The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(11)

He brushed his fingertips along her chin, tipping her gaze back to his. That butterfly-soft touch set her skin burning from the point of his touch. “Trade a secret for a secret?”

Her heart flipped. Those had been the first words he’d ever uttered to her. During her time serving Broderick and his family, he’d turned them on her, more teasing than anything. She returned her usual reply, delivered this time as a faintly breathless exhalation. “I’ve no secrets I wish to share.”

“You’re more stubborn than God,” he muttered.

“Oh, is he?” She puzzled her brow. “Stubborn, that is.”

Broderick flashed a half grin so empty it struck like an arrow in her chest. “I ceased believing in God long ago.”

A chill scraped along her spine. There was an emptiness to his tone which she’d never heard from this man in all the years she’d known him, and she wanted to chase back the stark desolation there. Those raw, tormented sentiments had no place in his gaze . . . this man who shared nothing with anyone. And yet this was the closest he’d come to ever offering her a piece of his past. “Yes, well, if we cease to believe in Him, it makes the prospect of what comes after this rather grim, does it not?”

He chuckled. “Only if one is not content with what one possesses or does in their time here.”

Reggie went still, again searching for a sign that he’d discovered her intentions. That he even now dangled her along in a game that would end with her secrets all laid out before them.

Releasing the cloth, Broderick continued his examination of her wound. “You see, Reggie, I shared the name of my assailant all those years ago because there was no one I cared to protect.” Tommy Lassiter had robbed corpses and slaughtered cornerside whores, all to sell to body snatchers.

“I’m not protecting anyone,” she said calmly.

“Where were you when it happened?”

“The stables.” Which wasn’t altogether untrue. They just hadn’t been his stables. “It was a horse, Broderick,” she said with a sigh. That much was true. It was just the foreign stables she’d been in and the boy she’d been chasing after that truly mattered.

“A horse?” He shook his head. “Horses do not bite.”

“Oh, I assure you, they do. I’ve been bit on the thigh. That hurt like the Devil but didn’t bleed nearly as much. Another nipped at my shoulder.” She motioned to the spot of a long-ago wound. “My—”

He arched an eyebrow.

She abruptly stopped, hating that age-old penchant for rambling when nervous. It had been the curse of her childhood and just one of her many struggles in trying to fit in with the people of the Dials.

“My horses do not,” he clarified.

No, they didn’t. They were as obedient as any other member of his staff. Bloody hell, he was unrelenting. He wouldn’t give in until he had an answer. She waged an inner battle with herself. Stephen would never forgive her for sharing his secret with Broderick. But Broderick was deserving of the truth. Bloody hell. “It happened when I was following Stephen.”

All his muscles tensed. “What—”

She interrupted him and proceeded to provide a vague telling of Stephen’s actions and how she’d come about an injured ear. She took care to avoid mention of the fancy end of London he’d been wandering around.

When she finished, Broderick cursed. “I told him he wasn’t to be out on his own.”

“But he’s accustomed to it. One cannot simply just change their ways and habits.”

“He can,” he said bluntly. “He no longer has a choice.”

Reggie searched his face. “What do you mean?” She knew this man enough to know there was more at play. He’d never limited the boy’s actions before this. Not even after the fire he’d set that had destroyed their rival’s gaming establishment.

Broderick immediately veiled his features and presented that mask he donned with everyone else in the clubs. “I meant nothing by it.” He pushed his sleeves down. “I want you resting.” Next, he collected his cloak and jacket. “I still intend for the doctor to see you. Regardless of the seeming innocuity of the wound,” he spoke over her protestations. He started for the door. “I’d have you remember Jack Spier,” he said, reaching for the handle.

Reggie snorted. “Jack Spier was stuck with a rusted blade, covered in dirt. I hardly think the two wounds are the same.”

He inclined his head. “Ah, yes. And the mouth of a horse who eats shite and hay is a good deal cleaner,” he drawled.

“Do you know your sister’s equine books indicated that if a horse eats dung it’s an indication there is a problem with his diet. In fact, it is known as coprophagy and—”

“Reggie.”

She sighed. “Very well. Send him.”

He flung his garments over his opposite arm. “Take the remainder of the day to rest,” he instructed, starting for the front of the room.

“Broderick?” she called after him. He spared her a glance over his shoulder. “He needs to be more carefully guarded . . . but go easy on him.”

Reggie stared at the oak panel long after he left. Broderick had been upset with the information she’d sought to keep from him this day.

What would he say when he learned just what she’d kept from him all these months . . . and the plans she had for her future?