The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(77)

“Cleopatra!” His startled shout stretched across the quiet.

Heart pumping, she flew through the decrepit club, bolting for that doorway.

“Stop,” he called out, his voice closer. Then a loud crash, and a thunder of curses.

Not sparing a glance, she raced out the front of the Hell and Sin, past the startled guards, and into the familiar streets of St. Giles—free.





Chapter 20

He’d lost her.

After five hours of searching the streets of St. Giles with the hastily assembled search team at the Hell and Sin, Cleopatra remained gone.

Given her ability to scale a roof and drift through shadows, she could be anywhere.

His stomach turned over itself as his carriage rolled through the fashionable end of London, onward to Ryker and Penelope’s residence. At one time, the idea of Cleopatra Killoran out on her own would not have roused even a hint of unease. After all, the whole of London knew the ruthlessness that family was capable of.

Everything had changed. Terror held him firm in its manaclelike grip. And all the worst possibilities of what could happen to her in the dangerous streets of St. Giles wreaked havoc on his mind. Evil men who’d force themselves upon her. Thieves who’d fight her for whatever she carried on her person. His breath rasped loudly in his ears.

Or mayhap she simply returned to her family.

That thought should be the reassuring one that relieved the pressure in his chest.

So, why didn’t it? Why did it feel the instant she returned to Killoran was the last he’d ever see her? And then his life would be empty again, when he’d not realized how very lonely it was.

“Because you handled her confession like a bloody arse,” he muttered into the carriage. Adair dragged his hands through his hair. He’d said nothing. He’d merely repeated back her words like some bloody lackwit. Shock had held him numb and kept him stupidly silent, keeping him from giving her that which she’d deserved to hear: that her blood did not define her. That the fact that Diggory had sired her did not make her lesser or evil. That in giving her life, she stood as evidence that Diggory had done at least one thing right in his horrid existence.

But I said nothing . . .

Restless, he ripped back the red velvet curtain just as Ryker’s residence pulled into focus. Not even waiting for it to rock to a full stop, Adair tossed the door open and leapt out. He shot his arms out to steady himself and then, sprinting past a handsomely dressed couple, took the steps two at a time.

The butler immediately drew the door open.

Not breaking stride, Adair continued abovestairs. He needed a bath, a shave, a change of garments. All of it had to wait. It was secondary compared to her. Everything was. First, he had to find his damned brother, who usually was in the nursery at this—

“Adair!”

That chipper greeting halted his retreat. Reluctantly, he paused halfway up to the main living quarters and glanced back.

His sister-in-law Penelope gathered her skirts and hurried up to meet him. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been . . .” She sniffed the air. “I’ve been . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been looking for you.” Penelope pressed a hand to her nose. “You need a bath,” she blurted.

His neck went hot. “Yes.” Running around the streets of St. Giles and through puddles filled with horse shite and the Devil knew what else, would do that to a person’s stench.

Penelope motioned for him to continue, and he gave thanks for being spared any company. He needed coffee. Something to clear his head. His relief was short-lived. Penelope hurried to match his stride. “Wilson,” his sister-in-law said to the stone-faced footman stationed at the end of the hall.

Nay, he was not truly a footman. He was a guard ordered there by Ryker. A man who now studiously avoided Adair’s eyes.

“Yes, my lady?” Wilson trotted over and dropped an ugly bow.

“See a bath is readied for Mr. Thorne.”

The younger man rushed to do his mistress’s bidding.

“Wilson?” Adair called out, staying his movements. He wanted to settle his rage somewhere, and he had found a perfect target in the man who’d callously insulted Cleopatra.

“Yes, Mr. Thorne?”

“You insulted Miss Killoran.” How was Adair’s voice this even? How, when panic choked his senses at her absence?

Wilson swallowed loudly. “S-sir?”

“If you so much as utter her name incorrectly, you’ll not find employment in a single hell in the whole of London,” he said on a steely whisper. “Are we clear?”

An uncharacteristically silent Penelope alternated a wide-eyed stare between them.

The younger man gave a jerky nod. “W-we are, Mr. Thorne.”

“Now get out.”

Snapping back into movement, Wilson rushed off.

Adair found an unholy delight in the other man’s unease. Wilson still didn’t know that when the Hell and Sin was rebuilt, he answered only to Adair.

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.

Cleopatra’s words floated forward, renewing his panic. Politeness be damned, he lengthened his stride, heading toward the nursery.

“You are visiting the nursery,” his sister-in-law panted, her smaller legs keeping up. “Quite devoted of you. A wonderful uncle . . .”