The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(72)

He scowled, but he was prevented from saying anything more as they reached the steps of the club.

To the two burly guards’ credit, they gave no outward reaction to Adair’s late-night visit. They did each, however, linger a curious stare on Cleopatra. “Mr. Thorne,” they both said in unison.

Adair inclined his head and reached past them to unlock the door. “Anything suspicious?”

“No, Mr. Thorne,” the crimson-haired guard supplied. He stole another peek in Cleopatra’s direction.

Adair motioned her forward.

As he closed the door behind them, she did a sweep of the spacious, open floors under construction. So this was the Hell and Sin.

Wordlessly, she moved deeper into the establishment, past beams of wood and tables littered with building supplies and materials, taking in the hell. She took every last corner in with her eyes.

Since she’d been a girl she’d heard tales of the rival club. There had been men, desperate lords and underhanded thugs of Diggory’s—and her brother’s—who’d infiltrated the walls of this once great place and brought back details. Cleopatra had taken in every detail of that hated family, secretly longing for a glimpse herself of how they ran their establishment. Her intrigue had only doubled upon learning of the changes Black, Thorne, and their other brothers had put into place: ending prostitution, hiring women in valuable roles throughout the club.

She picked her way over the charred carpet. All the gaming tables had since been removed, and but for several stubborn pieces of satin wallpaper that hadn’t burned or been pulled off in the aftermath, there was little trace of the club she’d heard spoken of.

Sadness filled her breast for all that had been lost . . . for all Adair, who loved this world, had lost. She knew what it was to lose her home to fire, but the place that had burned down about her ears had been dank apartments filled with vermin and lice. She also knew what it was to have found security and shelter inside the Devil’s Den and what it would be to lose all of that and begin from scratch.

In an effort to comfort her, Adair took her by the hand and proceeded to guide her about the club, speaking animatedly. “This is where the additional seating you suggested goes,” he said, gesturing to the area. “We’ll blend whist, faro, and hazard tables on this side.” He pointed across the cluttered but open space. “The roulette tables and vingt-et-un will have their own places over there.”

“We have a similar layout,” she acknowledged. Who would have ever believed she’d be sharing details about her family’s establishment with this man before her . . . and what was more, offering guidance to help improve his business. It would only represent greater competition.

Why did none of that seem to matter any longer?

Because you love him . . . and that is so much greater than the profits earned or the patrons fought over.

Adair continued speaking with a boyish enthusiasm that only made her feel all the more miserable. I want him to be the bearish, angry man who confiscated my blade.

She allowed him to tug her to the back of the hell. “These are the private game rooms you suggested,” he said as she stepped inside.

This space, largely complete, bore no hint of the chaos of the previous part of the establishment. Sapphire-blue satin wallpaper had been affixed to the walls. Rich mahogany gaming tables were set a distance apart, allowing for privacy. With the matching mahogany bar and crystal chandelier, the elegant rooms were befitting a White’s or Brooke’s, and not the seedy establishments owned by their respective families.

“Well?”

She turned back, and at the bright grin on his face, she hesitated. “It is lovely.”

His smile slipped. “You disapprove.” How much he’d come to know her that he’d sensed that reluctance on her part.

Cleopatra clasped her hands before her. “It’s not that I disapprove.”

Adair looked pointedly at her hands.

Damning that telling gesture, she let her arms drop. “You need to figure out what you want,” she said bluntly, giving him the truth he sought. “I already told you before, Adair,” she went on before he could speak. “You don’t know what it is you want. You don’t know if you want to be a seedy hell or a fancy club in the posh ends of London.”

Splotches of red suffused his cheeks. “The ’ell and Sin is a seedy hell.”

“Why?” she shot back. “Because you were born in the streets? You rose up.” They both had. “And yet, you’re now stranded between two worlds.” Cleopatra caught his hands in hers and gave a light, reassuring squeeze. “It’s time to pick one.”

Horror rounded out his eyes. “What are you suggesting?” he demanded, his voice graveled like an old Roman road.

She retained his hands when he made to pull them back, tightening her grip. “You’ve spent weeks on the rebuild and redesign. You’re constantly revising ideas—”

“Because you made suggestions that I hadn’t considered,” he bit out.

“Because you don’t want to make this the place where your club is forever established,” she predicted. “You, just like your brothers and sister, want out of St. Giles.”

Adair ripped his arms back and held them up as if he’d been burned.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said gently, drifting closer. “You spent your life believing certain things to be fact: your place was in St. Giles, my family is evil, you could only run a scandalous club.” She tilted her head back so she could meet his gaze. “Not everything is as it always seems. It—”