Pippa held her head back as far as she could, not wanting to make contact again. “Not at all. In fact, I’m the very opposite of exciting.”

“Nonsense. Yer here, aren’t you? If that ain’t exciting, I don’t know what is.”

He had a point. But even Pippa knew ceding such a point would start them down an unpleasant path. Instead, she stiffened, and used every ounce of her lady’s education.

“Sirrah!” she said firmly, writhing in his arms, eel-like, trying to force his hand. “I must insist you release me!”

“Come on, lovely . . . let’s go for a spin. Whatever yer gettin’ here . . . I’ll double it at my hell.”

Double what?

Now was not the time to consider the answer. “As tempting as that offer is—”

“I’ll show you a thing or two about temptation, I will.”

Oh dear. This wasn’t going at all according to plan. She was going to have to scream for help. Screaming was so emotional. Not at all scientific.

But desperate times required . . . well. She took a deep breath, ready to scream as loudly as she could, when the words shot across the quiet room like a bullet.

“Get your hands off her.”

Both Pippa and Digger froze at the sound, low and soft and somehow perfectly audible. And vicious. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at Mr. Cross, tall and trim, that crop of thick ginger hair now perfectly tamed, as though he would have it no other way. He’d also tucked in his shirt and donned a coat in what she assumed was a nod to civility, but it was irrelevant now, as civil was about the last word she would use to describe him.

Indeed, she had never seen anyone so furious in her life.

He looked like he might kill something.

Or someone.

Possibly her.

The thought returned her to sense, and she began to struggle again, moving scant inches before Digger’s superior strength won the day, and she was hauled to his side like a haunch of prize meat. “No.”

Cross’s grey gaze settled on the place where Digger’s hand sat, wide and possessive against her midriff. “It was not a request. Release the girl.”

“She came to me, Cross,” Digger said, laughter in his voice. “Led me right into temptation, she did. I believe I’ll be keepin’ her.”

“That is entirely untrue.” Pippa instinctively defended herself, struggling against the fox’s grip, silently willing Cross to look her in the eye. “You knocked!”

“And you answered, pet.”

She scowled and looked to Cross.

He did not meet her gaze. “She does not look as though she is interested in being kept.”

“I most certainly am not,” Pippa agreed.

“Release the lady.”

“Always so generous, callin’ the Angel’s birds ladies.”

Pippa stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I am a lady.”

Digger laughed. “With airs like that, you might fool someone one of these days!”

Irritation flared. She’d had enough of this man. Craning her neck to meet his blue eyes, she said, “I see I made an immense mistake by even conversing with you, Mr.—” She paused, waiting for him to do right and provide his surname. When he didn’t, she pressed on. “Mr. Digger. I assure you I am quite thoroughly a lady. Indeed, I am soon to be a countess.”

One of his black brows rose. “Is that right?”

She nodded. “Quite. And I don’t imagine you’d like to be on the wrong side of an earl’s favor, would you?”

Digger smiled, reminding her of a fox once more. “It wouldn’t be the first time, moppet. Which earl?”

“Don’t answer that,” Mr. Cross snapped. “Now, Digger.”

The man holding her released her, his touch a slow, unsettling slide against her midsection. The moment she could be free, she hurried to stand next to Mr. Cross, now paying her even less mind, if it was possible. He was advancing on Digger, his words casual, belying the threat that oozed from him with every movement. “Now that’s out of the way, perhaps you could explain what in hell you are doing in my hell?”

Digger remained focused on her, more thoughtfully, even as he replied. “Now, now, Cross. You forget yourself. I was simply coming over to give you some information I thought you might appreciate—bein’ right neighborly if you ask me.”

“We’re not neighbors.”

“Nevertheless. I’ve information you’ll be wantin’.”

“There’s no information you have that I could possibly want.”

“No? Not even information about your sister?”

Cross stiffened, corded tension tightening the long column of his neck and through the lean muscle of his back, pulling him straighter, taller than before.

Digger pressed on, “I’m guessin’ you not only want it . . . you’re willin’ to pay for it.”

The air thickened. She’d always heard the expression and thought it utterly silly. Certainly, air thickened with fog or with smoke . . . she’d even allow for it thickening with the stench of Olivia’s perfumes . . . but she’d always considered the very idea of emotion impacting the density of gas rather ridiculous—a silly, clichéd turn of phrase that should be exiled from English.

But this air did thicken, and she found it difficult to draw a deep breath, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Lord knows she ain’t comin’ to you herself, you fine cheat.”

Pippa gasped at the insult. Surely, Mr. Cross would not allow it to stand. But he seemed not to hear the personal slight. “You will not touch my sister.”