No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(24)

This time.

“You’ll need someone on the inside to identify the men.”

“I have her,” he said, watching the wagers below.

“Of course,” Temple said, admiration in his tone. “Your women.”

“They aren’t mine.” He made sure of it. Not one of them had ever come close to being his.

“Irrelevant,” Bourne said. “They adore you.”

“They adore what I can do for them.”

Temple’s tone turned wry. “I’ll bet they do.”

“What of your sister?” Bourne asked. “The only way the threat works is if she stays away from him. Dunblade as well.”

Cross watched the men below, absently calculating their bets—how much they usually wagered, how much the take was when their hand was lost. How much was risked when they won. “I shall speak with her.”

There was a long silence that he did not misunderstand. The idea that he might speak to his sister—to any member of his family—was a surprise. Ignoring his partners’ shock, Cross turned to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Why are there so few members here tonight?”

“The Marbury betrothal ball,” Bourne said, his words punctuated by the crack of ivory on ivory. “I understand my mother-in-law has invited the entire peerage. I’m surprised the two of you did not receive invitations.”

Temple laughed. “Lady Needham would run for her smelling salts were I to darken her doorstep.”

“That does not say much. The lady runs for her smelling salts more often than most.”

The Marbury betrothal ball. Pippa Marbury’s betrothal ball.

Guilt flared again. Perhaps he should tell Bourne everything.

Don’t tell Bourne, please. The lady’s plea echoed through him, and he gritted his teeth. “Lady Philippa is still for Castleton?” Cross asked, feeling like an idiot, certain that Bourne would see through the query, would recognize his curiosity. Would question it.

“She’s been given every opportunity to end it,” Bourne said. “The girl is too honorable, she’ll be bored with him in a fortnight.”

Less than that.

“You should stop it. Hell, Needham should stop it,” Cross said. Lord knew the Marquess of Needham and Dolby had stopped engagements before. He’d nearly ruined all five of his daughters’ chances for proper marriages by ending a legendary engagement years ago.

“It’s my fault, dammit. I should have put an end to it before it even began,” Bourne said bitterly, no small amount of regret in his words. “I’ve asked her to end it—Penelope, too. We’ve both told her we’d protect her. Hell, I’d find her a proper groom tonight if I thought it would help. But Pippa doesn’t want it stopped.”

I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty. He heard the words, saw her serious blue gaze as she defended her choice to marry Castleton—a man so far beneath her in intellect, it was impossible to believe the impending marriage was not a farce.

Nevertheless, the lady had made a promise, and she intended to keep it.

And that, alone, made her remarkable.

Unaware of Cross’s thoughts, Bourne straightened and adjusted his coat sleeves with a wicked swear. “It is too late now. She’s at her betrothal ball in front of all the ton as we speak. I must go. Penelope will have my head if I do not appear.”

“Your wife has you right where she wants you,” Temple said dryly, the carom balls clacking together as he spoke.

Bourne did not rise to the bait. “She does indeed. And someday, if you are lucky, you will take the same pleasure I do in the location.” He turned to leave, heading for his other life—a newly returned aristocrat.

Cross stopped him. “Most of the peerage is there?”

Bourne turned back. “Is there someone specific you seek?”

“Dunblade.”

Understanding flared in Bourne’s brown eyes. “I imagine he will attend. With his baroness.”

“Perhaps I will pay Dolby House a visit.”

Bourne raised a brow. “I do enjoy operating beneath my father-in-law’s notice.”

Cross nodded.

It was time he see his sister. Seven years had been too long.

Half of London was in the ballroom below.

Pippa peered down from her hiding place in the upper colonnade of the Dolby House ballroom, pressed flat against one massive marble column, stroking the head of her spaniel, Trotula, as she watched the swirling silks and satins waltz across the mahogany floor. She pushed back a heavy drape of velvet curtain, watching her mother greet an endless stream of guests at this—what might be the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby’s greatest achievement.

It was not every day, after all, that mothers of five daughters have the opportunity to announce the marriage of her final offspring. Her final two offspring. The marchioness was fairly weak from glee.

Sadly, not weak enough to forgo a double betrothal ball large enough to accommodate an army. “Just a selection of dear friends,” Lady Needham had said last week, when Pippa had questioned the sheer volume of replies that had arrived piled high on a silver tray one afternoon, threatening to slide off the charger and onto the footman’s shiny black boot.

Dear friends, Philippa recalled wryly, her gaze scanning the crowd. She’d have sworn she’d never even met the greater share of people in the room below.