“But it has mattered to everyone.” There’d been only one who’d never cared about his origins or the evil deeds he’d committed in the name of survival. Tiring of the exchange, Connor eyed the clock hanging over his father’s shoulder. “If you’ve come this morning to speak on Ophelia’s suitability”—the earl’s brows went shooting up—“or to debate me on a subject I’ll not relent on, there is nothing further to say.”
“That isn’t why I’m here.” The earl stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. It was the same casual pose he’d assumed when Connor had first entered his household and joined him in the library following the evening meal. “I’m here to ask you to join me tomorrow evening. Bethany’s father and I will be leading a discussion with other members of Parliament. Bethany will be there.”
Ah, the real reason for the visit, then. Yet again, another desperate attempt to matchmake Connor and his father’s goddaughter.
Connor indicated the folders stacked before them. “I’m afraid given the work I have on my latest assignment, I must convey my regrets.”
There was a time a lifetime ago when that was the only match you would have aspired to . . . or hoped for.
With Ophelia he saw how very empty his life would have been had he married Lady Bethany. Respectable. Predictable and safe. Because he’d been chasing safety since the moment Mac Diggory had hauled him by his shirtfront and forced him into his gang.
How bleak and empty your life will be when—if—Ophelia chooses another.
His fingers curled around the arms of his seat, leaving marks on the aged wood.
His father worked his eyes over Connor’s face and then shoved himself up. “That is . . . unfortunate,” he settled for. He collected his hat and placed it atop his head, adjusting the article until it sat perfect. “I am sorry I’ve hurt you, Connor,” he said softly. “I am sorry that I’ve failed you with my unwillingness to talk about those days.” Connor’s heart squeezed. “But you are my son,” he said hoarsely. “I love you as much as if I’d given you life myself. I would spare you any and every hurt if I could. And I would have you know that every decision”—his Adam’s apple jumped—“has only ever been made with your happiness in mind.”
“I know that,” Connor said somberly. Even with this new glimpse he’d had of his father’s character, it did not change his love for him. Ultimately, they were all flawed beings in their own ways and rights. “I am so very grateful for not only everything you’ve given but also who and what you’ve been to me.” He paused. “Another father.”
His father offered a shaky smile and made to go.
But then he stopped, lingering at the entrance of the room. Once more he fidgeted with his hat, adjusting it back and forth. Finally, he turned back to face him. “I would have you know I’ve extended an invitation for Mr. and Mrs. Thorne to join my dinner party.” Connor’s muscles jumped. “Along with Mr. Thorne’s sister-in-law, Miss Killoran.”
Every nerve thrummed to life.
“Father?” he called out.
The earl stopped and threw a questioning glance back.
“I will join you.”
Something flared in his father’s eyes and then was quickly gone. “I—I am grateful to you for coming. This is for you, Connor. I would have you know that, as well.”
Connor stared after him.
His father, Ophelia’s brother—they were both determined to keep them apart.
He steeled his jaw. He’d no intention of having either man, or anyone else, dictate his and Ophelia’s future together.
Now he needed to convince Ophelia that she wanted him in her life.
Chapter 20
Ophelia had dwelled in a prison of her father’s making for more than twenty years of her life. After he’d gone on to the fiery flames of hell, she’d believed she’d been eternally freed.
How easily her brother had resurrected a prison of a different sort.
“Is anything amiss?”
Across the small oak table on which she’d conducted her business in the club since Cleo’s departure, her sister nudged her chin at the pages spread out between them.
Was there anything amiss? She growled. “My brother has made me a prisoner in my own home, no less.”
Gertrude coughed into her hand. “Uh . . . yes, well, I referred to the work I’d overseen in your absence.”
The work she’d overseen?
Ophelia blinked slowly, and then embarrassment stung her cheeks. Of course.
“I’ve not gone out and . . . found children hires as you yourself have,” Gertrude went on hesitantly. “But MacTavish and Trembley have both surveilled the streets. I’ve also created a schedule,” she explained, dragging one of the notepads over, “so that the boys and girls both can be properly instructed at various points through the day. I’ve interviewed each and matched their strengths to a suitable role for them. And . . .”
Ophelia pulled herself back from the frustration that had dogged her since she’d rushed to speak with Broderick and truly attended her sister.
Pulling back the same book her sister had been referencing, Ophelia examined all the improvements she’d made. All the well-thought-out changes that took into account details Ophelia herself had failed to think on. She’d been so fixed on saving children that she’d not given proper thought to creating assignments that aligned with their strengths.
Gertrude bit at her lower lip. “It is rubbish?”
“It is not,” Ophelia said softly, lifting her head. “It is . . . the opposite. It is thoughtful and clever and . . .” She touched a finger to the neat columns and rows outlining the new schedule to be followed. “Perfect. It is perfect.”
A slow smile tipped Gertrude’s lips. “Indeed?”
How many reasons did she have to be suspicious of kind words? Mercilessly mocked by Diggory’s men because of her partial blindness, Gertrude had carried on a quiet existence, never the recipient of deserved praise for her intelligence.
Setting aside her own resentments with Broderick and worries with Stephen, she covered her sister’s hand with her own. “Oh, yes,” she marveled. “I did not think of . . . all this.”
Her eldest sibling glowed; that blush transformed her long, heavily freckled face, radiant in her happiness. They resumed their quiet study of the changes implemented in Ophelia’s absence.
“You are not . . . disappointed?”
“Am I disappointed?” she compelled.
Gertrude shrugged. “That I’ve taken on all of . . . this.”
Ophelia sat back in her chair. “Truthfully?”
Her sister nodded once.
“Three weeks ago I would have been,” she confessed. She would have been gutted at how easily she’d been replaced and how effortlessly her role had been filled. “I felt this was the only way I might have control in life. I wished to prove myself . . . my worth.” After a lifetime of feeling sullied and second to their youngest sister, she’d sought to establish her place in the Killoran family. “I felt I had an obligation to save those children living in the streets. But there are so many, and there are others”—like Connor and his father, and Eve Dabney and Gertrude—“who wish to prevent the suffering that we know.” She managed her first smile since she’d fled Connor’s offices. “And how many more people there are who might be helped.”
Connor had shown her that. He’d shown her so much about herself.
“I was not referring to my work.”
Ophelia glanced up from Gertrude’s tidy notes.
“When I asked if anything was amiss, I referred to you. You no longer wish to be here.”
“Yes.” Ophelia jumped up. “No.” She wanted Connor and her secrets at last laid bare and a new beginning together.
Gertrude’s unimpaired eye twinkled. “Who would believe you’d bemoan being barred from living in Grosvenor Square.”
“Indeed,” she said under her breath. Except it had nothing to do with the location of that street and everything to do with the on
e person her brother had effectively barred her from seeing.
“Broderick does not approve.”
She gave her head a tight shake. Their brother wouldn’t have approved when Connor was simply sans the desirous ranking craved by Broderick. He approved even less now that Connor and his assignment represented the thin thread between the Killorans’ continued success . . . and certain ruin.
Footsteps thumped in the hallway, followed by a perfunctory knock.
Before Ophelia could even call out with permission to enter, the door opened.
Cleo stormed inside. Their satin-clad sister with diamond butterfly combs and neck dripping with rubies was better suited to a fine lord’s ballroom than the club. Once that would have grated on Ophelia’s nerves. Now, she’d come to find that for the lavish wealth the ton was born to, there were those who did good and were undeserving of condemnation. Dropping her hands on her hips, she passed an assessing glance over Ophelia. “You are accompanying me.”
Her heart thumped hard. “What?”
“The Earl of Mar has asked Calum Dabney and myself to speak before several members of Parliament composing legislation to benefit orphans in St. Giles.”
The Earl of Mar. Connor’s father. His actions to help proved again how very wrong Ophelia had been about the nobility. Her hope sank. Their blasted obstinate brother. “Broderick will never—”
“I’ve already spoken to him,” Cleo informed. She kicked the door closed with the heel of her slipper, stalked over to Ophelia’s armoire, and tossed the doors open. Mumbling incoherently to herself, she swatted dress after dress out of the way.
Ophelia and Gertrude spoke at the same time. “And?”
Their youngest sister briefly halted. “Surely you don’t believe I’d let Broderick dictate which event you’d be attending?” She winked. “It certainly helped, reminding him that the Earl of Mar is still nobility.” And, as such, he could be forgiven the slight of having an adopted son who could never inherit that coveted title. Cleo retrained all her efforts on the armoire. “This will have to do.” She tugged out a pale-grey satin gown. “I’m speaking. I want you there.”
Only Cleo could have managed to secure Broderick’s capitulation.
But now . . .
I’ll see him. Soon she’d have to tell him everything, the truth of her parentage, when she’d previously given him lies. And Stephen. Her throat muscles bobbed reflexively. Despite the fact it would tear the Killorans apart and destroy the Devil’s Den, she owed him the truth about Stephen. Stephen deserved to be reunited with his true father.
Cleo haltingly lowered the gown in her arms. “That is assuming you wish to accompany Adair and me?”
That sprang Ophelia into movement. She hurriedly presented her back to her sisters, and Gertrude came ’round and set to work on the neat row of buttons down her back.
While Cleo and Gertrude helped her from her dress and into the silken garment, her mind slowly picked around the reality of this night: this was not just any ton event, like those they’d attended together in the past, where they’d sneaked off and stolen private time alone from the rest of the world. Now, she’d seek him out with the purpose of telling him everything. Her stomach lurched.
Gertrude spun her about and proceeded to button the pearls lining the length of the gown. The soft, silken fabric fluttered about her ankles. As Cleo rushed to gather a pair of slippers to match, Gertrude whipped her around once more. “Here,” she murmured, pinching Ophelia’s cheeks hard.
Ophelia winced. “Bloody hell, Gertrude.”
“You are pale,” Gertrude said unapologetically. With even less remorse, she yanked the shell-combs from her hair and began dragging a brush through Ophelia’s tresses.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
A look of concentration fixed to her face, Gertrude set to twisting those strands into an intricate chignon. She held out a hand.
Cleo came forward with a gold-and-gem tiara.
“No.” Hands held up to ward off their attempts, Ophelia backed away.
She no longer wished to be the Jewel of St. Giles or a woman playing at nobility. She simply wished to be Ophelia, carving out a new beginning where her past and her brother’s hopes for the future did not define her.
“I hated mine, too,” Cleo finally said, examining the gold piece, alternately studded with oval-shaped diamonds, amethysts, and rubies. A large, round yellow diamond adorned the center of the tiara. “It is so beautiful, is it not?” she murmured, a question not requiring an answer. When Broderick had first presented her with it, she’d immediately mocked his inexplicable fascination with the peerage. Except . . . her eyes had caught that pale-yellow gemstone. Soft and light, unlike the bloodred rubies of her dagger, punishing stones that conjured thoughts of death and murder. And despite the strong urge to tell her brother to go to hell with his expectations for her, a part of her hesitated, wanting to set that piece atop her head. “You should not wear it because Broderick expects it, but neither should you not let yourself don it because you worry about how the world views you, or us, or anyone else in St. Giles.”
Ophelia hesitated and then gave a slight nod. Cleo urged her to the long bevel mirror and angled her before it. She set the jewel-studded tiara atop her curls. “There,” she murmured. Capturing her by the shoulders, she gave a slight squeeze.
Ophelia stared at her reflection. The diamonds and amethysts twinkled in the candles’ glow.
“Your Mr. O’Roarke came searching for you yesterday.”
She jerked her head about with such force, she knocked the crown aside.
“Here,” Gertrude chided, adjusting the jeweled piece.
“Wot . . . What did he . . . ? Did he . . . ?”
“He was terrified.” Ophelia’s heart squeezed. She’d simply run off without an answer or explanation because at the time she’d needed to sort through the discovery she’d made. “He . . .”—her eyes flew to Cleo’s—“cares about you,” her sister at last said.
“When he learns the truth . . .” Bitterness laced her tone.
“I had the same fears of Adair, and he was able to separate who I was from Diggory.” She cupped her cheek. “From what I gather of your Mr. O’Roarke, he will be able to.”
“If he cannot accept you for who you are, then to hell with him and his narrow mind,” Gertrude exploded with an uncharacteristic display.
Startled, they looked at Gertrude in the mirror.
Her cheeks flushed. “What?” she muttered.
The door exploded open. Stephen stormed in with one of his usual fits of temper. “Ya’re going to that bastard’s,” he thundered. “Oi forbid it.”
He was a formidable boy. He’d only grow to be an indomitable man.
Or, rather, marquess . . . In everything but his street-roughened tones, he’d always worn his rank.
Her breath lodged in her throat.
While her sisters took him to task for his entry and words, Ophelia crossed over. Uncaring for the fine fabric given to wrinkling, she grabbed her brother and hugged him tight.
“Wot in blazes is that for?” he muttered, his words muffled against her chest.
“Just because,” she managed to squeeze out.
He struggled against her hold. “Well, Oi don’t loike it.” He shoved away. “Oi loike even less yar being anywhere near that investigator and his family. They ain’t to be trusted.”
She brushed a sandy-blond curl from over his brow. It promptly sprang back into place, as stubborn as the boy himself. “You’re right,” she softly said. “Some of them are dark devils like Diggory and the henchmen who delighted in beating us and anyone else they could land their fists on.” The small knot in his throat bobbed up and down. She stroked her fingers through his hair again. “But, do you know, Stephen, there are good ones as well. People like Connor and Eve Dabney and his father. It is so much more important that we focus on the good as opposed to the darkness.”
Dirt-stained fingers swatted at her. “None of them
are good. The moment you forget that is the moment they’ll ruin ya.” Snarling, he spun about and bolted.
She stared after him, a chill scraping her spine.
“Shall we?” Cleo urged, holding out an arm.
Fighting back the ominous foreboding at her brother’s words, Ophelia followed her sister through the club that had been home, past the same burly guards and prostitutes who’d been more family than the parents who’d sired her. They’d reached the front of the club when a voice sounded through the raucous din. “Ophelia?” Ophelia stiffened, feeling her sister tense at her side.
Guests parted, making way for the king of London’s greatest gaming empire. Broderick stopped before his sisters. “I’ve not changed my mind where he’s concerned. I’ll not support a match between you and . . . him. He isn’t good enough for you.”
She’d not debate all the ways in which he was wrong in this public way. “Mayhap we’ve just been so mired in bad for so long that we’ve lost sense of what is truly good and bad,” she said softly.
He inclined his head. “We’ll agree to disagree.” Her brother looked to Cleo. “Do not make me regret this.”
Cleo winked.
Broderick lifted a hand, and the guards stationed there immediately drew open the heavy black panels, allowing them to pass through.
From where he stood at the carriage, Adair lifted his head from the timepiece he’d been studying. As soon as his gaze snagged on Cleo, his eyes went soft. There was such a beautiful tenderness, so much love spilling unashamed and unchecked from his eyes, that it wrenched at Ophelia. I want that. I want the same forgiveness Adair gave to Cleo . . . and a life together. All of it.
How unfairly she’d judged Adair and her sister’s relationship with their onetime rival. Regret sat heavy in her heart.
When they reached him, her brother-in-law gathered Cleo’s fingers and raised them to his lips for a lingering, tender kiss. “Cleopatra.”
A simmering passion blazed to life as husband and wife exchanged a look so intimate, so powerful, that Ophelia looked away. After he’d handed Cleopatra inside, he turned back. “Ophelia,” her brother-in-law greeted with far greater warmth than she’d ever deserved from him.
The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2) Page 27
