The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

  Connor’s fingers ached with the need to gather the loose tendril. “I was adopted . . . by a nobleman.”

  Her crimson lips parted. “A nob?”

  “Aye.” He hesitated. The day he’d interceded on her behalf, Connor had confined her to a life of continued misery, while he had the world laid out before him without ever an empty belly and day of fear again. Pain twisted in his chest as that long-carried guilt whispered around once more. “The lord whose pocket you nicked spared me the hangman’s noose . . . and brought me home.”

  Ophelia’s jaw went slack, and she swiveled her head to the opposite end of the table where Connor’s father sat speaking. “It is him,” she said as a person who’d at last put together the pieces of a complicated riddle.

  He searched for a hint of resentment and found only curiosity. “The earl had no family. He took me in his care. Gave me a home.” A two-story townhouse that had been a palatial mansion to a boy accustomed to hovels and alleys. “An education.” What had become of Ophelia in their years apart? His gut clenched.

  “It is why you’re now ‘Steele,’” she said, more to herself.

  “It is why I’m now Steele,” he echoed, directing that to where his father sat conversing with Bethany.

  She followed his stare. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked with guarded eyes as she looked back. “What do you want?”

  How suspicious she’d always been. “What do I want?”

  “People always want something.”

  Aye, that usually held true. And given her part in Diggory’s gang and then at the late bastard’s club, working with the children there, she represented access to countless boys he might interview on behalf of Lord Maddock.

  “I would have you know that not all noblemen are evil. Some, like my father”—he edged his chin in the earl’s direction—“are good.”

  Her mouth tightened. “And some are murderers, too . . . like the nob you’re serving now.”

  “He was declared innocent,” he said quietly. “I should think as someone who’s so often judged and condemned before Society, you’d be more forgiving.”

  Ophelia scoffed. “Come, Connor. You know I’m more guilty than not of the crimes Society has accused me of.” She picked up her knife and passed it back and forth between her hands. “Worse.”

  A pang struck his chest. Since he’d first met her, he’d always taken Ophelia as one made of steel, so jaded by life that she had erected walls that protected her from any and every hurt.

  “You did what you had to, to survive,” he said somberly. “We both did.” She, however, failed to realize it all these years later.

  Ophelia ceased her deliberate movements. “We’re not the same, Connor. We never have been.”

  “Tell me, Miss Killoran,” a singsong voice intoned from down the table. In unison, Connor and Ophelia swung their gazes across the table. “Are you enjoying your time in London?”

  The previously noisy table fell silent.

  From where she sat diagonal to Connor and Ophelia, the young duchess smiled. Hers was the practiced grin of a lady, one that did not strain the muscles of one’s cheeks, and yet, unlike most of the women of the ton, her eyes sparkled with kindness.

  At his side, Ophelia slowly set her fork down. She dabbed her napkin slowly at the corners of her lips before responding. “I’ve always lived in London,” she finally said.

  “Ah, yes. Forgive me. That is correct.” Viscount Middlethorne’s daughter lifted her head in apology. “I am ever so fascinated by life in St. Giles.” She dropped her elbows to the table and rested her chin atop interlocked fingers. “Won’t you tell us about your experiences?”

  Her experiences. Connor ground his teeth. Bethany broached the subject of Ophelia’s life as though they discussed the young woman’s embroidery skills.

  All eyes remained on Ophelia.

  Ophelia lowered her hands to her lap, and from the corner of his eye, he took in the way she clenched and unclenched those callused digits. “What do you wish to know?” she asked in the flawless, clipped tones to rival the King’s English.

  He pressed his lips together. As long as he’d known Lady Bethany, she had very much been enthralled by the plight of those who dwelled outside of Mayfair. Hers, however, had never been the cruel searching that came from busybodies who didn’t give a jot for those men, women, and children suffering. Rather, she’d devoted her time, resources, and energies to improving the lot of those like Connor and Ophelia. As much as he’d always admired the lady’s altruism, in this, with Ophelia splayed open before a sea of curious onlookers, he felt a sharp sting of annoyance.

  At the silence, Bethany’s smile dipped. With one hand still tucked under her chin, she waved the other. “Oh, I do not know, Miss Killoran. All of it. Any of it.” She stared back through innocent eyes, round like saucers. “I wager there is a table full of guests very much eager to learn whatever it is you would share. Were you a pickpocket? Is that what I’ve heard?” She glanced around the table as if seeking confirmation from another guest present. “Am I correct? One never likes to rely upon the gossips, isn’t that true?” A nervous tittering went up around her.

  Ophelia’s expression hardened, and she remained mutinously silent.

  Had he not stolen another sideways glance, he’d have failed to see the quake in her fingers; that slight tremble belied the brave show she now presented.

  At the opposite end of the table, a growl rumbled from Connor’s chest.

  “Miss Killoran saved countless boys and girls in the streets of St. Giles back when she was merely a child herself, and even more now with the work she does for her family,” he said. His deep, rumbling pronouncement blanketed the room in a thick tension.

  Lady Bethany widened her eyes. “Indeed?” she said, in awestruck tones. “How very thrilling your life has been, Miss Killoran,” she said with a small clap of her hands.

  At her side, Connor’s father said something that called her attention back, and the table resumed their previous discourses.

  Connor’s jaw clenched with frustration.

  Precarious. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Ophelia’s life, just like Connor’s own, had been any number of things. Thrilling never had been one of them.

  But then to those who’d never walked through the fires of hell as they had and lived to fight the nightmares, neither Lady Bethany, nor any other philanthropic guest here at Calum and Eve Dabney’s behest, would ever understand. By the very nature of their fortunate existence, they were removed from the streets of East London.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  Ophelia raised her gaze to his.

  “About . . . that questioning. Even as some of them, Lady Bethany included, mean well, there is . . .” He searched his mind.

  “An insensitivity?” Ophelia supplied, distractedly trailing her fork around the perimeter of her porcelain plate.

  “There is that.” At best. Cruelty at worst. Connor reached for his glass.

  “Connor?” Ophelia said, freezing his movements. “Thank you.”

  He lifted his tumbler in unspoken acknowledgment, and even though silence fell between them, Connor could not help feeling an unspoken truce had been struck.

  Chapter 10

  Ophelia’s first appearance before Polite Society had been deemed a success by the gossip columns, but it had been bloody miserable.

  As she was ushered through the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s residence later that week, it was a certainty that Ophelia’s next foray could only prove to be even more horrid.

  For this evening, there would not be a mere dining table full of vipers to face but an entire ballroom of them.

  Trailing along at a slower pace than the one set by her sister and brother-in-law, Ophelia swallowed hard, as with each slow step that brought her closer toward her grim fate, reality settled firm around her mind.

  There would be fancy lords who’d sign the silly card strapped to her wrist and then put their hands upon her.
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  Sweat beaded on her forehead.

  Do not think of him . . . do not think of him.

  For mayhap there wouldn’t be. Mayhap those bloody nobs would treat her with their usual disdain and find themselves too pompous to taint their bloodlines with a bastard born in the streets.

  As soon as the hope slipped in, it died.

  If her sister’s Season had proven anything, there would always be wastrel lords so in need of a fortune that they’d be willing to sell their names, bodies, and titles to ones such as the Killorans.

  Yes, there would be dancers. Men who settled their hands at the small of her back and waist, forcing her fingers onto their shoulder . . . maneuvering. Manipulating. Controlling.

  Just as he’d been.

  You will do whatever I ask, you little slut . . . because that is what I paid good coin for . . . and that is what my right is.

  She faltered and shot out an arm, steadying herself. Perhaps it had been a naïveté she hadn’t believed of herself, or perhaps it had been wishful thinking, or mayhap even hope. But until this instance, she’d not considered the very real possibility that their paths would cross: hers and the gentleman’s who would always own a horrifying place in her memories.

  Ophelia abruptly stopped, motionless while her sister and Adair continued on ahead, and she gazed vacantly at their backs.

  Of all the balls and soirees, what was the likelihood that of all people, she would come face-to-face with him?

  I’ll kill you for this, you little slut.

  Ahead, she dimly registered her sister and brother-in-law looking back.

  She stopped and gave her head a little shake.

  I cannot do this. Not even for Gertrude. Be it a mark of her selfishness or weakness or cowardice—none of it mattered. The only thing that did was retaining her razor-thin grasp on sanity.

  Cleo said something to Adair. He nodded once, and with a final concerned look in Ophelia’s direction, he continued onward, allowing the sisters privacy.

  Her sister sprinted down the hall. “Wot is it?” she demanded before she’d even come to a stop. Her words came muffled as if down a long, narrow corridor.

  Unable to get words out past her thick throat, Ophelia shook her head.

  Frowning, Cleo slapped her palm gently against Ophelia’s cheek. “Please, don’t tell me ya’re going to faint on me?” In the past there would have been annoyance at the possibility. This newer, more tender Cleo entreated with her eyes and pulled Ophelia from the brink.

  She inhaled slowly. “I don’t faint,” she managed, her voice weak to her own ears.

  “Is this because of last evening?” Her mind blanked. They’d not spoken of Calum Dabney’s dinner—until now. More specifically, they hadn’t spoken about anything last evening or really at all since Cleo had moved out and Ophelia had moved in.

  “Last evening?” she ventured cautiously, weighing her words. Had her sister noted her stolen exchanges with Connor? And if she did, what would she say of your history with him and . . . what you did?

  “The Duchess of Argyll,” her sister pressed, “and her public questioning.”

  That steadied her. So the young widow with a possessive gaze on Connor was . . . a duchess. A step below royalty. Is that what her sister believed? That Ophelia had been thrown off-kilter by a nob fascinated with the life of a street rat?

  “It is no less than I expected.” Talk of that idealistic lady was far safer, as it didn’t involve discussions of the past and decisions Ophelia had made that had resulted in tragic consequences for one they loved.

  That immediately earned a small, disapproving frown, again highlighting the marked shift that had occurred in Cleo. As one who’d hated the nobility with a vitriol to rival Ophelia’s, even that had changed.

  “Not all of them are unkind,” her sister proceeded to point out. “The duchess, as I understand it, gives of her time at Eve’s hospitals.”

  “That’ll feed an empty belly,” she muttered sarcastically, earning a frown from Cleo. Her sister’s defense of the young widow was not unlike that of another. How highly Connor still thought of Lady Argyll, even after her betrayal.

  Why should that rub Ophelia’s last nerve raw?

  Perhaps it was just that Connor had proven the unlikeliest of her defenders last evening when the Spartan beauty had dug her claws into Ophelia’s flesh.

  Ophelia bit at her lower lip. For there had been another time when he’d come to her rescue . . . years earlier. He’d allowed himself to be carted off to Newgate in her stead. The outcome didn’t outweigh his sacrifice that day.

  Who was Connor O’Roarke? Pompous hand of the nobility who didn’t give a jot about the plight of those in St. Giles? Or respectable investigator with honorable intentions for all, regardless of station?

  Her sister stuck an elbow in her side, and she grunted. “What in blazes was that for?”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d say you were woolgathering.”

  Which was actually what Ophelia had been doing. Her cheeks heated, and she gave thanks for her sister’s erroneously drawn opinion. “I don’t give a jot about what that woman had to say; nor do I care about anyone else’s opinion,” she weakly offered. They’d faced Society’s ill thoughts since they’d first drawn breath, and that disdain would follow them, regardless of the wealth they’d acquired.

  “I know you,” Cleo said quietly. “It bothers you that the nobility should be pardoned their crimes when we wear ours like a mark upon our skin.”

  The D carved above Connor’s brow flashed to her mind’s eye; that mark of ownership was etched into nearly all of Diggory’s boys and girls, an indelible part that could never be erased. Yet Connor had somehow risen outside of the filth of St. Giles, the only place Ophelia and her kin would or could ever comfortably belong.

  “I promise, for the manner of people such as that nasty harridan last evening, there will be others who speak on your behalf,” her sister assured, mistaking the reason for her contemplativeness. “Honorable people like that Mr. Steele.” Did she merely imagine the probing look her sister shot her? For it was gone so quickly it may as well have been a trick of her imagination. A mischievous twinkle sparked in Cleo’s eyes. “Even if he is a bloody investigator,” she said on a hushed whisper.

  She forced the requisite grin and allowed her sister to lead her to the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s ballroom—and the miserable future her brother insisted she forge for the family.

  As Connor entered Lord and Lady Somerset’s ballroom, it became apparent with one glance that Ophelia Killoran had taken the ton by storm.

  Just not for the reasons that the gossip columns had predicted. They had anticipated Ophelia would be met with closed doors, empty dance cards, and the scorn of all.

  The swell of gentlemen in the corner of the room now swarming the pale-haired beauty made a mockery of any such forecast.

  Having spent the day conducting interviews with the children who comprised the staff at Black’s club, Connor had arrived conveniently late enough that he was spared the receiving line. From where he stood at the front of the ballroom, his gaze remained fixed on that blonde hair swept up into an artful chignon. Held loosely in place by rubies that glittered under the candle’s glow, the coiffure gave the illusion that one slight move would set those strands tumbling free.

  His breath hitched in his chest.

  Bloody hell if he didn’t want to see her hair flowing about her shoulders and waist as it had in Broderick Killoran’s offices more than one week earlier.

  The young woman’s shoulders went taut, and she arched her long neck, glancing about.

  Her gaze collided with Connor’s.

  She widened her eyes. “You,” she mouthed.

  He touched a hand to his chest and dropped his head in a deferential bow. “The very same.”

  Even with the length of the room between them, he caught the errant smile grazing her lips. She swiftly attempted to hide it with her hand.

  �
��Quite a crowd,” he articulated carefully, nudging his chin at the loudly dressed dandies surrounding her.

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head.

  They shared a smile, and he started forward. Moving along the perimeter of the room, past elegantly clad lords and ladies, he continued on to Ophelia.

  A tall, satin-clad figure stepped into his path, and he silently cursed. Bethany leaned negligently against a pillar, arms folded at her chest. “My, my, I’d begun to believe I’d only imagined our more than ten years of friendship,” she drawled. Over the ruffled rim of her ivory fan, a teasing sparkle lit her green eyes. There was something else there . . . a smoky desire.

  As a young man, he’d all but panted from one of those tempting come-hither looks she’d cast.

  Now he found them pathetically coy.

  “Ten and four,” he corrected, looking in Ophelia’s direction to those bloody swains now surrounding her. He forced his attention to the woman before him. He dropped a respectful bow. “Duchess.”

  With a snort, she snapped her fan closed. She glided over and swatted at his sleeve. “Hush with your meticulous accounting of our friendship. You are making me feel positively old, Mr. Steele.”

  “Never,” he demurred, raising her fingers to his lips for a requisite kiss.

  “Come, walk with me,” she cajoled, slipping her arm through his, making the decision for him.

  He cast a last regretful glance in Ophelia’s direction and proceeded to walk Lady Bethany about the room.

  “I understand you are busy with another case,” she murmured.

  “I am.” His responsibilities as an investigator were just another reason why he could not fulfill the expectations that she and their families had for them.

  That is not solely the reason. Despite each of their fathers’ expectations of and for them, Connor had long ago ceased to see Lady Bethany in any romantic light. She’d come to simply be the wide-eyed girl who’d declared him her friend . . . and proceeded to pepper him with questions about his life in St. Giles.