The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(50)

“And I’ve been living in it ever since,” she said in hushed tones. “The men here—the young ones, the old ones, their reprobate sons and brothers who aren’t in attendance—they’ve all entered my club. I know how much they drink, how loose they are with their lips and their fortunes. Oi’d be hard-pressed to find a single fancy toff on your guest list who hasn’t at some time or another stepped inside my hell. So, please,” she urged, “do not sell me on imagined qualities of any of them. My brother wants me to make a match, and some gentleman surely needs a fortune.”

Penelope opened and closed her mouth several times. “What do you want?” she asked softly, that deeply intimate question, on the side of the ballroom, with a sea of guests intently scrutinizing their exchange.

Cleopatra gave her head a terse shake. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” It had never been about her. It had always been about the good of the group . . . specifically, Ophelia, Gertrude, and Stephen.

“Siblings?” Penelope said with that unerring accuracy.

Ophelia, Gertrude, and Stephen. Pain filled her at the mere thought of them. They’d been all she’d known since birth. They’d looked after one another, helped one another survive; now it was far easier to not think of them at all. Cleopatra looked away. She’d become a master of self-control, and as such, hadn’t truly dwelt on thoughts of them. Now Black’s wife here would drag forward their images. Mayhap the fancy lady was one of those cruel sorts.

The viscountess lightly squeezed her hand. “I married my husband in a bid to save my sister so she might make a future match. I recognize that level of sacrifice.”

“A person ’as to do what they ought,” she said gruffly. And for her that was saving her sisters.

“Yes,” Penelope agreed, a wistfulness to that one syllable. “But sometimes,” she went on, her eyes going soft, “you find love where you least expect it.”

Cleopatra followed her stare to where Ryker Black stood. Even across the ballroom, a powerful look passed between the couple. Feeling like an interloper, Cleopatra swiftly averted her gaze. Black’s wife spoke about Cleopatra forming a love match? The lady was either ten times a fool or cracked in the brain if she believed Cleopatra was going to end up in a love match with a fancy toff . . . or in love with any man.

“Come along,” Penelope coaxed. “Let me at least introduce you to some of the prospective gentlemen.”

Cleopatra’s gut clenched. Was this how the whores inside the Devil’s Den felt every night? Cleopatra formed a newfound appreciation for their sentiments and a regret for having failed to consider as much before now.

“That is Lord Darby,” Black’s wife whispered, discreetly pointing to a golden-haired gentleman sipping from a glass of champagne. “He has two sisters he’s rumored to care an inordinate amount for, refusing to force either of them into a match.”

An inelegant snort escaped Cleopatra. “And why should he? He’s the one who wagered away ten thousand pounds of his family’s fortune,” she said bluntly. Her family was the fortunate recipient of all those funds.

Mouth agape, Penelope shifted her attention elsewhere. “Very well, then mayhap Lord Corbett. He’s a young widower.”

“And rough with the whores he takes to his bed.”

Color suffused Penelope’s cheeks, and she pursed her mouth. “Certainly not Lord Corbett, then.” Chewing at the tip of her gloved finger, the hostess continued to survey the crowd. “I wager that you may, in fact, know more than I about the gentlemen present.”

That was a wager Cleopatra would readily accept and win. She, however, didn’t require information about the gentlemen present. She required introductions. So that she could pledge herself forevermore to a man. In her mind, she heard Diggory’s oft-repeated shout: You don’t ’ave any rights . . . you answer to me. While Penelope considered the other gentlemen present, Cleopatra’s eyes slid involuntarily closed. A cold sweat broke out on her skin. I will be turning myself over to a man. It was a reality made all the more real standing on the fringe of Polite Society with the viscountess playing matchmaker. As a part of Diggory’s family, she’d been beaten, tortured, and mocked with words that were often crueler than his meaty fists. Despite the silent vow she’d made with herself, after being saved by Broderick, to never find herself at the mercy of a man, she now found herself in that exact place she’d never intended to be—searching for a husband.

“What do you know of Lord—”

And with Penelope putting forward another possible candidate, Cleopatra did what she’d always done best when presented with danger—she fled.

“. . . Cleopatra?” Penelope’s concerned voice grew more distant as the other woman searched for her.

She could search and never find. Cleopatra had perfected the art of hiding as a mere babe toddling around one of Diggory’s hovels, and Black’s fancy-born wife would never be a match for her. She moved speedily through the ballroom, ducking around the helpful pillars and syncing her steps with liveried servants bearing trays. The laughter and discourse blended together in her ears, a cacophony of sound that fueled her panic.

Bypassing the main entrance to the ballroom, she found her way through a side door. As soon as she stepped out, Cleopatra broke out into a full sprint to rival her thievery days in the rookeries. Her hair tumbled free of the artful arrangement her lady’s maid had managed, leaving her drab brown strands falling about her shoulders. Breathless from her exertions, she brushed the hair back from her eyes and made for the servants’ staircase. Cleopatra skidded to a stop, damning the slippers that sent her sliding into the wall. She caught herself hard with a grunt and pushed her spectacles back into place. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, she climbed the dark, narrow stairwell higher and higher into the peak of Black’s townhouse, all the way to the servants’ quarters. The dark space was quiet, with all the staff otherwise attending the evening’s festivities, and provided a solemn calm.