He did not reply, and she stepped into the brightly lit hallway, closing the door firmly behind her, leaving her alone in the new space. The hallway was wide and long, spanning in both directions, and the candles lit every few feet blazed against the gilded décor, making the entire space warm and bright. The walls were covered in a paisley pattern of scarlet silk and wine-colored velvet, and Penelope could not help but reach out to touch them, loving the way the plush gave beneath her touch.
A burst of feminine laughter came from one end of the hallway, and she headed for it instinctively, not knowing what she would find, but feeling strangely prepared for whatever was to come next. She edged down the hallway, her fingers trailing along the wall, tracking her movement past one closed door after the next. She paused before an open door, the room beyond empty save for a long table, and she stepped inside without thinking to get a closer look.
There was a green baize field set deep into the table—several inches down—and the soft fabric was embroidered in crisp, clean white thread with a grid of numbers that ran its length and breadth. Penelope leaned over to inspect the confusion of carefully wrought text—the mysterious combination of numbers, fractions, and words.
She reached out to run one gloved finger along the word Chance, a thrum of excitement coursing through her as she traced the curve of the C and the looping H.
“You’ve discovered hazard.”
She gasped in surprise and spun toward her name, hand at her throat, to find Mr. Cross standing in the doorway of the room, a half smile on his handsome face. She stiffened, knowing that she’d been caught. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to . . . There was no one in the . . .” She trailed off, deciding silence a better choice than carrying on like an imbecile.
He laughed and came forward. “No need to apologize. You’re a member now and can move about freely.”
She tilted her head. “A member?”
He smiled. “It is a club, my lady. Membership is required.”
“I’m only here for billiards. With Michael?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question.
Cross shook his head. “With me.”
“I—” She stopped, her brows knitting together. Not with Michael. “The invitation was not from him.”
Cross smiled, but Penelope was not comforted. “It was not.”
“Is he not here?” Would she not see him here, either?
“He’s here, somewhere. But he does not know you are here.”
Disappointment flared.
Of course he didn’t.
He was not interested in spending the evenings with her.
On the heels of that thought came another. He was going to be furious.
“It came from you.”
He tilted his head. “It came from The Angel.”
She considered the words, and their mystery. The Angel.
“It’s more than an invitation isn’t it?”
Cross lifted one shoulder. “You know the password now. That makes you a member.”
A member.
The offer was tempting—access to one of the most legendary clubs in London, and all the adventure that she’d ever wanted. She thought of the excitement that had come with the invitation to billiards, of the wonder that had come when she’d stepped through the door into the warm, brilliant hallway of this mysterious club. Of the thrill that had coursed through her as she’d watched the roulette wheel spin during her first visit.
But she’d thought her next visit—tonight—would be with him.
She was wrong.
He wanted no part of her. Not like this.
He reminded her of that every time they pretended their love affair. Every time he touched her to ensure her participation in their farce. Every time he left the house instead of spending the night with her. Every time he chose vengeance over love.
She pushed the knot of emotion in her throat away.
He would not give her marriage . . . And so she must take adventure instead.
She was too far down this path to be able to walk away from it, after all.
She met Cross’s quiet grey gaze and took a deep breath. “Billiards, then. Do you intend to make good on that promise?”
Cross smiled and waved a hand toward the doorway. “The billiards room is across the hall.” Her heart began to pound. “May I take your cloak?”
“You look lovely,” he said as black wool gave way to salmon satin—the dress she’d worn for a different man, one who would not see it and who, if he did see it, wouldn’t care at all how she looked.
She put the thought from her mind and met Cross’s friendly grey gaze, smiling when he produced a white rose, offering the lovely stem toward her. “Welcome to the Other Side,” he said, when she accepted the bloom. “Shall we?”
He indicated the hallway beyond, and Penelope led the way from the room. Before she could open the door to the billiards room, a collection of chatter came from down the hall. She turned, thankful for her simple disguise as a group of women, similarly masked, hurried toward them.
They dipped their heads as they passed, and curiosity surged through Penelope. Were they members of the aristocracy as well? Were they women like her? Searching for adventure?
Did their husbands ignore them, too?
She shook her head at the thought, errant and unwelcome before one of the women stopped to face Cross, her blue eyes glittering behind her pink domino.
“Cross . . .” she fairly drawled, leaning forward to gift him with a first-rate view of her bosom. “I’m told you are sometimes lonely in the evenings.”
Penelope’s jaw dropped.