The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Page 26

  “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 p
aused. 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 . . .

  Chapter 21

  They’d come full circle.

  It was another meeting between two embittered, long-fighting gangs whose history of hatred for one another went back to their tender years. For all intents and purposes, the tense silence hovering in the air may as well have been a re-creation of the meeting four weeks earlier—when Cleopatra had first entered his life.

  And nothing had been the same since.

  Nor do I want to go back to the bitter, angry person I’d been.

  Cleopatra had changed him. Adair, who’d been wary of all, wanted her in his life, as his partner. He, who’d thought himself so very content with his purposeful existence.

  He slid his gaze around Broderick Killoran’s office: pistols brandished and bodies tense, his family still remained as jaded as they’d always been. Blinded by their hatred and resentment, they would hold Cleopatra responsible for the crimes of her father.

  I have to make this right . . . There has to be a mistake . . .

  He froze. “It doesn’t make sense, Ryker,” Adair said from the corner of his mouth, in barely audible tones. With her emphatic defense, Cleopatra had surely realized as much. It had been why she’d sent him here.

  Calum, with his long-heightened sense of hearing, gave him a dark, silencing look.

  Ignoring it, Adair moved closer to Ryker.

  One of the burly guards behind Killoran’s desk alternated his pistol between them. “Not another step,” the man barked.

  In reply, Niall brought his pistol up, leveling it at the guard nearest him.

  “Think about it,” Adair whispered, unfazed by the weapon pointed at his chest. “Killoran would have to be a bloody fool to not at the very least wait until the terms of the truce were met.” Cleopatra’s marriage. “Why would he act now?” he continued through flat lips.

  Ryker flexed his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps it’s a mark of his arrogance.”

  Adair shook his head. “He values his power and prestige above all. He’d not jeopardize that by harming either our club or family—”

  “He’s already harmed our club,” Ryker put in.

  “—before Cleopatra marries.”

  His brother frowned.

  “You know I’m right,” Adair pressed.

  “You two over there. Quiet,” the taller guard in the corner of the room barked.

  The door opened, and Killoran swept inside. “Black,” he called out. “Thorne, Dabney, Marksman. Always a pleasure.” He moved the way a king might at court, among his lesser subjects. Not breaking stride, he lifted his right hand up. His three guards, without hesitation, sheathed their weapons and filed to the corner of the room.

  Adair followed their practiced movements better suited to soldiers and found a grudging respect for that complete control of his men and their routine.

  Cleopatra’s brother perched his hip on the corner of his desk. “Black. I trust all is well with my sister?”

  It was the first question put to them . . . not about their arrangement or business or any of the thousand other contentions between them . . . but his sister, Cleopatra.

  Ryker grinned a coldly dark grin, devoid of humor and full of threat.

  Adair took a step forward. “Cleopatra is fine,” he said quietly.

  Killoran swung his focus over to him, his keen gaze saying he’d seen more than Adair intended with that assurance. Straightening, Cleopatra’s brother strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a tall snifter of brandy. “You had better hope she is, Thorne.” He paused, setting the decanter down. “For if she’s not,” he went on when he’d turned back, “I’ll off you all.” He followed that threat with a toast.

  “Another threat,” Niall snarled, taking a lunging step forward. “After what you’ve done, Oi expect nothing more from the likes of you and your people.”

  One of Killoran’s men matched his steps, but the head proprietor lifted another hand, gesturing his guard back into place.

  “Oh?” Killoran grinned over the rim of his glass. “And what am I have rumored t
o have done—”

  Ryker tossed the leather folio into the center of the room. It landed with a soft thwack on the Aubusson carpet.

  His earlier bravado flagged, and Killoran hesitated.

  “We know everything,” his brother growled. “We found your man lurking at the club. Next time, you’d be wise not to leave a Diggory calling card.”

  Adair studied Cleopatra’s brother closely. One could always tell much about a person’s guilt by their reaction . . . or nonreaction . . . to a heated charge. Confusion darkened the rival proprietor’s eyes. He glanced over to Adair and quickly concealed that show. “Rather cryptic of you,” Cleopatra’s brother drawled. “I wouldn’t have taken you or your brothers as ones given to theatrics.” Glass in hand, Broderick strolled over and retrieved the folder. Returning to his desk, he offered his back to the assembled guests.

  It was just another telltale indication of the other man’s origins—ones that Cleopatra had revealed. The rustle of page after page being turned crowded out the silence of the room. Killoran’s shoulders went taut, and his upper arm muscles strained the fabric of his jacket.

  “Brewster was discovered inside the club.”

  “I see that,” Killoran said evenly as he closed up the folder and turned it over.

  “He’s going to Newgate,” Niall called out. “For arson and attempted murder, Killoran.”

  The color bled from his face.

  “And we’re having you investigated for plotting the fire,” Calum murmured, his calming soberness a marked juxtaposition of Niall’s hardheadedness.

  “You’re making a mistake.” To Killoran’s credit, he responded dismissively to threats against himself. He set the folder down on the edge of his desk. “Brewster had no part in anything.”

  “Then you—”

  “If I wanted to destroy your club, Black, it would have been in ashes long before now,” Cleopatra’s brother impatiently cut in, his words an echo of her protestations.

  In the first crack of his remarkable composure, Killoran dusted a hand over his face. “Outside.”

  His guards hesitated, then filed from the room. When they’d gone, he leveled his stare on Ryker. “I give you my word that Brewster is not responsible.”