Chapter 9
She left the next day.
Or to be precise, Cleopatra Killoran left somehow, somewhere, in the early-morn hours, after the house had finally rested. With the stealth with which she’d moved about Ryker’s home and then escaped unseen, she could rival the greatest London pickpocket. Which, given Adair’s own prowess and familiarity with nicking from the ton years earlier, was saying something indeed.
Now the hellion was gone. Seated at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee, Adair confronted the quiet in this stuffy—and temporary—residence. With the tumult that had dogged his life since the Hell and Sin burned to the ground, he’d now be able to rest, knowing he didn’t have to safeguard his family from an enemy within. There should be peace . . . and at the very least, calm. There should be. Instead, Adair sat restless.
Oi wouldn’t ’urt a babe . . .
Cleopatra Killoran’s indignation rang in his head as clear as it had in the dead of night. Adair stared into the dark contents of his glass. Nay, she’d not hurt Paisley. Rather, she’d seen what Paisley’s own parents had been unable to about their drunken nursemaid.
And for her efforts, Adair had pointed a pistol at her breast.
Grimacing, Adair took a sip of his coffee. I’ll be damned if I feel guilty. He’d reacted as any sane, rational guard would to finding a Killoran with Penelope and Ryker’s babe in her arms. The Killorans were the manner of people who dwelled with the Diggorys of the world. Anyone—man, woman, or child—who chose to live with the Devil was capable of the same evil. Whereas Adair and his siblings? They’d plotted and planned their escape from Diggory’s hold and dreamed of a life apart from him. They’d sold their souls to survive, but they’d not made a deal with the Devil to do it.
If he were being honest with himself now, in the light of a new day, he accepted that which he’d not been able to see in the moment of immediate danger: Cleopatra had been cradling Paisley and humming a discordant tune. Hardly the actions of one about to snuff the life out of a child. Rather, there had been a maternal warmth that, had Adair been asked up to that moment, he’d have wagered every earning he’d made on the Hell and Sin Club the termagant was incapable of.
Even so, it was a risk he’d not have taken with his brother’s precious babe . . . or any of the family and staff dependent upon them.
Yet, sitting here with his plate full, damned if he did not feel the unwanted strains of guilt plucking at his conscience still. Guilt that came not only from the fact that he’d succeeded in driving off Cleopatra Killoran, but that she’d sneaked out into the streets of London, unarmed, and had no doubt found her way back to the Dials, where her family’s club was located. His gaze went to the serpent-headed dagger that rested alongside his silverware.
Diggory’s knife . . . but still also, Cleopatra’s. She’d a right to it, and she’d certainly had a need for it hours earlier when she’d slunk off. “Enough,” he muttered under his breath. Searching for a distraction, he set aside his glass and picked up the leather folio that rested alongside Cleopatra’s knife. Adair popped the folder open and proceeded to read the first page that enumerated the damages incurred at the Hell and Sin.
And just like that . . . his fury at Cleopatra Killoran and her rotted family surged to life. God rot them all.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and he glanced up as Ryker and Penelope, baby in arms, entered the breakfast room. Instead of making for the well-stocked buffet, they claimed their respective spots and stared pointedly back at him.
He frowned.
It was his loquacious sister-in-law who broke the quiet. “We have to bring her back.” She stared pointedly at Adair. “You have to bring her back,” she amended.
Him? After nearly taking her on his desk and then following that effrontery with a pistol pointed at her chest, he was the last person she’d care to receive an escort from. “Killoran’s sister would rather see me in hell,” he said with more confidence than anything he’d felt since the bold spitfire had entered this household.
“With good reason,” Penelope agreed. “And that is for all of us. We’ve been nothing but accusatory since the club burned down.”
Since they burned his hell down. That reminder of all he’d lost rekindled the hatred he’d long carried for the Killoran gang. It was familiar and safe. Far safer than the burning longing to know the taste of her mouth—he growled. “Let it be, Penelope.”
His sister-in-law set her jaw at a pugnacious angle. “She’s coming back.”
Adair groaned and cast a hopeful look at his brother. Ryker met his gaze with a stony determination. So, there would be no help there. They were determined to bring Cleopatra Killoran back. The tart-mouthed hellion with too-full lips and a skillfully dangerous ability to wield her limbs like weapons. “No,” he said curtly, closing his folder.
“It is the right thing to do,” Ryker said somberly, weighing in at last.
“It is not going to work.” Adair set the leather folio aside. “The girl . . .”
I’m not a girl . . .
Nor did she feel at all girl-like when you ran your hands over her lithe frame. He choked on his swallow. Lusting after a Killoran. What in blazes had become of him? “The young woman left because she had the sense enough to know that. Whether or not she was going to hurt Paisley—”
“She wasn’t.”
“You’re certain of that?” Adair paused to look at his sister-in-law. “Because you were far less so last night, Penelope.”
“Yes.” She flattened her mouth. “But I am now.”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter either way. There is far too much mistrust between our families for this arrangement to ever work.” They’d been foolish to believe it could ever . . . even if it was to honor an agreement made.
“Regardless,” Ryker said, motioning over a servant. A young footman instantly sprang forward with a cup of coffee. What had his brother become? A man comfortable calling over servants like a titled lord born to the station . . . and conceding a point to a Killoran? “It wasn’t our place to break the terms of the contract.” There was a resolute edge that hinted that Ryker’s decision had been made.
He, however, had never been afraid to go toe-to-toe with anyone . . . including his brother. “She broke the terms when she left,” Adair insisted.
“She was wronged,” Penelope said tersely. Worry clouded her eyes. “We wronged her. And we need to make it right.”
Adair launched a full-out protest, with Penelope raising her voice over his.
Ryker held a silencing hand up. “Enough.” That gravelly, two-syllable utterance cut across the din. “The girl made the decision to leave—”
“Because—”
“Because of our . . . inhospitality,” Ryker said over his wife’s interruption. She stared angrily back. “We cannot force her to return if she doesn’t wish to be here. We can, however, make our apologies and extend an olive branch.”
Adair choked on his coffee. He sputtered as tears filled his eyes. A branch extended to a Killoran. The world had been flipped upside down, indeed.
“It is settled, Adair,” his brother said quietly. “We’ll leave now.” Shoving back his chair, Ryker came to his feet.
“Bring her back, Ryker,” his wife called out.
With all the enthusiasm of being marched to Diggory’s to account for a bumbled theft, Adair stood and followed reluctantly behind his brother.
“Adair?”
He glanced back to his sister-in-law.
She gave him a stern look. “Be nice to her.”
With a sigh, he inclined his head, and then he marched after Ryker. What his sister-in-law failed to realize in her innocence was that simply being nice would never erase the resentment. That the anger between their family and the Killorans was ingrained into the fabric of who they were.
A short while later, Ryker’s carriage rumbled along the noisy, dirty, familiar streets of East London. Having long been a man unwilling or unable to share many words—even with his siblings—Ryker stared forward, as silent as he’d been before his marriage to Penelope.
Adair took advantage of the quiet. Staring out the crystal window, he took in the passing cobblestones. Unlike the clean, even ones of Mayfair, these roads were covered in grime and dirt. They were the same streets that as a boy he’d thieved upon and raced along, in a bid to escape constables and Diggory or his men’s punishing fists. And for the danger that had, and would always, lurk here, there was also a familiarity that calmed him.
They rolled to a stop outside the Devil’s Den. Velvet curtain still drawn back, Adair fixed his gaze on Killoran’s establishment. The cracked redbrick facade showed its age. Only the gleaming black double doorway with two brass knockers hinted at the rising prosperity of this place. Bitterness soured his tongue, making it difficult to swallow. Killoran’s club was standing and thriving, while his own had been reduced to nothing more than largely ashes and upstairs apartments.
“Come,” Ryker murmured.
Giving his head a shake, he followed his brother outside.
The thick scent of rot and horse shite clogged the air.
He belonged here far more than he did Mayfair. They all did: he, Ryker, Calum, and Niall. They spoke of moving their club to the fancier ends of London, but this is where they all belonged—no matter whom they each might wed. Being immersed here, once again, roused a restiveness inside, a hungering to return to this world, no matter how violent it was. Instead, he’d march up to the steps belonging to the man no doubt responsible for Adair’s loss and extend a branch to the bastard’s sister.
Growling, he and Ryker walked side by side to the front doors. Not bothering with so much as a knock, Adair reached past and let them in.
The raucous laughter and discourse spilled out into the streets, near deafening. That cacophony of sounds served as a greater sign of Killoran’s success than the gleaming black itself.
The tall, heavily muscled guard stationed at the front glanced over and stiffened. He reached for a weapon.
Adair drew a blade from his boot. “We’re here to speak with Killoran.” Killoran’s head guard instantly stopped. The color leeched from his cheeks as he eyed that jewel-encrusted dagger. So, the man recognized it as belonging to Cleopatra Killoran.
“Bastards,” the guard spat. His muscles strained the fabric of his jacket, and he cast a look about.
Adair and Ryker followed his stare to where Killoran stood conversing with a flame-haired woman. Modestly clad, heavily freckled, and hair drawn back tight at her nape, she stood apart from the other whores about this hell. Those two spoke, heads bent, with a closeness that moved beyond lovers.
Another uniform-clad guard approached the pair, saying something to the proprietor.
Killoran went taut. He whipped his head in Adair and Ryker’s direction. His eyes narrowed. His lips barely moved as he spoke to that guard.
With a nod, that man came sprinting through the club. “Killoran will see you in his office.” Then, jerking his chin, he motioned Adair and his brother forward.
Adair, gaze trained forward, braced for his meeting with the enemy.