Chapter 20
He’d lost her.
After five hours of searching the streets of St. Giles with the hastily assembled search team at the Hell and Sin, Cleopatra remained gone.
Given her ability to scale a roof and drift through shadows, she could be anywhere.
His stomach turned over itself as his carriage rolled through the fashionable end of London, onward to Ryker and Penelope’s residence. At one time, the idea of Cleopatra Killoran out on her own would not have roused even a hint of unease. After all, the whole of London knew the ruthlessness that family was capable of.
Everything had changed. Terror held him firm in its manaclelike grip. And all the worst possibilities of what could happen to her in the dangerous streets of St. Giles wreaked havoc on his mind. Evil men who’d force themselves upon her. Thieves who’d fight her for whatever she carried on her person. His breath rasped loudly in his ears.
Or mayhap she simply returned to her family.
That thought should be the reassuring one that relieved the pressure in his chest.
So, why didn’t it? Why did it feel the instant she returned to Killoran was the last he’d ever see her? And then his life would be empty again, when he’d not realized how very lonely it was.
“Because you handled her confession like a bloody arse,” he muttered into the carriage. Adair dragged his hands through his hair. He’d said nothing. He’d merely repeated back her words like some bloody lackwit. Shock had held him numb and kept him stupidly silent, keeping him from giving her that which she’d deserved to hear: that her blood did not define her. That the fact that Diggory had sired her did not make her lesser or evil. That in giving her life, she stood as evidence that Diggory had done at least one thing right in his horrid existence.
But I said nothing . . .
Restless, he ripped back the red velvet curtain just as Ryker’s residence pulled into focus. Not even waiting for it to rock to a full stop, Adair tossed the door open and leapt out. He shot his arms out to steady himself and then, sprinting past a handsomely dressed couple, took the steps two at a time.
The butler immediately drew the door open.
Not breaking stride, Adair continued abovestairs. He needed a bath, a shave, a change of garments. All of it had to wait. It was secondary compared to her. Everything was. First, he had to find his damned brother, who usually was in the nursery at this—
“Adair!”
That chipper greeting halted his retreat. Reluctantly, he paused halfway up to the main living quarters and glanced back.
His sister-in-law Penelope gathered her skirts and hurried up to meet him. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been . . .” She sniffed the air. “I’ve been . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been looking for you.” Penelope pressed a hand to her nose. “You need a bath,” she blurted.
His neck went hot. “Yes.” Running around the streets of St. Giles and through puddles filled with horse shite and the Devil knew what else, would do that to a person’s stench.
Penelope motioned for him to continue, and he gave thanks for being spared any company. He needed coffee. Something to clear his head. His relief was short-lived. Penelope hurried to match his stride. “Wilson,” his sister-in-law said to the stone-faced footman stationed at the end of the hall.
Nay, he was not truly a footman. He was a guard ordered there by Ryker. A man who now studiously avoided Adair’s eyes.
“Yes, my lady?” Wilson trotted over and dropped an ugly bow.
“See a bath is readied for Mr. Thorne.”
The younger man rushed to do his mistress’s bidding.
“Wilson?” Adair called out, staying his movements. He wanted to settle his rage somewhere, and he had found a perfect target in the man who’d callously insulted Cleopatra.
“Yes, Mr. Thorne?”
“You insulted Miss Killoran.” How was Adair’s voice this even? How, when panic choked his senses at her absence?
Wilson swallowed loudly. “S-sir?”
“If you so much as utter her name incorrectly, you’ll not find employment in a single hell in the whole of London,” he said on a steely whisper. “Are we clear?”
An uncharacteristically silent Penelope alternated a wide-eyed stare between them.
The younger man gave a jerky nod. “W-we are, Mr. Thorne.”
“Now get out.”
Snapping back into movement, Wilson rushed off.
Adair found an unholy delight in the other man’s unease. Wilson still didn’t know that when the Hell and Sin was rebuilt, he answered only to Adair.
You don’t know what it is you want. You don’t know if you want to be a seedy hell or a fancy club in the posh ends of London.
Cleopatra’s words floated forward, renewing his panic. Politeness be damned, he lengthened his stride, heading toward the nursery.
“You are visiting the nursery,” his sister-in-law panted, her smaller legs keeping up. “Quite devoted of you. A wonderful uncle . . .”
He’d hand it to Ryker’s wife. The lady was tenacious.
“But before you do,” Penelope said, staying him as he reached for the handle of the nursery door, “it is about Cleopatra.”
His heart knocked to a painful stop in his chest.
A gasp ripped from Penelope’s lips as he took her by the shoulders.
“What is it? Do you know where she is? Has Killoran sent word?” For the first time, he gave thanks for her ruthless brother’s quest for a connection to the nobility. The bounder wouldn’t quit until she was paired up with a fancy nob.
“Have I seen her?” Penelope repeated back. “She’s in the White Parlor.”
He immediately snatched his hands from his sister-in-law. “What?” he rasped, relief filling him. “You’ve seen her?” Relief and annoyance blended together, and he gnashed his teeth. All this time he’d been gripped with fear for her safety, and she’d come . . . here. It had been the last place he’d thought to look for her. “You’re certain you’ve seen her . . . today,” he elucidated.
“Seen her? Of course, I’ve seen her. We had breakfast together and . . .”
While she prattled on, relief weighted his eyes shut.
“. . . but I’m not altogether certain about Lord Landon.”
That brought Adair snapping back to. “What?”
His sister scrunched her brow. “Are you certain you’re all right?” she countered, pressing the back of her hand to his head. “I assumed you were perspiring, but mayhap you’re not feeling well?”
Since he’d blurted out his love for Cleopatra Killoran, it certainly felt that way. It left a man unsure of which way was up, down, sideways, or in between. “I’m fine,” he said, ducking away from her hand.
“Yes, well. I was seeking you out because . . .” Penelope paused and stole a glance about. Adair bit the inside of his cheek to keep from demanding she spit out whatever she intended to say about Cleopatra. “She has a suitor.”
Except that.
He’d rather she not blurt that out. He opened his mouth, attempting to form words.
A suitor?
“I know what you are thinking,” Penelope whispered.
No, I’ll wager what is left of my soul that you have no bloody idea.
“It’s incredibly early for a fashionable visit. Quite unfashionable, really.”
“Penelope,” he said impatiently.
“Oh, yes. Right. Right.” His sister-in-law wrung her hands together. “It is Lord Landon.”
The expert dancer who’d given Cleopatra her first waltz. A bloody rogue whose smile only hinted at the wicked deeds Adair, as the proprietor of the Hell and Sin, very well knew the man was responsible for. “What about Lord Landon?” he snapped.
“He is . . . the suitor.”
The suitor. They were two words that hinted at a distinction of something more . . . between Cleopatra and . . . another man that wasn’t Adair. And it didn’t matter if it was Lord Landon or the Lord God himself, the seething white-hot jealousy would fill him all the same. A memory trickled in of that elegant bastard as he’d put his hand upon Cleopatra’s waist, entirely too damned low, as he’d twirled her about—
He growled.
“That was my fear,” Penelope said, misunderstanding the reason for his fury. “I don’t tend to accept rumors at mere face value, given my own family’s experience with them. But I thought you would have firsthand evidence of whether or not the rumors about the gentleman are, in fact, true.”
They were true. The titled lord was in debt, frequented the wicked hells in London, and tossed down the few coins he did have to grow his fortunes. Such a detail had only been viewed as beneficial for how it could increase Adair’s own coffers. Now he saw how it made Landon a match for Killoran’s intentions.
“Adair?” his sister-in-law asked haltingly.
He gave his head a shake to clear the haze. “What are you telling me this for?” he asked curtly.
Penelope’s mouth fell agape. “I . . .” She frowned. “I simply thought after all the time you’ve spent looking after the young woman that you should have an interest to see that she doesn’t end up with a rake. I also thought you should perhaps be the guard stationed outside the room.”
Had Ryker’s wife hefted a blade from her boot and tossed it at his chest, she could not have cut him more. “Is that wot Oi am? A damned guard to oversee Cleopatra Killoran. ’ave someone else do it.”
“Adair?” his sister-in-law called after him.
Ignoring her, knowing he was a bastard for unleashing his temper unfairly on her, he sought out his rooms. He slammed the door hard behind him and then turned the lock with a satisfying click. He shucked his wrinkled and sweaty garments and took a step inside the steaming bath that had been readied. The heat stung his flesh, and he hissed out through his teeth but welcomed the pain because pain posed a distraction from every bloody revelation made by Ryker’s wife.
Except . . . what if she did desire a man like Landon? Adair froze, one leg partially in the bath. He dragged his hands over his face as he confronted the depth with which she’d come to matter to him. And selfish bastard that he was, born to only care about his own needs and desires, Adair hated the idea of some fancy lord winning her heart—or any man.
A month ago, the only detail of this day that would have commanded his focus and vitriol was the truth of Cleopatra’s identity.
I simply thought after all the time you’ve spent looking after the young woman that you should have an interest to see that she doesn’t end up with a rake.
End up with a rake . . . which conjured images of Cleopatra at the end of a church altar with another bloody man who wasn’t Adair . . .
Cursing roundly, he slid under the surface of the water, dunking his head. The water muffled his hearing, blotting out sound.
And the bloody rub of it was, despite his wish to forget about Cleopatra—and damn Penelope’s request of him to hell—he wanted to be outside that parlor. Needed to be there.
Adair broke the surface and gasped for breath. He shoved his long, sopping strands obscuring his vision back behind his ears. Fucking Mayfair. Goddamned Ryker for insisting I watch over her. It was a task that had become a study in self-torture. He hurried to scrub the scent of the London streets from his skin . . . before he took up a post outside the White Parlor where Cleopatra even now was courted by that damned rake, Lord Landon.
Given Broderick’s expectations for her, and the need to spare her sisters from sacrificing themselves for the good of the family, Cleopatra should be elated at Lord Landon’s visit.
She should be.
And yet, he’d been here in Penelope’s parlor for the better part of thirty minutes, and she couldn’t manage to drum up a jot of eagerness . . . not even the feigned, pretend sort.
To do so would require her to set aside a lifetime of loathing for people such as the marquess. She might need a fancy toff for a husband, but it didn’t mean it erased a history of hatred. As the flash of horror in Adair’s eyes had stood testament to.
But then . . . you also hated Adair Thorne and his family. Now you’ve fallen in love with him, come to call his sister-in-law friend, and learned to respect Adair’s siblings.
“You’re far quieter than I recall you at the club,” Lord Landon murmured. “In fact, I’d always taken you as one to speak freely.” He stretched his long legs out before him and hooked them at the ankles. It was a lazy, languid pose that would have shocked a lady. If he sought to elicit a reaction, he’d have to do far better than that.
“Oi speak freely,” she said, deliberately adopting her familiar Cockney, “that is, when Oi ’ave something to say and the person merits talking to.” Why do you want to horrify him? Because you don’t truly want to marry him . . . or anyone. Other than Adair Thorne. Her heart spasmed violently.
Lord Landon only grinned. Laying his arms along the sides of his chair, he tapped a distracted beat. “You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked with a bluntness she could appreciate.
Cleopatra lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t know you.”
He scoffed. “Come. I’d wager you know how much I’m in debt for, my drink preferences, the hours I keep, the wom—”
Apparently, for all his rakishness, he’d retained enough of society’s expected decorum that he’d let that go unfinished. She shot an eyebrow up. “The women you bed?”
Crimson color splashed upon the marquess’s cheeks, and he immediately jerked upright in his chair. Fancy toffs. The rogues, rakes, and scoundrels thought they were so much more dangerous than they were, failing to realize they could never reach the shade of darkness fitting a person born to the streets.
“You’re right,” she at last said. “I know those details about you. However, that doesn’t mean I know anything about you.” Not truly. At one time, she’d have believed the size of his purse and the vices he was slave to were all that defined him—or any person. Until Adair.
“And is that important to you?” He clasped his hands at his flat stomach. “Knowing . . . a suitor.”
With tousled golden curls, unmarred cheeks, and sapphire eyes, he’d a beauty that any lady would be enthralled by. How much more Cleopatra preferred Adair’s scarred features. “Is that what you are?” she asked instead, with a candidness that earned another grin. Only this smile he donned dimpled his cheek and met his eyes, showing hints of a man, and not an affected rake.
“That is what I am.” Lord Landon inclined his head. “I’m in need of a bride.”
“Because you’re in deep to my brother.” Adair would never be a man to sell himself for a fortune. Unlike you . . . The truth of that slammed into her. She sat here in blatant condemnation of the marquess for his willingness to do something Cleopatra herself intended.
He abandoned his casual pose. “Because I inherited a bankrupt marquessate.”
Another nob would likely have sputtered and quit the room at her insolence. Lord Landon’s speaking to her on an equal level raised her opinion of him mightily.
“The gaming tables did not prove the way to reverse your fortune.”
His mouth tightened. “They did not. Though I’m generally luckier than I’ve been this past year.”
Cleopatra dropped her elbows upon her knees and leaned closer. “Lord Landon, do you forget I’ve lived in a gaming hell? One that you frequent nearly nightly.”
“Indeed, not.” He either failed to note, hear, or care about her sarcastic statement more than anything. “It is, in fact, why I’m here.”
“To court me.” She forced herself to say those three words as a reminder that there was no certainty or permanency to a mere courtship.
“To marry you.” He grinned. “Or rather, to ask you to marry me.”
Through her smudged lenses, Cleopatra blinked once. Twice. And then a third time. Surely she’d misheard him. For Cleopatra knew next to nothing about the ways of Polite Society—at least where propriety and decorum were concerned—but she knew enough to know they certainly didn’t go about offering marriage after just two meetings.
A twinkle danced in his blue eyes. “I see I’ve shocked you.” His tone hinted at an inordinate delight in that fact.
And for the first time in her existence on this earth, she was remarkably without a cheeky retort. He wanted to . . . marry her. Her toes curled into the soles of her slippers. Nay, not her. He didn’t even know her. Mayhap he was merely a bored nobleman, making light of an interloper to the haute ton. “You want to marry me?” she asked warily, studying him closely for hint of teasing.
“I need a bride,” he said frankly. He paused. “A wealthy one. And you, by rumors and whispers, are in search of a titled husband.”
Her brother’s intentions had been that transparent, then. Not for the first time since the plan had been cooked up and Cleopatra thrust into an unfamiliar world, she felt a dangerously building resentment for her brother.
The marquess removed his gloves and beat them together. Why . . . why . . . he has the look of a bored gent? “Are the rumors . . . true?” he ventured.
She met that next bold query with silence.
He sighed. “You disapprove of rumors,” he went on, stuffing the immaculate white gloves inside his sapphire jacket.
“I disapprove of a bloody nob who’d make light of me.” Normally she did. Now she prayed that he was, in fact, just a pompous bored lord, merely toying with her.
“This isn’t making fun,” he said, his voice carried a new gravity that only increased the terror clamoring in her breast. “What I propose is a . . .” He tapped a finger against his lips. “A . . . business arrangement. If the rumors are in fact true, and you are in need of a titled husband, I am offering myself for that role.”
How coldly methodical he made it all sound. It was an arrangement she’d considered and resolved herself to prior to coming to Black’s household. Yet to have them laid out so . . . by this man, a stranger she’d only observed at the Devil’s Den and who’d met with her only once prior to this, turned her stomach. I am no different than him . . . And whether or not she’d agreed to Broderick’s plan to help the family, she’d become a whore in her own right.
A floorboard groaned from somewhere in the corridor, and she briefly glanced at the doorway. Adair.
He’s there. She knew it the way she knew where to put her foot when climbing to keep from plunging to her death. It was an instinctiveness that could not be explained or understood.
“Why would I marry you?” She finally got words out, a question. “Oi don’t know you at all.”
Lord Landon gave a small shrug. “Ours would be no different than so many other ton marriages. You would have your connections to the nobility; I would have the necessary funds to . . .”
Her ears pricked up—but ultimately, when he spoke, he withheld that single revealing detail about his circumstances.
“I would have my finances set to right. I’d, of course, require an heir and the necessary spare.”
“Of course,” she said drily. Here, all these years she’d believed ruthlessness a trait reserved for the bastards of St. Giles.
“I’d agree to set aside a portion of your dowry so that it remains in your hands forever.”
That in itself was a generous offer that said something about the marquess and proved he was not necessarily the heart-hardened nobleman his marriage offer painted him to be, but a man who was desperate, and desperation was something Cleopatra understood. It was an abhorrent emotion she was all too familiar with.
Lord Landon withdrew a watch fob. The gold gleamed brightly in the early-morn sun as he consulted the piece. “I ask that you consider it, Miss Killoran. You’ll find I’m not cruel.” He may as well have just declared his preference for taking tea. Coming to his feet, he tucked away the watch.
Cleopatra abruptly stood, eager for him to take his leave. “Oi . . . I don’t know what to say,” she said. That raw honesty would have earned her a beating from Diggory and a lecture from Broderick.
Reaching inside his jacket, the marquess drew his gloves on one at a time. “It is my hope that you’ll say yes . . . and relatively soon. I’d hope to have an answer on your decision by the end of the week.”
By the end of the week? With his request and the terms he’d laid out, he was precisely what she’d come to Mayfair for—a titled husband, a quick marriage, and then a secure future for her siblings. It’s too quick . . . I don’t know him . . . he’s a stranger . . .
But as he’d said, what did it truly matter if her ultimate purpose was a business arrangement? There would never be more between her and any man. Not now when she’d fallen so helplessly and hopelessly in love with Adair.
Her heart buckled. “I . . . I will think on it,” she promised.
“Splendid,” he said with his roguish charm. It didn’t escape her notice that he didn’t so much as lift his attention from the gloves he now jammed his long, uncallused fingers into.
“Why me?” she called when he’d taken three steps. “Surely there are ladies of your own station who are wanting of a title and fat in the pockets.” That you needn’t come here and put an offer to me. Cleopatra clamped her lips tight to keep from blurting out those unspoken words.
The marquess wheeled back, that enigmatic grin affixed to his lips. “That is why, Miss Killoran. I might be a rake, battling back creditors and fast approaching dun territory, but I’m also a man who appreciates directness and honesty. You’re wise with your brother’s business and unafraid to go toe-to-toe with some men that even I would be wary of.”
He’d been watching her that closely, then, at the Devil’s Den. Cleopatra frowned, unsure what to make of that revelation.
“Nor do you cower. As such, I’d take marriage to you over any simpering debutante who converses about the weather and her needlepoint.” Dropping a quick bow that ended all questions, the marquess turned on his heel and left.
Cleopatra stood there after he’d gone. The longcase clock’s ticking was inordinately loud in the parlor, and she focused on that overwhelming beat. Never before had she been more relieved with a person’s abrupt departure, which given the hell she’d endured in St. Giles and the monsters whose company she’d suffered through in Diggory’s gang, was saying a good deal, indeed. He wanted to marry her.
It could be done . . . would be done, if she simply agreed to the cool, businesslike terms laid forth by Lord Landon. Marriage had never been anything she’d aspired to. Quite the opposite. She’d learned early on, after Diggory’s earliest wives had married him, and then promptly taken their own lives rather than suffer his abuse, that she wanted no part of marriage.
Everything’s changed.
Cleopatra’s legs weakened, and she sank onto the edge of Penelope’s sofa.
“Ya going to pretend ya aren’t out there?” she asked into the quiet.
“Depends.” Adair’s muffled voice came from outside the door Lord Landon had closed on his way out.
She dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. “On what?”
“You looking for company?”
Her lower lip quivered, and she blasted herself for that weakness, but Lord help her, she could not stop it. After all he’d learned about her parentage early this morn, she’d simply expected he’d want nothing more to do with her. Instead, he’d stood outside the closed parlor door listening. To what end? Because he’d been instructed to be there? Or because he wanted to be there? “I might be,” she said when she trusted herself to speak.
Adair pushed the door open and stepped inside. He did a quick sweep of the room before settling his focus on her.
Cleopatra stood and moved behind the sofa, needing space, fearing what he’d say. In this instance, it was far safer to attend the dreadful offer Lord Landon had made her than the final words she’d offered to Adair earlier today.
He pushed the heavy panel closed and leaned against it, studying her through his thick lashes.
At an impasse, Cleopatra plucked at the satin brocade upholstery. “’e offered me marriage.”
“Oi know. Oi ’eard it.”
There should be outrage over his listening in on her conversation with the marquess. Instead, she was simply grateful she didn’t have to recount the exchange. She tried to make sense of his emotionless tones.
Adair pushed away from the door and strolled over. She silently damned him for being so coolly unaffected. So calm when her nerves were stretched so tight. She was one wrong word from losing control.
He stopped before her and brushed his knuckles over her jaw in a caress so fleeting she might have imagined it were it not for the heat left by his touch. “Wot are ya going to do?”
She jerked her chin up. “Does it matter? Oi marry ’im then my time ’ere is done. The agreement between our families is met and ya don’t ’ave to ’ave one of Diggory’s whelps underfoot.” Her lower lip quivered, and she quickly caught it between her teeth.
Adair’s gaze, however, fell to her mouth, taking in that sign of her weakness. Why must he look so closely? “Oi should have said something,” he said quietly. “Oi didn’t know wot to say because Oi didn’t expect it . . .” He grimaced. “About your . . . your . . .”
“Father,” she said bluntly, not allowing him to dance around the truth of her origins.
Loathing so strong flashed in his eyes that she took a step back, ravaged by it, hating herself for having come to care so very much about this man’s opinion of her. “Diggory was never your father,” he said in graveled tones. “’e gave you life, and that was likely the only good thing he ever did in his sorry existence.” Adair held her gaze. “An Oi’ll always ’ate him for wot he did to me and mine . . .”
Tears clouded her vision. How could she truly expect him to forgive her connection to the beast who’d tortured him? She glanced away, but Adair, with his tender touch, forced her eyes back to his.
“But Cleopatra, Oi hate him as much for what he did to you. You aren’t responsible for his crimes. You aren’t him.”
This from the man who’d been unable to divorce her connection to Broderick Killoran? “But you said . . .”
He made a low sound of protest. “I know what I said,” he hastily cut in. “Oi said ya weren’t to be trusted. Oi doubted you at every turn. But I was wrong. You’ve more honor and strength and courage than most people Oi know.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why are ya doing this?” she begged, tears hoarsening her voice. “You’re supposed to hate me. Tell Black who Oi am and turn me out. End the arrangement between our families.”
“Oh, Cleopatra.” A heart-wrenching smile curved those hard lips that had explored hers so passionately just hours before. “You still don’t know.”
She shook her head. “Know what?”
“Oi love ya too damned much to do any of that.” His smile died, and with it went all the light in the room. “Don’t do it.”
Tension coursed through her and jerked her spine erect. “Oi don’t—”
“Oi’m being honest with you,” he said sharply, capturing her by the shoulders. “Don’t you dare pretend ya don’t know what Oi’m speaking about.” The way he slipped in and out of his Cockney and cultured tones spoke to the thin grasp he had on his composure. “Don’t marry him. Ya deserve more, Cleopatra.”
She wetted her lips. Did he believe himself to be that more? For he was. And yet in marrying him, she’d be forsaking her siblings. But if I do not take the gift of love for myself, I’m forsaking myself . . . and Adair. “What are you saying?” she asked softly, needing clarity of what he truly sought.
Adair dropped his brow to hers. “Marry me.”
There it was. Her heart tripped several beats. Who knew two words could cause this giddy lightness inside one’s soul? She briefly closed her eyes. Taking the gift he held out would mean putting her happiness above her siblings, when the whole of her life, Ophelia, Gertrude, and more recently, Stephen, had been put first. But if she did not do this, she would be forever empty and broken in ways she’d never recover. They would be all right. Each of them. They were strong. Strong enough to set their own course and defy Broderick, just as Cleopatra had. “I—”
Frantic footsteps pounded in the corridor, and then the door crashed open.
Adair instantly shoved her behind him, drawing his weapon.
Ryker Black stood framed in the entrance, his nostrils flared, his cheeks flushed, and fury in his eyes. A moment later he was joined by his brothers Calum and Niall. Their stony-faced expressions stirred unease in even her breast. “The deal,” Black said on a steely whisper, “is off.”
Adrenaline pumping through his veins at the unexpected intrusion from his brothers, Adair looked at the trio in the doorway.
“What in blazes are you talking about?” he snapped.
A leather folder in hand, Ryker strode forward. “It was her family,” he said flatly, jabbing the folio in Cleopatra’s direction.
Again demonstrating the braveness that had snagged his heart, Cleopatra moved out from behind him to glower at his brother. “Oi don’t know how many times—”
“I’ve had Bow Street Runners investigating your family and watching my club.”
A gasp hissed past Cleopatra’s lips.
Fury coursed through him. “Ya ’ad her family investigated and you didn’t think to tell me?” This omission was no different from the vital information they’d withheld from him about the future of the Hell and Sin . . . and their family.
“We thought given ’ow . . . close you’ve become to her that it moight be best to otherwise say nothing,” Niall answered with his usual bluntness.
Adair took a lunging step forward, his fingers twitching with the need to bury themselves in the face of Niall . . . and all of them.
Ever the peacemaker, Calum swiftly inserted himself between them. “Enough,” he boomed. “The decision about whether or not to include you in discussions on the Killorans matters less than the findings revealed.”
Four pairs of eyes went to Cleopatra.
Even with her slight stature, she stood proudly, a veritable soldier capable of defeating one of those great Spartan warriors. “Oi don’t know how many times Oi’ll have to defend my family against your charges.” She jammed her hands on her hips and glowered at Adair’s brothers. “We aren’t arsonists, and Oi’m not a liar.”
It didn’t escape Adair’s notice that she’d only included herself in that latter statement. It was a detail Ryker wouldn’t miss, either. His brother thinned his eyes into narrow slits.
“We found one of your men sneaking around the Hell and Sin.”
“Pfft,” Cleopatra scoffed. “Doesn’t mean anything. Could have been any reason he was there. And you didn’t even say who—”
“Brewster,” Niall spat.
Killoran’s head guard.
Cleopatra faltered. “Oi don’t believe it.”
“He somehow sneaked past our guards and was discovered inside, Miss Killoran,” Calum said gently.
“I still don’t believe you. There was another reason he was there.” Cleopatra paused, looking to Adair. “Brewster wouldn’t. He’s too honorable. Tell them my family wouldn’t do that.”
Except . . . Adair couldn’t do that. Because he didn’t know them. He looked away, but not before he saw the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“We found a ruby-studded dagger stuck in the wall of the recently completed rooms. You can read it all here, yourself, Miss Killoran,” Ryker snapped, hurling the folder at her.
Cleopatra instantly shot her hands out, but it sailed to the hardwood floor with a noisy thwack. The bespectacled spitfire immediately sank to her haunches and recovered the folder. Adair took a step closer to read those damning pages, but she snapped them close, glaring at him like he was the grime under the heel of her boot.
A pang struck sharp in his chest, and he cursed his brothers to hell for springing this upon them. For not allowing him any time to think it through, to read the file . . . to interview Brewster.
Her head bent over the top sheet, Cleopatra’s spectacles slid forward, and she angrily shoved them back into place, reading frantically through . . . and then she stopped. It was an imperceptible pause that most would miss, but studying her as closely as he did, he saw it. She knew the truth from whatever was written there. Cleopatra briefly caught his gaze, and a flash of worry turned her brown eyes a shade darker.
Then she looked away, effectively shutting him out.
Her fingers shook slightly as she shut the folder. “It wasn’t Brewster,” she said in her usual defiance, erecting a barrier between them.
“He’s being brought in for an interview now.”
All the color bled from Cleopatra’s cheeks, leaving her an ashen shade of gray.
“Your belongings are being packed as we speak,” Ryker went on with his usual ruthlessness.
“Ya cannot send her away,” Adair gritted out, and a sickening dread twisted in his belly.
“I am sending her away,” Ryker said tightly. “The terms of our arrangement only existed as long as there was a truce. The truce was off the minute the fire was set.” His face set into a hard mask that sent shivers of apprehension skittering along Adair’s spine. “I’m having charges brought against Killoran for organizing the plot.”
Cleopatra cried out and surged forward. “Ya bastard!” Adair caught her in his arms. She thrashed and flailed wildly. “Ya’d see to put my brother in Newgate? He didn’t burn down your damned club.”
“His head guard did,” Niall called over the fray. “Do ya expect us to believe ’e acted on his own without any interference from his employer?”
“Oi don’t care what ya believe, ya miserable rotted cur,” she spat.
Out of breath from his attempts to restrain her, Adair adjusted his hold, and all the while his panic spiraled. His brothers would never trust Cleopatra. They’d never see her or know her the way Adair did. What kind of future could they have together with this enmity between their families?
“Let me go,” she hissed, and wiggled herself free. Cleopatra bolted to the corner of the room, and his heart lurched painfully. She’d the look of a wounded, fearful animal braced for battle.
“Have you spoken to Killoran?” Adair demanded.
Varying degrees of shock and pity filled the three pairs of accusatory eyes now on him.
Ryker rolled his shoulders. “I’m going shortly. The constable has orders not to make any formal arrests until we speak.”
“Bastard,” Cleopatra spat again.
Adair held a palm up, silencing her. “I’ll not let you turn Cleopatra away without confirmation of an investigation.”
“Oi don’t want to stay here,” Cleopatra said quietly, with a restoration of her usual calm that increased the dread knocking around his insides. There was a resignation there that hinted at her double meaning. She didn’t want to be here with him.
Presenting his back to his brothers, Adair strode over to where Cleopatra had taken up position. Careful to angle his body in a way to conceal their exchange, he lowered his brow close to hers. “Don’t you dare quit on me because this is hard,” he demanded in hushed tones. “Our families hate one another, but in time—”
“Stop.”
He’d expected to see rage reflected behind her round wire-rimmed spectacles. The grief there hit him like a kick to the gut.
“You need to stop them. You need to go protect my brother.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “It wasn’t Broderick.”
And mayhap it spoke to just how much he’d been ensnared by this woman before him . . . but he believed her.
“You’re not leaving.” He turned back to his brothers and glared them all into silence, dared them to deny him. “She’s not leaving. She’ll remain . . . until I return.” And then he’d take her from here, a place where she was constantly doubted and questioned . . . and marry her. That is, if she’s willing to take you with all the tumult that comes because of your family . . . His hands formed reflexive fists.
“I don’t see the point in her staying,” Niall said, resisting. “Even if it wasn’t Killoran, it was Brewster, or”—he glared at Cleopatra—“another in their club. The end result is the same.”
“She. Is. Staying,” he barked. Dismissing his family once more, he whipped about, prepared to convince her to remain.
“Don’t let them take him to Newgate,” she pleaded.
The evidence of her suffering, begging like one stripped of her pride, ran ragged across his heart. “I won’t,” he vowed. “I’ll return.” And when he did, he’d convince her that their love was enough to overcome even the age-old feud between their families. He lingered, wanting to have that talk now. “I love you,” he mouthed.
Her throat moved spasmodically. “I know,” she whispered.
He gave her a pointed look, and a half sob burst from her lips. She touched her fingers in a quick, bold caress over his scarred cheek. “I love you, too.”
My God. My family is guilty.
Just not in the way Adair’s family believed.
Having suffered through the eternal stretch of time since Adair and his brothers took themselves off to meet Broderick, Cleopatra had changed her attire and bided her time.
Now, cap low on her head and with garments pilfered from one of the servants, Cleopatra wound her way through the Mayfair alleys, keeping close to the servants’ entrances and away from the now busy streets.
With every step, the nausea churned all the more in her belly. I’m going to vomit . . .
Mayhap she was wrong. Mayhap she’d merely read the file incorrectly, or mayhap the erroneous information had been reported. Or mayhap she was the naive one . . . and Adair and his brothers had been proven the correct ones, after all.
Her throat constricted, and she rasped for breath around that tightening. Stepping out at the end of Haymarket Street, she hailed a hack. The driver, in tattered garments, eyed her.
She hurled a sovereign at him. “There’ll be more,” she said in the low, gravelly tones she’d learned to use early on.
Pocketing the coin, the young man scrambled back into his seat.
Cleopatra climbed inside and pulled the door closed quickly.
And as the carriage rattled onward to the seedy streets of St. Giles, Cleopatra Killoran, who’d believed God had quit the likes of her long, long ago . . . prayed.
Please, let me be wrong. Please, let me be in time. Please, just please, let it all go back to the easy, happy times I’ve known these past weeks with Adair.
But the same way intuition had saved her and her siblings more times than a person ought to be saved, she knew. Whereas Adair—he’d still retained enough goodness in him that he’d trusted what was before his eyes. She’d asked him to go to Broderick, and he’d never given a thought as to why she’d not join him. And for that, she was grateful.
Cleopatra peeked out the faded velvet curtain, watching, waiting, waiting—
She shot a hand up and rapped hard on the ceiling.
The carriage came to a jarring halt. With a grunt, Cleopatra caught herself hard against the side; her cheek slammed against the window. Hurriedly righting her cap and spectacles, she pushed the door open. “Wait,” she ordered, tossing back another coin.
The streets of St. Giles never slept. They were bustling during the day and noisy at night. If one wanted to escape notice, there was always a crush of bodies or constant activity to provide cover. Still, Cleopatra wished it were nightfall. Hunching her shoulders, Cleopatra darted around passing carriages. She reached the edge of the pavement and ducked down the alley between a vacant building . . . and the Hell and Sin.
Construction workers rushed back and forth with enormous beams of wood. The echo of a hammer’s rhythmic bang hinted at the important work being done inside.
Cleopatra squinted, measuring the slight distance between the roofs of the bakery, the building owned by Adair and his family . . . and the Hell and Sin. Unleashing a stream of inventive curses in her mind, she darted down the dank, dark thoroughfare until she’d reached the back door of the bakery. Silently, letting herself in through a crack in the door, she slipped inside. Using the boisterous shouts of the proprietor from deep within the shop and the giggles and loud discourse of the staff, busy at work, to her benefit, Cleopatra crept through the room. A short while later, having taken the stairs quickly and quietly, she found herself at the top of the roof.
She briefly eyed the distance between her and the ground, and her heart dropped. Had she truly once found this thrilling? I never saw anything past what sent me up here. How right he’d been.
She’d ascribed beauty to her rooftop climbs. Yet, when she’d been above the London streets, she’d been . . . alone, stealing solitary moments in a dark world. It was a testament to how empty her life had been before Adair. He’d filled her days with more happiness than she’d known in the whole of her existence. And after all her family had done, there could never be anything more between them. Her throat convulsed. But she could still save his club, and perhaps that would be gift enough that he might remember her fondly after she’d gone.
Reminded of her purpose, Cleopatra took a small running start and then leapt across the three-foot gap between the buildings. Her heart sped up and climbed into her throat all at the same time, as it always did when she went jumping between roofs. Her feet danced wildly in the air in a stretch of time that was surely only a handful of seconds but always felt eternal.
She landed on her feet in a crouching position. Panting from her efforts, Cleopatra got onto all fours and crawled over to the edge of the stucco establishment. A sea of workers oversaw their tasks below. Only a bloody fool out of his damned head would ever declare open war with a potential sea of witnesses about.
A fool . . . or a lackwit . . . or . . . a child.
She bit down hard on her lower lip.
Recalled to her purpose, Cleopatra took her next jump across without hesitation. Windows ajar and the building still structurally damaged, there were plenty of entryways for Cleopatra to make her way through. She quickly lowered herself down the edge of the building and swung her legs into the nearest open window.
As soon as her feet collided with the floor, she froze. Her heart pounded as she waited for someone to storm the room and cart her off to Newgate for being found lurking here.
However, the cacophony of noise from within muted even the sounds of her heavy breathing. Cleopatra did a quick sweep of the servants’ quarters. Stained with soot and still stinking of smoke, these rooms had been largely untouched. And yet . . . they, too, would need to be fully gutted and restored.
You don’t know if it was him . . . you’re going on nothing more than a report obtained by Ryker Black and his family. Such a detail would have blinded her to all logic before. No more. Although Adair’s brother had proven mistrustful of her and her kin at every turn, he’d still never revealed himself to be anything but honorable . . . and thorough. Whereas Cleopatra had blindly believed and trusted that her kin were incapable of true evil . . . that her family was good. She’d wrongly lectured Adair, and now she would be made a liar in the worst possible way.
She firmed her mouth and hurried from the servants’ quarters. Slinking about the Hell and Sin like the common street thief she’d once been, Cleopatra did a swift inventory of the rooms on the highest floor, then paused. Rubbing her mouth, she looked about. “Black’s office,” she whispered. Of course.
Springing into movement, Cleopatra found the servants’ stairways and descended to the next floor. But for some soot, the satin wallpaper was largely untouched. And though the acrid odor of smoke lingered in the air, the floor might as well have been otherwise unaffected. Still, all of it would need to be replaced. She pressed a hand against her mouth. So much senseless damage. So much loss.
Systematically, she went door by door, passing bedroom after bedroom after parlor, and then a library.
A library. Adair and his family kept a library for their family. Drawn to the room, Cleopatra moved deeper inside to where a walnut console table sat. Atop the marble surface rested a thick leather book. You have more pressing details to attend to than snooping inside Adair’s life here . . .
And yet . . .
Cleopatra opened the volume filled with rows upon neat rows of names and book titles. She skimmed page after page. “It is a library,” she whispered, once again staggered by the depth of the generosity in this family when her own had been so singularly focused on their own wealth and power.
Yes, the Devil’s Den had risen, and the Hell and Sin had begun a gradual fall, but how much more good they’d accomplished than Cleopatra’s family.
Numb, she set the book down.
Squaring her jaw, she set out to find Ryker Black’s office, winding her way through the building.
A muffled crash sounded from the path she’d just taken. A moment later, the pungent aroma of smoke filtered around her senses, holding her frozen, transporting her back to another fire. One that had ended lives and destroyed a home.
I’ll not let Adair lose another part of this club. Familial relationship be damned, she’d not let her brother destroy this hell or perpetuate a feud. Fighting back the fear that gripped her, she raced toward the noise and burning smell. Where is he . . . ? Where is he . . . ? Cleopatra skidded to a stop outside—the library. No.
With all the papers and pages, it was the perfect room to set ablaze if one wanted to destroy a home by fire. Cleopatra pushed the door open, and a wave of heat hit her, sucking the breath from her lungs. Crimson flames already licked at the edges of leather volumes, and hissing and popping embers were spreading quickly along the shelving.
What have you done?
Coughing, Cleopatra frantically eyed the beloved space. There was no way she could stop this. She waved her hand, warding off the thick smoke billowing about . . .
Another loud thump echoed behind her.
She looked back, and her heart crumpled to her toes as fire engulfed the room.
Heat scorching her skin, Cleopatra did a frantic sweep of the brilliant conflagration set.
Terror licking at the corners of her mind and spiraling through her, Cleopatra buried her face in her elbow. She squinted, struggling to see past the thick haze of smoke blanketing the room. Gasping for proper breath, she frantically searched around. Weren’t there any bloody windows in this place? Rushing back into the smoke-clogged hall, she did another sweep. Flames had already consumed the opposite end of the corridor. Fear mobilizing her, she rushed down the lone corridor not yet consumed.
A blast of cool, clean air slapped her face, and she sucked in great, heaving breaths full. Cleopatra struggled toward that blessed window, giving thanks. And her heart promptly fell.
The tiny sill was designed at best for a child pickpocket, and not much more. Hanging out the window, she peered up past the flames spilling from the window below, just as a small body hefted himself up onto the roof. “Stephen,” she cried hoarsely. Damn you. Damn you for doing this.
A moment later, a familiar head of tousled golden hair appeared. Her brother shook his head, befuddlement stamped on his child’s features . . . and then terror. “C-Cleopatra? Why . . . why . . . ?”
She closed her eyes.
I’m trapped . . .