The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

  It was far more a connection than most marriages in Polite Society were built on.

  And yet . . . it was also far less than the love that had driven his own mother to forsake her family and good name to carve out a life for herself with a poor Irishman who’d nothing to offer her but his heart.

  His father spoke, bringing Connor back from poignant musings of the parents who’d birthed him. “I encourage this match . . . not because I desire a connection between our families”—lifelong friends since Eton, both powerful nobles had together worked to improve the lots of the poor—“but because I know you . . . and I know Bethany.”

  Connor turned over the next card.

  Yes, with their shared vision of a different London, they certainly had more than most marriages within the nobility.

  A fancy investigator now. Are you trying to erase the streets from yourself, Steele? Still haven’t figured it out, have you? It will always be part of you, no matter the fine garments you wear.

  His lips twitched.

  Nor would Bethany be one to burn him up with her caustic tongue as Ophelia Killoran had always been able to.

  His father tossed his cards down. “Come,” he said, shoving his chair back. “We should continue to the dancing portion of the festivities.”

  Oh, bloody hell.

  Mention of Bethany, Connor’s bachelor state, and dancing . . . The Earl of Mar could not be any clearer than if he’d dragged out a betrothal contract with Connor’s name etched alongside the lady’s and asked for his signature.

  Reluctantly, Connor stood.

  Suddenly, it felt a good deal safer returning to St. Giles and facing a spitfire like Ophelia than Bethany . . . and his father’s expectations.

  Chapter 7

  Since Ophelia Killoran had taken her first steps, she’d been groomed, trained, and sent out into the world as a pickpocket. From East London to West, she’d learned every crevice and every nook of every stone.

  Now, she moved along those same streets not as a thief . . . but as a woman playing at being a lady.

  All because of her blasted brother.

  Lingering at the corner of Madame Bisset’s, Ophelia surveyed those very streets. Fancily clad couples with their arms linked passed by, along with other solo passersby, young women with maids and footmen trailing close.

  Trapped.

  They were all, regardless of station, trapped—in different places, but invariably it remained the same.

  “What of this one?” Gertrude called out.

  In the crystal pane, her sister’s visage along with the plump shopkeeper’s reflected back. The smooth, clear glass served as a window in which the proprietor’s pursed lips revealed precisely what she thought of waiting on the Killorans.

  Shopping. Just one more aspect of her life which had been changed. Where before milliners and dressmakers and seamstresses had been paid substantial sums and brought within the Killoran world, now they’d be forced to step into theirs.

  It was one thing for those sought-after proprietors taking the fat purses and secretly cladding the Diggory gang. It was altogether different for Ophelia and her siblings to enter their shops so all the ton knew whose money they took.

  “Ophelia?” her sister pressed, shaking a bolt of fabric.

  “Fine,” she gritted out. “It is fine.”

  It was all irrelevant. Fancy garments, ornate bonnets, extravagant jewels. It changed nothing before the eyes of Society. Nor did Ophelia care whether she was or was not accepted by the ton. She did care that her entire world was about to be upended.

  “You did not even look,” Gertrude protested, waving the swatch again.

  Tossing a requisite look over her shoulder, she assessed the ice-blue satin. “It is fine,” she repeated, glancing out the window once more.

  Several ladies at a nearby table made little attempt to conceal their whisperings.

  “The nerve of them . . . believing they could ever . . .” The rest of that uninventive charge was lost to a flurry of giggles.

  Ophelia slid a cool look in their direction. The pair, not many years older than Ophelia and her own sisters, instantly fell silent.

  Lifting the edge of her skirt, she displayed a blade she’d commandeered from one of the guards and now wore strapped to her lower leg.

  The ladies shrieked and tripped over themselves in their haste to exit the shop.

  “My ladies,” Madame Bisset cried, abandoning Gertrude. She flew after those fleeing customers. “Pleeze, zees is a misunderstanding. Do not—”

  Gertrude caught Ophelia by the forearm and dragged her into the corner. “Bloody hell, can you not at least feign an attempt at civility? By God, even Cleo did.”

  Even Cleo . . . which suggested Ophelia was somehow the lesser of the sisters. Yet—she lifted her chin—“Cleo is also the one who’s forgotten where she’s come from.”

  Her eldest sister glared. “Why? Because she’s made an attempt at creating a new life for herself?”

  Yes, that was precisely why.

  With Madam Bisset still at the front of the shop pleading with her outraged clients, Gertrude dropped her voice. “This is happening. Either you go along with what Broderick wishes or you do not. But if you enter into this agreement and join the ton, you might, like Cleo, find you do not mind the world as much as you believe you do,” she said in a hushed whisper.

  Ophelia snorted. There was a greater chance she’d develop a taste for spit-roasted pig dipped in chocolate.

  “Now,” her sister said, pointedly ignoring that outburst, “what about this one?” She held the swatch of satin so close to Ophelia’s face she went briefly cross-eyed.

  Burnt orange. “It is fine.”

  Gertrude’s frown deepened.

  “It is . . . not fine?”

  Growling, Gertrude stomped off.

  Her sister once again preoccupied at the table full of material, Ophelia returned to looking out the storefront windows and the lords and ladies bustling along the pavement, longing for home. I should be overseeing my responsibilities. Instead, she was wasting her hours on inane tasks suited to proper misses and not street rats.

  Her gaze wandered out to the busy thoroughfare, instantly locating a small waif with threadbare garments, dirty cheeks, and eyes that revealed his hunger.

  Ophelia’s perusal came to a stop at the gaslight, and she continued to study the small boy. Near in age to Stephen, he wore the same angry expression upon his gaunt cheeks that any who’d been born on the streets did.

  She should be helping him. Helping so many. Instead, she’d be suffering through fittings, selecting fabrics she didn’t give a jot about for garments expensive enough to keep twenty or more of those street urchins clad and warm.

  Madame Bisset’s increasingly strident tone cut across her musings.

  A moment later the bell affixed to the door was set ajingle as her upset clients stormed from the establishment. No doubt, her former clients.

  “That izz it,” Madame Bisset cried, storming back to Gertrude. She cast an impressively black glower in Ophelia’s direction. “I have outfitted your family over zee years, but this?” she squawked, sweeping a hand in Ophelia’s direction. “Is too much. Too much.” Her voice pitched to the ceiling. “They say your sister threatened zem with a knife.”

  “I’m sure my sister did not . . .”

  While her sister launched into a fiery debate with the proprietor, Ophelia looked out, again, searching for the boy.

  And found him.

  Ophelia blinked.

  Found him speaking to a broad, towering figure.

  Found him speaking to a broad, towering, and familiar figure, to be precise.

  She swiped her hand over her eyes. Surely she was merely seeing things. Surely after his unexpected resurrection and then appearance in her family’s club the evening prior, she was seeing him everywhere. There was no other accounting to explain why Connor O’Roarke was even now in discussion with the street urchin outside Madame
Bisset’s.

  She honed in on his lips, trying to make sense of his words. Annoyance sparked to life, healthy and familiar where this man was concerned. There could be no reason that an investigator known as the Hunter could be talking to a child who’d been moments away from picking a nob’s pockets.

  Taking advantage of her sister’s escalating debate with the French modiste, Ophelia strode to the front door and carefully opened it, mindful of that blasted bell. When no hue and cry went up from her sister, Ophelia did a sweep of her surroundings—instantly finding Connor and the boy walking off side by side.

  Over my bloody body.

  Surging forward, Ophelia wound her way through the busy crowds, her muslin skirts bright and cumbersome. She damned the garments, longing for her breeches. All the while she followed Connor and the boy, she kept her gaze trained on their backs, keeping them within her sights while also maintaining a measured distance. They continued walking until the clean, crowded streets gave way to dank, less-traveled cobbles.

  The pair stopped, and Connor motioned the child down an alley.

  Ophelia staggered to a jerky stop, her heart plummeting to her stomach and churning up nausea. Do not be a bloody coward . . . you are Ophelia Killoran.

  For the hell visited upon her in one alley, she’d escaped and survived. She’d only become stronger over the years. She’d be damned ten times to Sunday before cowering as she was while Connor did . . . did . . . whatever it was he sought from that street waif.

  Energized by that, Ophelia pressed herself against the brick wall. Bending, she discreetly plucked free the knife she’d flashed to the shop ladies. Dagger in hand, Ophelia glanced about the streets. There was an eerie emptiness here at this end of Oxford Street; it chased a chill down her spine and iced her from the inside out.

  She swallowed hard.

  Before her courage could desert her, she dipped around the corner.

  Empty.

  Impossible . . . and yet, as someone who’d dwelled in alleys, she’d come to know there was oftentimes more to them.

  Her fingers curled reflexively around the hilt of her dagger, the carved wood biting into the fabric of her leather gloves. Damning the silly articles that could get a person killed in a street fight, she paused to tug at one with her teeth. She made quick work of the other glove and shoved the pair into her cloak pocket.

  She inched down the alley, her eyes everywhere. Do not think of it . . . do not think of him.

  Take ’im down and read ’is palms, girl.

  With every step, the memory streamed closer and closer to the surface, forcing her back into her past, to the smells of that day: whiskey on his breath and the strong scent of leather as he’d smothered her cries.

  She tripped and shot out her spare hand, searching for purchase.

  Why else would a girl take a gentleman down an alley?

  Ophelia sank her teeth into her lower lip, for he’d been right. There could come no good in venturing down an alley alone . . . and even less so with or after a man.

  As you’re now doing.

  Only, this was Connor. How many times had she come upon him in these very places?

  But he was a boy then. All these years have passed, and what do you truly know of him?

  “Focus,” she mouthed, forcing her feet onward.

  It was as though the pair had simply vanished . . . or she’d imagined the two together. Ophelia stopped suddenly. Her gaze caught on a doorway at the back of the brick structure.

  Heart speeding up, she cast a look to the front of the alley and then at the handful of steps between her and the opposite end.

  Trapped.

  Stop it. You chose to come down here. No one knows you’re here. No one has lured you here.

  It recalled her pursuit: Connor . . . and that child.

  Drawing a long, slow breath between clenched lips, Ophelia crept the remaining distance. She hesitated at the edge of that solid oak door, lingering.

  Now what?

  The panel flew open, and she turned to flee.

  A body slammed into her with such force it sucked the air from her lungs and killed the cry on her lips.

  Her knife clattered uselessly to the ground as Ophelia came crashing down, her stomach connecting with the harsh, unforgiving stone floor. Pain exploded throughout her body. Agony, sharp and vicious, screamed in protest of the weight crushing her to the ground.

  “What do you want?” he rasped loudly against her ear. Collecting her wrists in one hand, he rendered her defenseless while the other did a search of her person.

  Tell me what you want.

  She whimpered, bucking and thrashing wildly against her captor’s hold.

  A sheen of tears blurred her vision, those crystal drops blinding.

  Once more she was trapped.

  Since he’d gone off with the street waif, Ned, Connor had sensed the threat in the shadows.

  The miserable years he’d suffered in the streets and then his years working as an investigator had ingrained in him the peril in ignoring one’s gut warnings.

  He’d been followed.

  There could be no doubting the soft figure he’d taken down, which was now gyrating under him, was female. Blood pumped fast through his veins, as it always did from the threat of danger; this time there was more. His body reacted strongly to the lush, generously curved buttocks rocking against him.

  “Be still,” he growled, tightening his mouth.

  The woman only rocked her hips all the more, grinding against him.

  Connor steeled his resolve.

  He’d seen sirens bury blades in the bellies of unsuspecting men and as such learned long ago never to underestimate someone because of their gender, age, or size.

  “What do you want?” he demanded again, dragging up her skirts. He scraped a hand over her muscular calves, one at a time. They were strong legs, the flesh surprisingly soft, a contradiction to the work-roughened palms in his hand that marked her of the streets. His fingers curled reflexively around her lower right leg.

  She hissed. “Bastard.”

  That breathy voice, threaded with panic, froze him on the spot. “What the hell?” he whispered incredulously, flipping her over. Shock brought his mouth open. Impossible. “Ophelia?” And then a slow dawning horror. “Did I hurt y—?”

  Ophelia shoved her knee hard between his legs.

  All the air slipped from him on a sharp gasp. Stars dotted his vision, but he retained his hold.

  “Get. Off. Me,” she panted, her chest moving up and down at a frantic pace. He’d seen Ophelia in many forms over the years: angry, outraged, disgusted, mocking.

  Never had he seen her fearful. Now, it rolled off her trembling frame in waves, seeping from her eyes.

  “Will you stop fighting me?” he managed to rasp out through the agony of her effectively landed blow.

  She jerked her other knee up in reply.

  Anticipating that strike, Connor caught her leg and forced it back to the earth. “You vixen,” he muttered. Her hands still clasped between his, he struggled awkwardly to his feet, dragging her up with him.

  “Bastard,” she hissed again.

  “I hardly think you’ve followed me from Mayfair to Oxford Street and down this alley all for the purpose of challenging my parentage,” he said dryly, issuing a frosty warning to that statement, one that demanded answers.

  He should have known better where Ophelia Killoran was concerned. “Go to hell, O’Roarke.”

  “If I’d had a pence for every time you’ve uttered that in the course of my life, I would have lived the life of a king.”

  She spat at his feet, spittle landing on the tips of his black boots.

  Connor narrowed his eyes. “Or am I to gather you’re still picking pockets?”

  Ophelia moved for her knife, and he dove for the blade, reaching it first. He examined the crude hilt, the sharpened blade. It was a quality weapon, and yet . . .

  “This is hardly a dagger fit for the Jewel
of St. Giles,” he murmured, turning it over.

  Eager fingers shot out, and even while he told himself to look away, he stared on, riveted as she tugged up her skirt and strapped the blade to a shapely leg. A leg that just moments ago he’d been exploring. Another wave of hunger went through him. He fought back a groan.

  “I lost mine.”

  Connor didn’t miss the way she briefly avoided his eyes, and he easily spotted her lie.

  “You?” he countered, steeping his voice in disbelief. “You don’t lose anything. You were never without that knife. After all, I had it pressed to my neck enough times to recall its importance to you.”

  Ire blazed to life in her eyes. “What did you do with that boy?”

  He creased his brow. What was she on about?

  “The boy, on North Bond Street,” she clarified in crisp tones. “What did you do with him?”

  Connor’s mouth moved, but no words came out. He tried again. Why . . . why . . . ? His ears went hot. “What in blazes are you accusing me of?”

  “Where is he?” she whispered, taking a threatening step closer, and by the saints in heaven, she had a look of the furies to rouse terror in any sane man’s chest.

  A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, and for a long moment he considered telling her to go to hell and sending her on her way. Only . . . what about the boy had brought her following after him? He swept his hand toward the doorway.

  She wetted her lips. Darting a stare over her shoulder, she briefly considered the opposite end of the alley. Then, adjusting her cloak and bonnet, she swept ahead.

  She stepped inside and then stopped. Her slow, widening gaze took in the young boy, Ned, seated at the table.

  Ned glanced up from the plate of bread he currently devoured. “Who are ya?” His voice emerged muffled around his bite. He yanked free another piece and then jammed it into his mouth.

  Ophelia peered over her shoulder.

  Ignoring the question in her eyes, Connor closed the door behind them and joined the boy.

  “A childhood friend,” Connor supplied when Ophelia let that question go unanswered. He picked up a pitcher and filled an empty glass.