Cross raised a brow. “Not this particular evening, darling.”

The lady turned to Penelope, gaze lingering on the rose in her hand. “First night? You may join us, if you like.”

Penelope’s gaze went wide at the words. “Thank you, but no.” She paused, adding, “Though I’m quite . . . flattered.” It seemed like the right thing to say.

The woman tilted her head back and laughed, the sound loud and without hesitation, and Penelope realized that she did not think she’d ever heard the honest laughter of a woman to whom she was not related. What was this place?

“Run along, love,” Cross said with an encouraging smile. “You pretties have a fight to watch, do you not?”

The smile turned into a perfect moue, and Penelope resisted the temptation to try the expression herself. Some women made flirtation seem so very easy. “We do, indeed. I hear Temple is in fine form tonight. Perhaps he’ll be lonely after the match.”

“Perhaps he will,” Cross said in a way that made Penelope think there was no question whatsoever that Temple would be lonely after the match.

The masked lady raised a finger to her lips. “Or maybe Bourne . . . she said thoughtfully.

Penelope’s brows snapped together.

Absolutely not Bourne.

The very idea of this woman with her husband made Penelope want to tear the mask from her eyes and give her a fight to witness in wicked proximity. She opened her mouth to tell her just that when Cross interjected, seeming to understand the direction in which the conversation was moving. “Doubtful Bourne will be available this evening, darling. You’ll miss the beginning if you don’t rush.”

That seemed to spur the other woman into motion. “Drat. I must go. Will I see you at Pandemonium?”

Cross dipped his head gracefully. “I would not miss it.”

She hurried off, and Penelope watched her for a long moment before turning to him. “What is Pandemonium?”

“Nothing with which you need concern yourself.”

She considered pressing him on the issue as he reached for the door to the billiards room. If the other woman was planning to attend this event, Penelope wanted to as well, if for no other reason than to find the courage to call off the jezebel.

Not that Penelope was much different.

After all, she was wearing a mask, about to receive a lesson in billiards from a man who was not—

“It’s about bloody time you showed up. I don’t have time to wait for you and your ladies tonight. And what on earth are we doing playing on this side? Chase will have our heads if—”

—her husband. Who was leaning against the billiard table in question, cue in hand, looking very very handsome.

And very very angry.

He came to his full height. “Penelope?”

So much for the mask.

“This side makes it easier for the lady to play,” Cross said, clearly amused.

Michael took two steps toward them before coming to a halt, hands fisted at his side. His gaze found hers, glittering green in the candlelight. “She’s not playing.”

“I don’t believe that you have a choice,” she said, “as I have an invitation.”

He seemed not to care. “Take off that ridiculous mask.”

Cross closed the door, and Penelope reached up to remove the domino, unmasking in front of her husband more difficult than stripping bare in front of all of Parliament.

Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders and removed the mask, facing him head-on. “I was invited, Michael,” she said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice.

“How? Did Cross offer you an invitation when he escorted you home in the dead of night? What else did he offer you?”

“Bourne,” Cross said, his words filled with warning as he stepped forward to defend himself.

To defend her. She did not need his defense. She had done nothing wrong. “No,” Penelope said, steel in her tone. “Lord Bourne knows precisely where I’ve been and with whom for the duration of our short, disastrous marriage.” She stepped toward Michael, her offense making her bold. “Home, alone. Instead of here, where the female half of London is apparently wishing they had the password to his bed.” His eyes went wide.

“I would appreciate it if you would leave, Michael,” she added, tossing the mask and the rose to the billiard table. “You see, I’ve been looking forward to this billiards lesson. And you are making it very difficult to enjoy.”

Chapter Eighteen

Dear M—

I wish I had the courage to come to your club and announce myself as your old friend, but of course I don’t. It is probably for the best, however, as I’m not certain which I’d like to do more: hit you or hug you.

Unsigned

Dolby House, March 1827

Letter unsent

She was running him ragged.

Gone was the soft, sweet wife he’d thought he was getting, snow dusting her bonnet as she confessed past courtships, one errant flake landing and melting almost instantly on the tip of her nose as she smiled up at him.

And in that woman’s place was an Amazon, standing at the center of his club, in the heart of the London underworld, placing bets on roulette while the city watched, demanding the safety of her friends and the reputation of her sisters, and scheduling billiards lessons with one of the most powerful and feared men in the city.

And now, she stood in front of him, and bold as brass, suggested he leave her alone.

He should do just that.

He should walk away from her and pretend they’d never married.

Return her to Surrey or, better, ship her to the North Country to live out her newfound scandalous desires far from him. He had Falconwell, and the tools for his revenge, and it was time to chase her from his life.