The door opened, revealing a great, yawning blackness and the largest, most dangerous-looking man she’d ever seen, tall and broad with a scar at his lip and a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once.

A thread of uncertainty coiled through her as she opened her mouth to speak. “I am . . .”

“I know who you are,” he said curtly. “Get in here.”

“I don’t—” she started, then stopped. “Who are you?”

He reached out, one massive hand grasping her arm and pulling her into the club. “Did it not occur to you that someone might see you out there?” he said, poking his head out the door and looking first one way, then the other, down the alley before, satisfied that she had not been seen, closing the door, throwing the locks and turning away from her, pushing through another set of curtains and into a beautifully appointed hallway before bellowing, “What in hell do we pay doormen for? Why isn’t there anyone manning the goddamned door?”

She called out from her place in the entryway. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone manning most of your doors at this time of day.”

The enormous man turned back to her, curiosity in his gaze. “And, how would you know that?”

“I’ve been here before,” she said, simply.

He shook his head, smiling wryly. “Does Bourne know that Penelope is giving her sister tours?”

“Oh, you misunderstand. I haven’t come here with Penelope. I was here with Mr. Cross.”

That set the large man back. “Cross,” he said, and Pippa noticed the shift in his tone. Disbelief. Maybe something else.

She nodded. “Yes.”

His black brows rose. “Cross,” he repeated. “And you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Yes. Well, not regularly, but I did have good reason to call on him earlier in the week.”

“Did you.”

The words were not a question, but she answered nonetheless. “Yes.” She hesitated, then added, “Though it might be best if you not tell him I am here today.”

His gaze turned knowing. “Might it.”

Too knowing.

She extended her hand. “I’m afraid you have the better of me, sir. I’ve not made the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

He gave her proffered hand a long look before meeting her gaze once more, as though giving her the chance to change her mind. “I am Temple.”

The Duke of Lamont.

The murderer.

She stepped back, her hand falling involuntarily at the thought before she could stop it. “Oh.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Now you’re wishing you hadn’t come here after all.”

Her mind raced. He wouldn’t hurt her. He was Bourne’s partner. He was Mr. Cross’s partner. It was the middle of the day. People were not killed in Mayfair in the middle of the day.

And for all she’d heard about this dark, dangerous man, there wasn’t a single stitch of proof that he’d done that which he was purported to have done.

She extended her hand once more. “I am Philippa Marbury.”

One black brow arched, but he took her hand firmly. “Brave girl.”

“There’s no proof that you’re what they say.”

“Gossip is damning enough.”

She shook her head. “I am a scientist. Hypotheses are useless without evidence.”

One side of his mouth twitched. “Would that the rest of England were as thorough.” He released her hand and held back the curtain, allowing her entry into the hallway, lushly appointed with wall coverings of silk and velvet that Pippa could not resist reaching out to touch.

“Bourne isn’t here,” he said.

She smiled. “I know. He’s in Surrey with my sister. I am not here for him.”

He hesitated in his long strides, and she took a moment to marvel at the way such a large man—one who was clearly no stranger to violence and brutality—could move with such grace, shifting his weight to stay his forward movement.

And then he was moving again, as though he’d never paused. “And not for Cross, either?”

“No. He doesn’t enjoy my company.”

The words were out before she could stop them, and Temple caught her gaze. “He said that?”

She shrugged, adjusting her spectacles. “Not in so many words, but he made it clear he wasn’t interested in assisting me with my project, so . . .”

“Which project?” he prodded.

My ruination. She couldn’t say that.

“A piece of research with which I had hoped he would . . . aid me.”

Temple flashed her a smile. “And what about me? I could aid you.”

She considered the offer for a long moment. No doubt, this man could answer all of her questions. And then some.

But he wasn’t Cross.

She resisted the thought and the discomfort that came with it, instead focusing on the duke who turned to face her, absently opening one of what seemed like an endless string of closed doors and stepping aside to let Pippa into a large room, at the center of which stood two tables, covered in green baize.

“No, thank you. I promised Mr. Cross I wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off.

“Wouldn’t what?” he prompted.

“Wouldn’t ask another man.”

His eyes went wide briefly. “Now that sounds like fascinating research.”

She ignored the words, turning to face him, hands clasped tightly as he closed the door behind them and pocketed the key. “But he didn’t say anything about women.”

He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”