“I know that.”
Except there was nothing convincing in those three words, more rote reply than anything.
“Do you?” he quietly asked. Where his father had urged him to bury his previous life, including the parents who’d given him life and loved him, Ophelia had reminded him that Connor had known a fleeting time of happiness with them. It had been wrong to set aside memories of a mother and father who’d died protecting him. “You never asked about my parents.”
His father frowned. “I know what happened to them.” Again, “them,” not “your parents,” but rather an informal, aloof acknowledgment of those who’d mattered most to Connor. “That Diggory fellow killed them before you.”
Yet he could drag forth that hated name.
“You’ve never asked what my life was like before that night. Who my mother and father were. What our life was like as a family.”
“Because I wanted you to forget,” his father exploded. “What good could come in talking about parents who were murdered before you, Connor?”
Yes, murder was ugly and messy and vicious. Certainly not fit for polite or impolite circles, and yet . . . no good had come to Connor in trying to forget, either.
“Do you know who she is?”
The earl shook his head once.
“You do not recognize her?”
His father frowned.
Dropping his palms on his trousers, Connor leaned forward. “The day you rescued me, she was the girl with me.”
The earl went slack-jawed.
“I stepped in that day,” Connor went on, “and intervened on her behalf. It should have been her you saved.” His father groaned, a wounded sound of protest. “It should have been Ophelia who was educated and cared for and protected.” Not me.
The earl didn’t speak for a long moment, and then he touched a hand to his chest. “You didn’t steal my coin purse that day.” Connor stilled. “You sacrificed yourself to save her.”
With that undeserved defense that painted Connor in one light and Ophelia in another, his father opened his eyes to charges Ophelia had made about those of the nobility: the sense of entitlement and their disdain for people outside their station.
A watery smile turned his father’s lips. Leaning across the carriage, he patted Connor on the arm. “And that is why you are different from that . . . Miss Killoran.”
Connor shot up a hand and knocked hard on the roof.
The carriage jerked to a quick stop, and he planted his feet to keep from pitching forward.
Not waiting for the servant, Connor tossed the door open and jumped out.
“Connor?” his father shouted after him.
He paused. “Tell me, Father. When you say you wanted my past buried . . . was it for me? Or you?”
His father’s face crumpled. “Where . . . what are you . . . ?”
Not looking back, he continued walking, ignoring the calls fading behind him.
He walked through the same dank cobblestones he had as a boy, passing alleys he’d hidden within and establishments he’d stolen from.
He just continued on.
Connor had been blinded by the good his father had done in saving him, helping others, fighting in Parliament for laws that sought to curb vice and lessen the suffering. He’d accused Ophelia of unfairly judging others when he himself had been guilty of the same charge.
Only where she’d seen darkness and disdain all around, he’d retained an unfair and unrealistic view of those like his father and other members of the peerage. For all the members of Polite Society like Connor’s father and Bethany and the Viscount Middlethorne’s attempts to aid those less fortunate, they’d ultimately treated those people as somehow less. Beneath them. While Connor had been separated from the masses because of one chance twist of fate.
All the while his inclusion in the world hadn’t been unconditional. It had come at the expense of burying memories and hiding his past because that was far safer and cleaner than the truth of what he’d done.
Connor stopped outside the three-story limestone building. With its intricate mansard roof, dual redbrick chimneys, and black matte door, it was a sleek representation of elegance and wealth.
Two gentlemen rode up on equally expensive horseflesh, tossing those reins to diligent servants.
Instead of entering, the pair exchanged words, nodding periodically and motioning to the structure that when completed would be filled with patrons. An establishment to rival White’s and Brooke’s. They pointed at one of the gables.
From where he stood at the gas lamp across the way, Connor studied the two men engrossed in discussion. For despite the elegant cut to their cloaks and hats, they were not, by Society’s standards, gentlemen.
Ya always thought ya were better than the rest of us.
That condemnation Ophelia had leveled at him, which he’d vehemently denied, now pinged around his mind, accentuated by his father’s condemnations, muting sound, dulling all noise but that of his own breathing.
He took a step as a horse came galloping forward. Shaking a fist, the rider shouted, effectively jerking Connor from his tumult and attracting the attention of that pair.
They locked in on Connor, immediately training their pistols at his chest and head.
Recognition registered in Adair Thorne’s eyes. He quickly tucked away his weapon. “Steele,” Thorne called. His greeting came distant to Connor’s ears as he remained focused on the other, heavily scarred figure coming forward. Suspicion still darkened those familiar eyes.
More than two feet taller than when they’d last met and at least four and ten stone heavier, all muscle and power, he bore little resemblance to the boy Connor had left behind in the dead of night.
“Allow me to introduce you to my brother Niall Marksman. Niall, Connor Steele. Steele is overseeing the investigation into Lord Maddock’s lost son. He’s also a benefactor of Eve’s hospitals.”
Some of the wariness receded, but it didn’t leave the other man entirely. Yes, a man might leave St. Giles, but those dark deeds one had witnessed and taken part in would always remain. No matter how much a man tried to forget or a well-meaning parent willed it away.
His former thieving partner held out a hand. “Steele,” Niall said in his coarsened Cockney.
Connor stared blankly down at those digits as scarred as his own.
He’d left. Without a word. Without asking Niall to accompany him so they might help each other survive in an uncertain world, and all because he’d been afraid. One boy could hide. A pair garnered notice. So he’d run. And he’d continued running—from his past, his existence . . . all of it.
Shame swamped his senses.
How much better off Niall had been with the new family he’d found.
The brothers of the streets exchanged looks, prompting Connor into movement.
He swiftly caught Niall’s hand in a firm grip, his fingers curling reflexively around them. “Niall . . .”
The other man’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.
Connor withdrew his hand.
Leave. Just turn on your heel, and do what you’ve always done best . . . hide. Remain the ghost you were. A person who’d relied on none and kept everyone out. Except he remained rooted there, unable to complete the steps to put this club, this family, this whole bloody day, behind him.
“We knew each other . . . once,” he said gruffly, his voice hoarsened with shame and regret.
He felt his onetime friend sweeping his gaze over his face, frantically trying to place him.
“I’m . . . my name . . . I am Connor. We . . .” Stole and killed together.
The air hissed through Niall’s teeth.
Adair Thorne looked between them and then quietly backed away.
“Connor.” His former friend spoke and looked as one who’d been visited by a ghost. In a way that is what he’d always been. Nay, that is what you made yourself. “My God. I thought . . . I believed . . .”
He’d been killed. “I wasn�
��t.” It was a fate too many boys in Diggory’s hold had met. Connor had left, putting himself before all.
While Ophelia had stayed.
All the breath in his body, lodged somewhere between his lungs and throat, stuck.
As long as he’d known Ophelia, he’d questioned her—nay, worse, he’d passed judgment upon her for remaining in Diggory’s gang. When all along she’d been the loyal one. She’d never left a person behind, not as Connor had. He’d not even remained true to his parents’ memory.
He was nearly crippled by the weight of his shame. “I left because I didn’t”—Connor inhaled slowly, forcing himself to say it—“I didn’t want to kill anymore. I thought of myself only. I was your friend, and you deserved more from me. You deserved better.” Unable to meet his former friend’s eyes, he bowed his head. “I wanted to say how sorry I am,” he said hoarsely in a useless apology that could never right a wrong.
Niall’s lips worked. He stuck a palm out. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said gruffly. “We all did wot we ’ad to survive.”
Connor eyed that offering and then again shook Niall’s hand.
“’ow did ya survive?” There was curiosity there. After all, no one survived in the streets without help.
He chuckled. “Would you believe me if I told you a small girl saved my worthless hide more times than I deserved?”
“Oi would,” Niall laughed, the sound rusty. “Oi’ve come to appreciate the strength in people Oi once underestimated.”
The doors to the club were thrown open, and they both looked up. A pair of jovial builders stepped out, carrying a long beam between them. Their laughter and reverie stood out, a stark contrast to the solemnity of Connor’s exchange with Niall.
Connor inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
He took a step to go just as Niall called out. “Connor?”
He looked back.
A grin pulled at Niall’s scarred mouth. “Oi’m glad ya didn’t find yarself dead.”
Connor returned that smile. “Me too.”
As he began the long, slow trek on foot through London, a weight lifted from him. Time rolled together until he reached his Bond Street offices. He fished the key from his jacket and let himself inside.
The faint bark of a dog, forlorn in its loneliness, filled the London streets. Connor lifted his head from the lock and looked around.
A chill scraped along his spine as all his nerves went on alert.
Carefully edging the door open, he slipped inside.
And knew.
The faint glow of the candle filtered from the crack under his office door, the only light in his darkened office.
Heart hammering, Connor slowly brought the door closed behind him. He reached into his boot and removed the pistol tucked there. His gun close to his chest, he crept the length of the narrow corridor, stepping over aged floorboards given to creaking.
He stopped.
The faint rustle of parchment echoed within his office, followed by the sound of drawers systematically opening and closing.
Drawing back the hammer, he waited.
Chapter 15
Her neck ached.
Having sneaked off to Connor’s offices and picked the lock to let herself in, she’d been since shut away, poring through his files.
Consulting details he’d written, she leaned over and made several notes on parchment she’d commandeered from his middle desk drawer.
Until, at last, she finished.
Stretching her arms above her head, she assessed her work. Each page was marked with the year at the top and neat columns; each row contained names and information Connor had desperately sought.
Ophelia silently mouthed the names of each child, searching her mind for any boy or girl she might have forgotten. She paused on the last sheet and stared down at those names there.
Twenty of them, now gone, existed as nothing more than a mark upon her page. Capturing her lower lip between her teeth, she trailed her fingertips over each one. There had been so little time to mourn. The only time permitted was that which one stole. Any expressions of grief or weakness were met with sound beatings and a lesson on just how much tears cost a person.
A single, solitary drop rolled down her cheek and slapped noisily upon the page; the tiny bit of moisture blurred that name.
The door exploded open with such force it hit the wall and then bounced back.
Gasping, she grabbed for her knife.
Her breath came hard and fast. “Ya scared the bloody ’ell out of me, Connor.” Her own panic reflected back in his eyes. Tossing aside her blade, she pressed a palm against her chest in a bid to still her galloping heart.
“Ophelia?” His voice emerged hoarse. He swiftly lowered his weapon. “My God, I nearly shot you.” Terror riddled that realization.
Praying he couldn’t see her tears in the darkened room, she discreetly swiped at her damp cheeks. “Ya wouldn’t ’ave shot me. Ya’ave more control than that.”
Cursing, he shoved the door closed with the heel of his boot and stalked over. “I had a gun pointed at you.” He alternated a horrified stare between the weapon in his hands and Ophelia. He blanched. “I pointed it at your head.”
At the evidence of his worrying after her, her heart did a little somersault in her chest. “For what it’s worth, O’Roarke, if I were forced to choose, I’d rather take a shot to the head than the belly.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it.
Connor tried again.
Ophelia winked.
“Are you bloody mad?” he growled. He tossed his weapon down on a nearby side table. “Are you making light of me nearly killing you?”
Her confidence wavered as a memory intruded . . . of another charging forward.
“There is nothing at all humorous in that,” he barked.
She blinked, finding him a mere desk length away.
Connor. It is just Connor.
He froze, and his gaze dropped to his files laid out. “What is this?” he blurted.
With shaking fingers, Ophelia stacked the scattered pages lying about. “Oi was going to clean it,” she said under her breath. “Didn’t expect ya to be here.”
Connor folded his arms. “You invaded my office, broke into my desk, and examined my files.”
Not long ago he would have been accusatory and suspicious. Deservedly so. So much had changed between them.
And yet . . . given your birthright, it is sure to be fleeting. A sheen blurred her vision. Dratted office. Tears for a second time this night. He really needed to dust his mahogany furniture.
“Nothing to say?”
“You really need better locks, Connor,” she said with forced lightness. “As one who’s lived on the streets, you know that flimsy locks are useless if someone wants in.”
“There were three locks,” he drawled.
She paused in her task to raise three fingers. “Three useless ones.”
“Not everyone is as skilled at lock-picking as you.”
She picked her head up and beamed.
Smiling, Connor reached across the desk and brushed his knuckles along her jaw. “You’re the only woman I know who’d take that as a compliment, Ophelia.”
Unlike his duchess. The girl he’d called friend, the young lady he’d hoped to marry, and the woman deserving of him.
Her smile froze in place, straining her cheek muscles until she feared her face might shatter.
Connor spoke, all teasing gone. “Why are you here?”
“Why . . . ?”
She followed his stare to the neat pile. Forcing back a searing jealousy, she gripped the pages in her hands, wrinkling the corners. Turn them over . . . explain what you’ve provided, answer any questions he has, and be on your way, so you can begin living a life without him in it.
Instead, she brought the stack close to her chest, retaining a death grip on the sheets she’d meticulously compiled. “I hated the nobility,” she confided. “I r
esented them for having so much when I wanted so little. I hated them for not seeing me or, worse, for not caring about me or my siblings.” Ophelia glanced briefly at the stack she clutched. “It was always there . . . the hatred.” She drew in a shuddery breath. “Just varying degrees of it. I use to read palms,” she whispered.
Connor stitched his eyebrows into a single line. “I know—I—”
She shook her head, and he immediately fell silent. Everything was jumbled together in her mind, forcing parts of her past out in an order that made no sense. Counting to three, she tried again. “Diggory realized he could earn far more coin in me reading the palms and telling the future of fancy lords and ladies than I could in snatching purses.” A brittle laugh bubbled past her lips, and her body shook with the force of that empty mirth. “Imagine that? More coin was to be had from a street rat making up fake fortunes for people who already had more than that guttersnipe could have ever dreamed.” Awkwardly angling her palms, she studied the ink-stained, callused flesh. “The ladies yearned for love, and the men, fortune. It didn’t take me long to gather as much from my clients. The grander the vision, the more exorbitant the prize.” Coins she’d had to turn over without so much as a pence for her efforts. “Cleo still had to steal. It was learned I’d . . . seen you, and as repayment for crossing Diggory, he punched Gertrude.” Ophelia sucked in an uneven breath. “She lost vision in one of her eyes.”
Grief contorted his features. “Because you spared my life,” he finished for her, regret heavy in that understanding.
“After I helped you, Connor. I didn’t spare you. You were always a survivor. You were destined to survive whether or not I intervened those days.”
“I don’t believe that,” he murmured, taking a slow path around the desk.
She held up her overflowing hands, and he instantly stopped.
“Then there was me . . . the gypsy.” Ophelia chuckled. “A gypsy with white hair. It merely added to the illusion. Just like that, a shift in role, and my life was safe in ways Cleo’s and Gertrude’s were not.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she blinked them back, but the misty sheen remained until she let them fall. “I even had a dress,” she whispered. “It was so soft and pure white. It was laundered”—a task that had fallen to Gertrude—“every night until it frayed, and then I had another. And do you know what, Connor? Selfishly, I was g-grateful.” Her voice broke. He reached for her, but she stepped back, needing space between them. “I was grateful that I didn’t face the dangers that my sisters did and relished the small comforts I had. I accused you of looking after only yourself, and yet I was even guiltier of that charge.” Her voice dissolved into a faint whisper. “Because I had sisters who relied on me.”
The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2) Page 21
