The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(50)

Relief brought Reggie back on her heels.

Through the modiste’s tirade, Broderick had retained hold of her hand. Over those smooth fingertips, he eyed the woman like she was the only one in the room. It was a skill he’d turned against any staff member or servant whose cooperation he required. Reggie, however, had always seen right through it and had refused to fall over herself at that ploy. “Ah, but you’ve not two . . . but . . . six young women here. Not just any women.” The gaggle of seamstresses arched forward on the balls of their feet, hanging on the promise he dangled.

Reggie tapped her boot, that annoyed thump muted and dulled by the thick Aubusson carpet.

“But the finest seamstresses at Madame Colette’s,” he finished, ushering in a collection of sighs.

His gaze crept just beyond the woman’s shoulder, over to Reggie.

Had he always been this infuriating? “Really?” she mouthed.

He winked.

“Non, non, non. Friday, Meezter Killoran, at the earliest.”

Reggie waved her fingertips in the air. “My current wardrobe will do splendidly until you have time to create your latest . . . masterpiece.”

Alas, she remained invisible for all the notice paid her.

“Two days. One hundred pounds more.”

The modiste’s eyes bulged in her face.

At that weakening, Broderick pounced. “A woman of your talents and skills,” he murmured, walking a slow circle about the modiste. “You are surely capable of anything.”

It was foolish in the extreme to feel anything over his blatant attempt to charm a bloody gown from the sharp-tongued woman. Especially because Reggie knew the exact game he played. And yet another unwanted wave of jealousy stung her.

Madame Colette tittered. “One gown.” Reggie’s earlier hope proved fleeting. Bloody hell, he’d charmed the miserable harpy into this. “Not one more.” She clapped her hands once. “Now, shoo, you scoundrel. You’ve left me with a”—the modiste finally spared Reggie a glance—“near impossible task.”

Broderick flashed that pearl-white smile that dimpled his left cheek. “But not impossible.”

“You are shameful,” Reggie mouthed as he stalked past. “Shameful.”

He winked. “And you’ll have your gown in two days’ time.”

Her heart sank. Blast. “I already have”—Broderick was already through the door—“a gown,” she said under her breath, the audible utterance buried behind the firm click of the door.

The earlier levity instantly faded from the group of seamstresses and the modiste.

“Now, Miss Spark.” The slight, sneering emphasis there indicated precisely what the modiste thought about Reggie Spark from the Dials. “It is time to turn you into a silk purse.”





Chapter 13

The question you must be asking . . . when am I coming for you . . . ?

The first Killoran meeting inside their new Mayfair residence took place the next morn.

“I found Lucy and Walsh,” he said, not mincing words. Removing the stoppard from a decanter, Broderick splashed several fingerfuls of the amber spirits into a glass. He took a long drink and grimaced. “It did not go well.”

Cleo sat forward in her seat. “What happened?”

Running through a methodical accounting of everything that had transpired since his meeting with Walsh, Broderick filled his siblings in on the ever-pressing threat posed by Maddock.

Through his telling, Ophelia’s frown deepened. “Who located them?”

He looked over to his middle sister. A question darkened her gaze. Broderick shifted in his seat, the leather folds groaning in protest.

With a growl she stomped over and slapped her palms on the side of his desk. “You hired another detective?” Other than her husband, that was.

“I’d been working with him long before you married O’Roarke,” he gritted out. “Furthermore, you are missing the damned source of concern in all this.”

“No, I’m not,” Ophelia spat, as stubborn as she’d always been. Of all his levelheaded, collected sisters, her temper had always burnt as hot as Stephen’s. “Had you enlisted my husband’s assistance, we wouldn’t even now find ourselves in the circumstances we do.”

Heat suffused his cheeks.

And damn if Ophelia wasn’t right. “I should have used him, but I did not,” he gritted out that admission. “As such, I’m electing to focus on what we might still be able to control.”

As one, the sisters looked to Gertrude.

“Hence Gertrude’s hasty London Season,” Cleo surmised. She turned to the eldest of the siblings. “No one has asked you before . . . but is this what you want?”

Shame stung him at this, his absolute failure to care for his sisters. Of course they’d believe his efforts were solely driven by self-preservation. What reason had he given them to think anything else? He’d proven single-minded and determined to wed them off. They couldn’t know he was motivated by fear for their future and the need to provide them security in an ever-uncertain world.

“There’s no other choice,” Gertrude said quietly.

Ophelia moved over in a whirl of skirts. Presenting Broderick with her shoulder, she sank to a knee before Gertrude. “There is always a choice.” She shot a glower back at Broderick. “Even when we’re made to feel like there is not.”