The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(112)

“There is trouble,” the eldest of his sisters whispered. “We have to leave.”



This was the townhouse Stephen had visited.

At last, Stephen’s late-night visit here made sense.

His being here had not had anything to do with setting fires or filching the goods of a nobleman.

Standing on the stone steps, she stared at the gold lion knocker, its mouth parted in a silent roar, warning away any who braved this door.

At one time, she had doubted her strength, been unable to see past the mistakes she’d made, and allowed them to define her. She’d seen herself as weak. Broderick had helped her see her strength. She had faced down enough devils and had come out on the other side of survival.

She grabbed the ring dangling from one gold tooth and slammed it hard.

That rhythmic knock rolled around the eerily still Mayfair streets. She shivered and huddled deeper into her cloak.

Her fingers reflexively curled around the two notes in her front pocket.

The echo left by that door knocker faded, ushering in silence once more.

What if he was not here? What if he’d gone himself to witness the fall of Broderick Killoran? Reggie bit her lip. He had to be here.

Ignoring the gold ring, this time she pounded a fist on the black oak panel. KnockKnockKnockKnock.

Reggie continued a solid beat until suddenly, abruptly, the door was drawn open.

“May I help you?” That greeting was wrapped in a thinly veiled annoyance.

She brought her shoulders back and faced off with the lanky butler. “Yes. I . . .” All words fled. And along with them, her reasons for being here and the argument she’d composed for Lord Maddock. A low hum filled her ears. Reggie shook her head to clear it.

Reflected back in mirror eyes was her own shock.

The servant clutched at the door. “Regina?” he whispered.

She was afraid to move. Afraid to blink. Afraid that if she did so, his visage would disappear and in its place would remain some stranger. Though one foot taller and several stone heavier, there was no mistaking the heavily freckled face. The crimson curls.

Tears flooded her eyes, blurring his visage. “Quint.”

He choked. “I looked for years. It was as though you’d vanished.” His Adam’s apple jumped. “I thought you were dead.”

“You searched for me,” she whispered, and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. All these years she’d believed that she was dead to her father and brothers for the shame she’d visited upon them. And all the while only a handful of London streets had separated them; and yet Mayfair and the Dials had been worlds apart, where they would have remained perpetually divided, moving about two entirely different spheres.

“Did I search for you?” Hurt rounded his eyes. “Of course I did. Father became a broken man after you’d gone. Cameron cares for him now.” Father. Cameron. Hearing their names spoken from the lips of her youngest brother made them real in ways she’d not allowed them to be.

She clutched at her throat. “I believed it was better if I stayed gone.” How hollow that sounded to her own ears. She’d spent years running, hiding. Finding out ten years too late that it had been herself she’d been running from.

“Never. It was never better with you gone.” Quint stepped aside, urging her in. “How did you find me?” he asked, shutting the door behind them.

“How did I . . . ?” And then the shock of their reunion faded. “What are you doing here?” she countered with a question of her own. She took in the palatial foyer of Italian marble so crisp in its shine it nearly hurt the eyes.

“I’m employed by the marquess.”

“Your employer is the Marquess of Maddock?”

All fraternal warmth vanished. He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know Lord Maddock?”

There was a protectiveness to his question that spoke of loyalty familiar to Reggie. And on the heel of it, a sickening realization. She slid her eyes shut. Oh, God. They’d been employed by enemies. When she opened them, he studied her carefully. “My . . .” How could she refer to Broderick as her “employer”? He’d been so much. He’d saved her. And he would forever hold her heart. Reggie straightened her shoulders. “I’m here to speak with him about his son,” she said, neatly sidestepping mention of Broderick.

All the color washed from Quint’s cheeks. “Follow me,” he rasped. He rushed off, taking large, lurching steps so very similar to the ones he’d taken around the Kent countryside.

“Do you know him well?” Reggie asked into the quiet, her gaze taking in the satin-draped portraits lining the halls.

Quint cast her a sideways look. “Yes.”

Reggie waited for some elaboration on that score.

Their footfalls, muffled on the carpeted floors, served as the only echo of an answer.

She frowned. It was wrong to expect he should prove forthcoming with information simply because she was his sister. It had been ten, almost eleven, years since they’d last seen one another. Their lives were steeped in secrets and mysteries. It also highlighted that Quint, too, had learned the essentiality of keeping everyone—including those who shared one’s blood—close.

They reached an arched doorway, and he knocked once.

“They’ve arrived?” a gravelly voice called from within.