A Rogue by Any Other Name (38 page)

Before she could stop herself.

The carriage did not deliver her to the main entrance to The Angel, but instead to a strange, unimpressive entrance accessible through the mews that ran alongside the building. She ascended in near darkness, clutching the hand of the coachman who had come to help her down and guide her to a blackened steel door. Nervousness flared.

She was at Michael’s club once more, this time, by invitation, in what she believed was her prettiest gown, for a game of billiards.

It was extraordinarily thrilling.

The driver knocked for her and stepped away as a little slot in the door slid open and a pair of eyes—black as coal—appeared. No sound came from behind the door.

“I . . . I received an invitation. To billiards,” she said, lifting one hand to check that her mask was secure, hating the movement and the hitch in her throat, the way her nerves held the high ground.

There was a pause, and the slot slid shut, leaving her standing alone in the darkness in the middle of the night. Behind a London gaming hell.

She swallowed.
Well. That hadn’t gone exactly as expected.

She knocked again. The little slot opened once more.

“My husband is—”

The slot closed.

“—your employer,” she said to the door, as though it might open on its own with the proper encouragement.

Alas, it remained firmly shut.

Penelope pulled her cloak around her and looked over her shoulder to the coachman behind, just pulling himself up onto his seat. He noticed her predicament, thankfully, and said, “Usually there’s a password, milady.”

Of course. The strange, final word of the invitation.

Whoever needed a password to do anything? It was like something from a gothic novel. She cleared her throat and confronted the enormous door once more.

Knocked again.

The slot slid open with a click, and Penelope smiled at the eyes.

No sign of recognition.

“I have a password!” she announced triumphantly.

The eyes were not impressed.

“Éloa,” she whispered, not knowing how the process worked.

The slot closed again.

Honestly?

She waited, turning back to the carriage and throwing a nervous glance up at the driver. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I haven’t any idea.”

And just as she was about to give up, she heard the clicking of a lock and the scrape of metal on metal . . . and the massive door opened.

She couldn’t help her excitement.

The man inside was enormous, with dark skin and dark eyes and an immovable countenance that should have made Penelope nervous, except she was far too excited. He was dressed in breeches and a dark shirt, the color of which she could not make out in the dim light, and wore no coat. She might have thought him inappropriately attired, but she quickly reminded herself that she had never entered a gaming hell through a mysterious, password-requiring door, and so she supposed she knew very little about the appropriate dress of a man in such a situation.

She waved the paper that had been delivered earlier that day. “Would you like to see my invitation?”

“No.” He stepped aside to let her in.

“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed, as she pushed past him into the little entryway, watching as he closed the door behind her with an ominous thud. He did not look at her; instead, he sat on a stool perched near the door, lifted a book from a nearby shelf, and began to read by the light of a wall sconce.

Penelope blinked at the tableau. Apparently he was a man of letters.

She stood quietly for a long moment, uncertain of her next move. He seemed not to notice.

She cleared her throat.

He turned a page.

Finally, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

He did not look up. “Yes?”

“I am Lady—”

“No names.”

Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“No names on this side.” He turned another page.

“I—” She stopped, uncertain of what to say.
This side?
“All right, but I . . .”

“No names.”

They remained in silence for a little longer until she could not bear it a moment more. “Perhaps you could tell me if I am to stand here all night? If so, I would have brought a book of my own.”

He looked up at that, and she took pleasure in the way his black eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she’d surprised him. He pointed to the far end of the entryway, where another door loomed in the darkness. She hadn’t seen it earlier.

She moved toward it. “Billiards is through here?”

He watched her carefully, as though she were a specimen under glass. “Among other things, yes.”

She smiled. “Excellent. I would ask for your name so I might thank you properly, sir, but . . .”

He returned to his book. “No names.”

“Precisely.”

She opened the door, letting in a shock of light from the corridor beyond. She looked back at the strange man, impressed by the play of golden light across his dark skin, and said, “Well, thank you just the same.”

He did not reply, and she stepped into the brightly lit hallway, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving her alone in the new space. The hallway was wide and long, spanning in both directions, and the candles lit every few feet blazed against the gilded décor, making the entire space warm and bright. The walls were covered in a paisley pattern of scarlet silk and wine-colored velvet, and Penelope could not help but reach out to touch them, loving the way the plush gave beneath her touch.

A burst of feminine laughter came from one end of the hallway, and she headed for it instinctively, not knowing what she would find, but feeling strangely prepared for whatever was to come next. She edged down the hallway, her fingers trailing along the wall, tracking her movement past one closed door after the next. She paused before an open door, the room beyond empty save for a long table, and she stepped inside without thinking to get a closer look.

There was a green baize field set deep into the table—several inches down—and the soft fabric was embroidered in crisp, clean white thread with a grid of numbers that ran its length and breadth. Penelope leaned over to inspect the confusion of carefully wrought text—the mysterious combination of numbers, fractions, and words.

She reached out to run one gloved finger along the word
Chance
, a thrum of excitement coursing through her as she traced the curve of the C and the looping H.

“You’ve discovered hazard.”

She gasped in surprise and spun toward her name, hand at her throat, to find Mr. Cross standing in the doorway of the room, a half smile on his handsome face. She stiffened, knowing that she’d been caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to . . . There was no one in the . . .” She trailed off, deciding silence a better choice than carrying on like an imbecile.

He laughed and came forward. “No need to apologize. You’re a member now and can move about freely.”

She tilted her head. “A member?”

He smiled. “It is a club, my lady. Membership is required.”

“I’m only here for billiards. With Michael?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.

Cross shook his head. “With me.”

“I—” She stopped, her brows knitting together.
Not with Michael.
“The invitation was not from him.”

Cross smiled, but Penelope was not comforted. “It was not.”

“Is he not here?” Would she not see him here, either?

“He’s here, somewhere. But he does not know
you
are here.”

Disappointment flared.

Of course he didn’t.

He was not interested in spending the evenings with her.

On the heels of that thought came another.
He was going to be furious.

“It came from you.”

He tilted his head. “It came from The Angel.”

She considered the words, and their mystery.
The Angel.

“It’s more than an invitation isn’t it?”

Cross lifted one shoulder. “You know the password now. That makes you a member.”

A member.

The offer was tempting—access to one of the most legendary clubs in London, and all the adventure that she’d ever wanted. She thought of the excitement that had come with the invitation to billiards, of the wonder that had come when she’d stepped through the door into the warm, brilliant hallway of this mysterious club. Of the thrill that had coursed through her as she’d watched the roulette wheel spin during her first visit.

But she’d thought her next visit—tonight—would be with him.

She was wrong.

He wanted no part of her. Not like this.

He reminded her of that every time they pretended their love affair. Every time he touched her to ensure her participation in their farce. Every time he left the house instead of spending the night with her. Every time he chose vengeance over love.

She pushed the knot of emotion in her throat away.

He would not give her marriage . . .
And so she must take adventure instead.

She was too far down this path to be able to walk away from it, after all.

She met Cross’s quiet grey gaze and took a deep breath. “Billiards, then. Do you intend to make good on that promise?”

Cross smiled and waved a hand toward the doorway. “The billiards room is across the hall.” Her heart began to pound. “May I take your cloak?”

“You look lovely,” he said as black wool gave way to salmon satin—the dress she’d worn for a different man, one who would not see it and who, if he did see it, wouldn’t care at all how she looked.

She put the thought from her mind and met Cross’s friendly grey gaze, smiling when he produced a white rose, offering the lovely stem toward her. “Welcome to the Other Side,” he said, when she accepted the bloom. “Shall we?”

He indicated the hallway beyond, and Penelope led the way from the room. Before she could open the door to the billiards room, a collection of chatter came from down the hall. She turned, thankful for her simple disguise as a group of women, similarly masked, hurried toward them.

They dipped their heads as they passed, and curiosity surged through Penelope. Were they members of the aristocracy as well? Were they women like her? Searching for adventure?

Did their husbands ignore them, too?

She shook her head at the thought, errant and unwelcome before one of the women stopped to face Cross, her blue eyes glittering behind her pink domino.

“Cross . . .” she fairly drawled, leaning forward to gift him with a first-rate view of her bosom. “I’m told you are sometimes lonely in the evenings.”

Penelope’s jaw dropped.

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.