady Dunblade might require a cane to aid in her unavoidable limp, but now, as she stood on one side of Mr. Cross’s cluttered office, Pippa wondered how the lady could escape notice. Injury aside, she was tall and beautiful, with lovely red hair and brown eyes that Pippa could not help but admire.
Apparently, she was not the only one to admire those eyes. Apparently, Mr. Cross thought they were worthy of admiration as well. Pippa shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Mr. Cross was a notorious rogue—even if he’d never even hinted at any kind of roguish behavior with Pippa—and Lady Dunblade so often went beyond notice, that she could easily come and go from The Fallen Angel without causing scandal.
But scandal she was, apparently, as she was here, standing in Cross’s office, straight and proud, like a Grecian queen.
And why shouldn’t she stand proud? She’d apparently caught the attention of one of the most powerful men in London.
Pippa would be quite proud herself if she had done the same.
She resisted the thought and the thread of newly, unpleasantly, defined emotion that coursed through her with it, and turned to close the door to the secret passageway. She should have guessed that he had chosen a room with a passage leading to his office—he was not the kind of man who relied on coincidence.
And he was likely not the kind of man to be happy that she’d just tumbled through the wall and into his office . . . and if what she had overheard was to be believed . . . into a very private conversation.
I will never let him hurt you.
Even through the wall, she’d heard the fierceness in his tone. The commitment. Even through the wall, she’d felt the words like a blow. He clearly cared for the lady. Cared for her enough to leave Pippa in a locked room and go to her.
She shouldn’t be upset. After all, theirs was a partnership, not a relationship.
This was no time for jealousy. No place for it. There was no jealousy in science.
Except, apparently, there was.
She shouldn’t be jealous. She should be angry. He’d defiled their agreement by cheating her with weighted dice and wicked lies. Yes. In fact, that was why she had come here furious, was it not? If she was upset, it should be for that reason, and nothing else.
Certainly not because he’d left her to come for this lady.
She should not be upset about that at all.
And yet, that seemed to be precisely the reason for her upset.
Curious, that.
Once the passageway was closed, she spun back to face Mr. Cross and Lady Dunblade. Taking in the fury on his face and the shock on hers, Pippa said the first thing that came to mind. “I am sorry to interrupt.”
There was a beat, as they heard the words, before they both spoke.
“We are through,” said the lady, shoulders squaring as she seemed to remember where she was, backing toward the door. “I am leaving.”
“What in hell are you doing inside that passageway? I told you not to move from that room,” said Mr. Cross at the same time.
“You left me in a locked room and expected me not to attempt to escape?” Pippa said, unable to keep the frustration from her tone.
“I expect you to keep yourself safe from harm.”
Her eyes went wide. “What harm could possibly come to me?”
“In a dark, secret passageway in a gaming hell? You’re right. No harm indeed.”
She took a step back. “Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. C
ross.”
He shook his head in frustration and turned to Lady Dunblade, who had reached the door. “You are not leaving.”
The lady’s gaze narrowed. “We are through. I have delivered my message. And I am most definitely leaving.”
Pippa pressed back against the painting through which she’d come, as Cross took a step toward Lady Dunblade, the emotion in his words obvious. “Lavinia—” he started before she held up a hand and stopped him.
“No. You made this choice. You cannot change the past.”
“It is not the past I wish to change, dammit. It is the future.”
Lavinia turned and made for the door that led to the floor of the casino. “The future is not yours to affect.”
Pippa watched them, head turning from one to the other, as though they were in a badminton match, questions rising, desperate for facts. What had happened in their past? What was happening now to threaten their future? How were they connected?
And there, seeking her answer, she discovered the anguish in his gaze.
He loved her.
She stiffened at the last, the thought unsettling and unpleasant.
Lavinia’s hand settled on the door handle and Cross swore. “Goddammit, Lavinia. Half of London is out there. If you’re seen, you’ll be ruined.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Am I not already on that path?”
What did that mean?
His gaze narrowed. “Not if I can stop it. I shall take you home.”
Lavinia looked to Pippa. “And Lady Philippa?”
He turned to Pippa, surprise in his gaze, as though he’d forgotten she was there. She ignored the disappointment that flared at the thought. “I shall take you both home.”
Pippa shook her head. Whatever was happening here with Lady Dunblade, it did not change Pippa’s plans for the evening. Ignoring the weight in her chest at her earlier discovery—a pang that was becoming familiar—she said, “I am not interested in returning home.”
At the same time, Lavinia said, “I will not go anywhere with you.”
He reached for one of several pulls on the wall behind him, yanking it with more force than necessary. “I will not force you to stay, but I will not allow you to destroy yourself either. You will have an escort home.”
Bitterness laced the baroness’s tone. “Once more, you leave me in the hands of another.”
Cross went ashen at the words; the room was suddenly too small, and Pippa was out of place. There was something so connected about these two, in the way they faced each other, neither one willing to back down. There was a similarity in them—in the way they stood tall and refused to cow.
There was no doubt they had a past. No doubt they’d known each other for years.
No doubt there had been a time they cared for each other.
Still did, perhaps.
The thought had Pippa wishing she could crawl back into the painting and find another way out of the club. She turned to do just that, pulling once on the heavy frame, preferring that empty, locked hazard room to this.
But this time, when the painting swung open, it was to reveal a man in the passageway. The enormous brown-skinned man seemed as surprised by Pippa as she was by him. They stared at each other for a moment before she blurted, “Excuse me. I should like to get past.”
His brows furrowed and he turned a confused look on Cross, who swore wickedly and said, “She’s not going anywhere.”
Pippa looked back at him. “I shall be quite fine.”
He met her gaze, grey eyes serious. “Where do you plan to go?”
She wasn’t exactly sure. “Into the . . .” She waved into the blackness behind the large man blocking the entryway, “ . . . wall,” she finished.
He ignored her, his attention flickering to the man in the wall. “Take Lady Dunblade home. Be sure she is not seen.”
Pippa craned her head to look up at the large man—larger than any man she’d ever met. It was difficult to imagine that he was skilled at clandestine late-night female ferreting, but Mr. Cross was a legendary rake, so this was likely not the first time he’d been asked to do just that.
“I’m not going with him,” Lady Dunblade said firmly.
“You do not have a choice,” Cross said, “unless you would prefer I take you.”
Pippa found she did not like that idea, but remained quiet.
“How do I know I can trust him?”
Cross looked to the ceiling, then back to the lady. “You don’t. But it strikes me that your choices of whom to trust or mistrust are entirely arbitrary, so why not place him in the trustworthy column?”
They stared at each other, and Pippa wondered what would happen. She would not have been surprised if Lady Dunblade had thrown open the main door to Mr. Cross’s office and marched, proud and proper, out onto the floor of the casino, just to spite him.
What had he done to her?
What had she done to him?
After a long moment, Pippa could not help herself. “Lady Dunblade?”
The lady met her gaze, and Pippa wondered if she’d ever had a conversation with this woman. She didn’t think so. Right now, in this moment, she was certain that if she had, she would remember this proud, brown-eyed, flame-haired warrior. “Yes?”
“Whatever it is,” Pippa said, hesitating over the words, “it is not worth your reputation.”
There was a beat as the words carried through the room, and for a moment, Pippa thought the baroness might not react. But she did, leaning into her cane and moving across the room to allow the massive man, still elevated inside, to help her up into the dark passageway.
Once there, Lady Dunblade turned back, meeting Pippa’s gaze. “I could say the same to you,” she said. “Will you join me?”
The question hovered between them, and somehow Pippa knew that her answer would impact more than her activities that evening. She knew that a yes would remove her from Mr. Cross’s company forever. And a no might keep her there for far too long.
For longer than she had been planning.
She looked to him, his grey gaze locking with hers, unreadable and still so powerful—able to quicken her breath and tumble her insides. She shook her head, unable to look away. “No. I wish to stay.”
He did not move.
Lady Dunblade spoke. “I do not know why you are here, Lady Philippa, but I can tell you this—whatever this man has promised you, whatever you think to gain from your acquaintance, do not count on receiving it.” Pippa did not know how to respond. She did not have to. “Your reputation is on the line.”
“I am taking care,” Pippa said.
One of the baroness’s ginger brows rose in disbelief, and something flashed, familiar, there then gone before Pippa could place it. “See that you do.”
The baroness disappeared into the blackness of the secret passageway, the hulking man following behind. Pippa watched them go, the light from the body-man’s lantern fading around a corner before she closed the painting once more and turned back to Cross.
He was pressed to the far side of the room, back to a large bookshelf, arms folded over his chest, eyes on the floor.
He looked exhausted. His shoulders hunched, almost in defeat, and even Pippa—who never seemed to be able to properly read the emotions of those around her—understood that he had been wounded in the battle that had taken place in this room.
Unable to stop herself, she moved toward him, her skirts brushing against the massive abacus that stood to one side of the room, and the sound pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up, his grey gaze meeting hers, staying her movement.
“You should have gone with her.”
She shook her head, her words catching in her throat as she replied, “You promised to help me.”
“And if I said I wish to dissolve our agreement?”
S
he forced a smile she did not feel. “The desire is not mutual.”
His eyes darkened, the only part of him that moved. “It will be.”
She couldn’t resist. “Who is she?”
The question broke the spell, and he looked away, rounding the edge of his desk, placing the wide ebony surface between them and fussing with the papers on the desk. “You know who she is.”
She shook her head. “I know she is the Baroness Dunblade. Who is she to you?”
“It does not matter.”
“On the contrary, it seems to matter quite a bit.”
“It should not to you.”
It was rather unsettling how much it mattered. “And yet it does.” She paused, wishing he would tell her, knowing that her request was futile, and still unable to stop herself from asking, “Do you care for her very much?”
Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
Except she did. Quite desperately.
When he did not reply, she added, “I only ask because I am curious as to why her visit would move you to lock me in a hazard room for an indefinite amount of time.”
He looked up. “It was not indefinite.”
She came to stand on the opposite side of the desk. “No thanks to you.”
“How did you find the passageway?”
“You would be surprised by what irritation does to aid one’s commitment to a cause.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “I assume you refer to your imprisonment?”
“And to your cheating,” she added.
His gaze flickered to the dice she had placed on the edge of the desk. “Those are the winning dice.”
“You think I care if the dishonesty was for win or loss? It’s still cheating.”
He laughed, the sound humorless. “Of course you don’t care. It was for your own good.”
“And the sevens?”
“Also weighted.”
She nodded. “The nine I rolled on that first afternoon? The wager that sent me home, vowing not to approach any more men?”
He poured himself a glass of scotch. “Those, too.”
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 20
