The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Page 16

  Penelope opened and closed her mouth several times. “What do you want?” she asked softly, that deeply intimate question, on the side of the ballroom, with a sea of guests intently scrutinizing their exchange.

  Cleopatra gave her head a terse shake. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” It had never been about her. It had always been about the good of the group . . . specifically, Ophelia, Gertrude, and Stephen.

  “Siblings?” Penelope said with that unerring accuracy.

  Ophelia, Gertrude, and Stephen. Pain filled her at the mere thought of them. They’d been all she’d known since birth. They’d looked after one another, helped one another survive; now it was far easier to not think of them at all. Cleopatra looked away. She’d become a master of self-control, and as such, hadn’t truly dwelt on thoughts of them. Now Black’s wife here would drag forward their images. Mayhap the fancy lady was one of those cruel sorts.

  The viscountess lightly squeezed her hand. “I married my husband in a bid to save my sister so she might make a future match. I recognize that level of sacrifice.”

  “A person ’as to do what they ought,” she said gruffly. And for her that was saving her sisters.

  “Yes,” Penelope agreed, a wistfulness to that one syllable. “But sometimes,” she went on, her eyes going soft, “you find love where you least expect it.”

  Cleopatra followed her stare to where Ryker Black stood. Even across the ballroom, a powerful look passed between the couple. Feeling like an interloper, Cleopatra swiftly averted her gaze. Black’s wife spoke about Cleopatra forming a love match? The lady was either ten times a fool or cracked in the brain if she believed Cleopatra was going to end up in a love match with a fancy toff . . . or in love with any man.

  “Come along,” Penelope coaxed. “Let me at least introduce you to some of the prospective gentlemen.”

  Cleopatra’s gut clenched. Was this how the whores inside the Devil’s Den felt every night? Cleopatra formed a newfound appreciation for their sentiments and a regret for having failed to consider as much before now.

  “That is Lord Darby,” Black’s wife whispered, discreetly pointing to a golden-haired gentleman sipping from a glass of champagne. “He has two sisters he’s rumored to care an inordinate amount for, refusing to force either of them into a match.”

  An inelegant snort escaped Cleopatra. “And why should he? He’s the one who wagered away ten thousand pounds of his family’s fortune,” she said bluntly. Her family was the fortunate recipient of all those funds.

  Mouth agape, Penelope shifted her attention elsewhere. “Very well, then mayhap Lord Corbett. He’s a young widower.”

  “And rough with the whores he takes to his bed.”

  Color suffused Penelope’s cheeks, and she pursed her mouth. “Certainly not Lord Corbett, then.” Chewing at the tip of her gloved finger, the hostess continued to survey the crowd. “I wager that you may, in fact, know more than I about the gentlemen present.”

  That was a wager Cleopatra would readily accept and win. She, however, didn’t require information about the gentlemen present. She required introductions. So that she could pledge herself forevermore to a man. In her mind, she heard Diggory’s oft-repeated shout: You don’t ’ave any rights . . . you answer to me. While Penelope considered the other gentlemen present, Cleopatra’s eyes slid involuntarily closed. A cold sweat broke out on her skin. I will be turning myself over to a man. It was a reality made all the more real standing on the fringe of Polite Society with the viscountess playing matchmaker. As a part of Diggory’s family, she’d been beaten, tortured, and mocked with words that were often crueler than his meaty fists. Despite the silent vow she’d made with herself, after being saved by Broderick, to never find herself at the mercy of a man, she now found herself in that exact place she’d never intended to be—searching for a husband.

  “What do you know of Lord—”

  And with Penelope putting forward another possible candidate, Cleopatra did what she’d always done best when presented with danger—she fled.

  “. . . Cleopatra?” Penelope’s concerned voice grew more distant as the other woman searched for her.

  She could search and never find. Cleopatra had perfected the art of hiding as a mere babe toddling around one of Diggory’s hovels, and Black’s fancy-born wife would never be a match for her. She moved speedily through the ballroom, ducking around the helpful pillars and syncing her steps with liveried servants bearing trays. The laughter and discourse blended together in her ears, a cacophony of sound that fueled her panic.

  Bypassing the main entrance to the ballroom, she found her way through a side door. As soon as she stepped out, Cleopatra broke out into a full sprint to rival her thievery days in the rookeries. Her hair tumbled free of the artful arrangement her lady’s maid had managed, leaving her drab brown strands falling about her shoulders. Breathless from her exertions, she brushed the hair back from her eyes and made for the servants’ staircase. Cleopatra skidded to a stop, damning the slippers that sent her sliding into the wall. She caught herself hard with a grunt and pushed her spectacles back into place. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, she climbed the dark, narrow stairwell higher and higher into the peak of Black’s townhouse, all the way to the servants’ quarters. The dark space was quiet, with all the staff otherwise attending the evening’s festivities, and provided a solemn calm.

  Cleopatra crept along the wall and made for the window. Placing her palms on either side, she shoved it up slowly. The cool night air spilled into the room, and closing her eyes, she let the familiar London air fill her lungs.

  Except this wasn’t the familiar London, as she knew it. This was a strange place, where she’d been taken in by the enemy, who’d come to treat her as an object of pity more than anything. People for whom there was really no loyalty or affection toward her, but rather a sense of obligation.

  Cleopatra opened her eyes and stared out at the tops of fancy roofs of these Mayfair townhouses. Nor are these familiar roofs, she thought blankly. These were ones she’d climbed upon as a child and then as a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She eyed the ledge, and then, angling her head out the window, measured the distance and windows between her spot and the top. The roof had always beckoned. It had been the one place Diggory had never been able to reach her. As such, she’d reveled in the assignments that sent her high above the London homes. For risking capture and hanging for stealing from a nob was far preferable to the terror Diggory had inflicted with a routine frequency.

  Cleopatra lifted her skirts and shucked her slippers off. She tossed them under the nearest bed, where they landed with a soft thump. Her stockings followed suit. Straightening, she let her dress fall back into place and settle around her ankles with a shimmery rustle. She perched her left foot atop the sill and slowly pulled herself upright. Cleopatra stole a peek at the grounds below.

  Of course, roof climbing had always been vastly easier when she’d donned boy’s breeches and a tight-fitting shirt. One slight misstep, one foot snagging the hem of her gown, would see her crashing to the cobblestones as nothing more than a fond memory for her small family. The pull of the roof had always been greater, though.

  Propelling herself up on her tiptoes, she reached for the sill directly overhead. Cleopatra’s fingers connected with the cool stone, and curling her fingers around it, she dragged herself slowly up to the next narrow ledge. Her spectacles slipped, and she froze. Damning her dratted vision, and her desperate need of those lenses, she paused to push them back into place and then resumed her climb. With every step that carried her farther and farther away, the terror receded, and it was replaced with a solitary quiet that she’d come to crave through the years.

  She continued her slow, purposeful ascent until she’d reached the sloped metal roof. The jagged slats provided an easy foothold as she made for the chimney.

  Borrowing support from the cold bricks, she looked out over London. Through the faint fog of night, stars peaked out, twinkling in t
heir distant glory. This moment belonged to Cleopatra, not Broderick or Lady Chatham and her family, and up here, for a brief time, she was beholden to none. She smiled, accepting that triumph no matter how small it was.

  For now—she was free.

  Chapter 14

  “She’s gone missing.”

  Adair’s hearing was off. It was surely why, through the clamor of the inane festivities arranged by his sister-in-law, he’d misheard Niall.

  “What?” he blurted, having no doubt about the identity of the she in question.

  A vein bulged in Niall’s street-hardened eyes. “Not ’ere,” he muttered in his coarse Cockney. “Ryker wants us in his office.”

  They immediately fell into side-by-side step. The dandy-clad gents and satin-skirt-wearing ladies hurried to step out of their path. But then, that had been the horrified reaction they’d been met with since they’d been forced to suffer through their first ton event. It wasn’t a response reserved for the ton. Men, women, and children in the streets of St. Giles also looked upon them with the same horror and awe. Only Cleopatra had been fearless around him, talking freely . . . but sharing little, a voice needled at the back of his brain.

  His brothers were being overly suspicious . . . nay, cautious of Cleopatra. Or mayhap you’re not being sufficiently wary of the spirited woman.

  Bloody hell.

  Quickening his stride, Adair reached Ryker’s office first. Not bothering with the expected knock, he let himself in. Niall trailed a step behind.

  Ryker stood behind his desk, barking out orders to the four Hell and Sin guards who’d taken on the role of undercover servants while Cleopatra was living here.

  “. . . already searched the nursery, and I have two men stationed outside, another inside at the connecting door,” Flannagan was saying. “One at the window . . .”

  Ears trained on that terse cataloging, Adair came forward, joining the younger guard at the desk.

  “You think she’d harm the babe?” he interrupted, not certain how to explain his annoyance with Ryker. It was wrong to expect his brother to trust that a Killoran wouldn’t inflict harm upon a babe of his . . . and yet . . . the gut instinct that had gotten him to see thirty years on this miserable earth had never proven faulty before.

  Ryker issued a low directive to the other man, who nodded and rushed off.

  “She’s gone missing,” Ryker said curtly, now attending Adair.

  Guarding me? . . . Still don’t trust me . . . ?

  Her faintly hurt accusation whispered forward.

  “My lord?” Covington, one of the two remaining guards, asked at Adair’s side, slashing across his musings. Attired in crimson uniform, their garments were the only thing that lent their heavily muscled frames a hint of liveried footmen.

  “Do another sweep of the ballroom. You and Kipling both,” Ryker ordered.

  As both men hustled past Niall, who served as a sentry at the doorway, Adair stared after them. Where in blazes is she?

  “Don’t you believe this is a bit of an overreaction? Mayhap the lady wanted some air or . . . ?” At the incredulous looks boring into his skin from both directions, he flushed.

  “I want you to do a sweep of the main living quarters,” Ryker replied, with his directives providing an answer of just what he believed about Cleopatra’s disappearance. “And Niall, you—”

  The door flew open, and Penelope stormed in. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, closing the door softly behind her. That quiet action at odds with the urgently spoken question. “There are guards running all over this house, Ryker.”

  “You reported her missing,” he gritted out.

  Penelope planted her hands on her hips. “I mentioned that she’d rushed off, and I was looking for her.”

  “Because you were worried,” her husband said, motioning for Niall to leave.

  The young viscountess tossed her arms up. “About the young woman,” she said, exasperation rich in her tone. “I am worried about the young woman.” With a sound of disgust, she turned to Adair, effectively dismissing her husband. “When you were speaking alone with Cleo, did she give you any indication that she was upset? After we left you, she was . . . somber.”

  He ran through their exchange. They’d been teasing and talkative, and other than a slight darkening of her eyes at the mention of Diggory, there’d been nothing else. “What were you speaking with her about after?” he countered.

  “Her . . . marital prospects.”

  In short, they’d been discussing the sole reason for Cleopatra’s placement here. A stinging, bitter taste filled his mouth . . . an unpleasant one that felt very much like . . . jealousy.

  “Regardless of what you were discussing, I want her found,” Ryker said tightly. “Adair?”

  With a brusque nod, Adair quit Ryker’s offices. As soon as he’d closed the door and stepped into the hall, Penelope’s rapid-fire defense of Cleopatra pierced the wood panel. That muffled argument trailing in his wake, Adair hurried along the corridor.

  Where is she . . . ? Where is she . . . ?

  Despite his brothers’ reservations, Adair didn’t believe Cleopatra had come here to harm anyone. What reason would she have to deepen the feud between their families?

  “You’ve been away from the likes of Diggory too long,” he muttered under his breath, climbing the stairs to the main living quarters. He reached the landing and paused. His brother was so convinced that Cleopatra would so boldly and blatantly seek out those rooms. In this short time, knowing Cleopatra as he did, she’d never do what was expected of her, or go where one might find her.

  Pressing his palm over his mouth, he tapped his index finger against his cheek. Think. Think. The night she’d sneaked from her rooms, how had she gotten out? Not through a door, but through the—

  He immediately ceased his distracted beat.

  “The window,” he breathed.

  He sprang into movement, knowing instinctually where he’d find her. Unheeding Ryker’s orders, Adair raced up the next stairwell to where he kept rooms alongside Cleopatra’s. Shoving open her chamber doors, he did a sweep of the rooms. Empty. Nor had he expected her to be here. Squinting in the dark, he sharpened his gaze on the window—the closed one. She’d not made use of that one. Why should she? If there was one higher . . . closer to the roof . . .

  Praying he was wrong, and still knowing he was right, Adair rushed to the servants’ stairway and climbed to the small, now crowded quarters. The club having been burned, and their staff without a place to reside until the repairs were complete, Ryker and Penelope, Niall and Diana, and Robert and Helena had filled every available space with the displaced staff. He pushed the door open, and a wave of cool night air filtered out into the hall.

  Fear held him momentarily suspended, and then he lurched forward. A faint scrap of white fabric peeked out from under a nearby cot. Bending down, he swept up the fabric . . . and the pair of slippers haphazardly hidden. “Damn you, Cleopatra Killoran,” he whispered. Letting them go, he quickly divested himself of his boots and stockings. His jacket was next. And a moment later, Adair Thorne—who’d vowed at the age of fifteen that he’d climbed his last roof—found himself scaling the narrow window ledges to the top of his brother’s Mayfair townhouse.

  Fifteen years out of practice, the skills and steps he’d mastered as a boy remained as strong as they’d been. Yet, height and muscle made his climb slow. Concentrating on each hand and foot placement, he pulled himself higher and higher. He stopped at the top windowsill and stole a glance down the more than one hundred feet between him and a swift plunge to the cobblestones below. His stomach lurched, and he swiftly closed his eyes. God, he forgot just how much he’d despised this task Diggory had given him years earlier. Never look down . . . It was a damned lesson he’d inconveniently forgotten.

  Always concentrate on the path above . . .

  Waiting until his heart had resumed a normal cadence, he gripped the edge of the roof. His breath coming fast
, a product of fear and his exertions, Adair dragged himself atop the flat surface . . . and instantly found Cleopatra.

  Their eyes collided.

  Of course she’d be at the highest point, that slightly sloped portion alongside the chimney. And the damned organ in his chest resumed a wild hammering rhythm as he was filled with something he’d never believed he could feel for a Killoran—fear. He tried to make his tongue move to form words.

  “You climb roofs,” she said.

  She’d gone missing and risked breaking her damned, beautifully long neck, and that is what she’d say? He counted to ten, and when he still wanted to shout down the bloody slats they now occupied, he counted to another ten.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, a softness in her eyes as she stared out across the streets of Mayfair. That tenderness killed the stinging diatribe he’d intended to unleash upon her ears.

  Adair liked her this way. Real and open and . . . honest. He turned out, seeing what she saw.

  “I always loved it up here,” she went on in wistful tones.

  He clasped his hands behind him. “I never saw anything past what sent me up here,” he said quietly. To steal, to escape capture, there’d never been any beauty or peace in those actions.

  Cleopatra stood, and he took a quick step toward her, but she’d already hiked her skirts up and leapt from her perch. “I disagree.”

  “As you are wont to do,” he drawled with a wink to dull the seriousness of that charge.

  “When you’re up here, no one can reach you. No one, unless they climb after you themselves, can come after you and force you down or hurt—”

  Hurt you. His insides spasmed. She’d lived her entire life with Diggory, whereas Adair had always believed that death was preferable to serving that dark Devil.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Up here, a person is free. You’re in control. There’s no angry shopkeepers or fast-moving carriages or constables about. There’s just you”—Cleopatra tipped her head back toward the dark night sky—“and the stars and moon.”