The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(21)

Reggie glanced away lest he see the hurt that was surely there in her eyes. “I . . . see.” Despite her closeness to the Killorans and her devotion, no one had shared this darkest of secrets that hung ominously over the family. It was a silly detail to fix on, given the Killorans’ dire circumstances.

Fighting back her own selfishness, she focused on the true victim in this. “Does Stephen know?”

Grief twisted Broderick’s chiseled cheeks. “Yes.” Again, the evidence of that love for his sibling of the streets chipped at her heart.

Reggie dragged her chair closer, so close her knees brushed Broderick’s. “All hope is not lost. The gentleman will surely realize that Stephen is alive now because of you and your sisters.” And then Gertrude needn’t sell herself to maintain the Killoran empire.

Broderick held Reggie’s gaze. “I assigned the man to find an orphan,” he whispered, scraping a hand through his hair, tangling that halo of lush golden curls. “I unwittingly commanded the man who coordinated Stephen’s kidnapping.” His jaw tensed. “I knew Lord Maddock would never simply take my word. I knew I needed to find Walsh and Lucy first and drag them before the marquess.” Broderick set his jaw. “Walsh already had the marquess’s ear.”

His revelation knocked her back in her seat. It wouldn’t matter that the Killorans had taken the boy within their fold and loved him as their own. All the boy’s father, all the ton, and for that matter, all the world, would see was that Stephen had been taken and resided with the Killoran gang. Nay . . . that Broderick had given the orders. Her eyes slid briefly closed.

A heavy hand settled on hers, the warmth of that touch enveloping her and driving back some of the horror of all Broderick had revealed. “We need those connections more than ever.”

His “we,” however, implied her . . . but that couldn’t be. Before it had been strictly greed and a desire to climb ranks. This . . . she shivered . . . he would swing for this.

Reggie stared at his olive-hued fingers covering her own, concealing her cracked and chipped nails, a product of all the work she did within these halls with her own hands.

“What do you require?” she brought herself to ask. For him and his siblings she would do anything.

“As I said, Gertrude agreed to a London Season.” His thick golden lashes swept down, obscuring his eyes. “Under certain conditions.”

“Good for Gertrude.” She managed her first smile that day, one brimming with pride for the woman who’d begun to exert herself within the club. “What were her terms?” If Gertrude had volunteered to sacrifice her happiness to save her brother and her family from the financial fallout that would come with this scandal, then Reggie hoped she’d asked for—

“She wants you to serve as her companion.”

Every muscle from Reggie’s cheeks to her toes turned to stone. For she’d previously been incorrect with herself. She’d do anything for the Killorans—except that. “What?” she asked, her tongue thick.

“The assignment would last for the duration of her Season.” With a calm that belied the tumult in her breast, Broderick looped his ankle across his opposite knee.

A loud buzzing filled her ears. Enter Polite Society?

After a long stretch of silence, he added: “You will of course be well compensated.”

She flinched. He’d mention . . . monies? Hurt simmered in her breast. And oddly, this time hurt was safer, for the acuteness of it dulled the memories of her past mistakes. The very ones that saw her dependent upon this man before her.

“I’ve already secured a townhouse in Mayfair. Before we go, I’ll need you to examine our ledgers and assemble a list of names.”

He’d already taken it as a foregone conclusion that she’d accompany him. Because when have you ever said no to him . . . ? “What manner of list?”

“I want a list of those gentleman who are in greatest debt to the Devil’s Den. And I want those patrons ranked by title and influence.”

Everything was by rank in this club with this man. Broderick’s obsession with status and title guided his every decision, and it was just one of the many, many reasons Reggie could never be truly a part of his life. That, and the fact that he had no wish for her to be part of it.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

Broderick rolled his shoulders as though they were stiff, and that slight, deliberate shrug sent his muscles rippling.

That subtle movement released a flood of butterflies in her belly.

Have some pride, you foolish woman . . . He just upended your future and talks of thrusting you back into a world you vowed to never set foot inside again.

At her silence, Broderick drummed his fingertips on the side of his gleaming black boot. “I trust this is daunting . . . the prospect of your moving amongst Polite Society.”

A panicky laugh built in her chest, and she forcibly held it in, the effort of that causing a sharp ache. What would he say if he knew the truth? That she’d once dwelled in a duke’s household and moved amongst the company of those people he so exalted? Granted, she’d served in that nebulous role of not quite a servant and certainly not a member of the noble family, but she’d acquired a very clear understanding of that world.

Bitterness sat like a stone in her.

No, she could not—nay, would not—reenter that cruel, unfeeling world.