Little Olivia, the youngest Marbury. Deflowered.

Which made Pippa the only Marbury to remain . . . flowered.

Olivia lowered her voice, and added, “I hope for your sake that Castleton discovers his resourcefulness. It’s a very rewarding experience.”

Pippa shook her head. “You—” She didn’t know what to say.

Olivia gave her a look of surprise. “Really, Pippa. It’s perfectly normal for betrothed couples to . . . experiment. Everyone does it.”

She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Everyone?”

“All right, apparently not everyone.”

Olivia turned back to the seamstress to discuss the line of her dress, or the cut of the fabric, or something equally inane, unaware of the thoughts rioting in Pippa’s head.

Experiment.

The word echoed through her, a reminder of her encounter with Mr. Cross. She had planned to gain a semblance of understanding prior to marriage, knowing that her interactions with her husband would be rudimentary at best.

But she’d never once imagined that Olivia would . . . that Lord Tottenham and Olivia would . . . had . . . had knowledge of each other. In the biblical sense.

Castleton had never even tried to kiss her. Not in two years of dancing around the edge of courtship. Not in a month of official courtship. Not even last night, at their betrothal ball, after she’d touched him. He’d had plenty of opportunity to ferret her away as they’d stood to one side of the room in stilted silence.

But he hadn’t.

And she hadn’t thought it at all uncommon.

Until now.

Now, when she required experimentation more than ever.

And she’d wagered away her opportunity for it. Utterly.

I will refrain from asking any other men to assist in my research.

The wager rang in her ears as though she’d spoken the words aloud, there and then. She’d wagered and lost. She’d given her word. But now, as her heart and mind raced, she found herself desperate for a solution. It was one thing, after all, for her not to have the experience she wished on her wedding night; it was another entirely for her not to have the experience she was expected to have.

She was to be married altogether too quickly. She caught her own gaze in the mirror. She was wearing her wedding gown, for heaven’s sake.

There was so little time. Research was imperative. With, or without him.

Perhaps she ought to ask Olivia.

Her gaze slid to her sister’s perfect pink smile—filled with knowledge that Pippa hadn’t before seen but could absolutely now identify.

She needed to act. Immediately.

And like that, the solution was clear.

She had to get to the Angel.

With that keen awareness rocketing through her, Pippa stared at her younger sister, beautiful in her own wedding gown, and announced, the words, not entirely false. “I am unwell.”

Olivia snapped her attention back to Pippa. “What do you mean you are unwell?”

Pippa shook her head and put a hand to her stomach. “I am feeling quite . . . unwell.” She considered the girls at her feet, working furiously, ants charging a discarded sweet at a picnic.

“But what of your gown?” Olivia shook her head.

“It’s lovely. And fine. But I must remove it.” The girls looked up in unison. “Now.”

She had research to conduct. Pressing research.

She looked to Madame Hebert. “I cannot stay. I shall have to come back. What with how unwell I feel.”

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.