The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(16)

And betrayal. Rolling her head sideways, she stared at the names assembled upon another page of eleven of the serving girls at the club and one head guard—her venture also would require a betrayal.

“It’s not a betrayal,” she muttered, grabbing another page that contained possible properties. All of which had been crossed out. “Not really.” If Reggie went forward with the purchase of her own establishment, it wasn’t a rival gaming hell.

But she would be in direct competition for clients who’d hopefully seek out an alternate form of entertainment where women were at the front and center.

Women who, in the name of her security as much as theirs, she’d steal out from under Broderick. Though honorable her intentions might be, that sentiment meant far less in the Dials than loyalty. These were different streets than the one she’d called home a lifetime ago.

A rhythmic knock sounded at the door.

The grey tabby hissed and unsheathed his claws. Reggie winced as he scrambled down her body, leaving a trail of scratches in his wake before bolting under his usual spot, her corner bed.

“Come in,” she called out.

Leather folio in hand, Clara Winters, who was responsible for overseeing the female staff, entered. “Are you all right?” she asked without preamble as she dragged a chair over to the desk and set herself down alongside Reggie.

Previously employed by their rival club, Clara had been treated as an outcast by the staff of the Devil’s Den since she’d arrived. It was a sentiment Reggie could sympathize with all too well, as she’d once been shunned by Diggory’s gang. That had created a kindred bond between the two women. From the moment Clara had caught Reggie defending her to the guards, they’d struck up a special friendship.

“I’m quite fine,” she assured Clara, rolling shoulders that were tight from hours of being hunched over her papers.

Clara gave her a long look. “Following the boy around?”

“Shh.” Reggie whipped her head around. One never knew who was about and when, and given the recent trouble Stephen had found, if the wrong person overheard a single thing about the child, he’d swing. “How . . . ?”

“How do I know?” Clara tossed the folder in her hands down atop Reggie’s papers. “I saw you sneaking out. He’s not your job.”

Her stomach sank. “Did anyone else see?” she asked, ignoring that latter reminder from Clara. Family looked after family.

“The club was busy.”

Some of the tension left her.

“You deserve better than this,” Clara said matter-of-factly. “Spending your days chasing around after a child who doesn’t want to be chased and filling the role of all-purpose servant for a man who’ll never see you.”

Reggie flinched. So Clara had gathered Reggie’s greatest secret, the humbling one she’d kept close for all these years. The cowering girl who’d been rescued by Broderick would have wilted under that direct questioning. That girl had also died on London Bridge as much as if she’d jumped to her watery death that night. “I trust you’re here for some other reason than lecturing me?”

An appreciative glint lit the other woman’s eyes. “Here,” she said, pushing the brown leather folio closer to Reggie’s fingertips.

Grateful for the business diversion that was always safer than any talk about Broderick Killoran, Reggie picked up the folder. Loosening the ribbon, she withdrew the stack of documents.

“I found another place,” Clara said needlessly. “I have a meeting scheduled for us later this afternoon.”

“I see,” Reggie murmured, working her gaze over the details inked on the page. “The price is right,” she murmured.

“It’s far less expensive than any other property we’ve visited.”

“And the funds we save on the purchase price could go toward the repairs,” Reggie noted distractedly. She flipped to the next page, searching for the building address, and froze. She was already shaking her head. “No.” This wouldn’t do. It was one thing, leaving the Devil’s Den and establishing a business of her own . . . “We’d be a mere three streets away.” A short walking distance between Reggie and Broderick . . . and their halls. It would put them in direct competition with the men who dwelled in or visited these streets.

The other woman pushed the sheet with the address back toward Reggie. “You’re not being logical in terms of the business end of this.”

She bristled. “I’ve been nothing but logical about this entire venture since I brought it to you.” That effectively silenced Clara. For ultimately it had been Reggie who, months earlier, had raised the possibility of a partnership. One that would make them shared proprietors, no longer reliant upon work at the Devil’s Den . . . or on any man. Reggie attempted to reason with her. “I remain as committed as I’ve always been to our plans. However, I will conduct myself with honor, and this?” She turned the damning page around. “This is not honorable.”

“Honor,” Clara spat. “Was it honor that made the last man I gave funds to in exchange for property take those monies and run off?”

Reggie’s heart twisted. “Oh, Clara. I didn’t kn—”

“I don’t want your pity,” Clara said flatly. “I want you to think logically. Men aren’t honorable.”