The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  “Cleo’s new home in Grosvenor Square?” she snorted. “I’d rather live in the hovel I was born in.”

  Broderick held her gaze. “Are we clear?”

  Resentment surged through her. As much as she wanted to send him to the Devil with his ordering her about, she knew how very easily he could simply abandon the agreement and send Gertrude. “We are.” Before she could change her mind and consign herself to the hated fate she wished to escape, Ophelia swept over to the door.

  “Ophelia?”

  She stopped, her fingers poised on the door handle, and for a fraction of a heartbeat she clung to a hope: that he’d abandon his plans. That he wouldn’t ask either her or Gertrude to sacrifice themselves in this way—or any way.

  All hopes were dashed with his next question.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  Her mind stalled, and she looked blankly down at her scraped palms.

  Ophelia smoothed her hands down her skirts and winced at the sting of her scraped hands. Oh, bloody hell. He had noted.

  The floorboards shifted once, marking his path over. “What is this?” he murmured. Taking her palms, he inspected them alternatingly.

  “I fell,” she squeaked, praying he mistook the pitch of her voice as one of pain. “We have a problem in the alley. Rats. A lot of them.”

  “You were cleaning the alley?” he asked, his voice rich with skepticism.

  He knew. Knew of her loathing for the alleys and the speed with which she raced through them. Though not he, nor anyone, knew the reasons why. Or had he known . . . and it was simply impolite for a brother and sister to speak of that? Ophelia concentrated on drawing in steady, even breaths. She gave a negligent shrug. “It needed to be done.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  Ignoring the question there, she stilled.

  Broderick nodded slowly. “That will be all.”

  Feeling his searching gaze on her nape, Ophelia twisted the handle and let herself out.

  The moment she closed the panel, putting much-needed space between them, her shoulders sagged, and she borrowed support from the door.

  Given all the ominous possibilities of what had brought Connor to their club—Stephen’s burning of the Hell and Sin Club, Ophelia bloodying a nob senseless—the evening could have most assuredly gone worse, much worse.

  Only why, as she at last found the sanctuary of her rooms and braced for her entrance into Polite Society, did she find she would far rather face the prison of Newgate than the one her brother would have her enter into?

  Chapter 6

  Having once slept with the dank London cobblestones as his only bed, Connor had come to appreciate that there were different levels of misery.

  Existing on the streets of London had been a special kind of study in torture.

  Attending ton functions represented an altogether different sort.

  His visit to the Devil’s Den completed—with unsurprisingly little assistance from the proprietor and his kin—Connor, in a proper change of garments, strode through his father’s residence toward the kitchens.

  Not for the first time since he’d taken leave of the Devil’s Den, thoughts of Ophelia whispered forward in his mind.

  A she who, at last, had a name.

  Of course she had one . . . even the basest-born street criminal was given that simplest of gifts. She’d been the one who could have turned him over to Diggory years earlier and instead had spared him. He’d risked his own life for hers in return . . . a debt paid . . . that vow of Mac Diggory, a code of street ethics honored by all those unfortunate enough to call St. Giles home.

  He’d never known her name . . . until now.

  Now, the young woman was as irascible, spirited, and angry as she’d always been. Instead of her child’s tones of long ago, the vitriol on her tart tongue rolled forward with a husky contralto, reminding him that Ophelia Killoran was no longer a child. Dangerous as a girl, she was lethal as a woman, but in ways that had nothing to do with something as elemental as his survival.

  “Mr. Steele.” That cheerful whisper brought him up quick, and he glanced back. “Never tell me you are going to the kitchens.”

  Alas, she’d always known him too well.

  Mrs. Fearson: stout, short, and with the roundest, reddest cheeks, the only thing fearful about her was her name. She smiled widely.

  “Mrs. Fearson,” he greeted, doubling back to meet her as she waddled his way. A loyal member of his father’s household since the day Connor had entered it, she’d been one of the few members of the staff who’d not eyed him like he’d come to slit their throats as they slept. Or make off with the family’s silver—as they’d openly accused—before the earl had sacked them.

  “No need to come meet me, dear boy,” she panted, out of breath from her minimal exertions. She planted her hands on her knees and puffed loudly.

  Leaning down, he bussed her on the cheek.

  She swatted at his arm. “Enough of that. The kitchens?”

  If he’d been a proper sort, he’d have managed at least a hint of a hangdog expression. Instead, he grinned and shoved open the doorway to the room over debate and made for the long oak table filled with platters. “Ah, and never one to disappoint, I trusted there would be platters still.” Of food. Heaping mounds of it that his father’s guests hadn’t finished but would have been enough to feed countless starved mouths in the streets.

  It was surely an evening spent revisiting his past and those closest to the Diggorys, but as he slid onto one of the long benches, guilt needled at him.

  “Never one to disappoint?” Mrs. Fearson snorted, and then, in her usual manner, grabbed a plate from the counter and proceeded to put together a dish. “Tell that to your father, who has been awaiting your arrival all night.”

  “I can see to that myself,” he protested, plucking a plum tart from the table and dusting it off in one bite.

  She swatted at his hand as he made to gather the dish from her hands. “Let the earl’s son make his plate?” she groused under her breath. “I’d sooner retire before I was charged with that.”

  By terms of service and the pension offered, the grey-haired woman should have hung up her proverbial apron a decade ago. Instead, she’d remained on, overseeing the earl’s household and being a motherly figure to Connor when he’d first entered it as a lonely boy.

  Connor stared expressionlessly down at his plate.

  “Now, now, no need for the frown,” Mrs. Fearson murmured, misinterpreting the reason for his grimness. “The earl has done fine enough this evening, and he understands what keeps you away.”

  The devoted servant was correct. When most other noblemen would have turned their noses up at Connor’s work, the Earl of Mar had not only supported him but also expressed his pride. As such, he would understand that it was a case that had kept Connor away.

  Before.

  Another rush of guilt for altogether different reasons.

  With a sigh, he shoved aside his plate. “Is it too much to hope I at the very least missed the dancing portion of the festivities?” he ventured, climbing to his feet.

  Mrs. Fearson’s lips twitched. “I have it on the authority of several maids that his lordship intended to delay, in the hopes that you should arrive.”

  “Bloody wonderful,” he muttered.

  “You can find him along with the other gentlemen in the card rooms set up.” Her laughter trailed after him.

  Lifting his hand in thanks, a short while later Connor found himself outside the Blue Parlor. The irony was not lost on him as he entered a room full of his father’s Whig friends that the same men who’d devoted themselves to abolishing vice should sit and take part in games of—Connor did a search of the rooms—whist and loo.

  He instantly found his father engaged in a game with Lord Dapplewhite. The earl glanced up and, with a quick word for his partner, tossed the cards down.

  Grinning, he shoved to his feet and cut a path around the tables neatly
arranged. An inch over six feet, broad of shoulder, and in possession of the same shock of thick hair, the earl may as well have been a replica cast of when he’d plucked Connor from the streets and given him a home and a new beginning.

  He arched an eyebrow. “I’d begun to doubt you would come, my boy.”

  Known as the Hunter to everyone in London—except this man, who’d only ever spoken to and with Connor as “my boy” or “son”—Connor smiled, grateful for the diversion from thoughts of the Killorans. “The irony of the very men attempting to eradicate vices from London meeting over brandy and cards has ever escaped me.”

  His adoptive father slapped him on the back. “All in moderation, my boy. All in moderation. Join me,” he urged, motioning him to a vacant table.

  They made their way past the throngs of assembled guests. All powerful players in Parliament, they were respectable gentlemen known for their upright reputations and their charitable endeavors.

  Still, for that integrity, they were also the same men, along with their wives, who’d forever stolen side-glances at Connor and whispered about him.

  Several lords paused in the middle of their wagering to look over at him as he passed. The irreverent stares he’d acquired had been the least of the discomforts he’d suffered. They hadn’t mattered when he’d been a beggar, pleading for their coins and being met with a slapped hand, and they mattered even less now.

  He and his father slid into the two chairs set before a folding oak table.

  Wordlessly, the earl collected the deck, neatly shuffled, and then returned them to the table.

  Connor drew first.

  Ace of diamonds.

  His father chuckled, reshuffling the pile. “You always were luckier than me in this.”

  Yes, it would seem we’ve both been . . . lucky.

  What had been the reason for the slight hesitancy in that pronouncement? One that suggested she’d mocked with her words and that they’d held a heavily veiled hint of her own past.

  “Connor?” his father implored, swiftly dealing out the remainder of the deck and turning over the final card, a seven of diamonds.

  “Forgive me. I was distracted,” he murmured, directing his attention to the thirteen cards in his hand.

  Connor played his first card, a king of hearts.

  His father swiftly tossed down his queen in that same suit.

  Winning the trick, Connor claimed the trumped-up ace of diamonds.

  “Your latest case,” his father said, taking the next card.

  They continued in silence, alternating wins.

  Something was coming. Even as there was a relaxedness to his father’s movements, tension fairly spilled from the earl’s frame.

  Connor lowered his cards. “What is it?”

  Some of the tension lifted from the earl’s only faintly wrinkled features. “You never did miss anything, did you?” he asked softly, as if only to himself. “Since the day I found you.” Nay, this man had rescued him. Given Connor hope and a new beginning that did not include murder, thievery, and mayhem.

  For that, he’d called him “Father” when the one Connor had so loved had been viciously cut down.

  “It is why you are so very good at what you do,” his father said, pride rich in his voice as he settled back in his chair. He clasped his hands at his belly. “I am proud of you every day, Connor Steele. The work you do”—a smile lit his face—“has kept so many safe. It is good work. Important. The most important: making the world a better place for all.”

  For every negative word whispered about the peerage, there then proved men like the one before him: a childless lord who’d taken Connor in, given him his name, and led a crusade to improve the lives of other orphaned boys and girls. It had restored the hope of a snarling, snappish, angry boy who’d resented the world with a hatred better suited to an aged man at the end of his years.

  “Why do I suspect there is a ‘but’ contained within that?” he drawled, blunting that with a grin.

  The twinkle gleamed brighter in the earl’s eyes. “Because you have always been a keen boy. I applaud your work, and yet, Connor”—his father leaned forward—“you have dedicated your life to improving the streets at the expense of truly living.”

  “This from a man who gave all of himself in Parliament for those same causes,” he said gently, a reminder to the earl, who’d never married.

  “It’s how I know you’ll have regrets,” the earl said with his usual pragmatism. “You can make a difference . . . outside of your cases.”

  His father had supported Connor early on when he’d established an inquiry agency. Over the years, however, his support had . . . wavered. “If you were anyone else, I would take that as a lecture.”

  “You know I am not one to do that.”

  “No, you are not.” His adoptive father had never lectured. He’d patiently instructed Connor, allowing him to falter without admonishment. He’d encouraged him to make his way for himself in the world as a detective, applauded it, and never acted as though what he did was somehow less because of the self-made man he’d come to be. Rather, he’d lauded him for the future he’d created; however, increasingly of late, he’d begun to question Connor’s role within Bow Street.

  “This is all you do. All you are now . . . and soon I fear it will be all that you ever are.”

  “I can make a greater difference by taking to the streets—”

  “And risking your life.” That charged statement exploded from his usually collected father.

  “There are risks,” he quietly acknowledged. He’d never lie to his father. Nor would his father be naive enough to fail and see the threats Connor faced. “But there is a greater need to see that children in those streets don’t suffer the same fate . . .” As me. After his parents’ murder, Connor had been forced into Diggory’s gang. How many children lived a like existence?

  His father’s throat convulsed. “I will admit my own selfishness, Connor. As I age, I confront how empty my life would have been if you were not in it.”

  His chest tightened.

  “I do not want you to give every day of yourself and someday look back, wishing you had . . . more.” The earl spoke with a certainty of one who knew.

  “And you wish that you did.” He said the truth aloud.

  His father’s gaze grew distant. “Never once did I regret the time I dedicated to Parliament and the crusades I overtook in the House of Lords.” He met Connor’s gaze. “But that is only because of you. There should have been a wife. Alas, I was”—he swatted his hand in Connor’s direction—“entirely too busy. I did not have time for a courtship or a betrothal. I was making the world better for others.” He chuckled. “Or so I told myself. Children . . . they leave and make a new life for themselves. And what is left for an old man but an empty household . . . and wonderings about what life might have been for the both of us had you had a mother and I a wife. You can have both. You can make a difference by taking a seat in the House of Commons and marrying.” There it was. His father’s hope and his tenacious bid for Connor to tender his resignation. “Lord Middlethorne was unable to attend this evening. He was not feeling himself,” he said in an abrupt segue.

  Viscount Middlethorne, his father’s closest friend, an equally respected vocal Parliamentarian who’d long championed the plight of the poor. Connor frowned. “Is he—?”

  “Insists he is fine,” his father said with a wave of his hand. He paused, giving Connor a meaningful look. “Lady Bethany is in attendance.”

  Unnerved still by the never plainly stated talks of a union that would join their family to Viscount Middlethorne’s, Connor glanced briefly at the ormolu clock atop the hearth. “I trust the lady is well?” Lord Middlethorne’s now widowed daughter had been the only friend Connor had known when he was taken in by the earl . . . and then she had become the woman he’d hoped to one day marry.

  Until she’d wed another, and Connor realized the truth: to her and her father, Connor would always be
just a boy from the streets.

  “She asked after you during the dinner,” his father continued, relentless.

  “Oh?” He flipped another card.

  His father huffed impatiently. “She was your friend for a lifetime, Connor. Is this because she wed another?”

  At one time in his life, it would have been. Childhood friends, she’d spoken of one day marrying him. In the end she’d accepted the offer from a duke. “It is because we’d never suit,” he settled for.

  “That’s rubbish, Connor. You suit more than most.”

  Aye. Connor had long admired Bethany for her philanthropic endeavors. He appreciated her. But never had he been overwhelmed with any real passion for the lady. Not the way Ophelia Killoran had sent desire coursing through him just a short while ago. Neck heating, he made a show of studying his cards. “I’ve other responsibilities commanding me now that are vastly more important than marriage,” he substituted. “As such, I cannot be the husband she deserves.” Even if Lady Bethany weren’t a paragon amongst Polite Society, marriage to her was no longer an option. Connor would not commit himself to Bethany—nor any woman—when his work commanded his days and nights.

  “She was young.”

  “Eighteen,” he reminded. She’d hardly been a child when she’d married the Duke of Argyll, but rather a woman grown. At the time he’d mourned the loss of what could have been. Now, he recognized his hopes of a match had merely been based on grand illusions built by a boy with aspirations of the love his parents had shared.

  “She understands you, Connor,” his father persisted, setting down his hand. The pair at a nearby table paused to look over, interest in their eyes. When he spoke, the earl’s words came quieter. “She understands what motivates you and where you’ve come from.” Did she? Did his father, for that matter? Aside from the sparse details he’d handed over of his parents’ murder, not another word had been spoken of Connor’s past, nor a question asked. “She will make you a good wife.” The earl tacked that on almost as an afterthought.