The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(56)

He’d not only contemplated her ideas, but he’d acted on them, making design changes to his club. Her heart instantly sang. In a world where women’s opinions went unsolicited and unwelcomed, Adair appreciated her mind and insight. And it was heady stuff, indeed.

He stared contemplatively over the top of her head. “Certainly more intelligent than I’d ever credited a Killoran with being.”

He hated you for sharing Broderick’s blood. But you’re not a Killoran, that taunting voice in her mind reminded her, shattering the moment.

She was grateful when Adair shifted their discourse back to the Hell and Sin. “What are your thoughts on the space I’ve designated for the additional gaming tables?” Straightening, he shoved aside the pages they’d been looking over and grabbed the one underneath. He laid it out before her.

Cleopatra shifted her gaze about the page and, with the tip of her index finger, counted off the marked whist, hazard, and faro tables. The transformed suites previously used for the prostitutes and their clients had been converted. “What of the women who used to . . . sleep there? I trust you’ve had to turn many of them out.” How many women had Diggory once deemed too old to serve in their original capacity, and then simply shown them the door to the alley?

Adair shook his head. “We’ve turned no one out.” He fished a cheroot from his jacket. “May I?”

He was asking her? Not a single man in her brother’s employ or patron to their hell had ever hesitated to drink, wager, or smoke in her presence. Speechless, she waved her hand, following his languid movements as he rose and lit the small white wrapper at a nearby sconce. “We didn’t turn out any of the women once the changes were made,” he clarified, coming forward. He paused and drew an inhalation from the cheroot. “They served as dealers, serving girls, servants,” he said after he’d exhaled a small white cloud.

“That didn’t help your bottom number.”

Adair blew smoke out from the corner of his mouth. “It didn’t.”

While he continued smoking, Cleopatra looked at the page. “Why did you do it?” she blurted, the question spilling from her lips. At his creased brow, she continued hurriedly. “You know you cannot compete with the Devil’s Den as long as we offer prostitution to our members and you don’t. Even with the decline in your business and the rise of our club, you still chose to do away with it. Why?” she asked, needing to understand.

Adair flicked his ashes into a small crystal dish. “My brother . . . Ryker,” he elucidated, “made the overall decision after being so persuaded by his wife.” Any other day the fact that Black had been cowed by a young lady would have commanded Cleopatra’s amusement. Not now. “Given how our numbers have declined”—his mouth tightened—“changed, I doubted how wise the decision was for the hell.”

Abandoning the sheet in her hands, she waved her palm, wafting about the smoke so she might better see him. “You doubted it, and saw the decline in profits, and yet you’ve been”—by his own words—“placed in charge of the club. You could have reinstated the club’s previous policy and offered whores for your patrons. You chose not to. Why?”

Because, ultimately, her own brother cared about nothing more than the money coming into the Devil’s Den. Everyone and everything could be sacrificed, as Cleopatra’s presence in Black’s household was proof of.

Adair took another pull from his cheroot. “I thought about it,” he admitted somberly. “I’ve even debated my brothers in the past about the changes Ryker and his wife enacted.”

One move or word from Cleopatra, and he’d say not another word. She’d come to know him that well. Cleopatra waited.

“In the end,” he began quietly as he stubbed the remaining embers out in the crystal dish, “I thought of when I was a boy just orphaned.” She froze, afraid to move and stymie the flow of his words. “I was a boy on my own. Diggory”—her insides twisted at the hated name—“made me one of his gang. Fed me.” He grimaced. “The food we were given was barely edible.”

“Rot,” she said more to herself. “It was only ever a step above mud, and not much else.”

He nodded, and another connection between them was forged.

“And all rations, meals, and favors were doled out according to importance served to the group.”

“So, you stole,” she predicted, as one who knew. As one who’d been as desperate.

He inclined his head. “And so, I stole.” His hushed voice barely reached her ears. “I hated it,” he went on, a man lost in his own tortured musings. “Every time, I thought of the items I was lifting. I imagined them to be cherished pieces that meant something to the person I stole from, and I hated myself for those acts.”

He drew in a shuddery breath. “In providing prostitution, I’d told myself that women had a safe place to sleep. They had food and shelter.” His face spasmed. “With those self-assurances I made to myself, I became everything I hated. I became”—Diggory—“Diggory.” Adair coughed into his hand, offering her a sheepish look. “And so one day, I just . . . realized that I didn’t want to be that man,” he finished matter-of-factly.

How very wrong he was. With the way he spoke to Cleopatra, his valuing her opinion, and his care for his family, Adair Thorne could never be Diggory.