“I was wrong.”
At that abrupt shift, she furrowed her brow in befuddlement.
“You attempted to . . .” He grimaced. “You did tell me about Ryker’s nursemaid, and I doubted you.” He lowered his voice. “At the expense of my niece’s safety,” he said solemnly, more to himself.
It was a familiar sentiment to those in the streets, an emotion greater known and experienced than love, warmth, or affection—guilt.
“Oi’m a Killoran,” she said gruffly, in a concession meant to assuage some of that sentiment. It shouldn’t matter what Adair Thorne’s opinion of her was—and yet it did.
He nodded once. “But our families also reached a truce. The Blacks will give one of Killoran’s sisters one Season, and then the terms are met.” How coolly unaffected he was. As he should be when speaking of the hated arrangement she’d gotten this family to agree to. “Listen, Cleopatra. We don’t like one another.”
Yet, nor did she hate him. She understood his way of life, and that made him . . . comfortable.
“Nor will our families ever be friendly or friends. But when deals are made, my family is not one to renege on the conditions.”
This is why he’d not only come, but handed her back her knife. To strike a new accord. Not one of friendship or peace between them, but rather to meet the terms of the concession she’d gotten them to agree to. “Ya asking me to come back with ya?” she taunted, anyway.
Had she not been studying him as close as she was, she’d have failed to see the muscle jumping at the corner of his eye.
She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. Where her own brother had been given to displays of temper too many times, and emotion . . . Adair remained remarkably in control, and damned if she did not find herself appreciating him for it. “I want my weapons back.”
“I just gave—”
“All of them,” she interrupted.
He was already shaking his head. “I’m not allowing a bag of arms inside the house where Black’s wife and child sleep.”
She steeled her jaw. Because for his earlier apologies and concessions, he still didn’t trust her.
“Because your weapons could find themselves in the hands of those who might have less honorable intentions.”
Cleopatra started. How had he followed the unspoken path her thoughts had taken? Quickly masking her features, she met his gaze. “You don’t trust the people on your staff?”
Another muscle leapt at his eye. “I made the mistake of trusting implicitly once. I’ll not do it again.”
Her intrigue piqued at not only Adair revealing that weakness but with questions about the man or woman who’d betrayed him and his family. Slowly nodding, she lifted her skirts and placed her dagger in its proper sheath along the inside of her calf. Feeling Adair’s piercing stare on her every movement, she snapped the fabric back into place and straightened. “Who was it?” she asked, curiosity pulling the question from her.
Adair swiftly lifted his gaze back to her face. “Do not mistake my honoring the terms of our peace for an offer of friendship,” he said tightly.
That curt dismissal shattered the seeming accord they’d struck. “Of course,” she said tersely. She forced an icy grin. “We both know anything but hatred between our families”—us—“is an impossibility.” And with the sting of shame sharp, she stalked off to make her goodbyes once more to her family, before she rejoined the frosty Adair Thorne and his family.
Chapter 11
First, he’d kissed her.
Now he’d been caught eyeing the hellion’s leg.
Twice, if he was being honest with at least himself. There had been the instance she’d entered Ryker’s household, that he’d put his hands upon her lithe frame and longed to explore her.
Living on the streets for most of his life and then owning a hell that offered prostitution, Adair had come upon whores being taken against a wall or fondled inside his club.
None of those flagrant shows, however, had borne even a hint of eroticism compared to the sight of Cleopatra lifting her skirts and working her long fingers down her calves and inside her boots. Dark boots. Clever ones—made of leather, higher than fashion dictated, and gleaming as they did—that had him conjuring wicked musings of the lithe miss in nothing but those boots and—
He groaned, grateful for the loud banging that drowned out that pathetic sound.
What’s worse was that afterward, in a bid to erect the safe wall between him and the enticing Killoran, he’d rejected an offer of friendship she’d never even extended. In that, he’d turned himself into what he’d always hated—a damned bully.
For despite the fire flashing in her eyes, there had been no doubt that Cleopatra had been hurt by his brusque dismissal. Such a fact wouldn’t have bothered him a week ago. But in a handful of days, she’d ceased to be the amorphous hellion who called Killoran kin. She’d proven herself to be a fearless, spirited woman who’d given him valuable advice regarding the renovations to his club, and who’d looked after Ryker’s daughter.
Then there was also the matter of Cleopatra happening to have enticing ankles.
“Mr. Thorne? You wanted to see me regarding the design plans?”
Startling, Adair looked to the head builder overseeing the reconstruction of the Hell and Sin. Large sheets open in his hands, the builder, Phippen, stared expectantly back at Adair. He silently cursed. “I did.” Withdrawing the pages from inside his jacket front, he unfolded the designs. “I wanted to make changes to the earlier agreed-upon plans.” Holding them out, he guided the builder toward the back of the hell. “We’d originally had private tables set along the back. I’d have that area moved.”
Then you give them a place for that. Apart from your main floors.
He glanced over to see if Phippen followed his requests. Brow wrinkled, the young builder blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm. “And the hazard and faro tables?”
“They’ll remain, as we’d originally discussed. The deviation will be that private tables are now scattered between, along both sides of the club.”
“Hmph.” That single-syllable utterance conveyed his disapproval, and also an inability to challenge Adair. Unlike Cleopatra . . . who was part of Adair’s world, more than the businessman before him. Regardless of her age, gender, or connection to Killoran, the woman was right. He swallowed a groan. He’d come here with the purpose of setting Cleopatra from his thoughts. Instead, since he’d arrived more than ten hours ago, she’d maintained a manaclelike grip over his thoughts.
“Do you have the space to add private rooms with tables?” he asked Phippen impatiently.
Studying the page in Adair’s hands, he stared a long while. “It will be difficult.”
Difficult but not impossible. “We own the adjoining building,” he reminded him. There should be space aplenty for the requested changes.
“There is a problem with that.”
Of course there was. Nothing had gone right since his club had burned down. “What is it?” he asked. Folding up the revised plans he’d made, he tucked them back inside his jacket.
Near Adair in height, the architect, who’d not hesitated to take part in the building when it was called for, gave no hint of unease at Adair’s sharp tone.
Holding up the plans in his own grip, the other man directed Adair’s focus to the area in question. “This wall here.” Phippen adjusted the page in his hand, attempting to point at the same time. Muttering to himself, the builder again shifted the sheets in his hand. “That is . . . here.” He gave another awkward jab.
Wordlessly, Adair took the page and stalked up the cracked steps. The din of the construction grew deafening in volume as he walked over to a hazard table now covered with an enormous white sheet. Adair laid the building plans down, spreading them open to the previously indicated page.
As in command of his employees as Adair was those in his hell, with a single lift of his hand, Phippen brought the men working to a jarring halt. “As I
was saying, Mr. Thorne, there is a problem . . . here . . . with this wall.” Pointing first to the sheet, the head builder then gestured to the area in question. “The fire burned through the plaster and penetrated even the stone wall between your establishment and the adjoining one.”
Adair frowned, eyeing that spot. Since they owned that property, it should hardly be a problem to merit Phippen’s catastrophic response.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Of course it is,” he mumbled. Because nothing since the fire had gone even remotely to plan where the rebuilding of the club was concerned.
“If you’ll look here.” Not waiting to see if Adair followed, he strode to the wall. Several builders hurried out of his way, clearing a path. Those same men hastily averted their eyes, just as they did every time Phippen revealed another flaw in the old structure. “The burned plaster revealed cracks and holes inside the adjoining brick wall.”
Joining the builder, he assessed the flawed stones. “Can’t you have a bricklayer replace the ones that were damaged?”
Phippen gave his head a negating shake. “This damage, I suspect, is unrelated to the blaze. Upon peeling additional plaster away, it’s shown a consistent pattern.” He doffed his hat and mopped at his sweaty brow. “If I had to make a venture, it expands all through the entire building.”
Moving closer, Adair inspected the ruined stones. He touched the damp portions.
“Lime near the surface destroyed them,” the builder said with a frustrating matter-of-factness.
“What does that mean for the timetable?” he asked, already knowing before Phippen even spoke.
“All the plaster needs to come down, and new bricks need to be laid.”
Bloody hell. His mind raced. The damned timetable of one month to completion had originally been given with a rigorous, nearly day-and-night long building plan . . . that had not taken into consideration warped stones and faulty beams throughout the club. “How much longer?”
Phippen jammed his hat back atop his head. “If I’d to hazard a guess?”
He bit his tongue to keep from saying he’d already demanded a guess from the man.
“At least another month.”
At least, which indicated a possibility of more errors. A sure possibility.
A large crash echoed around the barren-but-for-workers hell. Phippen immediately cursed and went rushing off, calling out orders to his men.
Adair jabbed his fingertips against his temples and pressed furiously. This had certainly not been the diversion he’d sought from Cleopatra Killoran. Sidestepping the workers scurrying back and forth with pieces of plaster overflowing in their arms, Adair made his way back outside. The sun had begun its descent in the early evening sky.
He briefly consulted his timepiece and then glanced over to his carriage. I should return. There was the ball introducing Killoran’s sister to the lords of London, and Adair was expected there. According to Ryker, he was to be there to keep a wary eye on her at all times during the event. And to Penelope, his presence was necessary to show a solidarity built on friendship.
It spoke to Penelope’s naïveté but also hinted at Ryker’s inability to shed his suspicious nature. It gave a man hope . . .
“Oi was told Oi could find you here.”
Niall’s coarse Cockney broke through the din of carpenters’ banging hammers and the clank of wood beams going back into place.
Turning about, he faced the other man. Usually there would be jeers and jests at having been caught unawares. It was a fault that could not be forgiven in St. Giles. However, since the destruction of their club and the uncertainty of the new futures his brothers—nay, they—had agreed to embark upon, there had been less goading and grins. He redirected his attention to two workers laboring to bring a sizable beam inside the hell. “I had to speak with Phippen about some changes,” he muttered.
“All day?”
“They’re important changes,” he groused.
“At the end of the day?” Niall persisted, relentless.
It was telling that his brother didn’t first present questions about the design plans for the Hell and Sin.
Then—
“What kind of changes?” he asked gruffly.
Adair tamped down a grin. Regardless of how Calum and Ryker had moved away from their devotion to the Hell and Sin for more respectable ventures, Niall would always have a connection to this place. Niall had been born to the streets, and it would forever be in his blood. “I’m moving the private tables to the gaming floors.”
Niall frowned. “What about the areas set apart for gents to conduct their business?”
Cleopatra’s advice rolling around his head, Adair proceeded to share the new plans and his rationale—her rationale. When he’d finished, Niall was contemplatively rubbing his chin.
“All good ideas.”
“Cleopatra,” he said automatically.
His brother’s expression instantly darkened. “What was that?”
Cursing under his breath, Adair shuttered his gaze. Niall might have admitted to being indebted to Cleopatra for helping save his wife, but he was not so forgiving or trusting that he’d want her holding the plans to the club in her small hands. Not when those plans revealed every chamber, secret, and hideaway.
“Cleopatra Killoran,” he amended, carefully picking through his words, “made mention of the Devil’s Den and their table configuration.”
Niall scoffed. “And you altered our plans based on that?”
“I altered our plans because it made sense to do so, and made less not to do so simply because Killoran runs his a certain way,” he said evenly.
They locked stares. Anyone else would have been petrified by that frosty challenge. Niall was a man who bore every element of his days of crime and the filth of the street on his person. Adair, however, had saved his arse enough times to know that no man was infallible—including his brother. Niall was the first to look away. He glanced about the streets. “You intending to stay here all day and night?”
“And where should I be?” Not allowing Niall to speak, he indicated with his hand four workers guiding a long beam through the gaping entryway. “There’s rotten bricks and four bearing walls that need to be replaced. And those are just two of the issues I’m dealing with.”
Two boys scurrying by with buckets stepped a wide berth around them as they climbed the steps inside.
After they’d passed, Adair continued, “If we . . .” He paused. They don’t want to really call these streets home anymore. Only you do. His brothers and sister all had homes that would never again be the Hell and Sin. “If I,” he somberly corrected, “ever expect to return home, I have to oversee the work here.”
With his gaze, Niall scoured his face. Carefully schooling his features, Adair met his stare. “That’s what all this is about?”
“All this?” he retorted. Of course his brother didn’t, nor couldn’t, know that Adair stood here lusting after Broderick Killoran’s sister. “Why don’t you say whatever it is that’s brought you here.” And be done with it.
“You’ve been avoiding Ryker’s townhouse,” Niall said without preamble. For a horrifying instant, Adair believed his family had gathered that this dangerous fascination with Cleopatra Killoran had driven him out.
“I haven’t been avoiding it,” he offered in a belated declination. Her. I’ve been avoiding her.
“It wasn’t your fault that she was discovered alone with Paisley.”
So that was the erroneous conclusion that had been drawn. That Adair had fled because of some sense of guilt at having neglected his responsibilities. What would they say if they knew the truth? All of it. Content to let them to their opinions, Adair scrutinized the builders bustling about.
“Ya can’t stay here forever,” Niall snapped. “Overseeing Killoran’s hellion of a sister is your other task,” Niall needlessly reminded him.
Adair frowned. He’d thought of Cleopatra as a hellion on countles
s scores. Something in hearing Niall utter it in those frosty, lethal tones was altogether . . . different. “She discovered Paisley’s nursemaid was a drunk,” he said, feeling the need to point out that fact. Another round of banging commenced. “When Ryker and Penny trusted the young woman implicitly,” he added.
His brother scratched at his brow. “Are ya all right?”
He stared back, unblinking. What was his brother on about?
“You’re defending the girl.”
I’m not a girl.
Again, those damned words conjured forth the memories of her under him, bucking, twisting, begging for his kiss. Tamping down a groan along with an unwanted burgeoning of desire, he focused all his efforts on the two builders bringing a shorter but wider beam inside. “I’ve got more responsibilities than just seeing to Cleopatra Killoran.” He’d once scoffed at the pomposity of her name. Now, having been battled by the spirited minx on several scores, he conceded there wasn’t a more apt one for her.
“The ball is in two hours.”
His gut clenched. Another one of those infernal affairs. He’d been forced to suffer through too many polite events since his sister, Helena, had married a duke. Those bloody despised obligations had only increased with Ryker’s and Calum’s marriages to proper ladies.
“Ryker wants to know if you’ll be back.”
Adair snorted. “Wants to know? Or demands?”
“The latter,” Niall said with a grin. He’d been tasked with bringing Adair back.
“I’m overseeing the work, and then I’ll return.” Coward. You’re avoiding seeing Cleopatra, again. Stalking forward, Adair climbed the handful of broken steps, but the carved demons outside froze him in his steps. The horn of one gargoyle was broken, and a jagged crack ran through the entire winged body. Even the first adornments they’d ever affixed to the club had been ruined.
The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Page 13
