Chapter 12
She looked like a bloody fool. Nay, to be precise, Cleopatra looked like a plate of lemon meringue without the benefit of the marshmallow top.
Focusing on the horrid state of her dress was far safer than focusing on the quixotic hold Adair Thorne had on her thoughts as she sat trapped in Black’s guest chambers. Willingly trapped, but trapped nonetheless.
Now, however, there was no escaping it. Cleopatra would have to venture out. She flinched. For a bloody ball—that formal introduction of a guttersnipe to Polite Society.
She exhaled slowly, dispelling that impending horror and Adair from her mind.
Doing a small circle, she eyed her frame in the mirror.
To be fair, no matter what she donned, she always looked rather silly. Her brother had erroneously believed through the years that in putting her in fine fabrics and gowns he could somehow set her worth among Polite Society as something greater than it ever was. Greater than it ever could be. Broderick hadn’t seen the inherent contradiction in their fine garments being worn at one of the wickedest clubs in London.
But Cleopatra knew enough . . . knew what her brother hadn’t yet accepted—the ton was going to cut their teeth on her . . . and quite happily, too.
Staring at her reflection in the bevel, Cleopatra took in the canary-yellow satin against her pale skin. For all intents and purposes, she may as well have been a child playing at dress-up. She gulped.
All along she’d believed the last place she cared to be was in this household, only to have it clearer that it was, in fact, Ryker Black’s ballroom that she’d rather set afire.
And what was worse, she’d enter that ballroom with the sole intent of capturing some gentleman’s notice, so she might become a lord’s wife, and then live forever among the ton and—
Her stomach lurched. Of its own volition, her gaze crept over to the window, and she contemplated escape. A swift one. One that the lady’s maid, Dorinda, bustling about the room and humming to herself, would never see coming, and would see Cleopatra free.
Singing to herself, Dorinda carried over a diamond-studded crown, a small tiara her brother had commissioned for all of his sisters. “Now for your crown, miss.”
Crown. She angled out of Dorinda’s reach. I’ll be damned if I put that piece on. The laughs Polite Society would have with her, a girl born of the gutters rubbing elbows with them and presenting herself as some kind of royalty. Damn Broderick. Damn him to hell. “Oi don’t need that,” she said gruffly, angling back.
Nonetheless, the maid persisted. “Lovely piece it is, Miss Killoran.”
Cleopatra would certainly credit the girl for having more gumption than she’d previously believed. “Oi said that won’t be necessary,” she snarled as Dorinda made another grab.
“It would be a shame for such a piece to go unworn.”
Cleopatra made a futile lunge left, but Dorinda settled her hands on her shoulders. With a resolute set to her mouth, she guided her back to the vanity and proceeded to arrange the tiara upon her head. All the while, the girl sang in a discordant soprano.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Cleopatra’s fingers twitched with the need to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out the cheerful servant’s song.
Artfully arranging two curls—two limp curls—over Cleopatra’s shoulder, Dorinda eyed her work with far too much pride. With a pleased nod, she reached for the velvet case. “Now the necklace.”
Garish diamonds her brother had insisted she don at the ton events. The diamond-and-ruby necklace in her hold, Dorinda came at her again, with determination in her every movement.
“No.” She might have donned the meringue gown and allowed Dorinda to put the bloody crown on her head, but she drew the line at gaudy necklaces.
The younger woman furrowed her brow. “But—”
“I said no.” The ton would see the extravagant display as precisely what it was: an interloper, in the market to snare a titled husband, in exchange for some coin. In short, a whore . . . my brother made me a bloody whore.
But you’re the one who volunteered for the role . . . you’ve agreed to this to spare Gertrude and Ophelia . . . and help your family . . .
“You really must wear it.”
She snapped. “I said no.” What was it to the maid whether or not she wore the damned necklace?
Dorinda paled but did not back down. She offered a coaxing smile. “Come,” she gave the necklace a slight shake, and the heavy piece jangled noisily. “It will complete your ensemble, miss.”
Why in blazes was she so tenacious? And this time as the girl came closer, Cleopatra—who’d gone toe-to-toe with thugs from the street—knew she was going to lose this blasted battle. That Dorinda would see her dripping in diamonds, as Broderick intended. She skittered her gaze about. “Oi said Oi ain’t going to wear the bloody—”
The door opened with a faint click, and she and the maid looked as one as Lady Chatham let herself inside. Saved by a Black. Both she and Dorinda. Who would have believed she’d see the damned day?
“Dorinda, if you’ll excuse Miss Killoran and I?” the viscountess asked, sweeping over.
“As you wish, my lady.” The girl dipped a curtsy and made to place the jewels about Cleopatra’s neck. Panic choked her.
“I’ll take that,” Lady Chatham said with a wide smile. Intercepting the maid’s efforts, she relieved them from her hold.
With another curtsy, Dorinda took her leave.
Another time, Cleopatra would have been affronted by anyone entering her chambers without even the benefit of a knock. A knock would have been appropriate, even as the viscountess certainly reserved rights and decisions over every room in this townhouse. Her shoulders sagged.
Penelope eyed the extravagant piece in her hands. “It is lovely,” she said, all the while assessing it. Those two-quarter-inch teardrops glimmered in the light.
“It is large,” Cleopatra muttered, glowering at them. As though covering her in diamonds could somehow make her different from what she was—who she was: a girl from the streets.
Lady Chatham glanced up, and a rush of heat flooded Cleopatra’s cheeks at the probing glimmer there.
She’d underestimated the always smiling woman . . . she was far more perceptive than Cleopatra had credited. She braced for those equally searching questions. Instead, the viscountess redeposited the necklace in the velvet case and snapped it closed.
Cleopatra studied those careful movements, not at all deceived by the casualness of them. Setting aside the jewels, Lady Chatham switched her attention to Cleopatra’s gown. “You look lovely, Cleopatra.”
Cleopatra stared incredulously at the pair of them in the mirror. Draped in sapphire silk, with understated butterfly combs in her black curls, Black’s wife epitomized wealth, rank, and power. Whereas, Cleopatra? A great deal less. “You’re a liar on that score,” she charged without inflection.
“No. You are lovely. As is your gown,” she added, as more of an afterthought.
It was a lie, and given her experience with falsehoods, they were invariably offered for one of two reasons: for the liar to obtain something he or she craved or to gain an upper hand on one’s enemy. Now, by Lady Chatham’s wide smile—a smile that very much reached her eyes—Cleopatra learned there was, in fact, another reason for those fabrications: to simply be nice.
Lady Chatham returned her attention to Cleopatra’s necklace. “May I?” she demurred, lifting the case.
Watching her closely, Cleopatra slowly nodded. Did the other woman intend to get her to wear them, too? This dog whistle meant to call out to eligible bachelors in need of a fortune that one was theirs for the taking as long as they suffered through a connection to the Killoran family.
The viscountess popped the velvet-lined case open and reexamined the fortune in jewels resting there. “White ruffles,” she said softly, a woman lost in thought who, during her reflection, had forgotten Cleopatra stood beside her.
Curiosity pulled. What was she on about? “My lady?” she asked reluctantly.
Black’s wife gave her head a clearing shake. “It was my family’s version of your diamond necklace,” she explained, lifting the object up. “I come from a scandalous lot, and my brother and mother were of the opinion that if they”—she scrunched her skirts—“covered us in frilly white lace, it would highlight our innocence and somehow lessen the wickedness attached to our name.”
Just like Broderick had believed about the jewels and fabrics he’d insisted his sisters wear, around a damned gaming hell, no less. Cleopatra’s lips tugged in a wry grin. “I’d venture not a single one of your family members could be more outrageous than a brother who owns a gaming hell, and siblings who were born bastards and lived on the streets?” Another time she would have thrown out the crimes she’d committed as a way to shock. For some reason, she didn’t.
To the lady’s credit, she didn’t so much as bat an eye at the accounting of the Killoran family.
Instead, she returned an answering smile. “Our scandals were different,” she acknowledged. “But they were”—she wrinkled her nose—“are scandals by society’s determination.”
The woman rose in Cleopatra’s estimation for her bluntness. She didn’t try to draw like comparisons between their scandals, and Cleopatra appreciated her for it.
The viscountess proceeded to check off on her fingers. “I’d one sister who was part of a failed elopement, and then my brother married my governess. My elder sister wed a man who’d only waltzed with her on a wager.” A twinkle lit her eyes as she paused on her fourth finger. “And I, of course, married a gaming hell owner, who’d been a stranger, only after we were discovered in a compromising position.”
Absently, Cleopatra dropped her stare to the D etched upon her skin. For every scandal Lady Chatham had weathered, she still remained a lady born to their ranks. Whereas Cleopatra Killoran wore the societal differences between her and the ton like the actual mark made by Diggory’s knife.
She stiffened as Black’s wife took her hand in hers, forcing Cleopatra’s gaze up. “Regardless of station or birthright or background, all are met with unkindness. I was no exception, nor will you be,” she concluded softly, with no malice or delight, and only real truth. “Are you ready?”
Am I ready? I’d rather parade naked and unarmed through the streets of St. Giles, with only my fists for protection.
Lady Chatham held her elbow out, that gesture of support as much a challenge to Cleopatra as anything. It was time. The beginning of the rest of her life . . . here . . . in the fancy end of London.
Sucking in a slow breath through clenched teeth, she took the viscountess’s arm.
“You know, I really would have you call me Penelope,” she began as they started from the room.
Cleopatra did a quick sweep of the halls, and her gaze lingered on Adair’s doorway. How to account for the disappointment in finding him gone? Because he might be one of the Blacks, but she also had more in common with that mistrustful blighter than she did the whole of the guests on Penelope’s guest list.
“Are you all right?” Penelope quizzed.
“Fine. I was looking for—” She clamped her mouth tight, cursing her uncharacteristically loose lips, blaming both Adair and this damned night in equal measure.
Eyes alert, Penelope leaned her whole body close.
“For the direction of the ballroom, my lady,” she finished lamely.
“This way, then,” she said with her usual smile, leading Cleopatra on through the halls. “As I was saying earlier, I would that you call me Penelope. I can ask that you use my given name, and advise it . . . but I won’t compel you to do so.” Black’s wife brought them to a stop at the end of the hallway. “Having only friends in those I call family, and never having known that gift among the ton, I’ve come to appreciate how very lonely this world is, and would extend an offer of friendship to you.”
Extend an offer of friendship. Friendship was earned, not a gift given. And it certainly didn’t come after but a handful of days of knowing another person. Still, since she’d lost Reggie, Broderick, Ophelia, Gertrude, and Stephen, there had been an aching loneliness inside. “Foine,” she said gruffly, and she may as well have replied with a proper tone and a curtsy for the smile she earned from Penelope.
“Splendid!” Lightly squeezing Cleopatra’s arm, the other woman urged them along. “And please know that as long as you are here, and even after you . . .”
Marry—oh, God, I’m going to toss the contents of my stomach.
“. . . go,” Penelope blessedly settled for, so that Cleopatra was able to freely breathe again, “. . . you will always have a friend in me and my family.”
A friend in the Blacks? That would be the damned day.
Adair Thorne’s reaction after he’d sent her from his makeshift office and then discovered her inside the nursery was proof that such a relationship could never be reached. Not truly. No matter how much this bubbly woman might wish it.
Penelope looked as though she wished to say more, but they had reached the top of the stairwell. “Here we are.”
Cleopatra stared down the thirty steps she’d counted on her first day inside this townhouse. Her gut churned as she took in the gathering below: Black, Calum Dabney, Niall Marksman and his wife, Diana, the duke’s daughter whom Cleopatra had saved, and through that rescue had brought about the temporary truce. And for all her claims of confidence and self-control and indifference, in this moment, she was not the composed, fearless figure she presented to the world. She was out of her bloody mind with terror, not necessarily about the lords and ladies she’d face—they could all go hang—but for the fate awaiting her. You are Cleopatra Killoran, Queen of the Dials, as Broderick named you. Undaunted by any. Breathe.
Her bid for calm failed.
“Cleopatra?”
Through the buzzing in Cleopatra’s ears, Penelope’s concerned query came muffled, and she struggled to hear it over her own breath.
Then her gaze collided with the tall, negligent figure off to the side, removed from the group of Blacks—Adair.
For the immaculate cut of his expensive black garments, and the stark white of his cravat, he by all appearances may as well have been a lord born to the ranks of the guests who’d be in attendance. The hint of the streets lingered in the form of faint scars that nicked his chiseled features. His arms folded, he leaned against a marble pillar, and the sight of him so coolly unaffected, but for the ghost of a smile dimpling his left cheek, brought her back from the abyss of panic.
Despite his lack of faith and hurtful accusations from the days prior, a matching grin pulled at her lips. “I’m ready,” she finally said, never taking her eyes from Adair.
As she and Black’s wife made a slow descent, Penelope prattled on at her side, and Cleopatra, who’d always abhorred inane rambling, was now grateful for it. With every step that brought her closer to the marble foyer, the dread eased, and in its place was a restoration of her self-confidence.
An assurance that had nothing to do with Adair’s hooded gaze . . . or the sparkle of amusement in his green eyes as he took in her yellow gown. Liar.
“Go to hell,” she mouthed.
And just as he’d done at their meeting a week earlier, he touched his fingers to an imagined brim. Only where that act had once been filled with derision, now there was a gentle teasing.
Cleopatra and Penelope reached the bottom step, and the icy coolness of Black and his men sent reality crashing back.
Black and his brothers parted, giving her a wide berth. The only smiles from the group belonged to Diana Marskman and Penelope.
“Shall we?” Black asked in gravelly tones. He held out a stiff elbow, and resisting the urge to glance back at Adair, she placed her scarred fingers upon the sleeve of the enemy, braced to face down a sea of them.