He extended the large box in her direction, and she took it, curiosity flaring. “Thank you.”

Task accomplished, Carter retreated from the room, leaving Pippa with the parcel, which she set beside her on the settee and opened, untying string and folding back unremarkable brown paper to reveal a heavy white box, adorned with an elaborate golden H.

Disappointment flared. The package was not urgent. It was a part of her trousseau. Most women in London could identify this box, from Madame Hebert’s modiste shop.

She sighed and opened the box to find a layer of fine gauze of the palest blue, tied with a beautiful sapphire ribbon. Beneath the ribbon was a single ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel. She slipped the card from the square envelope and read the message in strong, black script.

Pandemonium

The Fallen Angel

Midnight

And, on the back,

A carriage will collect you.

Chase

Chase. The fourth, most mysterious partner in The Fallen Angel. From what she understood, few had ever met the man who had started the club and grown it—certainly Pippa had never had the opportunity. And she absolutely should not be accepting an invitation from an unknown man. To something called Pandemonium.

But she knew before she even inspected the contents of the box that she would not be able to refuse him. Or the chance to see Cross again.

Pandemonium sounded like precisely the kind of thing that would afford her all sorts of knowledge.

Heart pounding, Pippa reached for the ribbon, untying it carefully, as though it might release something living. Peeling back the gauze, she gasped at the stunningly crafted silver mask that lay on a bed of sapphire silk—no, not silk.

Dress.

She lifted the mask, startled by the weight of it, running one hand along the perfect curve of the filigree, marveling at the delicacy of the swirling, twisting design etched into its face and the thick satin ribbons marking its edges, the same sapphire as the dress below.

When she turned the mask over, inspecting its inside, and instantly understanding why the piece was so much heavier than expected. Inlaid in the back of the mask was a special ridge, lined in sapphire velvet the exact color of the gown it had arrived with, designed to house a set of spectacles.

The mask had been made specifically for her.

She smiled, running her fingers over the metalwork, admiring the frivolity of the gorgeous craftsmanship.

And practical Pippa Marbury, who had never in her life been tempted by clothing or triviality, could not wait for night to come.

So she could drape herself in silk.

It occurred to her that her view of the fabric had changed drastically in mere moments. Thousands of Bombyx mori had given themselves to this dress.

They’d cocooned themselves to set Pippa free.

“Pippa!” Her mother’s call came from beyond the library door, shaking Pippa from her reverie. Rescuing the wrapping from Trotula’s long pink tongue, she crammed the mask back into its box and haphazardly rewrapped the parcel, moving with lightning speed to hand it off to a footman just outside the door and request that it be delivered, immediately, to her maid.

“Pippa!” Her mother called again, no doubt announcing the start of the ladies’ tea set for the afternoon. The Countess of Castleton would be here, and Lady Tottenham, and Penny, and a dozen others. No doubt the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had recited the guest list more than once, but Pippa hadn’t been listening much over the past few days.

She’d been too consumed with the events of her evening with Mr. Cross over and over, recalling every word, every interaction. And realizing that she was lacking in critical areas. It should not be difficult to convince a man to touch her. Certainly not a man who was purported to have such extensive taste in females. And yet, it was difficult.

Pippa was clearly in no way able to entice anything. Or anyone. If she could have, wouldn’t it have happened? Wouldn’t being nearly naked in Mr. Cross’s office have drawn him to her in some way? Have tempted him?

Of course it would have.

Which is why she was utterly certain she possessed not a single viable feminine wile.

Perhaps Pandemonium would change that.

Her heart raced once more.

“Pippa!” Her mother called again, closer.

And without those wiles—or at least an understanding of them—she would never be able to meet the expectations that had been set for her. As a wife. As a mother.

As a woman.

She required additional research.

But today, she was doomed to an afternoon of tea. She set the volume down and addressed her sleeping companion. “Shall we go, Trotula?”

The spaniel raised her soft, sable head instantly, tail pounding against the plush settee with satisfying thuds. Pippa smiled and stood. “I remain able to tempt you, at least.”

Trotula came off the furniture with a long stretch and a wide, lolling grin.

Pippa exited the library, hound at her heels, and pushed open the wide, paneled doors to the tearoom, where her mother’s guests had gathered, already cooing over Olivia.

She took a deep breath and steeled herself to enter the fray.

“Lady Philippa!”

Castleton was here.

Pippa turned to find Trotula bounding toward the earl, who crouched low to give the dog a long scratch. Trotula leaned into the caress, hind leg thumping her pleasure, and Pippa couldn’t help but laugh at the picture. “Lord Castleton,” she said, moving toward her fiancé. “Are you here for tea?” She hadn’t detected the hint of panic that usually laced her mother’s tone when eligible gentlemen were nearby.

“No!” he said, happily, cocking his head to one side as he looked up at her, his smile wide and friendly. “I was meeting with your father. Hashing out the final bits of the marriage arrangement and all that.”