No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(25)

Not that she did not understand her mother’s excitement. After all, this day—when all five of the Marbury girls were officially and publicly matched—was a long time coming, and not without its hesitations. But finally, finally, the marchioness was to have her due.

Weddings were nothing if not for mothers, were they not?

Or, if not weddings, at least betrothal balls.

That went doubly so when the betrothal ball was to celebrate two daughters.

Pippa’s gaze slid from her mother’s flushed face and effusive movements to settle on the youngest Marbury sister, holding a court of her own on the opposite end of the ballroom, in a crush of well-wishers, smiling wide, one bejeweled hand on the arm of her tall, handsome fiancé.

Olivia was the prettiest and most ebullient of the quintet, she had seemed to get all the best bits from the rest of the family. Was she utterly self-involved and filled with more than her fair allotment of confidence? Certainly. But it was difficult to judge the traits harshly, as Olivia had never once met a person she could not win.

Including the man who was predicted to soon become one of the most powerful in Britain, for if there were two things a politician’s wife required, they were a bold smile and a desire to win—things Olivia had in spades.

Indeed, all of London was abuzz with the news of the couple’s impending marriage, Pippa rather thought that no one downstairs would even notice she was gone.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Pippa let the curtain drop and spun to face her eldest sister, the recently minted Marchioness of Bourne. “Shouldn’t you be at the ball?”

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 . . .”