The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(37)

Unnerved, she tugged back the curtain and looked out.

She stiffened when a hand fell to her shoulder. Dropping the velvet fabric, Cleopatra glanced back.

“I’ll go,” Gertrude said quietly. She spoke over Cleopatra’s protestations. “It should have always been me.”

Ophelia and Cleopatra spoke as one.

“Do not be foolish.”

“You are not going,” Cleopatra said tightly, shrugging free of Gertrude’s touch. She’d spent a lifetime protecting her eldest sister, and she’d not abandon that responsibility now. She silently cursed her rashness that had sent her here.

Her sister gave her a sad smile. “Because you believe I cannot make a match with a fancy lord.”

Cleopatra frowned. “Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “It doesn’t matter that you are blind.”

“Fine, then. Because you believe me weak.”

Cleopatra hesitated—too long. A flash of hurt sparked in the older woman’s eyes, and Cleopatra unleashed a stream of curses. She’d bungled all of this. “Do not make this into anything more than it is,” she snapped, angry at herself for altogether different reasons—for hurting her sister. “This isn’t about you, in any way. This is about me . . .” She faltered.

“Looking after others,” Ophelia somberly interrupted. “As you always did and as you always do.” Her sister moved into position alongside Gertrude, and they formed a formidable pair, flanking one another’s side. “This was never a responsibility you should have undertaken.” She steeled her jaw. “It was never a demand Broderick should have put to you.” She passed a hard glance around their small group. “It was never something he should have put to any of us.”

When had her sisters become this resolute? It was uncharacteristic for her sisters to join forces and question decisions and judgments Cleopatra had reached for their clan. As such, she sought to navigate the unfamiliar terrain. “What are you saying?” she demanded gruffly, hating the defensive edge there.

“We’re saying that one of us should go,” Gertrude said bluntly, not dancing around what she meant, as she so often did.

Ophelia was already shaking her head. “Nay. We’re saying one of us is going,” she amended, and Cleopatra’s sisters exchanged a look and nod of solidarity. Ophelia sucked in a breath. “It will be me. I will do it.”

Her?

“You?” Gertrude echoed Cleopatra’s unspoken utterance.

“Do you doubt that I’m capable?” she shot back, fire dancing in her eyes.

“Never that,” Cleopatra said quietly.

And yet, over the years, Ophelia had made little attempt to conceal her loathing for the nobility. Her offer spoke to the ultimate sacrifice.

Cleopatra dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. What in blazes had she done? One of them would go and live under Black’s roof, but beyond that . . . make a match with a nob and forever be crushed by that lord’s spirit? Over her dead and bloodied body. “No,” she said tersely. Putting distance between her and her sisters, Cleopatra marched past them. They’d already gained too much of a foothold in the discussion, and she needed to change the proverbial landscape in some way. “I’ll return and . . .” She forced herself to say the hated words. “. . . marry one of them.”

“And live forever amid Polite Society?”

Did Gertrude sense Cleopatra’s weakness in that instance? If so, she’d far greater insight and instinct than Cleopatra had ever credited.

“It is not a challenge,” Ophelia said gently.

Gertrude flared her eyes into wide circles. She shook her head, befuddled. “No. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t intend it as . . .”

Cleopatra held her hand up, quelling the stammering explanation. And that precisely there was why Gertrude could never go. For the flashes of strength she sometimes showed, ultimately, she doubted herself. A fancy toff would crush her spirit the moment Gertrude failed to fall in line with his plans for her.

Ophelia had opened her mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the doorway.

Broderick. He’d of course have discovered her arrival already. Cleopatra might be stealthier than every thief in London, but ultimately her brother always had people reporting back. Who had it been this time?

Another sharp rap struck the wood panel. Her two sisters looked to her.

Bringing her shoulders back, Cleopatra stalked across the room and drew the door open.

Broderick entered, his expression veiled, saying nothing.

Wordlessly, Gertrude and Ophelia filed past him. As soon as they’d gone, he turned the lock and leaned against the panel. “Did they hurt you?” he asked suddenly, unexpectedly. The frosty edge to that question belied his casual repose.

She furrowed her brow.

“Black or his brothers or his men, their wives, or so much as a dog inside their residence?” he put to her on a steely whisper.

His tone promised death, with questions coming later should she answer in the affirmative.

“You know a Black could never hurt me.” And yet, if that were, in fact, true, why did she stand before Broderick even now? Why had she fled? Because your honor was called into question. Nay, it was more than that. She’d revealed her greatest weakness to Adair Thorne.

“What do you want to do, Cleopatra?” he asked.