The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(35)

They rolled to a stop outside the Devil’s Den. Velvet curtain still drawn back, Adair fixed his gaze on Killoran’s establishment. The cracked redbrick facade showed its age. Only the gleaming black double doorway with two brass knockers hinted at the rising prosperity of this place. Bitterness soured his tongue, making it difficult to swallow. Killoran’s club was standing and thriving, while his own had been reduced to nothing more than largely ashes and upstairs apartments.

“Come,” Ryker murmured.

Giving his head a shake, he followed his brother outside.

The thick scent of rot and horse shite clogged the air.

He belonged here far more than he did Mayfair. They all did: he, Ryker, Calum, and Niall. They spoke of moving their club to the fancier ends of London, but this is where they all belonged—no matter whom they each might wed. Being immersed here, once again, roused a restiveness inside, a hungering to return to this world, no matter how violent it was. Instead, he’d march up to the steps belonging to the man no doubt responsible for Adair’s loss and extend a branch to the bastard’s sister.

Growling, he and Ryker walked side by side to the front doors. Not bothering with so much as a knock, Adair reached past and let them in.

The raucous laughter and discourse spilled out into the streets, near deafening. That cacophony of sounds served as a greater sign of Killoran’s success than the gleaming black itself.

The tall, heavily muscled guard stationed at the front glanced over and stiffened. He reached for a weapon.

Adair drew a blade from his boot. “We’re here to speak with Killoran.” Killoran’s head guard instantly stopped. The color leeched from his cheeks as he eyed that jewel-encrusted dagger. So, the man recognized it as belonging to Cleopatra Killoran.

“Bastards,” the guard spat. His muscles strained the fabric of his jacket, and he cast a look about.

Adair and Ryker followed his stare to where Killoran stood conversing with a flame-haired woman. Modestly clad, heavily freckled, and hair drawn back tight at her nape, she stood apart from the other whores about this hell. Those two spoke, heads bent, with a closeness that moved beyond lovers.

Another uniform-clad guard approached the pair, saying something to the proprietor.

Killoran went taut. He whipped his head in Adair and Ryker’s direction. His eyes narrowed. His lips barely moved as he spoke to that guard.

With a nod, that man came sprinting through the club. “Killoran will see you in his office.” Then, jerking his chin, he motioned Adair and his brother forward.

Adair, gaze trained forward, braced for his meeting with the enemy.





Chapter 10

“You did what?”

One might have otherwise suspected that Gertrude had failure with her hearing, instead of her vision, for the number of times she’d repeated that very question since she’d rapped twice on the adjoining door in that age-old code between them.

Having sneaked back in her family’s home, her private rooms, she’d expected something more than this thick, tense silence from the two sisters who occupied a place at the edge of her bed.

“I escaped,” she muttered, staring at the naughty mural painted overhead. Any lady, and most women, would have been scandalized by the couple cavorting among a sea of voyeurs. Cleopatra, however, had witnessed men, women, and oftentimes a variation of the two engaged in far worse in the streets of St. Giles. And now, she’d partaken in a taste of those forbidden acts with Adair Thorne.

“Why?” Ophelia asked, suspicion heavy in her tone.

At last a query different from the perpetual one Gertrude had taken to asking.

Because I’m a coward . . . because I briefly entertained the idea of a friendship with our enemy and then begged for his kiss . . .

Only to be proven so wholly foolish for thinking there could ever be anything but antipathy between them. With a sigh, Cleopatra flipped onto her side. “Because . . .” She froze midspeech, staring at Ophelia. “Why are you wearing breeches?”

As if seeing her for the first time, Gertrude glanced to Ophelia, momentarily distracted by the peculiar sight.

Ophelia hurled her hands up. “I daresay your fight with the Blacks is of far more interest and pertinence than the fact that I’ve shed skirts for the day,” she mumbled.

Cleopatra sighed. Yes, in this, the most spirited of her sisters was, in fact, correct. “They’re buggers. The Blacks,” she clarified. As if there could be any doubt.

Her eldest sister’s lips twitched. “Though I do not disagree with your opinion, I hardly expect Broderick will take that as reason to return.”

No, he wouldn’t. He was too blinded by his need for respectability. If he knew the true reason, however, he’d put a bullet between Adair’s eyes and end the truce struck. He’d always demanded respect where she and her sisters were concerned. Adair, however, hadn’t acted falsely where she was concerned. He’d only given her raw honesty. Restless, she swung her legs over to the edge of the bed and propelled herself to a sitting position alongside Ophelia.

“He won’t accept it,” Gertrude said needlessly. “You’ll need a far better reason than—”

“Very well. They took my weapons.”

“That is wise,” Ophelia said so matter-of-factly. “Or was wise. Given that—oomph.” Cleopatra elbowed her in the side. “What? I’m merely pointing out that were the situations reversed, Broderick would have never even let them through the front door with a weapon in hand.” Ophelia propped her hands on her hips and gave her a censorious stare. “Nor would you.”