Ophelia’s first appearance before Polite Society had been deemed a success by the gossip columns, but it had been bloody miserable.
As she was ushered through the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s residence later that week, it was a certainty that Ophelia’s next foray could only prove to be even more horrid.
For this evening, there would not be a mere dining table full of vipers to face but an entire ballroom of them.
Trailing along at a slower pace than the one set by her sister and brother-in-law, Ophelia swallowed hard, as with each slow step that brought her closer toward her grim fate, reality settled firm around her mind.
There would be fancy lords who’d sign the silly card strapped to her wrist and then put their hands upon her.
Sweat beaded on her forehead.
Do not think of him . . . do not think of him.
For mayhap there wouldn’t be. Mayhap those bloody nobs would treat her with their usual disdain and find themselves too pompous to taint their bloodlines with a bastard born in the streets.
As soon as the hope slipped in, it died.
If her sister’s Season had proven anything, there would always be wastrel lords so in need of a fortune that they’d be willing to sell their names, bodies, and titles to ones such as the Killorans.
Yes, there would be dancers. Men who settled their hands at the small of her back and waist, forcing her fingers onto their shoulder . . . maneuvering. Manipulating. Controlling.
Just as he’d been.
You will do whatever I ask, you little slut . . . because that is what I paid good coin for . . . and that is what my right is.
She faltered and shot out an arm, steadying herself. Perhaps it had been a naïveté she hadn’t believed of herself, or perhaps it had been wishful thinking, or mayhap even hope. But until this instance, she’d not considered the very real possibility that their paths would cross: hers and the gentleman’s who would always own a horrifying place in her memories.
Ophelia abruptly stopped, motionless while her sister and Adair continued on ahead, and she gazed vacantly at their backs.
Of all the balls and soirees, what was the likelihood that of all people, she would come face-to-face with him?
I’ll kill you for this, you little slut.
Ahead, she dimly registered her sister and brother-in-law looking back.
She stopped and gave her head a little shake.
I cannot do this. Not even for Gertrude. Be it a mark of her selfishness or weakness or cowardice—none of it mattered. The only thing that did was retaining her razor-thin grasp on sanity.
Cleo said something to Adair. He nodded once, and with a final concerned look in Ophelia’s direction, he continued onward, allowing the sisters privacy.
Her sister sprinted down the hall. “Wot is it?” she demanded before she’d even come to a stop. Her words came muffled as if down a long, narrow corridor.
Unable to get words out past her thick throat, Ophelia shook her head.
Frowning, Cleo slapped her palm gently against Ophelia’s cheek. “Please, don’t tell me ya’re going to faint on me?” In the past there would have been annoyance at the possibility. This newer, more tender Cleo entreated with her eyes and pulled Ophelia from the brink.
She inhaled slowly. “I don’t faint,” she managed, her voice weak to her own ears.
“Is this because of last evening?” Her mind blanked. They’d not spoken of Calum Dabney’s dinner—until now. More specifically, they hadn’t spoken about anything last evening or really at all since Cleo had moved out and Ophelia had moved in.
“Last evening?” she ventured cautiously, weighing her words. Had her sister noted her stolen exchanges with Connor? And if she did, what would she say of your history with him and . . . what you did?
“The Duchess of Argyll,” her sister pressed, “and her public questioning.”
That steadied her. So the young widow with a possessive gaze on Connor was . . . a duchess. A step below royalty. Is that what her sister believed? That Ophelia had been thrown off-kilter by a nob fascinated with the life of a street rat?
“It is no less than I expected.” Talk of that idealistic lady was far safer, as it didn’t involve discussions of the past and decisions Ophelia had made that had resulted in tragic consequences for one they loved.
That immediately earned a small, disapproving frown, again highlighting the marked shift that had occurred in Cleo. As one who’d hated the nobility with a vitriol to rival Ophelia’s, even that had changed.
“Not all of them are unkind,” her sister proceeded to point out. “The duchess, as I understand it, gives of her time at Eve’s hospitals.”
“That’ll feed an empty belly,” she muttered sarcastically, earning a frown from Cleo. Her sister’s defense of the young widow was not unlike that of another. How highly Connor still thought of Lady Argyll, even after her betrayal.
Why should that rub Ophelia’s last nerve raw?
Perhaps it was just that Connor had proven the unlikeliest of her defenders last evening when the Spartan beauty had dug her claws into Ophelia’s flesh.
Ophelia bit at her lower lip. For there had been another time when he’d come to her rescue . . . years earlier. He’d allowed himself to be carted off to Newgate in her stead. The outcome didn’t outweigh his sacrifice that day.
Who was Connor O’Roarke? Pompous hand of the nobility who didn’t give a jot about the plight of those in St. Giles? Or respectable investigator with honorable intentions for all, regardless of station?
Her sister stuck an elbow in her side, and she grunted. “What in blazes was that for?”
“If you were anyone else, I’d say you were woolgathering.”
Which was actually what Ophelia had been doing. Her cheeks heated, and she gave thanks for her sister’s erroneously drawn opinion. “I don’t give a jot about what that woman had to say; nor do I care about anyone else’s opinion,” she weakly offered. They’d faced Society’s ill thoughts since they’d first drawn breath, and that disdain would follow them, regardless of the wealth they’d acquired.
“I know you,” Cleo said quietly. “It bothers you that the nobility should be pardoned their crimes when we wear ours like a mark upon our skin.”
The D carved above Connor’s brow flashed to her mind’s eye; that mark of ownership was etched into nearly all of Diggory’s boys and girls, an indelible part that could never be erased. Yet Connor had somehow risen outside of the filth of St. Giles, the only place Ophelia and her kin would or could ever comfortably belong.
“I promise, for the manner of people such as that nasty harridan last evening, there will be others who speak on your behalf,” her sister assured, mistaking the reason for her contemplativeness. “Honorable people like that Mr. Steele.” Did she merely imagine the probing look her sister shot her? For it was gone so quickly it may as well have been a trick of her imagination. A mischievous twinkle sparked in Cleo’s eyes. “Even if he is a bloody investigator,” she said on a hushed whisper.
She forced the requisite grin and allowed her sister to lead her to the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s ballroom—and the miserable future her brother insisted she forge for the family.
As Connor entered Lord and Lady Somerset’s ballroom, it became apparent with one glance that Ophelia Killoran had taken the ton by storm.
Just not for the reasons that the gossip columns had predicted. They had anticipated Ophelia would be met with closed doors, empty dance cards, and the scorn of all.
The swell of gentlemen in the corner of the room now swarming the pale-haired beauty made a mockery of any such forecast.
Having spent the day conducting interviews with the children who comprised the staff at Black’s club, Connor had arrived conveniently late enough that he was spared the receiving line. From where he stood at the front of the ballroom, his gaze remained fixed on that blonde hair swept up into an artful chignon. Held loosely in place by rubies that glittered under the candle’s glow, the coiffure gave the illusion that one slight move would set those strands tumbling free.
His breath hitched in his chest.
Bloody hell if he didn’t want to see her hair flowing about her shoulders and waist as it had in Broderick Killoran’s offices more than one week earlier.
The young woman’s shoulders went taut, and she arched her long neck, glancing about.
Her gaze collided with Connor’s.
She widened her eyes. “You,” she mouthed.
He touched a hand to his chest and dropped his head in a deferential bow. “The very same.”
Even with the length of the room between them, he caught the errant smile grazing her lips. She swiftly attempted to hide it with her hand.
“Quite a crowd,” he articulated carefully, nudging his chin at the loudly dressed dandies surrounding her.
She cast her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head.
They shared a smile, and he started forward. Moving along the perimeter of the room, past elegantly clad lords and ladies, he continued on to Ophelia.
A tall, satin-clad figure stepped into his path, and he silently cursed. Bethany leaned negligently against a pillar, arms folded at her chest. “My, my, I’d begun to believe I’d only imagined our more than ten years of friendship,” she drawled. Over the ruffled rim of her ivory fan, a teasing sparkle lit her green eyes. There was something else there . . . a smoky desire.
As a young man, he’d all but panted from one of those tempting come-hither looks she’d cast.
Now he found them pathetically coy.
“Ten and four,” he corrected, looking in Ophelia’s direction to those bloody swains now surrounding her. He forced his attention to the woman before him. He dropped a respectful bow. “Duchess.”
With a snort, she snapped her fan closed. She glided over and swatted at his sleeve. “Hush with your meticulous accounting of our friendship. You are making me feel positively old, Mr. Steele.”
“Never,” he demurred, raising her fingers to his lips for a requisite kiss.
“Come, walk with me,” she cajoled, slipping her arm through his, making the decision for him.
He cast a last regretful glance in Ophelia’s direction and proceeded to walk Lady Bethany about the room.
“I understand you are busy with another case,” she murmured.
“I am.” His responsibilities as an investigator were just another reason why he could not fulfill the expectations that she and their families had for them.
That is not solely the reason. Despite each of their fathers’ expectations of and for them, Connor had long ago ceased to see Lady Bethany in any romantic light. She’d come to simply be the wide-eyed girl who’d declared him her friend . . . and proceeded to pepper him with questions about his life in St. Giles.
The viscount’s daughter eyed him. “I’ve heard your investigation has taken you into the Devil’s Den. Is it as wicked as they say?”
For her philanthropic endeavors, she’d also always been fixated on the world of East London as if it were more of a story in a gothic novel than real life. “I was otherwise focused on my assignment and not the vices to be explored.” Whereas Ophelia Killoran . . . she appreciated and understood the world precisely for what it was and sought to improve the lives of the children in her charge.
Bethany stopped in the far corner of the ballroom, forcing him to a reluctant halt behind the Doric column. Before he could respond, she looked off pointedly in Ophelia’s direction. “I trust it is your work that accounts for the attention you’ve shown the young woman.”
He flashed a grin. “Come, Bethany, you’ve been many things where I’m concerned, but possessive was never one of them.”
“Is she . . . important to you?”
Connor carefully weighed his reply. “She was my dining partner.”
“How very . . . convenient,” she commented, leaning against that marble pillar. Then her mouth formed a perfect circle, and she placed an artful gloved palm over it. “I see.”
“And just what is it you think you see?”
“She is part of your investigation,” she ventured, unerringly close. “It explains your . . . interest in the young woman.”
His interest, as the lady put it, went beyond Ophelia’s role at the Devil’s Den. They had a shared history . . . often tense and mostly dark. But she’d also been the one to save him . . . more times than he’d deserved. How had she fared after the Earl of Mar’s rescue? It was a question he’d not allowed himself to entertain, for selfish, cowardly reasons. Now, shame soured in his stomach.
“I trust Mr. Dabney knew what he was doing when he seated you beside the creature,” Lady Bethany was saying.
Connor flattened his lips, unsure of which insult to take offense over on Ophelia’s behalf: that disparaging title affixed her by Bethany or the claims that Ophelia’s invitation last evening had been doled out as a way for him to interrogate the lady. Nonetheless, it was safer leaving Bethany to her erroneous opinions. “Come, you were never one to treat a person differently because of their birthright,” he mocked, edging that reminder in steel.
Her lower lip quivered. “I’ve insulted you.”
“Not at all.” She’d annoyed him. Bethany layered hidden meanings within her questions and statements that grew tiring.
Unlike Ophelia, who’d only ever been given to blunt honesty.
A servant found them and proffered his silver tray of champagne. Connor waved the footman off and briefly considered the point of escape beyond Bethany’s shoulder.
The duchess touched her fingertips to his sleeve, forcing his attention back. “I’m not cruel. I’m realistic of a person’s motives,” she went on, relentless. “And I’ve learned about the young woman’s family in the papers. They are not to be trusted. She is not to be trusted.”
It spoke to the lady’s tenacity that she didn’t show even a modicum of remorse over his previous rebuke.
“I do not make a habit of placing overly much credence in the gossip columns,” he said frostily. The only use he had of those newspapers was as a means of obtaining information related to men or women involved in his cases. Beyond that, the ton was full of rather useless drivel.
“No, you never did,” she said bemusedly. Going up on tiptoe, she whispered boldly against his ear. “It is just one of the many things I’ve come to admire about you, Connor,” she murmured, commanding his Christian name. With a smile, Bethany sank back on the soles of her satin slippers. “The gossips were right about one thing where the young woman was concerned.” He stiffened. “She is as lovely as they claimed.”
More so. He grunted. Widowed two years now, Lady Bethany had become more dogged in her hope of a match between them. Had she always been this ruthless in her pursuit?
She formed a slight moue with her lips and gave him another tap with her fan. “It does not escape my notice that you did not refute it.” The perfectly even-toothed smile she flashed did little to blunt the sharpness of her chastisement.
Yet why should he? Connor dealt in facts, and there could be no disputing that Miss Ophelia Killoran had a siren’s allure.
The orchestra concluded the lively reel. As the polite applause of the partners went up, he searched out Ophelia once more. Which swain would be escorting the spitfire for the next set? A fancy lord who’d put his hands on her trim waist, and—
An uncomfortable knot tightened in his belly.
He jumped as Bethany rapped her fan against his sleeve.
“You are not paying attention,” she pouted. All earlier hint of displeasure faded under a coy smile. “You may make it up to me with a dance.”
A dance. Once, he’d been so desperate for her affections it was a morsel he’d craved from this woman . . . a public showing that she was unashamed of him—and more, that he had a claim to a future with her. “You know I’m rot at dancing.” She’d often reminded him of that very fact as a way of explaining away her unwillingness to engage in a single set. “It is because I call you friend that I will not ask you to suffer through my plodding.”
“Oh, hush, you are ever graceful on your feet,” she protested with her usual fawning nature. He would have appreciated her more had she maintained the correct opinion of his dance skills from their youth.
Ophelia would never be one to ever praise him for the travesty of his steps on the dance floor and offer false compliments. Why, he’d wager the sterling reputation he had as an investigator that she’d as soon as stick a blade in his belly before allowing him to sign her dance card.
And the prospect of drawing her lush form into his arms was appeal enough that he’d be willing to find out.
Bethany planted her hands on her hips. “Do you intend to make me beg for a dance, Connor? Tsk, tsk, that is not very gentlemanly of you.”
It was the one leveled charge that always had the ability to scrape at his conscience. It was an unwitting reminder of the life of crime and evil he’d lived before he’d entered the world of Polite Society, determined to be better and do more.
The couples filed onto the floor for the next set, a waltz. He found Ophelia precisely where he’d last spied her. Intrigued that she, too, remained on the sidelines, he made his excuses. “Duchess, please forgive me. I should pay my respects to our host.” Connor sketched another bow and started across the ballroom, his gaze solely focused on the spitfire now surreptitiously inching around their host’s ballroom.