The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(22)

“As you wish,” he said tightly. Feeling his sister-in-law’s eyes on him, he started down the hall to the rooms he’d been assigned—next to Cleopatra’s. For Penelope’s defense of Cleopatra, Adair well knew the lady’s husband was not of a like opinion where Killoran’s sister was concerned. Adair being placed in the guest suites next to hers had been no matter of coincidence but rather a strategic plan designed so he could keep a close watch on the unpredictable hellion’s movements.

Entering his rooms, Adair pushed the door closed behind him. As he walked, he loosened his cravat and tossed it aside. He claimed a spot at the edge of his bed.

Shadows cast by the handful of lamps danced off the walls; the only sound of the room was the groan of the floorboard as he removed his boot. Setting it aside, he tugged free the next and laid it beside the other. And then he registered the absolute still.

He frowned. Life in the streets had taught him proper wariness of those stretches of silence.

“Nothin’, Mr. Thorne. Not even a hint of sound in ’er room.”

There were plenty of reasons why there wouldn’t be a sound in those chambers. The young woman was friendless, in a strange household. The hour was late. And yet . . . With a curse, Adair stood. Barefoot, he stalked over to the shared wall, and much the way he had as a boy raiding the local bakeries after they’d closed for the night, he put his ear to the wall . . . and listened. The moment stretched on, with no answering sound. Only silence reigned. Some of the tension went out of him.

She slept. Grateful to be at last resolved of his responsibilities where the hellion was concerned, he quit his post at the wall and sought out his own bed for the night.



At last, silence filled the hallway outside Cleopatra’s chambers as Penelope Black and Adair Thorne ceased their yammering.

For a boy born of the streets, he’d certainly shown remarkably weak moments where Cleopatra was concerned. She’d knocked him on his arse—twice. And by the click of the door closing, he’d dismissed her room outright and found his chambers—for a second time.

Cleopatra slipped down Black’s halls, inspecting her surroundings. One who cared about surviving always had to have a familiarity with one’s surroundings. It would be perilous to share a roof with the Black family and not have a grasp on the layout of the setting she was to call home.

As she strode along the carpeted corridors, she mentally counted the doors—as well as the lit sconces. The number of lit candles in a given corridor provided an unwitting indication of just how many people occupied a certain hall. She glanced to the shadows flickering off the silk wallpaper. By the dearth of lit ones here, the Blacks had kept her largely isolated inside their townhouse. Which proved they were far cleverer than she’d credited.

Cleopatra reached the end of the wide corridor and stopped. Hands on hips, she swept the area in a small circle. Her plaited hair fell over her shoulder, and she pushed it back. There were ten doorways on one side and—she wrinkled her nose—eleven on the other. It was an incongruity that didn’t fit with lords and ladies who preferred everything neat and orderly. All in all, one and twenty doors total, on this floor. She did another glance about, then stretched her arms out on either side of her to measure the distance between doorways. With her eyes, Cleopatra took in every detail, from the types of door handles, to the slightly faded portions of carpeting indicating which areas were most heavily traveled.

She owed her twenty years’ existence to having never missed a detail, and she was certainly not so naive that she’d miss one inside this household. Making the return trek, Cleopatra counted her footsteps across the length of the hall, then stopped abruptly.

A faint glow penetrated through the crack at the room two doors down from Adair’s. Frowning, she eyed that oak panel. For all the pride she took in noting the details of her surroundings, she’d failed to register the faint light coming from under that door. She automatically reached for her knife.

Her fingers curled into reflexive fists. For the first time in her entire life, she was without her weapon. She’d been stripped of control and placed in a hall where careless maids forgot to douse all the candles at night.

Fire . . . Run, just go. Leave me . . .

Cleopatra gulped several times as those dark memories trickled in. Mayhap it was the vulnerability of being away from her siblings. Or mayhap being forced to remember the power wielded in shattering lives, as it recently had Adair’s club, that brought forth thoughts of a night she’d not recalled in more years than she could remember.

I’m simply tired, is all. “Bloody careless maids,” she mouthed into the quiet. With renewed purpose, she closed the space between her and that door. Mindful of the danger in entering unfamiliar rooms, she quietly pressed the handle and let herself in the dimly lit room. She blinked several times to adjust to the dark. Cleopatra inventoried the space—the empty space. Of what had apparently once been a bedroom and had since been converted into some haphazard, thrown-together . . . officelike space. The mahogany desk littered with papers called to her . . . beckoned when everything said to get herself gone. But then, Cleopatra had never been one to do as she was expected or ought. Closing the door at her back, she quickly located the nearest sconce. Drifting over, she blew, snuffing the candle. A trail of dark smoke wafted a path up.

The pungent odor burning in her nose briefly held her frozen. That acrid scent sent her belly churning, as it always did. Ye show any more of that weakness, and I’ll end ye, girl . . . Sucking in a slow breath, she sought out the other flame, making her way over to it. She might despise Diggory and would gladly spear him with the Devil’s trident when they met in hell, but he’d left her invaluable lessons on survival.