The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(5)

Stephen spat at her feet. “Ain’t yar business. Ya ain’t a Killoran.”

He was a mere boy whose life had been endlessly harder than any adult’s, let alone a child’s, and even knowing that and telling herself that, it didn’t make Stephen’s well-placed barb hurt any less. Reggie leaned down, sticking her face close to his. “No. I’m not.” Not by blood. “But regardless, I’m not leaving you to snoop around some nobleman’s household.” Not when he’d a history of setting fires all over London that had very nearly seen people killed.

Stephen’s eyes said “go to hell” more loudly than had he shouted the words into the early-morn quiet.

The sharp bark of a lone dog echoed around the night sky. Reggie’s heart jumped.

“Scared of a fucking dog,” he taunted. “Wot Oi’m doing here ’as nothing to do with ya.” The boy pressed his hands against her stomach and shoved hard.

A smaller person would have gone down under that impressive shove. Reggie stumbled but caught herself against the townhouse.

Stephen was already running around back.

She briefly closed her eyes. And all those years ago, she’d believed her charges a challenge. Not a single spider in her tea nor a poorly hiding girl could have compared to this.

Nor was this boy merely an assignment to her, either.

Setting out after him, Reggie crept along the same path Stephen had followed until she reached the mews ’round back. The eight-door, brick stables covered in meticulously groomed ivy could comfortably sleep the entire staff of the Devil’s Den.

She skimmed her eyes over each wood panel and then snagged her gaze on the sixth door, cracked slightly.

Drawing in a silent breath through her tensed lips, Reggie hugged the building one more moment before sprinting across the courtyard. The heel of her boots striking the graveled grounds thundered loud. Or was it merely fear that magnified her damning footfalls?

At last reaching that cracked doorway, she let herself in.

To an empty stall.

Reggie blinked frantically in a bid to adjust her eyes to the dimly lit space. There were few places any person could hide here.

“Stephen,” she hissed, venturing forward. The straw cracked and crunched under her feet. “Stephen,” she repeated, peering at the stacks of hay that lined the left-hand side of the stall. She reached them in two quick strides, leaning over.

Furious eyes met hers. “Oi said get the hell outta ’ere.”

“No,” she clarified. “You said what you were doing here had nothing to do with me, which it doesn’t. It does, however, have to do with you, and because I care about you, I choose to be here,” she said practically, using her most matter-of-fact tone. Having known this boy well enough since he’d been an orphan, she knew he’d reject any kindness or gentleness shown.

“Care about me?” he scoffed. “You’re just looking to court my family’s favor.”

“You’re wrong. I do care. And you know that. Even if you are too stubborn and angry to admit it,” she said calmly, refusing to give rise to his baiting. “We have to leave.”

Fate interjected in the form of a horse’s hoofbeats.

Oh, blast.

Reggie rushed around the stacks of hay and dropped onto the ground beside Stephen.

Her heartbeat throbbed harsh and unsteady against her rib cage. Reflexively, she sought Stephen’s fingers and curled her coarse, callused palm around his. And the same boy who’d always rebuffed any show of affection or human contact clung to her.

The thump of boots striking the stones outside the stable reached Reggie, ratcheting up her panic. Her cheek layered to the floor; the hay scratched at her face, tickling her nose, torturing her bid at absolute stillness.

Go away. Go away.

Time and life’s miseries should have shown her the inherent foolishness in prayer.

Those sure, powerful footfalls came closer, ever closer.

Reggie tightened her grip. Stephen winced, and she forced herself to lighten her hold.

Do not breathe . . . do not move . . . do not breathe . . . do not move . . .

That alternating mantra pulsed in time to the stranger’s approaching steps and the click of a horse’s hooves.

Too often, people believed fear was simply an emotion. But it was more.

With all of an inch between her face and the child alongside her, Reggie felt it pouring from Stephen’s still frame. Smelled it in the faint rasps of his breath.

“Shh,” she silently mouthed, pleading with her eyes.

And this boy who’d seemed to make it his life’s mission to disobey everyone—including the Killoran clan he called family—complied.

Reggie strained her ears. No servant had come forward? Where was the stable hand to take that mount?

The door opened, with the heavier footfalls marking the stranger as a man coming first, then the clip-clop of the horse following him.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic tinge of blood flooding her nostrils. What gentleman tended his own horse? Especially at this hour. Gentlemen traveling about London now either returned by carriage . . . or rode horses back from the very wicked club that employed Reggie. Those lords left drunk and sloppy, and this man’s smooth, near-silent, methodical movements as he removed the saddle and returned it to the opposite wall spoke of one in complete control.