No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(62)

She took a deep breath, the thought of Cross’s rushing through the gaming hell and into the welcoming arms of his lady—who had clearly realized he was a man worthy of forgiving—overwhelming all others.

She was likely beautiful, petite, and perfectly curved. No doubt, she was one of those ladies who knew precisely what to say in any situation and never ever found herself saying the wrong thing or asking an inappropriate question.

Pippa would wager that his Lavinia could not name a single bone in the human body.

No wonder Cross adored her.

The tightness in her chest became an ache, and Pippa’s hand stilled.

Oh, dear. It was not physiological. It was emotional.

Panic flared. No.

She leaned back over the table, closing her eyes tightly and sucking in a long breath. No. She wouldn’t allow emotion into the scenario. She was here in the interest of discovery. In the name of research.

That was all.

She opened her eyes, searched for a point of focus, and found the dice she’d tossed earlier.

Six and three.

Her gaze narrowed on the winning toss.

Six and three.

Suspicion flared. She collected the dice. Rolled again. Six and three.

Inspected them carefully. Rolled again. Six and three.

Just one die. Three.

Three.

Three.

Her eyes went wide as understanding came. The die was weighted. The dice were weighted.

She hadn’t won.

He’d let her win.

He’d been directing the game all along.

There’s no such thing as luck.

He’d lied to her.

He’d been working the game, no doubt with losing dice, too . . . planning to fleece her of all her research plans, planning to take from her these last weeks of freedom before she was Countess Castleton. He’d stolen from her!

Worse, he’d stolen from her and left her to meet another woman.

She stood straight, scowled at the door where she’d seen him last.

“Well,” she said aloud to the empty room, “that won’t do.”

And she headed for the door, putting all her strength into the movement when she reached for the door handle, and found the door locked.

A little sound escaped her, a cross between shock and indignation, as Pippa tried the door again, certain that she was mistaken. Sure that there was no possible way that he had locked her in a room in a gaming hell.

After cheating her.

No possible way.

After several attempts, Pippa was confident of two things: First, he had indeed locked her in a room in a gaming hell after cheating her. And second, he was clearly mad.

Crouching low, she peered through the keyhole into the hallway beyond. She waited a few moments, uncertain of what precisely she was waiting for, but waiting nonetheless. When no one appeared or passed through the corridor on the other side of the door, she stood, pacing away from the door and back again, confronting the wide oak.

She had only one course of action. She had to pick the lock. Not that she’d ever done such a thing before, but she’d read about the practice in articles and novels and, honestly, if small children could accomplish the task, how difficult could it be?

Reaching up, she removed a hairpin and crouched low once more, jamming the little strip of metal into the lock and wiggling it about. Nothing happened. After what seemed like an eternity of attempting the impossible, growing more and more infuriated at her situation and the man who had caused it, Pippa sat down with a huff of frustration and returned the hairpin to its rightful place.

Apparently, there were a number of small children in London who were significantly more accomplished than she. She cast an eye at the enormous painting she’d noticed before. No doubt the young men in the oil would have no trouble at all with the lock. No doubt, they would have a half dozen ways of escaping this small room.

Like a secret passageway.

The thought had her on her feet in seconds, one hand against the silk wall coverings, tracing the edge of the small room in search of a secret door. It took her several minutes to check every inch of wall, from one side of the painting to the other, finding nothing out of the ordinary. There was no secret passage. Not unless it was into the painting itself.

She eyed the painting.

Unless.

Grabbing one side of the massive frame, she pulled, and the painting swung out into the room, revealing a wide, dark corridor.

“Triumph!” she crowed to the room at large before lifting a candelabrum from the nearby table and stepping into the corridor, pulling the wide door closed behind her with a thud.

She couldn’t help her self-satisfied smile. Cross would be shocked indeed when he unlocked her cage and discovered her gone.

And he would deserve it, the rogue.

As for Pippa, she would be wherever this passageway led.

Chapter Ten

I have studied a great many species of flora and fauna over the years, and if there is one truth to be found, it is this: Whether hounds or humans, siblings almost always display more heterogeneity than they do homogeneity. One need only look at Olivia and me to see the proof.

Parents are the red rosebush . . . offspring the white branch.

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 28, 1831; eight days prior to her wedding

I came to tell you to leave us alone.”

Cross stood just inside the closed, locked door to his office, beyond which two hundred of Britain’s most powerful men wagered. On the way there, he’d considered a half dozen things he might say to his sister, all variations on the theme of “What in hell would possess you to come here?”