Penelope leaned down to pay Trotula some attention, smiling when the hound groaned and leaned into the caress. “I could ask you the same thing. After all, now that I’m married off, Mother is far more interested in you than she is me.”

“Mother doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Pippa replied. “You’re the one married to the legendary scoundrel.”

Penelope grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”

Pippa laughed. “So proud of yourself.” She turned back to the ball, scanning the crowd below. “Where is Bourne? I don’t see him.”

“Something kept him at the club.”

The club.

The words echoed through her, a reminder of two days earlier. Of Mr. Cross.

Mr. Cross, who would have been as out of place in the world below as Pippa felt. Mr. Cross, with whom she had wagered. To whom she had lost.

She cleared her throat, and Penelope mistook the sound. “He swore he’d be here,” she defended her husband. “Late, but here.”

“What happens at the club at this hour?” Pippa could not keep herself from asking.

“I—wouldn’t know.”

Pippa grinned. “Liar. If your hesitation had not revealed the untruth, your red face would have.”

Chagrin replaced embarrassment. “Ladies are not supposed to know about such things.”

Pippa blinked. “Nonsense. Ladies who are married to casino owners may certainly know such things.”

Penelope’s brows rose. “Our mother would disagree.”

“Our mother is not my barometer for how women should and should not behave. The woman lunges for her smelling salts every thirty minutes.” She pushed back the curtain to reveal the marchioness far below, deep in conversation with Lady Beaufetheringstone—one of the ton’s greatest gossips. As if on cue, Lady Needham released an excited squeak that carried high into the rafters.

Pippa looked to Penelope knowingly. “Now, tell me what happens at the club.”

“Gaming.”

“I know that, Penny. What else?”

Penelope lowered her voice. “There are women.”

Pippa’s brows went up. “Prostitutes?” She supposed there would be. After all, in all the texts she’d read, she’d come to discover that men enjoyed the company of women—and rarely their wives.

“Pippa!” Penny sounded scandalized.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t even know that word.”

“Why on earth not? The word is in the Bible, for heaven’s sake.”

“It is not.”

Pippa thought for a long moment before leaning back against the colonnade. “I think it is, you know. If it isn’t, it should be. The profession is not a new one.”

She paused.

Prostitutes would have eons of institutional knowledge to address her concerns. To answer her questions.

Have you asked your sisters? The echo of Mr. Cross’s words from the previous afternoon had Pippa turning to her eldest sister. What if she did ask Penny?

“May I ask a question?”

Penelope raised a brow. “I doubt I could stop you.”

“I’m concerned about some of the . . . logistics. Of marriage.”

Penelope’s gaze grew sharp. “Logistics?”

Pippa waved one hand in the air. “The . . . personal bits.”

Penelope went red. “Ah.”

“Olivia told me about tongues.”

The eldest Marbury’s brows rose. “What does she know about them?”

“More than I think either of us imagined,” Pippa replied, “but I couldn’t ask her to elaborate—I couldn’t bear taking lessons from my youngest sister. You, on the other hand . . .”

There was a pause as the words sank in, and Penelope’s eyes went wide. “Surely you don’t expect me to school you!”

“Just on a few critical issues,” Pippa said urgently.

“For example?”

“Well, tongues, for one.”

Penelope put her hands over her ears. “No more! I don’t want to think of Olivia and Tottenham doing . . .” She trailed off.

Pippa wanted to shake her. “Doing what?”

“Doing any of it!”

“But don’t you see? How can I be prepared for all this if I don’t understand it? Bulls in Coldharbor are not enough!”

Penelope gave a little laugh. “Bulls in Coldharbor?”

Pippa went red. “I’ve seen . . .”

“You think it’s like that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t if someone would tell me . . . I mean, are men’s . . . are their . . .” She waved a hand in a specific direction. “Are they so large?”

Penelope clapped a hand over her mouth to stem her laughter, and Pippa found herself growing irritated. “I am happy I’m giving you such a laugh.”

Penny shook her head. “I’m—” She giggled again, and Pippa cut her a look. “I’m sorry! It’s just . . . no. No. They have little in common with the bull in Coldharbor.” There was a pause. “And thank God for that.”

“Is it . . . frightening?”

And, like that, Penelope’s gaze filled with doe-eyed sentimentality. “Not at all,” she whispered, all treacle, and while the honest answer was comforting, Pippa nevertheless resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“And, like that, I’ve lost you.”

Penelope smiled. “You’re curious, Pippa. I understand. But it will all become clear.”

Pippa did not like the idea of relying on the promise of clarity. She wanted it now.