“Sally Tasser is no ordinary female.”

“Well, I understand that she is a prostitute, but I assume she has all the required parts?”

He choked. “Yes.”

She hesitated, and something flashed across her face. Disappointment? “You’ve seen them?”

“No.” Truth.

“Hmm.” She did not seem to believe him. “You do not frequent prostitutes?”

“I do not.”

“I am not entirely certain that I support the profession.”

“No?” Thank God. He would not put it past Pippa to simply pronounce a newfound desire to explore all aspects of the world’s oldest profession.

“No.” She shook her head. “I am concerned that the ladies are ill-treated.”

“The ladies who frequent The Fallen Angel are not ill-treated.”

Her brows knit together. “How do you know?”

“Because they are under my protection.”

She froze. “They are?”

He was suddenly warm. “They are. We do all we can to ensure that they are well treated and well paid while under our roof. If they are manhandled, they call for one of the security detail. They file a complaint with me. And if I discover a member is mistreating ladies beneath this roof, his membership is revoked.”

She paused for a long moment, considering the words, and finally said, “I have a passion for horticulture.”

He wasn’t certain how plants had anything to do with prostitutes, but he knew better than to interrupt.

She continued, the words quick and forthright, as though they entirely made sense. “I’ve made a rather remarkable discovery recently,” she said, and his attention lingered on the breathlessness of the words. On the way her mouth curved in a small, private smile. She was proud of herself, and he found—even before she admitted her finding—that he was proud of her. Odd, that. “It is possible to take a piece of one rosebush and affix it to another. And when the process is completed properly . . . say, a white piece on a red bush . . . an entirely new rose grows . . .” She paused, and the rest of the words rushed out, as though she were almost afraid of them. “A pink one.”

Cross did not know much about horticulture, but he knew enough about scientific study to know that the finding would be groundbreaking. “How did you—”

She raised a hand to stop the question. “I’ll happily show you. It’s very exciting. But that’s not the point.”

He waited for her to arrive at the point in question.

She did. “The career . . . it is not their choice. They’re not red or white anymore. They’re pink. And you’re why.”

Somehow, it made sense that she compared the ladies of the Angel to this experiment in roses. Somehow, this woman’s strange, wonderful brain worked in a way that he completely understood.

And as he considered that odd, remarkable truth, she prodded, “Aren’t you?”

It was not the simplest of questions. Nor was it the easiest of answers. “It is not always their choice, no. In many cases, girls fall into it. But here, they are well treated. Well fed. Well paid. And the moment they want to stop their work, we find them other places.”

Her brows rose. “Where?”

He smiled. “We are very powerful men, Pippa. Our membership has need of servants; our vendors require shopgirls. And, if not that, then there are always safe houses far from London, where girls can begin anew.” After a long silence, he added, “I would never force a girl into this life.”

“But some of them choose it?”

It was an incomprehensible truth for some. “The white branch.”

She nodded. “Like Miss Tasser.”

“Like Sally.”

“Well, all the more reason for me to mine her expertise.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “If she chooses it, she must enjoy it to a certain extent. And there’s no one else. It’s not as though Castleton has offered his assistance.”

As it should be.

No. Not as it should be. Of course Castleton should be offering his assistance. He should be doing much more than that.

The thought made Cross more murderous.

She pursed her lips. “Do you think I ought to ask him? Perhaps that’s how these things are done?”

No! “Yes.”

She blushed, tempting him. “I’m not sure I could.”

“But you can ask me?”

She blinked up at him. “You are different. You are not the kind of man one marries. It’s easier to . . . well . . . engage in a candid discussion of my research with you.” She smiled. “You are a man of science, after all.”

There it was, again. That certainty that he would keep her safe.

That he was in control. Always.

You should tell her.

Sally’s words echoed through him, mocking and correct.

He should tell her. But it wasn’t precisely the kind of thing one told a young, beautiful woman standing by and begging for lessons in ruination.

At least, not an ordinary young woman in such a situation.

But Philippa Marbury was nothing close to ordinary.

Telling her the truth would push her away. And that would be best. For all involved.

Especially him.

Pippa shook her head. “He’ll say no. Don’t you see? There’s no one. No one but Miss Tasser.”

She was wrong, of course.

“There is me,” he said, the words out before he knew they were coming. Her eyes went wide, and she met his gaze.

There was a beat as she heard the words. Their meaning. “You,” she said.