It was her hair.
It may as well have been a calling card, as defining as it was of the young woman before him.
With hair so pale it was nearly white hanging loose about her back, there was an ethereal, otherworldly quality to her.
Aye, such hair would forever make it an impossibility for the spitfire to have anonymity . . . anywhere, regardless of the passage of time.
If there had been any doubt, however, that the woman before Connor was anyone other than the girl loyal to Diggory, who nonetheless had spared Connor’s life, the effortless way she ordered Broderick Killoran from the room, and his compliance, served as all the confirmation Connor needed.
Killoran paused as he reached Connor’s side. “You have twenty minutes.” With a sharp, warning look at Connor that promised death, he stalked from the room.
As soon as he’d gone, Ophelia Killoran drifted closer, all the while keeping a slight distance between them.
She walked a slow path around him, the same girl who’d caught him unawares more times than he’d deserved to survive, assessing him with her clear blue eyes, watching.
Her incisive stare periodically returned to his brow.
Through her scrutiny, Connor remained motionless. In the past he’d lived in the shadows, carefully skirting all members of the Diggory gang. Frankly, his life would have been forfeit had he been discovered.
As such, he’d studied them all—including this woman before him.
Ophelia Killoran had been angrier, fiercer, and more terrifying as a slip of a child than most grown men in St. Giles. She proved all that and tenfold as a woman. And while she examined him, he used the opportunity to study her in return.
He passed his gaze over her satin-draped figure; the fine lace trim of an expensive gown was better suited for a lady than any common street pickpocket. Though a hideous shade of brown, there could be no mistaking the quality of that modest dress. Nay, she’d done more than survived. She’d flourished and thrived as one of the Diggory gang. He trailed his gaze up and down her tall frame. Just a handful of inches shy of six feet, she was a medieval warrioress. Her gown clung to a generous bosom, trim waist, and lush curves that would make a saint into a sinner.
Nor had Connor ever been confused with the former.
His breath stuck oddly as once more the truth pierced him—Ophelia Killoran was no longer the snapping child of the streets but had grown into a carnal siren. Hers was the haunting beauty that those foolish sailors would thrash themselves happily against rocks for should she wish it.
She finally stopped, a mere handbreadth between them.
Her large crimson lips curved up in a smirk, and that cynical expression suited to one twenty years her senior knocked out the lustful musings. “Steele, is it now?”
He touched an imagined brim, specifically that spot where he’d been marked as a mere boy of eight, revealing his scar. “If it is not Lagertha,” he murmured. A lifetime ago it had been a utilitarian name he’d given this woman. Back when she refused to share her real one with him, he’d assigned her one. One that had been drawn from old books read to him by his mother.
Lagertha—Ophelia—had survived. A ball of emotion stuck in his throat.
These streets aren’t yars . . . they’ll never be yars . . . now go before he foinds the both of us.
Coming around him, she hitched herself up onto the edge of her brother’s desk, an incongruity of lady and street rat. “Last I saw of you, you were carted off. Never to be seen again,” she said. Her hushed, smoky tones barely reached his ears, and he drifted closer.
How different this sultry woman’s tones were from the guttural Cockney of her childhood years.
He stopped with the leather winged chair between them and placed his scarred palms along the back. “Did you look for me?” He met her question with one of his own.
Her eyes darkened. “Why would I have looked for you?” she asked with nothing more than a faint curiosity so that he may have imagined that fleeting grimness.
And more . . . why should he have asked? The question, irrelevant to the case he’d taken on, hung on his lips and remained unspoken.
“Why would you?” he murmured to himself. God, she’d always been more stubborn than a mule. She’d not give him a single answer, and he knew Ophelia enough over the years to know they’d stand here until the earth ceased spinning before she ceded a proverbial inch. “I’m an investigator now.”
“An investigator,” she repeated, those two words rolling from her tongue as if foreign ones she puzzled through and, by the souring of her expression, had found wanting. “You became an investigator.”
She lifted her shoulder in a defiant shrug. “Given the last I saw of you, you were stuck between a nob and a constable, yes, it is.”
He searched for a hint of undeserved regret or guilt from that long-ago day, but her expression was as empty as a slab of uncarved stone.
She leaned forward, her long, graceful neck arched as she strained toward him. “How did you get away?” Silver flecks within her irises glittered.
In other words, how had he escaped the filth of St. Giles and eluded a ruthless Mac Diggory? “Luck.” He finally settled for that vague but accurate reply. “Which I trust you know something of.” He glanced pointedly about the mahogany Chippendale furniture better suited to a nobleman’s Mayfair offices than to a gaming hell . . . and then Connor touched his eyes on her fine gown.
The young woman followed his stare, briefly grazing her fingertips along the lace overlay at her flat stomach. Those long digits fluttered back to her lap and curled into defensive fists.
“After all, your brother is now the owner of Mac Diggory’s impressive gaming establishment,” he persisted.
“Yes, it would seem we’ve both been . . . lucky.”
Adopted by the same man he’d rescued Ophelia from, and supplied with tutors and a Cambridge education, Connor had certainly made out better than most any other child in East London. He knew that. And was grateful every day for the gift he’d been given that day outside the Covent Garden Theatre.
“Is this why you’re here?” she asked, sotto voce. “To fondly chat over the past and reminisce over lost years?” Ophelia looked briefly across the room to the clock ticking away louder than their actual words. “Because you’re already down five minutes, Mr. Steele.”
Connor drifted around the chair until they stood so close their knees touched. “I’m searching for a child.”
Her shoulders went back. “A child?”
Whatever she’d been expecting, it had not been that.
“Did you think I’d come to bring you and your kin to justice for past crimes?” Committed so they might survive. Ruthless acts he himself was as guilty of as any member of the late Diggory’s gang.
She leaned forward. “How adorably naive of you,” she said. The scent of her apple blossoms conjured the fields of his father’s property in Lythe Valley. “To assume the Killorans are now free of sin.”
“Still attempting to intimidate me, Ophelia Killoran,” he murmured, trailing his gaze over the heart-shaped face that had always been set in a perpetual scowl.
She quickly drew back, retreating. “Four and ten minutes,” she warned, her husky contralto gruff.
Connor reached into his pocket and withdrew the notepad and pencil tucked away there. “I’m looking for a child,” he repeated, opening the book.
“Yes, you said as much.” She followed his movements guardedly. “And you believe me and my family guilty of an underhanded operation of harming children?”
“That was your brother’s assumption,” he clarified. Though every instinct that had served him well since his parents’ murder told him she would not harm a small boy or girl, from his own dark existence he well knew what any person was capable of. “I merely explained I had questions about the person responsible for bringing the boys and girls inside this establishment.”
“Man.”
Connor creased his brow.
Ophelia angled her head back to better meet his stare. “You wanted to put questions to the man responsible. Not person.”
She missed nothing.
It was why she’d endured. Always tripping up one’s opponent was the key to survival in St. Giles, and her presence here, despite the peril she—they—had faced, was a mark of her strength. It was also likely why her brother had ceded responsibilities over to her when nearly all men—regardless of station or birthright—rarely entrusted women with any.
“How long have you been accountable for hiring the children employed here?” With Diggory dead only these past four years, she could not have found herself with power during his reign of terror.
A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Just a handful of months.”
Questions swirled. If she’d only recently taken on that task for the club, what had been her role before that?
“I suggest if you have another question, you ask it, O’Roarke. Ten minutes,” she warned, ticking down his remaining time allotted.
“Steele,” he quietly corrected. Connor O’Roarke had been reborn again under the care of the Earl of Mar; the name of his birth represented a connection to the darkest time in his life and the evil he’d carried out to survive.
“Ah, yes, of course,” she said, as if she could see. As if she knew. When she didn’t. When no one, not even his adoptive father, could begin to speculate about the horrors that linked back to that birth name. “A fancy investigator now. Are you trying to erase the streets from yourself, Steele?” she persisted, dangerously accurate in her supposition. “Still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
She was baiting him. It was there in the spitfire’s eyes and tone and insolent smile.
Do not take it . . . do not take it.
“I trust you intend to tell me, Miss Killoran?” he asked with that same rash impulsiveness he’d managed to quell over the years that had seen him rush headfirst into Mac Diggory as a boy of eight, riddled with rage.
“It will always be part of you. No matter”—Ophelia flicked at the lapel of his jacket—“the fine garments you wear,” she taunted.
He’d always thought himself better than Ophelia and her family.
He’d believed himself better than any of the people in St. Giles.
When everyone well knew one’s survival was dependent upon the bonds formed with other unlucky souls in the streets, he’d slunk off and lived on his own, a phantom in the shadows that Diggory had failed to bring to heel.
Now, with his finely tailored double-breasted tailcoat, he’d stand inside her family’s home and put questions to her like she was again in the streets and he with the influence to bring her down.
Always keep ’em ’appy . . . Don’t give ’em anything other than pretty words.
It was one of the earliest instructions beaten into her by Diggory when she’d been trained for her assignment as a palm reader. And if the miserable blighter were still drawing breath, in this instance he would have bloodied her senseless for engaging an investigator within this club.
By the slight flaring of his nostrils, there could be no doubting—she’d insulted Connor O’Roarke. Or Steele. Or whatever else he went by these days.
“Was that admonition for me? Or yourself, Lagertha,” he murmured.
Lagertha. Until now, she’d forgotten the name he’d assigned her in the streets. Unnamed by Diggory, Connor O’Roarke had unwittingly given Ophelia her first. Secretly, she’d craved that identifying gift. Only now he uttered those three syllables in a low voice, even deeper, but smooth like that warmed chocolate her brother had spoiled Ophelia and her siblings with when he’d first taken ownership of the Devil’s Den.
She blinked slowly.
What madness was this, waxing on about Connor O’Roarke’s bloody voice?
A flush crept up her cheeks. “Bugger off, Connor.” She knew precisely what she was. She knew the stench of the streets would remain upon her skin no matter how many times she bathed or how much fragrance she dabbed on her person. “Ask whatever questions you have, and get yarself off,” she snapped, slipping into her coarse Cockney.
He narrowed his eyes. “I am looking for a child.”
“One? In all of London?” she snorted, giving him a once-over. “You might be the skilled investigator they say, or you may not, but you expect to find one child gone missing?”
“He is a marquess’s son,” he said quietly.
Ophelia opened and closed her mouth several times. Well. She hurried to mask her surprise. “Is that supposed to impress me?” She hopped down from her perch and wandered over to the windows that looked out onto the same streets upon which she’d once slept. Peeling the edge of the curtain back, she passed her gaze over the rain-dampened cobblestones. When she spoke, she infused a boredom into her tone. “And here I thought it was only the rotters of East London who went about losing their children.” Which invariably was what drunken da’s and ma’s who didn’t need another mouth to feed did with their babes. Conveniently lost them or left them or sold them, uncared for, prey for the Mac Diggorys of the world.
“He has reason to believe his son was not lost. He believes the boy was stolen.”
The floorboards groaned, indicating Connor had moved.
From his reflection in the crystal windowpanes, Ophelia followed his relaxed steps. In this instance, with those slow, languid movements, lazy enough to trip an unsuspecting prey into misstep, he was very much the Hunter her siblings had earlier spoken of.
This Connor O’Roarke—lethal, with power and influence to his name and five stone more in the weight of muscle to his person—was far more dangerous than the street rat she’d saved who’d then returned the favor.
“And you believe we stole this child?” she asked carefully, keeping the annoyance from her tone. He’d accuse her of the same type of evil Mac Diggory had demonstrated.
“I believe members of Diggory’s gang were, and remain, children of the streets. That has not changed with his death.”
She stiffened, and avoiding his gaze in the panel, Ophelia trained her stare on the dandy below stumbling up the steps through the rain. The doors were thrown open, admitting the inebriated fop. The raucous din of drunken revelry spilled out, climbing to where she stood, before those heavy panels closed once more.
They hadn’t known each other, Ophelia and Connor. Not truly. Theirs had been fleeting moments where their paths had crossed and their exchanges kept short for what discovery would have entailed—for the both of them. Yet his willingness to believe her capable of such treachery grated.
She released the curtain, and it fluttered back into place. “And this nobleman?” she asked, turning back to face Connor. “He simply lost his child.”
“Seven years ago.”
She choked. “Seven years?”
He confirmed that query with a nod.
“Seven years a nob’s son’s been missing, and you truly believe he survived here?” she asked incredulously. “In St. Giles?” Ophelia gave her head a bemused shake. “Then you are even more foolishly optimistic than you were as a boy.”
“Why?” he tossed out. “Because I thought I could survive without Diggory? Because I thought I could escape? When I did just that?”
His words struck like a lance to the chest. For she had believed him a fool. Had urged him back into the fold of Diggory’s gang because a life on the run from him would have seen Connor O’Roarke with a fate worse than death. In the end it was as he’d said . . . he had escaped.
While you remained, a prisoner, until the day the bastard died.
Bitter, she glanced beyond his shoulder. “So the child has been missing seven years,” she said, dragging out the reluctant words. “Who is the father?”
She folded her arms at her chest. “You come here, threaten my family and club, put questions to me, and don’t feel you need answer any of mine in return?” A sound of disgust escaped her. “My God, you are as insolent as ever, Connor O’Roarke,” she said, purposefully using the name he’d once gone by.
She made to step around him, but Connor shot out a hand, catching her gently by the forearm.
Ophelia started; odd little shivers moved through her at that bold touch. She went absolutely still, transfixed by his hand upon her person: large, coarsened fingers belonging to a man unafraid of work but also surprisingly gentle in his hold.
“I am asking for your assistance, Ophelia,” he said in quiet tones.
“Who is he?” she repeated.
Connor released her. “He is”—something flashed in his eyes—“something of a recluse.”
“A recluse,” she repeated slowly. There was more there.
His expression closed up. “I don’t discuss the details of my case with anyone.”
She jutted out her chin. “I’m not just anyone. I’ll have his name, Connor.”
He remained mutinously silent.
As a boy making his own way in the streets, he’d always been a stubborn blighter. He proved even more so now. “I can find out everything without your providing another detail,” she snapped. “Or mayhap we should just call this the end of our meeting?” Ophelia took a step toward the door.
“Wait,” Connor called out, staying her.
She faced him once more. “Well?”
A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been hired by the Marquess of Maddock.”
She searched her mind and came up empty. “I’ve never heard of him.” The gent wasn’t a member of her family’s clubs, and those gentlemen were the only lords she knew or cared anything about.
Connor looked her squarely in the eyes. “Lord Maddock was accused of murdering his family.”
She swallowed wrong and dissolved into a choking fit. “F-forgive me,” she sputtered without a hint of true remorse there. “You come here on some noble bid to unite a child with a father who is purported to have murdered that same child?” Ophelia continued, not allowing him a chance to edge in a word. “My, Connor Steele, how very far you’ve come in the world. From street rat to hand for the nobs.”
Ire flared in his eyes—a burning, seething sentiment so strong her bravado faltered. Ophelia took a hasty step away from the towering figure until her back rattled the crystal panes. She swallowed around a sudden, unwelcome ball of unease in her throat. After all, what did she truly know of Connor O’Roarke? Yes, they’d moved within the same streets, but they’d never truly been allies, or friends, or even really acquaintances. She skittered a nervous gaze to the door. Broderick was there. One shout from her and he’d bring hell and fury down on Connor’s dark head, regardless of the other man’s connection to the prince, the king, or any peer in between.
When he at last spoke, she braced for a derisive response but was brought up short once more. “You don’t like me,” he said. His voice suited a curious scholar puzzling through an ancient text. “You never did.”
No, she’d hated him. Resented him. He’d looked after only himself. He’d never cared about finding friends or family in the other boys and girls who’d been subjected to the same fate as he had been. Or do you hate him for having managed what you were unable to?
Fighting back that useless, silly question, she tilted up her chin.
“And now you’d judge me. Why?” he asked. “For the work I do?”
“On behalf of the peerage,” she spat.
“On behalf of what is right,” he corrected.
A jaded laugh tore from her lips. “A murderer?” she managed around her dark amusement. “By your own accounts, you aren’t doing the work of what is right.” What did that even mean in the world they’d been born to? “You are doing it for a man with powerful connections.” Just like my brother would kiss the feet of the peerage.
Unnerved, she swatted the thought back.
Connor passed a long, sad, lingering look over her . . . and contained within his smoky-grey eyes was something more—pity.
It soured her belly, that sentiment. She brought her shoulders back.
“The marquess was exonerated of any wrongdoing,” he said quietly.
“Power and influence can buy anything.” She paused for emphasis. “Including a pardon for killing one’s family.”
“A fire claimed the lives of his wife and unborn child. He believes his son lived.”
She drew her brows together. Set blazes had been one of Diggory’s calling cards, and yet he’d not dared enter the fancy ends of Mayfair and Grosvenor. He’d been content with the empire he’d carved out of East London. “How old was the boy?” she asked reluctantly.
“Just three.”
“A babe,” she murmured. She gave her head a pitying shake. “Then if he is not a murderer, the gentleman is delusional. For no babe could have escaped a fire when his wife was unable to.” Ophelia spared another glance at the clock. His allotted time was nearly up.
She took a step toward the door, but Connor matched her movements, blocking her.
“He doesn’t believe he escaped,” Connor said quietly.
“Well, then, I suspect that is the quickest assignment you’ve ever handled. Case closed.” She took another step.
He prevented her escape once more. “He believes the fire was intentionally set and the child stolen.”
That gave her pause. Stolen children and deliberately lit blazes were as routine in her world as Sunday sermons were in the world of the nobility. And yet . . . “It is impossible,” she finally said. “Diggory was many things.” Cruel. Violent. Evil. “But he was not stupid. He knew better than to torch a nob’s residence, and he certainly wasn’t fool enough that he’d nick a child.”
Ya ’elped ’im escape, ya little bitch . . . ya want to know wot ’appens if ya do that again, girl.
The whistle of a lash sailing through the air, and then the crack of it striking flesh, slid around her mind like a venomous serpent, spreading the poisonous memories of long ago.
Bile churned in her belly, and she forcibly swallowed it back as it climbed her throat. “We’re done here,” she said flatly, wanting Connor and every last hated, unwanted memory he’d roused with his talk of Diggory gone.
“We’re not,” he countered, blocking her retreat once more.
She tossed up her hands in exasperation. “Even if Diggory was involved, it was years ago. Nearly all of the men and women who served under his command are either dead, imprisoned, or turned out by my brother. No one is here who would recall a babe from seven years ago, Connor,” she said impatiently. “Or any babe, for that matter.” Diggory had employed ruthless fiends who cared for nothing but their own survival.
“But you and your family know children of that age.” He honed his gaze on her face. “The boys and girls who belonged to Diggory’s gang, others you’re responsible for hiring . . . How many years are they generally, Ophelia?”
They were near in age to the missing child he sought. She went tight-lipped. Did he think she’d betray anyone in her family’s employ simply because he did the work of a nobleman?
Connor dipped his head close. The hint of bergamot and sage filled her nostrils, flooding her senses with the crisp masculinity of it. So very different from the drunken patrons with liquor on their breath and sweat on their skin.
“Well?” he urged, and that prodding broke that maddening pull.
“You’re on a fool’s quest for a case that cannot be solved. The child is dead.” This time Ophelia slipped out from behind him and started for the door.
“What if he’s not?” Connor called after her, staying her movements. “What if the child is alive and is even now living on the streets or employed in this very club?”
The possibility whispered around her mind. A child with a future outside this world—safe, cherished, pampered. Everything she and her sisters never had been.
He spoke of elusive gifts, more dreams than reality for those in St. Giles.
“It would be impossible to even know, Mr. Steele,” she said, erecting a wall of formality between them. “It would be finding a proverbial needle in a meadow.” She tightened her mouth. “And given what you’ve revealed about your employer, it is a needle that would be better off hidden.”
“You don’t know that,” he shot back.
Your kind always wants it. Ophelia clenched her hands into fists. “I know enough about the nobility.”
He scoffed. “Because you see them lose their fortunes at your tables?”
He knew nothing, this smug bastard before her. “Go to hell, Connor,” she said, her throat thick. She made to step around him, but he blocked her path once more.
“The marquess, as you said, is likely wrong, and yet there is the slight chance he is correct. You claim it is impossible to know whether the child is alive, but if I put questions to the children who’ve belonged to Diggory’s gang, I’ll possibly learn something.”
She gnashed her teeth. “My God, you are unrelenting.” And how easily he trusted an exonerated lord. “You think I can help? Why? Because we have children in our employ? Many clubs do,” she went on before he could speak. “The Hell and Sin, to name one.” As soon as the name of that rival establishment slipped out, she bit her tongue hard.
“I’ve already questioned the owners there. They also allowed me free access to speak with each member of their staff.”
Of course they had. What else had they revealed?
She searched him for signs of knowing about her brother’s actions, but Connor’s face remained a carved mask, a study in chiseled stone.
Ophelia held his piercing stare. “Continue your search elsewhere, Mr. Steele; I know how to locate children of these streets no better and no less than anyone else.” It was a blatant lie she tossed him. She knew St. Giles and the Dials together better than she did the lines on her palm. “Even if I did, I’ll be damned if I aid you and a nob accused of murder.” Ophelia knew firsthand the treachery those lords were capable of.
She curled her hands into tight fists.
That is it. Open your legs for me . . . let me slip it in.
Her breath came loudly.
Connor interrupted her tortured memories. “You and I both know your claims aren’t altogether true. As part of Diggory’s gang, you are in far greater possession of information than most.”
Diggory. The demon who’d spawned her. A hatred so sharp buffeted her senses, proving her very much the Devil’s daughter for the darkness within her. “Then, speak to my sister Cleo. I trust she’ll prove more accommodating.” The very one who’d abandoned St. Giles and effortlessly established a new life in Grosvenor Square.
She turned to go.
“According to your brother, Mrs. Thorne was never the one responsible for hiring the child staff. You are.”
“We’re done here.” She cursed him all over again for forcing her past upon her. She swept over to the door. “Now if you will excuse me? It is late, and a man mindful of societal ways should honor respectable calling hours.”
On perfect cue, the door opened.
Her brother filled the doorway, a steady, reassuring presence in the face of the tumult roused by Connor O’Roarke.
Connor lingered, his jaw muscles moving.
What did he wish to say? To challenge her? To threaten her? She braced for it. Welcomed it. Because it was those ruthless sentiments she recognized and knew how to handle.
He nodded once, proving as frustratingly unpredictable as ever. “Miss Killoran,” he murmured and, not sparing a glance for Broderick, stalked off.
Yet as he left, why could she not shake the unease slithering around that she’d not seen the last of Connor O’Roarke?