The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(36)

Cleopatra bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that despite Ophelia’s confidence, their brother had done precisely that last year when he’d let Niall Marksman through their doors. And that bloody family had been intertwined with her own ever since.

“I . . . read about the debut ball Lady Chatham has planned for you,” Gertrude ventured.

“Is there a question there?” Cleopatra gritted out. As much as many had questioned Gertrude’s capabilities, the fact remained, she’d always been more tenacious than ever credited.

Her eldest sister coughed into her hand. “I merely wondered whether your sudden defection and return had to do with”—she paused slightly under the weight of Cleopatra’s glower—“your presentation to society.”

There it was.

“Neither of us would blame you,” Ophelia said quickly.

Doubts cast upon Cleopatra’s confidence and conviction. It was far safer to let her sisters believe Cleopatra’s fears of entering Polite Society were the reason for her defection. Nonetheless, Cleopatra hated the sting of betrayal at their questions and their lack of enthusiasm over her return. She hopped up. “Is that what you think this is about? About me being afraid . . . of the ton?” she demanded, spoiling for a fight. Where in blazes was their loyalty? “You’d defend the Blacks and question my reason for returning?” Cleopatra punched her fist into her open palm. “They”—he, she thought to herself—“took my weapons.” After I offered wise advice to help his damned club . . . and let him kiss me . . .

Her sisters exchanged a look. “We’re not defending them,” Gertrude murmured in her usual placating manner.

“Good,” she said bluntly. “Don’t.”

“We’re—”

“Merely pointing out that Broderick will not simply allow you to return for . . . that,” Ophelia concluded for their eldest sister. A harsh glint lit Ophelia’s crystalline eyes. “He is determined to have his match with a bloody nob,” she spat.

A bevy of curses stung Cleopatra’s lips, and she let them freely fly. For the truth remained . . . in this, they were correct. Broderick would not be content with that flimsy excuse as the reason for her return. When he’d set his mind upon a goal, nothing could steer him from that course. And if you don’t return, he’ll just send one of your sisters . . .

“What really happened?” Gertrude’s quiet question sounded from over her shoulder.

Shoulders sinking, Cleopatra stalked over to the window and stared down into the streets below. She ached to share the truth, wanted someone to help her sort through the new, inexplicable feelings she’d had these past few days for Adair Thorne. But she could not. To tell her sisters about that embrace would certainly see them pay a visit to Broderick, who’d then battle Adair, and—she pressed her fingertips against her temples and dug. “Oi was discovered in the nursery,” she muttered, cringing as soon as the damning admission left her mouth. For all her indignation and fury this morn, she, Cleopatra Killoran, best roof climber in the Dials and St. Giles combined, had been caught.

“The nursery,” Gertrude repeated.

She gave a jerky nod, grateful that she couldn’t see their expressions . . . and the likely shock or disappointment.

“I was doing a sweep of my surroundings, and I heard the babe,” she muttered. Why had she always had this blasted inherent weakness for those defenseless ones? It was what had led her to take on the care of those babes Diggory took in, when one knew that any attachment in their world was dangerous for the temerity of it. She proceeded to tell her sisters all: from her nighttime climb and then exploration throughout Black’s home, to her inevitable discovery at Adair’s hands.

Ophelia cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

Cleopatra took deliberate care to avoid mention of the rugged proprietor’s heated search of her body . . . how he’d run his hands all over her and roused a dangerous fluttering.

Ophelia cleared her throat. “I said . . . ahem . . .”

“I heard you,” she mumbled, reluctantly facing the pair.

“It’s just simply that if I or Gertie”—she gestured to their eldest sister—“or Broderick or Reggie—”

“Be done with your point,” she gritted out.

Her sister wrinkled her nose. “Very well . . . if a Black was hovering over one of our babes—”

“We don’t have any babes,” she muttered under her breath.

“Then we would have responded in a like way.”

Damn Ophelia for being right. Damn her for being logical.

Cleopatra stared unblinkingly at the window. Blast . . . She was always the logical one. It had been that way since they’d lived on the streets. She was the one who’d not faltered in the face of Diggory’s evil, but instead sorted through ways in which they could survive it—and thrive. So, what was it that had so upended her? Turned her into one of those easily hurt misses who’d storm from Black’s residence and slink off, like a pickpocket in the night.

It is him . . . bloody Adair Thorne, with his overly familiar hands and total lack of reverence for Cleopatra Killoran for simply being a Killoran. When all the Dials respected her because of her connection to Broderick, Adair despised her for it and warily waited for her to make a dangerous move. It was, however, as Ophelia had said . . . precisely how Adair Thorne should behave. It was how Cleopatra or Gertrude or Ophelia or Broderick or Stephen would be. So why did his damned ill opinion matter so much?