The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(15)

“Because of you,” Ophelia snarled. “You insisted on introductions to Polite Society.”

Their brother tossed up his hands in exasperation. “What in blazes did you think the damned introductions were for?”

As brother and sister launched into an all-out attack, Cleopatra welcomed the focus to remain there and not on her. For the palpable tension in their exchange, it also offered a balm to Cleopatra’s restlessness. For all the fights and challenges that arose among their group, in the end, it had never resulted in a fist or slap or hateful words that oftentimes could be more painful than an actual physical blow. And I’m leaving it behind . . .

Because Broderick would not rest until his goals had been achieved. She’d known that the moment she’d gone to Niall Marksman and struck the agreement between them. Why, it was something she’d learned the moment the terror-filled boy, on the cusp of manhood, had entered their midst and challenged Mac Diggory on their behalf. When Broderick committed himself to something, nothing could alter him from that course. It had been that steely determination that had enabled them to rise to the level of greatness they had.

Where was the greatness in this? A ball of regret stuck in her throat, and she struggled to choke it back. It was a bloody goodbye from the only place she belonged, for a place she could never truly be part of.

“. . . I don’t care whether we have noble connections,” Ophelia screeched, making another appeal to their obstinate brother.

Cleopatra winced at that shrill cry. Ophelia still hadn’t truly discovered the depth of Broderick’s resolve in binding their family to the ton. She still hadn’t accepted what Cleopatra had long ago—Broderick’s single-mindedness in this endeavor.

Restless, Cleopatra cracked the curtains ever so slightly and stared out at her new home. She ran her gaze over the white stucco front of the Grosvenor Square residence.

“Home,” she mouthed, and a palpable loathing coated her tongue. This place would never be home. She’d but one, and as Stephen had accurately pointed out yesterday morn, it was one Cleopatra would never return to. Instead, she’d trade off all that and trust herself over to the Blacks. They’d been raised first as gang members on opposite ends of London, and then as hated rivals. Now her brother would trust those people to honor Marksman’s pledge? This is not forever . . . Only—the only thing to get her out of this prison would be shackles to a fancy toff. Her pulse pounded in her ears in a beat of panic. She lifted her gaze upward and caught the belligerent figure glaring at her.

Adair Thorne. At three inches past six feet, his gold-tinged brown hair pulled back in a queue at the base of his neck, he’d the look of a street tough, as out of place at that window as Cleopatra herself was in these streets. He propped his hands on his hips, emphasizing the gun on his person.

The sight of it brought her eyes closed and ushered in a deeper peace and calm.

“It should be me,” Gertrude said softly, and Cleopatra snapped her eyes open.

Dropping the curtain, Cleopatra faced her sister. “Don’t be silly.”

Her sister’s mouth was drawn so tight it drained the blood from a scar at the corner of her lips. “Why is it silly?” she demanded in uncharacteristically firm tones. “I’m the eldest.”

“Because . . .” What answer could Cleopatra give without insulting Gertrude? Even valuing truth and straightforwardness, as each of the Killorans did, in this instance Cleopatra’s mind shied away from the truth. She’d sooner cut herself than hurt her siblings. It was why she was here now. “I need to be here.”

“I should be protecting you,” Gertrude pressed. “And Fie and Stephen,” she added.

“You’re needed at home,” she finally said.

“I—”

“It is done,” Cleopatra swiftly interrupted, and before her sister could argue any further, she shot a hand up. That firm rap instantly cut across Broderick and Ophelia’s heated argument. The door was immediately opened, and ignoring the guard’s hand, Cleopatra hopped out. Her boots settled with a quiet thump on cobblestones cleaner than most beds and floors she’d known for the first years of her life.

At her back, she dimly registered her siblings joining her on the pavement and Reggie scrambling down from atop the carriage. Elegantly clad lords and ladies strolling down the street stared back at the Killorans like circus oddities had just been deposited outside Ryker Black’s residence. But then, that is precisely what they were to these people. People good enough to lose their fortunes to, but shameful enough to avoid for anything more than that. Cleopatra set her jaw, and when Lord Sanderson, a miserably clad dandy, took an extended look, she growled, “Ya’ve got a problem?”

Swallowing hard, the young man spun on his heel and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

“Bloody hell, Cleo,” her brother griped at her side. “The point is to catch a husband, not scare every lord out of London.”

She’d gladly scare them all the way to the Devil to be spared a future with one of those fops—if the end result would be different for her sisters.

“Come,” he murmured, holding out his elbow. “Let me—”

“Lead me into the enemy’s lair?” she snapped. These same people he’d taught her to hate, and now expected her to live with? “I don’t require an escort. I will do this.” And disapprove until she drew her last breath. “But I’ll be damned if you or any of my sisters are the one to usher me through that doorway.”