He swatted at her hand. “I didn’t think you of all people would say that. Thought you’d be, ‘Now, Stephen, speak proper, dress proper, and be proper,’” he said in high-pitched tones.
Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “I do not sound like that.”
“Yes, you do. Every time you give me a lesson.”
Fair enough. “Yes, well, one can speak properly and attain a valuable education while also honoring the lessons we learned on the streets.” That philosophical belief, however, had long set her apart from every one of her siblings, except Broderick. He’d seen that it mattered. Gertrude resumed her stroll around Stephen’s rooms, exploring the narrow desk drawers and underside of each piece of furniture.
How dreadfully dull and predictable. There were no secret latches. No hidden compartments.
“There’s nowhere to hide my things.”
Gertrude dropped to her knees beside the armoire and peered inside once again. “It will have to be here for now. Until I speak again with His Lordship.”
“When’s that going to be?”
While you are here, you are not to darken my door.
“Soon,” she hedged. Lord Maddock had been abundantly clear in his expectations. Her heart pounded hard. Nay, his demands.
From somewhere within the household, a chiming clock struck the quarter hour.
Gertrude sighed. “Now.” Because if she did not, then Broderick would storm the marquess’s home, demanding to know just where in blazes she’d gone off to. And then they were doomed. All of them.
But before she spoke to his father, Stephen required a task. He always required something to do. But it had to be something he saw value in, or he sought out trouble—and invariably discovered it. And Stephen’s trouble was not the same as that of an innocent young boy’s putting ink or frogs in teacups. It was setting fires or picking nobs’ pockets or scaling roofs. “Here.” Gertrude rushed over to the corner of the room, and catching the crimson-and-orange-painted Mongolian trunk Broderick had commissioned for Stephen, she dragged it over, back hunched and panting from exertion. It scraped loudly over the floor until it snagged the edge of the pink-and-green carpet. With a grunt, Gertrude heaved it over that slight lip and pulled it the remainder of the way to where her brother sat watching her, wide-eyed.
“What—?”
“Your weapons are in here,” she explained, slightly breathless. A strand fell free from the tight arrangement Reggie had managed that morning and slipped over her brow. She brushed the errant lock back, tucking it behind her ear. “You’ll need to find a place for them, preferably where a chambermaid will not make the mistake of dusting or touching them.” Some possessed spikes and notches, all clever designs crafted long ago to trick the person who made the mistake of lifting the weapon that didn’t belong to them.
“It would serve them,” he said with such ruthless ease she frowned.
He didn’t mean that. He wasn’t truly like Diggory. He’d merely sought to fill that monster’s image. “It would also see them taken away from you for certain,” she said, using a logic he could make sense of through his resentment.
“Fine,” he groused.
Reaching inside the pocket at the front of her bronze muslin gown, she fished out a small ring of keys. “Here.” She tossed them over.
Stephen shot a hand up and caught them effortlessly in a single, fisted grip.
“And when you are done, make sure Sethos and Gus are occupied and safe. I don’t need to tell you what would likely happen to them should they be discovered underfoot.”
He nodded and, falling to his knees, unlocked the gold latches.
Gertrude started for the door.
“Gertrude?”
She glanced back.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Gertrude smiled. “It will be all right,” she promised, lying for him . . . and for herself.
For there could be no doubting that the upcoming meeting with Lord Maddock was even more foolhardy and dangerous than their initial one.
With an impending sense of doom, she wound her way along the same path she’d traveled earlier, to the door she’d been instructed not to darken, hopeful she would be able to establish new terms for her arrangement here.
Chapter 8
Edwin had spent the past years consumed.
For the first four of those seven, it had been grief, heartache, and hatred over the loss of his wife, unborn child, and son.
And for the latter three, he’d been consumed by the fledgling hope and belief that his son had, in fact, survived the fire that had taken everything. He’d committed his days and nights to finding information about the Diggory gang and the child he had lost.
With the passage of time, August wouldn’t have been a young boy. But in Edwin’s research and countless, sleepless hours, days spent without food and barely water, unshaven, unbathed, he’d not thought of August as a figure who’d aged. Rather, he’d existed in Edwin’s mind as the boy he’d been. He’d been un-aging, plump, precocious, smiling. He’d always been smiling.
Edwin stared blankly across the ledgers spread out before him, over to the doorway.
For now, that dream had been realized and his son found . . . and Edwin didn’t know what to do with . . . anything.
How did one live life for a single-minded purpose and then simply . . . stop?
A sharp knock cut into his musings.
Edwin quickly sat up, and grabbing a quill with one hand, he dragged the nearest ledger over with the other. “Enter,” he boomed, and made a show of studying the numbers scrawled there. He glanced up and found Marlow in the doorway. Edwin’s fingers curled into a reflexive fist, the weight of it snapping the pen in half. One scrap fell useless atop the book. “Is there—?”
“No trouble, my lord.” The other man neatly slipped in. “I merely sought to update you. Lord August is in his chambers.” Some of the unease left Edwin. Marlow paused and coughed into his hand. “With Miss Killoran.” And just like that, tension crackled through his frame like the impending energy just before a lightning strike. “His belongings have been sent to his rooms.”
It only made sense that she would be with August. That was essentially the capitulation he’d made. Nay, it was what he’d agreed to. It is a mistake. It is a trap.
“My lord?”
He snapped his gaze over to Marlow. Worry lined the younger man’s features.
“The servant stairways, any entrance and exit to this residence, need to be secured,” Edwin instructed.
“I’ve already taken it upon myself to have footmen directed to those respective locations, my lord.”
Since Quint Marlow had discovered him, half mad, stinking from spirits, and praying for death, the butler had come to anticipate what Edwin required. In fact, if he were being truthful with himself, he could acknowledge that the only reason he’d not found himself dead in the streets of St. Giles had been because of the loyal friend-servant-man-of-affairs before him. “Thank you, Marlow. That will be all.”
Instead of taking his leave, however, the other man lingered. “I know you question my sister’s relationship with the Killoran family, and also question my confidence and trust in my sister, but she possesses a good heart. She speaks with warmth and great affection for Miss Killoran, and therefore, I find some . . . assurance in that.”
It was always easier to find assurance before one found oneself made a widower by London’s most violent gang leader and kidnapper.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
Marlow hesitated and then took himself off.
As soon as the door closed, Edwin dropped his head into his hands. What was he thinking, allowing her to remain? “Because you are mad,” he whispered into his palms, muffling that utterance. This latest decision was proof enough of the state of his sanity. The damned lady shared the blood of a murderer. By all accounts of information uncovered about the Diggory gang, all those within it were the same: murderers faithfully stealing for him, killin
g for him, kidnapping for him.
Ice slipped along his spine. What if I am falling into the same bloody trap? Edwin jammed his fingertips into his temples and pressed so hard his head throbbed. But the Killorans also had their club now. They had businesses. Surely they knew better than to make another attempt to take August? They’d lose . . . everything.
Or was he simply trying to reassure himself? For telling himself all that, analyzing his decision from every angle did nothing to vanquish his unrest.
Another firm knock sounded at the door. Damn it. “What is it n . . . ?” His words trailed off as the door opened. “You.” My God, she doesn’t fear me—or all the tales whispered about my reputation.
The spirited chit didn’t bother awaiting an invitation but simply closed the door and admitted herself. “My lord,” she said, offering a belated curtsy.
He fell back in his chair. “You want me to throw you out on your arse,” he breathed. “There is nothing else to explain it. Did I not make myself clear?”
A proper lady would have blushed red at that crudity.
Gertrude Killoran merely returned a smile, a soft, serene, and gentle one that was belied by only the little crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, you were abundantly clear, my lord. There is something else to explain my . . . being here.”
“Defying orders,” he corrected.
Coming forward, she claimed the seat opposite him with the ease of one who owned this room and all its contents. He froze. For up close . . . her large lips turned up in a smile . . . it rather transformed her, highlighting a face he’d taken at first glance as ordinary in every way. Now he stared on, riveted by the contours of it. It was neither round nor heart-shaped, but rather a pear-shaped diamond, soft and yet regal all at the same time and . . .
Edwin choked, gasping for air.
The young woman came out of her chair. “Are you all—?”
He shot a staying hand up, glowering at her over his fingertips. “D-do not,” he strangled out.
Gertrude Killoran hesitated and then reseated herself at the very edge, carefully watching as he struggled for a proper breath. Was she waiting for evidence he needed help? Or sitting and hoping for his slow strangulation?
When he’d managed to gather air into his lungs without dissolving into a paroxysm, he sat back. “I ordered you gone.”
“No, you ordered me out of your offices and away from your door. More specifically, you ordered me not to darken your door.” And in perfect rote remembrance, she spat out the very directives he’d leveled at her. “Any communication between us will be carried out through Marlow.” She gave him a look. “You might have won this round”—she thinned her eyes into small slits—“but your days are numbered here. When you do leave, this will have been the last contact you ever have with my son.”
He blinked. She’d remembered it precisely, both words and inflection. And she’d defied him anyway. “My God, you are mad.”
“No, I’m really quite sane. I simply have a strong ability to memorize and remember . . .” At catching his horrified stare, she abruptly ceased her ramblings.
Reclined in his chair, immobile, and still contemplating the woman across from him, Edwin didn’t know . . . what to make of her. There was a peculiar blend of strength and spirit and . . . innocence. There was that, too. The latter of which didn’t fit with the most mysterious of the Killorans, whom investigators had uncovered little about. “We have a problem, Miss Killoran,” he murmured, laying his palms on the arms of his chair.
Gertrude Killoran clasped her callused hands and rested them on her lap, a model of piety. “Do we?” she asked, her tone wholly unfazed and almost bored.
“You’ve proven in just an hour’s time here that you’re unable to keep your word, and you are very much your father’s daughter.”
Her body tensed. “You know nothing about me,” she said quietly.
He honed his gaze on her flushed cheeks. He could almost believe his insult had struck its intended mark. But that would have to mean she resented Mac Diggory, that vile criminal who’d also seen this woman’s pockets lined and provided her with fancy garments. Nay, her loyalty and soul belonged to Satan.
“But I know your father,” he returned on a silken purr that he layered with steel. “As such, it was already a folly for me to agree to your being here. It would be even more so to allow you to remain after you’ve violated our agreement. And so, you’ve freed me from my pledge.”
“I had time to consider your terms,” she said, matching his body’s movements, “and decided they are not in Stephen’s best interest.”
He narrowed his eyes. “August. His name is August.”
She went on, ignoring that correction. “How can I properly ease his transition into your household if I’m not free to speak to you about his lessons and concerns I might have or the governesses or tutors whom you should consider for hire?”
That gave him pause.
She sat motionless, not pressing her point or the advantage she’d found over him.
Edwin pushed back his chair, measuring his movements, refusing her any satisfaction in seeing she’d confounded him yet again. He felt her gaze follow his path over to the sideboard and linger on his movements as he poured himself a brandy. Edwin splashed several fingers into the crystal glass and then contemplated the amber depths.
Bloody hell. He despised that the chit was right in this matter, as well. Edwin could not have it both ways. He couldn’t allow Gertrude Killoran to remain with the intention of seeing August properly settled, while also himself having no contact with her.
So toss her out. No good can come from her being here.
Every instinct he’d honed, every lesson he’d been cruelly handed by her father to be wary of the motives and actions of all, fairly screamed at him to turn her out on his doorstep and never spare her another thought.
But then an image flashed to mind, an unwanted one.
Her kneeling alongside his son, August’s lower lip trembling in the boy’s only display of vulnerability.
His son would hate him, even more than he already did. There would be no turning those sentiments if Gertrude Killoran was shown the door.
The chit had him there.
Gripping his glass hard, he faced her. “All right.” He flicked an icy stare over her. Once again, she remained stoic in the face of his derision, ratcheting up his annoyance . . . and damned appreciation for the courageous minx. “Out with it.”
“I want to review his lessons with you and discuss his past.” She shot out each command like Wellington himself in his battlefield days. “I want you and I to be able to freely speak about Stephen and how he is or is not adjusting to his time here.”
He had opened his mouth to correct her on the usage of his son’s name when she said, “And I must have . . . some contact with my family.”
That marked the first note of hesitancy in her otherwise impressively stoic list.
“Absolutely not.” He tossed back a long swallow.
“They were unaware of my intentions to remain,” she said calmly, “and as such, they’ll wonder why I’ve not returned, and then . . .”
And then Broderick Killoran would come here, and God help Edwin, there’d be no stopping him this time from ending that bastard with his bare hands.
Edwin took another sip and then set his glass down hard. “No.”
Gertrude stood. “You misunderstand. I was not asking for you to alter the terms involving my siblings.” How . . . interesting. And yet . . .
“I don’t believe you,” he said bluntly. He’d be a fool to trust her. “You expect me to believe you left no word behind? You entrusted not one of your loyal family with your plan.”
She pursed her mouth. “I didn’t.”
“Then you’re either a liar or the least skilled of those thugs in your family’s gang.”
She winced, and blast and damn, if he didn’t feel like a bully who’d kicked the cat. And for telling a woman that sh
e was rot at subterfuge. “Only with a damned Diggory,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
By the intelligent sparkle in her right eye, he’d wager the last shred he had of his sanity that she’d heard him quite clearly.
The tenacious spitfire took a step closer. “I am not asking you to believe me or trust me,” she said in soothing, dulcet tones, ones she might reserve for a skittish animal. And that ploy should grate, and yet her voice washed over him, a dangerous siren’s pull. She stopped before him, so close that honeyed scent filled his senses once more, and he swallowed hard, fighting her hold. Nearly six inches smaller than his six-foot, two-inch frame, she had to arch her neck back to meet his eyes. Had he found her eyes common? They were impossibly round and dark, like Belgium’s finest chocolate. She smiled gently, sucking him further into that illusion of innocence. “I’m merely telling you that unless you wish my brother and sisters to come knocking at your door, then I have to send them word.”
“And then that will be your last communication until you return.” Collecting his glass, Edwin stepped around her.
The lady waggled her fingertips. “That will not work, either.”
“It wasn’t a question, Miss Killoran—it was a statement,” he muttered, stomping over to his desk.
“That brings me to the next reason for my being here.” With long, brisk strides, she was across the room and in her seat just as he was settling back into his chair for this hellish, never-ending meeting.
Though, if you’re being honest with yourself . . . you’re also refreshed by it.
When had been the last time anyone had looked upon him with anything but fear and loathing? Why, even Marlow had avoided his gaze more often than he’d held it.
“And that reason, Miss Killoran?”
“Stephen’s rooms.”
Edwin opened his mouth to again correct her on that incorrect usage of his son’s name, but then he stopped. “Is there something wrong with his chambers?” He frowned. He’d given specific orders of which rooms were to be set up, and the furniture—
The Bluestocking Page 9
