The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(52)

“Do another sweep of the ballroom. You and Kipling both,” Ryker ordered.

As both men hustled past Niall, who served as a sentry at the doorway, Adair stared after them. Where in blazes is she?

“Don’t you believe this is a bit of an overreaction? Mayhap the lady wanted some air or . . . ?” At the incredulous looks boring into his skin from both directions, he flushed.

“I want you to do a sweep of the main living quarters,” Ryker replied, with his directives providing an answer of just what he believed about Cleopatra’s disappearance. “And Niall, you—”

The door flew open, and Penelope stormed in. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, closing the door softly behind her. That quiet action at odds with the urgently spoken question. “There are guards running all over this house, Ryker.”

“You reported her missing,” he gritted out.

Penelope planted her hands on her hips. “I mentioned that she’d rushed off, and I was looking for her.”

“Because you were worried,” her husband said, motioning for Niall to leave.

The young viscountess tossed her arms up. “About the young woman,” she said, exasperation rich in her tone. “I am worried about the young woman.” With a sound of disgust, she turned to Adair, effectively dismissing her husband. “When you were speaking alone with Cleo, did she give you any indication that she was upset? After we left you, she was . . . somber.”

He ran through their exchange. They’d been teasing and talkative, and other than a slight darkening of her eyes at the mention of Diggory, there’d been nothing else. “What were you speaking with her about after?” he countered.

“Her . . . marital prospects.”

In short, they’d been discussing the sole reason for Cleopatra’s placement here. A stinging, bitter taste filled his mouth . . . an unpleasant one that felt very much like . . . jealousy.

“Regardless of what you were discussing, I want her found,” Ryker said tightly. “Adair?”

With a brusque nod, Adair quit Ryker’s offices. As soon as he’d closed the door and stepped into the hall, Penelope’s rapid-fire defense of Cleopatra pierced the wood panel. That muffled argument trailing in his wake, Adair hurried along the corridor.

Where is she . . . ? Where is she . . . ?

Despite his brothers’ reservations, Adair didn’t believe Cleopatra had come here to harm anyone. What reason would she have to deepen the feud between their families?

“You’ve been away from the likes of Diggory too long,” he muttered under his breath, climbing the stairs to the main living quarters. He reached the landing and paused. His brother was so convinced that Cleopatra would so boldly and blatantly seek out those rooms. In this short time, knowing Cleopatra as he did, she’d never do what was expected of her, or go where one might find her.

Pressing his palm over his mouth, he tapped his index finger against his cheek. Think. Think. The night she’d sneaked from her rooms, how had she gotten out? Not through a door, but through the—

He immediately ceased his distracted beat.

“The window,” he breathed.

He sprang into movement, knowing instinctually where he’d find her. Unheeding Ryker’s orders, Adair raced up the next stairwell to where he kept rooms alongside Cleopatra’s. Shoving open her chamber doors, he did a sweep of the rooms. Empty. Nor had he expected her to be here. Squinting in the dark, he sharpened his gaze on the window—the closed one. She’d not made use of that one. Why should she? If there was one higher . . . closer to the roof . . .

Praying he was wrong, and still knowing he was right, Adair rushed to the servants’ stairway and climbed to the small, now crowded quarters. The club having been burned, and their staff without a place to reside until the repairs were complete, Ryker and Penelope, Niall and Diana, and Robert and Helena had filled every available space with the displaced staff. He pushed the door open, and a wave of cool night air filtered out into the hall.

Fear held him momentarily suspended, and then he lurched forward. A faint scrap of white fabric peeked out from under a nearby cot. Bending down, he swept up the fabric . . . and the pair of slippers haphazardly hidden. “Damn you, Cleopatra Killoran,” he whispered. Letting them go, he quickly divested himself of his boots and stockings. His jacket was next. And a moment later, Adair Thorne—who’d vowed at the age of fifteen that he’d climbed his last roof—found himself scaling the narrow window ledges to the top of his brother’s Mayfair townhouse.

Fifteen years out of practice, the skills and steps he’d mastered as a boy remained as strong as they’d been. Yet, height and muscle made his climb slow. Concentrating on each hand and foot placement, he pulled himself higher and higher. He stopped at the top windowsill and stole a glance down the more than one hundred feet between him and a swift plunge to the cobblestones below. His stomach lurched, and he swiftly closed his eyes. God, he forgot just how much he’d despised this task Diggory had given him years earlier. Never look down . . . It was a damned lesson he’d inconveniently forgotten.

Always concentrate on the path above . . .

Waiting until his heart had resumed a normal cadence, he gripped the edge of the roof. His breath coming fast, a product of fear and his exertions, Adair dragged himself atop the flat surface . . . and instantly found Cleopatra.