The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(30)

Unfolding it, Broderick worked his eyes swiftly over the page and then tucked it inside his pocket.

“She’s leaving now, Mr. Killoran.”

“What are you doing, Broderick?” his sister whispered as all the color leached from her cheeks.

“I’m securing Miss Spark’s cooperation.” And ensuring her silence.

With that, he stalked off.

“If you think I’ll simply accept those shadowy statements,” she hissed, matching his strides, “then you are out of your bloody mind. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go have your damned London Season,” she spat, her skirts snapping about her with a like anger. “Leave Reggie out of the matter.”

“It is too late,” he stated, accepting the cloak an efficient servant came rushing forward with. For he’d learned enough—albeit inadvertently—that there was more at play around Reggie’s denial, and as such, it moved beyond whether or not she joined Gertrude. He accepted his hat next, affixing it atop his head. “You have already insisted on it—”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Let this serve as a lesson . . . be more decisive in the future.” He lifted a hand, and the guard, Locke, immediately joined them.

“A lesson?” she squawked, and the guard took a quick step back under the fury that blazed to life in her gaze.

“Are you . . . k-keeping me prisoner here?” she stammered, color firing her cheeks.

Broad across the chest, Locke’s enormous frame swallowed the hall. Bald, without a single strand of hair on his head and curiously devoid of eyelashes and eyebrows, the man ducked his head sheepishly. “Apologies, Miss Killoran.”

With his sister’s furious calls and demands following in his wake, Broderick took his leave. A better man would feel some compunction at ordering his sister to be waylaid by one of the club’s guards.

Broderick wasn’t a better man. He was one with single-minded purposes and intentions. He tightened his jaw.

As he entered the kitchens, Stephen, who leaned against the wall, a sentry over this space, stuck a finger toward the door.

Nodding, Broderick continued his path. A young servant rushed forward to open the door, and he sailed through just as Reggie’s wool cloak disappeared around the edge of the building.

Broderick’s determination and mercenary approach to any venture he undertook had only ever been matched by his youngest sibling. Oh, Cleo and Ophelia were stronger and fiercer than most men in the Dials. But at the end of the day, they were not so jaded they’d step over another in order to strengthen the Killoran empire.

Broderick reached the end of the alley and followed the same path those brown skirts had disappeared down.

He instantly found her. Nearly six feet tall, it had always been impossible for Reggie Spark to lose herself in crowds. A task lent an even greater improbability by the flame-red curls that even now, with her bonnet in place, escaped and flew around her shoulders like a crimson calling card.

Never, however, had that calling card proven more valuable than it did in this moment.

Keeping close to the buildings, Broderick set out in pursuit.





Chapter 8

Is today the day your empire falls . . . ?

Dank heat slapped at Reggie’s face as she marched purposefully through the Dials.

The offending stench of East London rot and stale air flooded her nostrils, an unnecessary reminder of this place she called home.

Suddenly, her nape prickled.

She slowed her steps.

Shivering, she did a quick search of those she now kept company with: whores calling out wicked promises to potential customers, toothless vendors hawking their wares.

Reggie might not have ever developed the same street skills as the Killorans, but she had sharpened her senses enough to pick up on traces of danger around her.

Or mayhap her guilt accounted for that whisper of dread.

She tightened her grip on the blade that was never far from her person. A gift given to her years earlier by Broderick, that dagger was as much a part of her as the freckles on her face. Of course, he had handed over that gift as matter-of-factly as he would a loaf of bread or glass of water and then spent weeks instructing her on how to defend herself.

Now she held it close, taking comfort in the reliable hilt.

Don’t be a blasted ninny. You’re not one to shirk because of shadows. Not anymore. She hadn’t been that girl in a long time.

Forcing herself back into movement, Reggie continued on.

The pace she’d set combined with the early heat to send sweat beading at her nape and trickling down the high collar of her modest cotton gown, winding an infuriatingly itchy path down the middle of her back.

Yet in these streets filled with sinners Satan wouldn’t dare cross, Reggie knew better than to dash about alone with even the hint of her arms exposed.

An old beggar woman called over from the opposite side of the cobbled roads. “Ya want yar fortune read, girl?”

Not breaking her stride, and not so much as bothering with a glance in her direction, Reggie pressed on. She didn’t slow her steps until she reached the corner of Monmouth Street.

Shoving her bonnet back with her spare hand, Reggie shielded her eyes from the sun and searched.

One.

Two . . .

And finding . . . three.

She squinted. Surely not . . . Mayhap she had read the address incorrectly in that folder.