The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(17)

Penelope slipped her arm into Cleopatra’s. “We shall see that your time in London is good fun.”

Good fun? She’d rather pull her toenails out one by one. And as Black’s wife prattled on, Cleopatra was again that small girl with Diggory’s meaty hand wrapped about her throat as he choked off her breath and gleefully threatened her with death.

“We’ve a number of events already planned to introduce you to the ton, with your first formal introduction, a ball being held here—”

“Next week,” Diana supplied, widening her smile.

Penelope nodded. “It shall be a small, intimate affair.”

An event attended by nobles . . . all men she’d spent countless years of her life either stealing from or seeing inside her family’s club. Only now, she’d step into their world as an outsider.

“. . . quite lovely . . . not all of them . . . but the ones who’ve been invited are . . .”

The viscountess’s voice drifted in and out of focus as Cleopatra fought through the panic.

“If—”

“My rooms?” she blurted, her voice hoarse to her own ears. Her incoherent request was met with perplexity among Black’s kin. “I’d like to be shown to my rooms.” Before she crumpled into a ball of panic and despair before them.

For a long moment where hope was born, she believed Black and his family would exact the ultimate torture and force her to remain here through a cataloging of the hellish polite events to come so that Cleopatra’s only recourse would be a swift flight through that appealing front door.

The young ladies exchanged concerned looks, and that sent Cleopatra’s hackles up. “Of course. Of course,” Penelope Black murmured. “I expect you would like to see your new rooms.”

I’d rather burn those rooms to the same ash that the Hell and Sin now finds itself than take up place here.

“We’ll have your belongings brought up. Allow me to accompany you—”

Cleopatra and Mr. Black spoke in unison: “No.”

The last thing Cleopatra wanted in this instance was company. She wanted to shut a panel between herself and all these strangers and allow herself a moment of weakness to rail at her brother for the horror of it all. “I do not require your escort.”

Black’s wife gave her husband a long look.

The stony-faced proprietor shot a hand up, and Cleopatra automatically reached down toward her boot when Black’s next words stayed her.

“Adair, see to Miss Killoran’s belongings,” he said in a steely voice, his deliberate use of her surname a pointed testament that he saw her as an enemy.

She hesitated, casting a wary glance back at that miserable blighter.

“Miss Killoran,” Thorne taunted with an edge that dared her to take the first step.

Angling her chin, she returned her attention to the woman who’d opened her home, regardless of the bad blood between their families. “I am . . .” She struggled to get the words out. “. . . grateful to you for . . .” I can’t.

“There is no need to thank us, Cleopatra,” Penelope said, reaching for Cleopatra’s hands.

She recoiled from that gesture. Time had taught her enough to never trust one of the men and women connected to the Hell and Sin. Shoulders back, she backed away and fell into step alongside Adair Thorne.

She didn’t want their kindness. Feeling the two young ladies’ stares on her every movement, Cleopatra clutched her valise close.

“After you,” Thorne said, gesturing ahead.

She gave her head a slight shake.

“I’m not asking you,” he said tersely.

They locked gazes in a silent battle. So, she was to be escorted to her new rooms, not as a guest within their household, but as a person who bore watching. Black and his men were far cleverer than she’d credited, then.

The back of her neck prickled at the vulnerability of presenting herself so before these men she’d been raised to loathe. As she climbed the steps, she strained to hear the discussion that ensued in her wake. Alas, the streets had no doubt conditioned Black and his men with the same wariness Cleopatra herself had learned. They reached the top landing. “I understand you’re afraid of me, Thorne. Rightly so.” She watched as he knitted his tawny eyebrows into a single line. “But I cannot very well lead the way if I don’t know where to go,” she taunted, taking pleasure in baiting the man. Since she’d known Adair Thorne, he’d proven himself to be an arrogant rotter who didn’t have the sense to see a woman’s worth. It did, however, appear he had sense to be cautious of her.

“Straight, Killoran. End of the hall and left. Four doors down.” How very different those guardlike commands were from the deferential respect and fear shown her by the men at the Devil’s Den. The lords who visited her hell, along with the dregs of society and the staff there, feigned a respect for the Queen of the Dials, as she’d been nicknamed. She wanted to despise Thorne for his boldness but found she rather preferred this realness.

When she made no move to leave, he tipped his chin. “I said move.”

All her brief appreciation turned to dust at his order. She might respect his genuineness, but she didn’t take to being bossed about by anyone.

Gritting her teeth, Cleopatra resumed walking. As they moved down the plush carpeted halls, from the corner of her eyes, she took in the doors they passed. She’d learned early on to always measure the layout of her surroundings. One always had to be prepared to escape. Time to explore Black’s home would come later when she wasn’t under Thorne’s suspicious gaze.