No Good Duke Goes Unpunished
Page 38
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.
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.
“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.
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.
