At best, Ophelia had an idea of her age because of her clever sister. There was not, however, a birth date, no one single day that had commemorated Ophelia’s entry into the world. She’d simply been another bastard of a whore and gang leader, celebrated by none and unwanted by all.
There would, however, be a date to mark the last day she’d draw breath.
The 12th of April, 1826.
Lying on the unforgiving floor, she remained as she’d been since the evening before—on her back, staring at the stone ceiling overhead. Until the inky black of the night gave way to the faintest hint of light through the narrow window that looked out to the grounds below.
Mayhap it was exhaustion that contributed to her detachedness, but she did not feel like one who in several hours would be marched through the Debtor’s door to the gallows and have a noose looped over her neck.
No, in this instance she felt . . . nothing.
Ophelia dragged Connor’s jacket higher, covering her mouth and burying her nose. She inhaled the sandalwood scent that lingered there still.
Or mayhap it was not exhaustion. Mayhap it was finally that she’d found peace with every decision she’d made and trusted that when she was gone, Connor and her family would continue on, and all the wrongs done would be at last righted, including the feud with the Blacks which had morphed into a tense peace. What had it all been about? Or for? There was room enough for each of them in this world.
Stephen would leave behind the wicked gaming hell which had served as his home and be restored as the rightful heir to a powerful nobleman. He’d be educated, and in time would hopefully be healed of the suffering he, too, had known.
And Connor . . .
Tears flooded her eyes, blurring the ceiling overhead.
One day he would find love, be it with Lady Bethany or another, and marry and have a family and dreams Ophelia had never even allowed herself.
God help her for the selfish creature she was. In this, she was filled with a twisting regret. Wanting to be that woman. Hating the nameless stranger who’d capture his heart.
The clink of metal keys resonated from outside her cell, and the bottom fell out from her stomach.
Just like that, with the approaching footfalls, she was proven a liar.
I am not ready. I am not immune.
Her teeth clattered together with such ferocity, pain radiated up her jawline all the way to her temples.
Then the owner of those shuffling steps halted outside her cell.
It is time.
She scrabbled at the inside of her cheek, giving her teeth purchase, drawing blood and welcoming the pain. I’m going to be ill.
“Ya got company, Jewel,” he said, tossing that mocking title.
Company.
Connor.
As the guard shoved the door open, Ophelia’s heart lifted. Perhaps he’d coordinated her release. She shoved herself shakily to a stand. Perhaps . . . “Oh.” That foolish organ, duped into hope, slithered down to her belly and sank all the way to her toes.
Wholly elegant and so very regal, the Duchess of Argyll hovered at the entranceway.
Had the Virgin Mary returned and paid a visit to Newgate, there couldn’t be another woman more unsuited for the rot of this place.
“Hullo,” the young widow ventured.
Ophelia looked to find her wanting. She wanted to see weakness in the woman whom Connor had intended to make his wife and who’d likely find herself his bride after Ophelia was . . . gone. Yet it was so very hard to pass judgment on a lady who hadn’t already dissolved into a blubbering mess at the misery around them. Ophelia wanted to cry all over again at the sheer perfection of this woman.
The guard closed the door at her back, and the stunning beauty jumped.
“What do ya want?” Ophelia finally brought herself to ask. Had she come to gloat? Taunt her?
The duchess took a step and faltered. “I trust you despise me.” Her faint whisper threaded around the cell, echoing like a thunderous roar in the quiet of Newgate. “For what my father did to you.” Lady Bethany looked at the tips of her delicate pink-satin slippers. “After . . . after . . .” She wrung her hands together and then tried again. “After you were escorted off . . .”
Ophelia’s lips quirked with a wry grin. “That is one way to describe it.” Those fancy nobs, polite even on talk of prisons and eventual hangings.
The duchess flinched. Bringing back her shoulders, she again spoke, and when she did, there was a greater strength to her lyrical voice. “My father offered Connor an arrangement.”
Connor. Just hearing his name fall so effortlessly from this flawless beauty’s lips burned. “An arrangement?” Ophelia repeated gruffly. Jealousy stabbed at the very core of Ophelia’s soul.
Lady Bethany nodded. “My father promised to coordinate your release”—her gaze locked with Ophelia’s—“if Connor married me.”
Oh, God.
A silent scream echoed around her mind, and Ophelia wanted to blot her hands over her ears and drive back those four words. “Oi won’t sacrifice Connor’s freedom for moi own,” she said coolly. “We’re done here.” She turned. When the other woman spoke, her admission brought her back around.
“After you’d been taken by the constables, I listened in on a . . . fight between my father and Connor.” Connor. That intimate grasp at his Christian name threatened to shatter her. “I heard the charges he leveled against my father.”
Understanding dawned. “Ah, so this is why you’ve come.” To challenge Ophelia’s version of that long-ago day.
“I am to blame,” the duchess whispered. “I’d heard the maids whisper and the servants talk about how he l-liked to be with young g-girls.” She pressed a white-knuckled fist against her mouth. “I said nothing. I did nothing. I am complicit. As it is, I expect you hate me.”
She did despise the Duchess of Argyll. Abhorred her with every fiber of her still-breathing body. She hated her for having broken Connor’s heart. She hated her for someday having what Ophelia so selfishly wanted for herself. “You are not to blame for the actions of your father.” The words slipped out, freeing and healing. And in them there was an absolution of sorts. Connor had taught her forgiveness. It was a gift not given her by the sisters who’d been with her since the beginning of her life, or the brothers who’d come along later. It had always been Connor who’d opened her eyes to the best parts of the world. She briefly squeezed her eyes closed. Oh, how I am going to miss him.
When she opened them, she found the duchess’s unreadable gaze on her. Ophelia steeled her spine. “If you allow Connor to trade his freedom for my life, then you, however, are to blame.”
Tears glazed Lady Bethany’s eyes. “Connor is so very in love with you. I wanted to find you undeserving of him, and yet you are his match in every way.” She examined Ophelia contemplatively, as if she were an oddity on display at the Royal Museum. “My father insists it does not matter. That Connor will forget you. He believes in time Connor and I can be happy together again.”
Again.
Misery strangled off Ophelia’s ability to formulate words. The duchess quite easily filled the void.
“When I had my Come Out, I served as a lady-in-waiting to the queen.” Of course, in her flawlessness, she’d have links to the king and queen of England themselves. “I was”—her cheeks reddened—“one of her more favored ladies. Often, she’d tell me she abhorred most of them.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Ophelia asked tiredly, cutting into those ramblings.
“I spoke to the queen . . . on your behalf. I explained how you had been wronged. A pardon was issued.”
A dull buzzing filled her ears. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. What a cruel game. To have her future dangled before her as a reality . . . with Connor neatly cut from it. “Wot are ya saying?” she demanded hoarsely, her mind in rebellion.
The duchess crossed to the front of the cell and stretched a delicate, gloved palm through those metal bars.
Broderick and Wylie instantly appeared at that wordless command.
The door was opened by the warden himself.
“You are free, Miss Killoran,” the duchess said softly, and then slipped out.
No.
Ophelia briefly closed her eyes.
Broderick opened his arms, and on unsteady legs Ophelia stumbled over and collapsed against him.
It is done.
St. Giles
One week later
Not even a spare seat to be had at the tables, the Devil’s Den was filled to overflowing with patrons.
Cups had been flowing and bore no hint of stopping at the early evening hour.
The clink of coins striking coins as men tossed down their fortunes echoed throughout.
Ophelia had been restored to her rightful home at the Devil’s Den, moving about the gaming hell as naturally as if she’d been deeded the properties by Mac Diggory.
In short, the world had returned to normal.
Yet nothing would ever be the same again.
Standing in the glass observatory overlooking the gaming floors, Ophelia stared out at gentlemen whom only a few weeks ago she’d been skirting dances from. Once, she’d resented Broderick for forcing her out into Polite Society, craving the familiarity of the club and her purpose here.
How very wrong she’d been. Her ability to make a difference in the lives of children in East London had nothing to do with her placement in this club. Connor and the lords and ladies she’d since met had proven that change could be implemented anywhere. No, all this time Ophelia had told herself one thing, but ultimately she’d always been driven by fear.
Fear of men, a product of that long-ago night.
In a short time, she’d reclaimed every aspect of her life in every way that mattered.
Because of Connor.
Ophelia touched her forehead to the cool glass plate that offered a window out to the floors below.
Connor had been the one bright spot of joy she’d found in that oppressive world. In the end, he’d bartered himself for her freedom. She closed her eyes. Or mayhap that had been what he’d truly wanted anyway, deep down—a proper lady, which Ophelia would never be.
The mirror’s smooth planes reflected back the regret contorting her features, and she took a step away to keep her misery her own.
The door opened.
Her sister Gertrude, a stack of notepads in hand, closed the door and made her way to one of the desks in the corner of the room.
Absolutely still, Ophelia studied her partially blind sister as she set up a place. With precise, efficient movements of one who’d carried out the same task multiple times, Gertrude stacked the folders and reached for a pencil.
It was a position of power Ophelia had once craved, conducting formal business on behalf of the Devil’s Den with a defined role carved out.
As Gertrude made to sit, Ophelia announced herself. “I see our brother has become wise enough to use your strengths for the good of the club.”
Her sister slapped a hand to her chest and jumped up. The walnut armchair skidded along the floors. “You scared me,” she chided, faintly breathless.
Abandoning her spot at the window, Ophelia joined her. “My apologies,” she said softly. The moment Gertrude had lost vision in one eye, there’d been an unspoken understanding that out of respect, one never took her by surprise. Ophelia reached for Gertrude’s chair, but her sister waved her off and saw to righting the chair herself.
Ophelia passed her gaze over the work laid out. “What is this?” she murmured, more to herself. She reached for the top notepad.
Gertrude clasped her hands. “Broderick has tasked me with inventorying the strengths of each prostitute within the club and reassigning them new roles based on those skills. As well as educating them and the children . . .” Her words trailed guiltily off. “I should have asked beforehand whether you wished for the assignment. Given you are the reason for the change. But I—”
Ophelia waved a hand. “It is fine, Gertrude.” Once, it wouldn’t have been. Once, Ophelia would have been so very focused on establishing her place and demonstrating her worth. She’d learned that the only thing that mattered was impacting the lives of those who’d suffered and deserved new opportunities. She offered a gentle smile. “It is better than fine.” At last, Broderick had seen each of their values.
“You’re certain?” Gertrude put forward tentatively.
“I am.” She motioned to the books. “May I?”
“Of course,” her sister said quickly.
Sitting on the corner of the walnut Davenport desk, Ophelia flipped through the pages, skimming the detailed accounting her sister had thus far assembled of the women at the club.
Each page contained a comprehensive write-up of each girl, along with her skills and strengths and a mark about her individual hopes. She brushed her fingers over one young woman’s name. They’d always taken Gertrude as soft-hearted and dismissed her as weak because of it. How much wiser she’d been in so many ways.
“This is just half of the women,” Gertrude explained, cutting across her musings. “I hope by the end of next week to have charts assembled with not only their skills but also a schedule for their lessons.”
She fell silent, and Ophelia continued reading her sister’s work.
“You’ve not visited the gaming hell floors.” Gertrude’s quiet observation gave her brief pause.
“No.” She hadn’t.
“You’ve hardly left your rooms,” Gertrude noted.
Ophelia toyed with the edges of the leather notepad in her hands. No, it was rather hard to make oneself go through the motions of caring when one’s heart had been so thoroughly shattered.
“Broderick worries you went mad during your time there.”
She stared vacantly down at the names inked upon Gertrude’s book. For in a way, Broderick was not far from the mark. Any person who spent time in Newgate and lived to see light beyond the cell walls carried with them the horrors of one’s time there. “It was hell,” she softly whispered. Ironically, the day she’d been sprung free by the duchess had thrust Ophelia into an altogether different and yet more agonizing hell.
Small but steadying hands covered her own and lightly squeezed. She stared down at Gertrude’s ink-stained fingers. “Is that why he’s taken to avoiding me?” Since she’d returned, not a single guard or servant had been able to meet her eyes. “Or is it that he can’t see past the hideousness of . . . of . . .” She fluttered a hand about her head. Though Regina, a master with scissors, had done an admirable job with the viciously shorn curls, the wisps were better suited to a boy than a woman.
“You are not hideous,” Gertrude said, a frown in her voice. “You could not be any more beautiful.”
Her sister lied, and she loved her for it. How ironic that she who’d lamented the wicked attention shown her by men should grieve the loss of her hair. However, those strands merely marked one more thing that had been taken from her: Connor, her happiness, her heart.
“Broderick has been . . . otherwise busy.”
Since he’d joined the Diggory gang, Broderick hadn’t known a moment’s rest. He had, however, taken time for his sisters. “Oh?”
“What? He is,” Gertrude said defensively. “He’s been shut away in meetings.” Her sister went tight-lipped.
That abrupt cutoff was too suspicious, and her eldest sibling’s avoidant gaze was even more so. Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “What business?
Gertrude shrugged. “I’ve been occupied with my work.”
So much so that she’d not paid any attention to those engaging Broderick in business? Her suspicion deepened, and along with it, her worry. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Gertrude’s cheeks went red. “I am offended. Very, very offended.” Her poor liar of a sister spoke quickly, her words running together. “You’re suggesting that I’d keep anything from you to protect you. I wouldn’t have such a low opinion.”
Ophelia folded her arms at her middle. “I did not say anything about your protecting me.” Even as she struck a calm repose, on the inside, panic set her heart into a double-time rhythm. What if the decision to free her had been rescinded? What if . . . ?
“D-did you not?” Gertrude squeaked. “I was so very certain that you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh.” Her sister went to sit.
That was it?
“That is all you intend to say on it?”
“Yes?” At Ophelia’s narrowing gaze, she amended, “No?”
Secrets were being kept. “Who is he meeting with?”
When her sister remained mutinously silent, Ophelia spun on her heel. Secrets were being kept from her.
“Ophelia!” Gertrude cried. The echo of her footfalls followed Ophelia in her flight.
I want these men found . . . I want justice for . . . She damned the heavy oak panel that muffled her brother’s words, pulling them in and out of focus.
“Ophelia?” her sister said on a furious whisper, this exchange feeling so very much like another one of a month ago. A meeting between Broderick and Connor. That first moment he’d reentered her life and flipped it all upside down.
The debt must be paid.
Gooseflesh dotted her skin as Broderick’s ice-cold voice delivered that hated pledge that had been such a part of their existence.
It was done. It was time to let go of the resentment and quest for justice and wealth.
“Ophelia,” her sister whispered, frantically reaching for her just as Ophelia shoved the door open. She instantly found two pistols leveled at her person.
“We don’t . . .”
All words fled . . . and along with them, the air in her lungs.
The pair of men stationed behind the heavy mahogany desk stared back.
Connor.
Oh, God, how I missed her.
The sight of her, a Spartan warrioress ready for battle, she was Lagertha in every way.
Not taking her eyes from him, Ophelia pushed the door closed behind her.
That faint click snapped him back to the moment. He holstered his pistol.
It was the lady’s brother who broke the tense impasse. “Bloody hell, Ophelia, how many times have I told you not to burst in when I’m seeing to busin—”
A single look effectively quelled the remainder of that warning.
With the steady, sure steps of one who owned these offices, Ophelia came forward, joining them at the desk. “You . . . have business with . . .” Her eyes briefly met his before she moved them over to Killoran. “Mr. Steele?”
Mr. Steele.
Two words that imposed formality, and given everything his father and those whom he’d respected through the years had brought to her, she was in her rights to be wary around him.
“I do,” her brother was saying. “Business I was seeing to before you stormed my offices.” He paused. “Again.”
Ophelia’s mouth tensed, those rosebud lips tight with her annoyance.
Connor had always been selfish. From the day he’d abandoned his only friend and thieving partner, Niall, to the day he’d unrepentantly lived a life of ease with the Earl of Mar while Ophelia had been left behind, it had been the greatest flaw to his soul.
In this instance, with Ophelia before him, hands akimbo and her eyes a mystery, selfishly he wanted her anyway. He wanted her despite the fact that he was the reason she’d been thrown into Newgate and he’d been unable to spring her from that hell.
Then Ophelia stole a glance at the door. When she looked back, worry darkened her eyes. “Is it time? Is he leaving?” The faintness to those questions stood in stark contradiction to the steely set to her shoulders.
Broderick hesitated and then shook his head. “Steele presented his . . .” Her. It had been Ophelia who’d pieced together details he’d likely never have himself. “Findings to the gentleman, and . . .” He gestured to Connor.
“And the gentleman was suspicious. Suspicious enough to doubt the boy is truly his son. I’ve asked him to eventually meet the boy, but he has . . . declined.”
Shock spilled from Ophelia’s eyes. “What?” She shook her head. “He’s held out faith and hope that the child still lives, and when presented with the truth, he . . . ?”
Connor knew the precise moment that understanding set in.
Her lips moved, but no words came out.
How Connor hated it for her. Despised a world that had always passed judgment on her and her kin for crimes they’d been forced to commit. Once, he’d not seen that. He’d judged, seeing them as different from even himself. What a narrow-minded arse he’d been.
“That is why you’re here then. To discuss Lord Maddock’s case?”
Was it merely hope that conjured the regret in her tone?
He looked to her brother.
The other man hesitated and then motioned to the chairs at the foot of his desk. “After you’d shared with me . . . your suspicions,” he said once he’d taken his seat, “I didn’t believe you. I didn’t believe you because I didn’t wish to.” Killoran’s gaze fell to the stained, aged leather folders before him.
Ophelia leaned forward, studying those books. She jerked, gripping the arms of her chair. “Those are—”
“Diggory’s books. Yes.” The proprietor dug free a book tucked in the middle of his pile. He flipped through it and suddenly stopped. “Here,” he murmured, holding it out.
Ophelia hesitated, then took the ledger.
“It contains the names of his wives from that year, along with their children.”
“I don’t under—” And then she stopped. Her slender frame turned to stone in her seat.
“It contains Black’s name and his mother,” Killoran confirmed. “A duke’s by-blow, Ryker and Helena Black were perfectly suited children for one as obsessed with—”
“Noble connections,” Ophelia finished for him. She glanced briefly in Connor’s direction; their gazes locked, and then she cut him out once more. “I do not understand,” she said to her brother. “What does any of this have to do with your hiring Mr. Steele?”
Again, Mr. Steele. His stomach clenched. Not Connor. Rather, a stranger and nothing more.
With more reluctance, the head proprietor slipped free the book at the very bottom of the pile. “Your allegations led me to search through his papers and books. And I discovered this.” He handed it over.
Ophelia read through those pages, and then her gaze locked at the center of the page. “My God,” she whispered.
“Your brother discovered Diggory’s net had been cast far wider, and the children he’d once sought to make his heir were actually young babes born to the nobility.”
The leather journal shook in her hands. “He always desired a nobleman’s blood. Wanted it for his own.”
“And he took it,” Killoran said gravely.
“Not it,” Ophelia whispered. She lifted ravaged eyes. “He took ch-children. Are there others? Than these?” She glanced back down.
“Three,” Connor murmured. “Your brother discovered three in that particular accounting kept by Diggory and . . .” His words trailed off, and he glanced regretfully over at Broderick.
The proprietor’s throat moved spasmodically. “Stephen in another.” Grief contorted his features in a raw show of emotion.
Ophelia caught her brother’s hands in hers, and Connor briefly looked away. Not only would Ophelia and her family be shattered by the loss of their brother but they’d also be raked through every gossip page and shunned by Polite Society.
Clearing his throat, Broderick released Ophelia’s hands. When he again spoke, he was restored to the unaffected figure of Connor’s first meeting. “Whether there are more children, I cannot say for certain.” He rolled his shoulders. “It is why I’ve hired Mr. Steele. He’ll conduct the search to find their whereabouts . . . or the fate of each of them.”
Ophelia gasped. “You believe they are alive?”
It was unlikely that they’d lived more than twenty years on their own in the streets of London. And yet . . . Stephen had survived. As had Connor. As such, there could be others.
“He marked the deaths and murders of those in his gang,” Connor supplied.
Ophelia again studied the pages in that book. “For Diggory, it wouldn’t have been affection that led him to mark the passing of those children,” she said quietly to herself.
Aye. Everything Diggory had done in his hateful, evil life had been driven with a thought to his empire in mind. The poor souls in his book had been mentioned only in death because of the income lost and the need to replace them with others to fill their roles.
“There are no marks made on the fate of these children,” she finally said, looking up from the pages.
“That is correct.” Killoran, with greater reluctance, offered one final book. “It is why I suspected they managed to escape.” And might be alive, even now. “The one other name thus far I’d found so marked was . . .”
Ophelia trailed her fingertips over the letters of one name. Connor O’Roarke. It is his name. “Connor’s,” she whispered.
The agony of loss gripped him all over again. It was a pain that would never go away. Ophelia had shown him that even as he’d sought to bury his past, it would always be there: the suffering . . . but also the love he had known with his parents.
Killoran broke the quiet. “It is the only explanation I could otherwise surmise.”
Ophelia’s eyes slid closed, and she shook her head. “That bastard.”
“After he’d taken me in, with my”—he grimaced—“birthright and abilities, I was as close as he could come to respectability. And so I sufficed. We each served each other’s purposes.” Something dark lit the other man’s gaze but then was swiftly gone. “I cannot erase Diggory’s wrongs, but I can try to right them. Steele will be overseeing the investigation. It will be fully funded by the club.”
“Oh.” Ophelia dropped her eyes to that book. “I see.” Wordlessly, she turned the aged journals over to her brother.
What did she believe she saw? The question raged around Connor’s mind.
A knock sounded at the doorway, interrupting their meeting.
“Enter!” Killoran boomed.
A heavily freckled young woman ducked her head inside. “Forgive me. Your presence is required on the floors,” she murmured. “A fight has broken out between two of the patrons, and they’re demanding a word with you.”
A black curse exploded from Killoran’s lips. He shoved to his feet. “I’ll be along shortly. Ophelia. Steele.” He stretched a hand out, and Connor shook it. “You’ve your other business to see to.” A dark glint iced his gaze. “Do not make me regret my decisions.”
With that, the head proprietor stalked off, and Ophelia and Connor were left alone.