“But . . . you can’t refuse.”

He returned his attention to the ledger. “I’m afraid I have.”

She did not reply, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers—those strange, improper fingers, trailing the edge of his ebony desk. He waited for them to stop. To still. To go away.

When he looked up, she was staring down at him, blue eyes enormous behind the round lenses of her spectacles, as though she would have waited a lifetime for him to meet her gaze. “I selected you, Mr. Cross. Quite carefully. I have a very specific, very clear, very time-sensitive plan. And it requires a research associate. You, you see, are to be that associate.”

A research associate?

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

“What research?”

Damn.

Her hands came together, tightly clasped. “You are quite legendary, sir.”

The words sent a chill through him.

“Everyone talks about you. They say you are an expert in the critical aspects of ruination.”

He gritted his teeth, hating her words, and feigned disinterest. “Do they?”

She nodded happily and ticked items off on her fingers quickly as she spoke. “Indeed. Gaming, spirits, pugilism, and—” She stopped. “And—”

Her cheeks were awash in red, and he wanted her to consider the rest. To hear its absurdity. To stop this madness. “And . . . ?”

She righted herself, spine straight. He would have wagered everything he had on her not replying.

He would have lost.

“And coitus.” The word was soft, and came on a firm exhale, as though she’d finally said what she’d come to say. Which couldn’t be possible. Surely he’d misheard her. Surely his body was responding incorrectly to her.

Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she took another breath and continued. “That’s the bit at which you are purported to be the most proficient. And, honestly, that’s the bit I require.”

Only years of playing cards with the most skilled gamers in Europe kept Cross from revealing his shock. He took a good, long look at her.

She did not look like a lunatic.

In fact, she looked rather ordinary—hair an ordinary blond, eyes an ordinary blue, slightly taller than average, but not too tall as to draw attention to herself, dressed in an ordinary frock that revealed a perfectly ordinary expanse of plain, pure skin.

No, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter of one of the most powerful peers in Britain, was anything other than a perfectly ordinary young woman.

Nothing, that was, until she opened her mouth and said things like, bipedal locomotion.

And coitus.

She sighed. “You are making this very difficult, you know.”

Not knowing quite what to say, he tried for, “I apologize.”

Her gaze narrowed slightly behind her spectacles. “I am not certain I believe your contrition, Mr. Cross. If the gossip in ladies’ salons across London is to be believed—and I assure you, there is a great deal of it—you are a proper rake.”

Lord deliver him from ladies and their flapping tongues. “You should not believe everything you hear in ladies’ salons.”

“I usually do not, but when one hears as much about a particular gentleman as I have heard about you . . . one tends to believe there is a kernel of truth in the gossip. Where there is smoke, there is flame and all that.”

“I cannot imagine what you have heard.”

It was a lie. Of course he knew.

She waved one hand. “Well, some of it is utter nonsense. They say, for example, that you can relieve a lady of her clothing without the use of your hands.”

“Do they?”

She smiled. “Silly, I know. I definitely do not believe that.”

“Why not?”

“In the absence of physical force, an object at rest remains at rest,” she explained.

He couldn’t resist. “Ladies’ clothing is the object at rest in this particular scenario?”

“Yes. And the physical force required to move said object would be your hands.”

Did she have any idea what a tempting picture she’d painted with such precise, scientific description? He didn’t think so. “I am told they are very talented.”

She blinked. “As we have established, I have been told the same. But I assure you, sir, they do not defy the laws of physics.”

Oh, how he wanted to prove her wrong.

But she had already moved on. “At any rate. This one’s maid’s sister, that one’s cousin’s friend, the other’s friend’s cousin or maid’s cousin . . . women talk, Mr. Cross. And you should be aware that they are not ashamed to reveal details. About you.”

He raised a brow. “What kind of details?”

She hesitated, and the blush returned. He resisted the pleasure that coursed through him at the pretty pink wash. Was there anything more tempting than a woman flushed with scandalous thoughts?

“I am told you are the kind of gentleman who has a keen understanding of the . . . mechanics . . . of the act in question.” She was utterly, completely matter-of-fact. As though they were discussing the weather.

She had no idea what she was doing. What beast she was tempting. What she did have, however, was courage—the kind that was bound to drive fine, upstanding ladies directly into trouble.

And he knew better than to be a party to it.

He placed both hands on the top of his desk, stood and, for the first time that afternoon, spoke the truth. “I am afraid you were told wrong, Lady Philippa. And it is time for you to leave. I shall do you a service and neglect to tell your brother-in-law that you were here. In fact, I shall forget you were here at all.”