The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(24)

She’d said no.

With frustration coursing through him, Broderick returned to his offices to find a small, familiar figure stationed outside the door.

Seated against the panel, his knees drawn up to his chest and his cap pulled low over his eyes, Stephen followed Broderick’s approach.

Mistrustful. Wary. Cynical.

They were all ways in which the boy had been twisted by the Dials. Because of me. It is all because of me.

His chest tightened.

As soon as he reached him, his brother popped up.

“Stephen,” he greeted, forcing a casualness past the wad in his throat. “Would you care to . . . ?” Stephen reached past him and let himself in. “Join me,” he finished dryly.

Once they’d entered, his brother kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. The mud caking those dirty soles fell to the floor in small clumps.

“Your hat,” Broderick called over as Stephen plopped himself into his usual seat across from the desk. The threadbare cap that he’d worn since he’d picked his first pocket and set his first fire—it was as much a part of him as his angry soul. That article, however, had also proven a shield that hid his eyes, and Broderick wasn’t above removing that protection to aid his ability to read the boy.

With a curse, Stephen swiped the cap from his head. Slouching in his chair, he watched Broderick with suspicion spilling from those dark irises.

Helping himself to a brandy, Broderick joined his brother at the opposite side of his desk. “Why do I take it this isn’t to be one of our usual meetings?” His spirited, stubborn brother visited often, and when he did, Stephen spoke openly and with enthusiasm about a day in the future when eventually he’d run this club. Only in the past, where Stephen had peppered Broderick with questions about the gaming hell business, patrons, and dealings of the Devil’s Den, now he remained silent.

“What are you going to do?” The boy held up a small, folded note with a familiar seal inked into the crease.

Broderick searched inside his jacket. Bloody hell. With a curse, he held his hand out. “How . . . what . . . ?”

“I’m not just a fire setter—”

“An arsonist,” he automatically corrected.

“I’m the best pickpocket, too,” the boy said with an inordinate amount of pride, puffing out his chest.

“Stop picking mine.” Broderick snatched the damning letter from his brother’s hands.

All the boy’s earlier bravado flagged, and he glanced down at the tips of his boots. “You’re going to hang.” It wasn’t a question.

Yes. That was the likely outcome.

With a calm he didn’t feel, he stuffed the note back inside his jacket. “It certainly makes a noble connection between our family and some powerful peer more . . . vital,” he said quietly. It had always been the goal he’d carried for the Killorans. That hadn’t changed, nor would it ever. That link would provide the last of his sisters with a security not afforded to those outside the illustrious ranks of the peerage. And moving amongst that world, Gertrude would at least be the one Killoran who could manage to watch after Stephen when he was returned to his noble father.

“Only a connection to the king ’isself can save ya.”

Nothing could. Broderick had accepted that. Not him anyway. There was, however, hope for his family and those who depended upon the Devil’s Den.

“If ya’re hoping Gert’s gonna make that match, ya’re even stupider than her damned cat, Brave.”

“She’s already agreed to a London Season.” It had been a capitulation that had come far easier than from either of their younger sisters. She’d made that sacrifice on behalf of the Killorans. Nay, on behalf of you. She believed it was about saving Broderick and the Devil’s Den. Just as Stephen did . . .

Guilt and shame made his tongue heavy, making it impossible to smoothly deliver words as he so often did. He coughed into his hand.

Stephen shrugged. “Don’t matter wot she’s agreed to. No one’s going to marry ’er with ’er eye.”

Anger coursed through Broderick. Ultimately, though, Stephen was just a boy in desperate need of guidance. A child who would have turned out vastly different from the dangerous, hardhearted person he had if it hadn’t been for Broderick. His chest tightened. “Look at me, Stephen,” he quietly ordered.

The younger boy hesitated and then brought his head up so he faced Broderick.

Laying his palms on his desk, Broderick leaned forward, shrinking the space between them. “No one speaks ill of a Killoran, and we certainly don’t do so to one of our own. Is that clear?”

Stephen ducked his head. “Yeah. It’s clear.” He kicked the toe of his shoe over the floor. “But I’m not really a Killoran,” he whispered, slipping into a flawless King’s English better suited to the noble he was. “And I don’t want to go back.”

“It’s not your choice. It’s not mine, nor Cleo’s nor Ophelia’s nor Gert’s.” A vicious pain, sharper than the last blade plunged into Broderick’s person, lanced him. At last, they would speak of it. Stephen’s fate and future had only been whispered about amongst Broderick and his sisters and never again mentioned to or with the boy after he’d first received the news of his circumstances.