The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(7)

This time, worry lit the hellion’s eyes. So, she had like fears of them.

“I cannot have Gertrude returning each night—”

“No,” Adair said tightly.

“—to the same place those gentlemen will invariably end up.” There was a faint smirk to that subtle boast, and Adair curled his hands tight, despising the reminder of how far they’d fallen to the rival establishment.

“You’re not staying here,” Ryker said resolutely. He folded his arms at his chest.

Broderick Killoran chuckled. “Well, not me, of course. I could hardly live here. I’ve my club to see after. The eldest of my sisters, however, can and will.”

The bloody gall of the man. Adair took another step forward and jabbed a finger in his direction. “Those weren’t the terms agreed upon.”

“Sponsoring one of my sisters for a Season were the terms,” Killoran shot back. “I know enough to know that young ladies aren’t scuttled from one home to another when they have their Season.”

And that was even more information than Adair had about anything to do with the damned ton.

Penelope tapped a fingertip against her lips. “Very well.”

A curse exploded from Adair’s lips. “They aren’t to be trusted, Penny.”

Calum nodded. “He is right in this.”

From the corner of Adair’s eye, he caught the flash of outrage in Miss Killoran’s brown eyes.

“It’s not your decision, Penelope,” Ryker clipped out, his Cockney sliding back in. “They can’t stay here.”

“Their sister can and will.” Penelope looked curiously back at the younger woman. Miss Killoran eyed her warily in return. “You are?”

She is the Devil’s spawn and a demon incarnate.

“Cleopatra Killoran,” her brother neatly supplied. “I’ve two additional sisters.”

Two more like this tart-mouthed sprite before him? Adair shuddered.

“One sister,” Ryker snapped before his wife could speak. “One Season.”

“And then the debt is paid,” Niall said solemnly.

“We are done here.” Killoran dropped an elegant bow. “Gentlemen, my lady.” With that, he proffered his arm for Cleopatra Killoran.

Ignoring that offering, the girl marched wordlessly from the room, setting a path like the queen herself.





Chapter 3

Do not say anything. Do not say anything. Do not say anything.

As Cleopatra Killoran stalked through the pale-pink-carpeted corridors of Ryker Black’s townhouse, she focused on the rap of her heels striking the floor. It was a trick she’d mastered as a girl, when her mind had tried to take her to dark places. Mayhap another person would have been awestruck by the lavish wealth on display in the Grosvenor Square residence. Cleopatra, however, was no ordinary person, and she certainly wasn’t the manner of woman to walk the halls of a viscount’s home.

She was the manner of one who knew the taste of blood in her mouth and the feel of a blade in her hand and the echo of nightmares of long ago.

And so, she allowed herself to hear nothing but the tread of her own footfalls.

Anything to keep from thinking of the bloody brother who walked close behind, who’d all but groveled at the feet of a lady for the chance to mingle with the blue bloods. She gritted her teeth.

Broderick Killoran had come into her family when she was a small girl and he a boy on the cusp of manhood, just orphaned and new to the streets. With his fancy speaking and nourished frame, but with fear showing in his eyes, Cleopatra had hated Broderick on sight. That loathing had lasted all of a month before she saw his worth and benefited from his protection . . . and from that point on, love. Or it had been. Now she was quite back to hating him all over again.

They reached the foyer. Ryker Black’s butler and an unsavory lot of servants stood in wait with cloaks in hand. One of Black’s guards came forward. He made to drape her cloak over her shoulders, and she yanked the muslin garment from his hands. Cleopatra pulled it into its proper place. She reached for the bonnet in another waiting guard’s hands, and he wisely handed it over and backed away.

The butler drew the door open, and she gave silent thanks. The Blacks had accused Cleopatra’s family of setting their hell ablaze. It was a crime they bore no guilt for . . . one of the few times they could claim that luxury in truthfulness. In this instance, she would sooner burn this place to tinder, too, than linger in the fancy townhouse any longer. Bonnet in hand, she strode from Black’s residence and stomped down the stairs.

“Cleo,” her brother said after her.

“Not a word,” she gritted out, weaving around a fancy lord and lady out for a stroll.

They flicked cool, condescending stares over her, and she paused, turning her fury briefly toward them, glowering.

That pair hastened their steps.

Bloody nobs. Another woman might be cowed and hurt over that disdain. Cleopatra, however, had hardened herself long ago to the world’s opinions. She’d seen those same fancy lords bugger children in the streets and beat whores inside their clubs. As such, she’d hardly credit a single one of them with any moral standing of which she cared about or after.

Cleopatra reached the carriage and, ignoring the hand held out by Finnett, hefted herself up.

“That bad, Miss Cleo?” the older driver asked, glancing back at the townhouse.