The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(45)

She’d underestimated the always smiling woman . . . she was far more perceptive than Cleopatra had credited. She braced for those equally searching questions. Instead, the viscountess redeposited the necklace in the velvet case and snapped it closed.

Cleopatra studied those careful movements, not at all deceived by the casualness of them. Setting aside the jewels, Lady Chatham switched her attention to Cleopatra’s gown. “You look lovely, Cleopatra.”

Cleopatra stared incredulously at the pair of them in the mirror. Draped in sapphire silk, with understated butterfly combs in her black curls, Black’s wife epitomized wealth, rank, and power. Whereas, Cleopatra? A great deal less. “You’re a liar on that score,” she charged without inflection.

“No. You are lovely. As is your gown,” she added, as more of an afterthought.

It was a lie, and given her experience with falsehoods, they were invariably offered for one of two reasons: for the liar to obtain something he or she craved or to gain an upper hand on one’s enemy. Now, by Lady Chatham’s wide smile—a smile that very much reached her eyes—Cleopatra learned there was, in fact, another reason for those fabrications: to simply be nice.

Lady Chatham returned her attention to Cleopatra’s necklace. “May I?” she demurred, lifting the case.

Watching her closely, Cleopatra slowly nodded. Did the other woman intend to get her to wear them, too? This dog whistle meant to call out to eligible bachelors in need of a fortune that one was theirs for the taking as long as they suffered through a connection to the Killoran family.

The viscountess popped the velvet-lined case open and reexamined the fortune in jewels resting there. “White ruffles,” she said softly, a woman lost in thought who, during her reflection, had forgotten Cleopatra stood beside her.

Curiosity pulled. What was she on about? “My lady?” she asked reluctantly.

Black’s wife gave her head a clearing shake. “It was my family’s version of your diamond necklace,” she explained, lifting the object up. “I come from a scandalous lot, and my brother and mother were of the opinion that if they”—she scrunched her skirts—“covered us in frilly white lace, it would highlight our innocence and somehow lessen the wickedness attached to our name.”

Just like Broderick had believed about the jewels and fabrics he’d insisted his sisters wear, around a damned gaming hell, no less. Cleopatra’s lips tugged in a wry grin. “I’d venture not a single one of your family members could be more outrageous than a brother who owns a gaming hell, and siblings who were born bastards and lived on the streets?” Another time she would have thrown out the crimes she’d committed as a way to shock. For some reason, she didn’t.

To the lady’s credit, she didn’t so much as bat an eye at the accounting of the Killoran family.

Instead, she returned an answering smile. “Our scandals were different,” she acknowledged. “But they were”—she wrinkled her nose—“are scandals by society’s determination.”

The woman rose in Cleopatra’s estimation for her bluntness. She didn’t try to draw like comparisons between their scandals, and Cleopatra appreciated her for it.

The viscountess proceeded to check off on her fingers. “I’d one sister who was part of a failed elopement, and then my brother married my governess. My elder sister wed a man who’d only waltzed with her on a wager.” A twinkle lit her eyes as she paused on her fourth finger. “And I, of course, married a gaming hell owner, who’d been a stranger, only after we were discovered in a compromising position.”

Absently, Cleopatra dropped her stare to the D etched upon her skin. For every scandal Lady Chatham had weathered, she still remained a lady born to their ranks. Whereas Cleopatra Killoran wore the societal differences between her and the ton like the actual mark made by Diggory’s knife.

She stiffened as Black’s wife took her hand in hers, forcing Cleopatra’s gaze up. “Regardless of station or birthright or background, all are met with unkindness. I was no exception, nor will you be,” she concluded softly, with no malice or delight, and only real truth. “Are you ready?”

Am I ready? I’d rather parade naked and unarmed through the streets of St. Giles, with only my fists for protection.

Lady Chatham held her elbow out, that gesture of support as much a challenge to Cleopatra as anything. It was time. The beginning of the rest of her life . . . here . . . in the fancy end of London.

Sucking in a slow breath through clenched teeth, she took the viscountess’s arm.

“You know, I really would have you call me Penelope,” she began as they started from the room.

Cleopatra did a quick sweep of the halls, and her gaze lingered on Adair’s doorway. How to account for the disappointment in finding him gone? Because he might be one of the Blacks, but she also had more in common with that mistrustful blighter than she did the whole of the guests on Penelope’s guest list.

“Are you all right?” Penelope quizzed.

“Fine. I was looking for—” She clamped her mouth tight, cursing her uncharacteristically loose lips, blaming both Adair and this damned night in equal measure.

Eyes alert, Penelope leaned her whole body close.

“For the direction of the ballroom, my lady,” she finished lamely.

“This way, then,” she said with her usual smile, leading Cleopatra on through the halls. “As I was saying earlier, I would that you call me Penelope. I can ask that you use my given name, and advise it . . . but I won’t compel you to do so.” Black’s wife brought them to a stop at the end of the hallway. “Having only friends in those I call family, and never having known that gift among the ton, I’ve come to appreciate how very lonely this world is, and would extend an offer of friendship to you.”