The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(103)

A pang struck his chest.

Drawn to the pianoforte, with one finger he plucked the notes of that song she’d so hauntingly played. And another image floated forward. Reggie stretched out upon the instrument, a fertility goddess, reveling in sexual splendor.

A smile ghosted his lips.

“Pretty silly grin for a man to be wearin’ when ’e’s facing down a hangman’s noose.”

Broderick’s finger slid, accidentally strumming a G sharp; that discordant clang brought reality rushing in.

His arms folded across his spindly chest, Stephen glowered back.

“Stephen.” Heat splotched his cheeks as he made a show of straightening his cravat. “Shouldn’t you be in your lessons?”

Blushing. The minx had set him to blushing.

Stephen pulled the door shut hard behind him and stomped over. “Oi finished them two hours ago. Ya’re smiling like the cat who got the cream, and this arrived.”

The same pit of dread settled around his stomach as he accepted the note from Stephen. He turned it over in his hands. Only this time, it was not fear for his empire and the inevitable loss of power and wealth and control.

It was a loss of something that had almost been. A dream that he’d not even known he’d carried until now. Nay, until her. He’d let the Devil’s Den consume him. It was all he’d been and done. He’d dedicated his energy, his blood, and his very life to seeing it thrive. So much so that the world had continued on around him, without Broderick playing a part in any way that truly mattered. He’d not thought of the dream of a family . . . a wife . . . children . . .

An image flashed to mind. A little girl with riotous red curls and a freckled face.

He crushed the note in his hands.

“Ya ain’t even going to read it?” Stephen snapped.

“I trust you’ll tell me what it says.” Nor did it matter. Not truly. The outcome would, as the marquess had reminded him, remain the same.

“He said it will be this week, Broderick. There’s no reason to wonder anymore.”

Your time is up . . .

How much of it he’d wasted before. Bent on his rise to power and prestige. And all along? What had it been for? How much did one truly need?

Oh, Broderick. What you could never see was that you didn’t need a link to the nobility. You have always been noble . . . for who you are in here . . .

Since his father’s treachery against the earl, he’d spent his life trying to prove himself different. He’d thought the way to do so was to amass wealth and power, failing to see what truly defined a man.

“Did you hear what I said?” Stephen shouted in his clipped King’s English. “You’re woolgathering when you should be plotting. Is this because of her?”

The jaded soul of this child was just one of the dark legacies he’d leave behind. I allowed him to become this . . .

“There’s no plotting,” he said quietly, tucking away the note. “There’s no more scheming. It’s done.” And then something tickled the back of his mind. He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘because of her’?”

“Spark,” Stephen snapped. “Because she’s gone.”

“Gone where?” he blurted.

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know.”

Warning bells blared. “What?”

“She left,” his brother said with a little shrug.

She left. Just that: two words, and Broderick couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Surely, he’d misheard—

He stormed off.

“Broderick?” Stephen cried after him.

Abandoning any usual show of calm, he sprinted through the halls, startling squeals from a pair of maids. He stumbled and took off running around them. All the while blood rushed to his ears. Stephen was wrong. He’d misunderstood. Broderick reached her rooms and shoved the door open.

A chambermaid squeaked, dropping the white linen sheet she’d been laying upon the bed. “Mr. . . . ?”

He stalked into the room. “Get out.”

The girl bolted past him.

Broderick tossed open the armoire.

He shoved aside satin gown after satin gown, hanging neatly in place.

Brown. Brown. Where are the brown dresses?

Dropping to his knees, he dug around, searching the shoes arranged in a crisp line. He flung each delicate article over his shoulder. Looking for—

“Oomph.”

He wheeled around.

The grey tabby in Gertrude’s arms hissed at Broderick and leapt to the floor. He raced behind her, darting out into the hall. She rubbed at the spot where a slipper had struck her. “Stephen sent me to you.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

Gertrude cocked her head.

“Reggie,” he clipped out.

His sister blinked slowly and then chuckled. “Well, I assure you, you’ll not find her in the armoire.”

He surged to his feet. This wasn’t a damned game. “Gertrude!”

She sighed. “I sent her away.”

The earth stopped moving, and he tried to make sense out of those four words. “What?”

“I sent her away,” she repeated. Gertrude lifted a finger. “Though in fairness, I describe it more as giving Reggie ‘her freedom.’” She smiled. Smiled. She flashed a damn smile, now? “Freedom, which she took. Which she was deserving of.”