The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(51)

He winced. I deserve that. He’d sought to maneuver each of them into respectable matches to honorable gentlemen. He wouldn’t, however, make apologies for attempting to see them secure.

“You do not have to do this,” Cleo put forward.

Gertrude shifted her stare past Ophelia, and she held Broderick’s gaze. “I do,” she said with resolve in her tone. “Even more than either of you had to.”

In so many ways, Gertrude had long been the matriarchal figure of this family. How much each of his sisters had come into their own as women. Not for anything he’d done but because of the manner of people they were.

Ophelia exploded to her feet and redirected her impressive fury at Broderick. “This is your fault,” she snapped, gripping the corners of his borrowed desk. “All of it.”

Unable to meet her anger-filled eyes, he stared down into the amber contents of his glass. He swirled it in a smooth, counterclockwise circle.

“Do you have nothing to say?” Ophelia cried.

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t.” It was far safer taking the brunt of their fury than acknowledging a fear over his own infallibility. A need for some other gentleman, respectable and powerful in wealth and connections, to provide the security they were deserving of.

“Ophelia,” Cleo commanded, still capable of laying command to any tense fight, be it one between families or those on the street. When she focused on Broderick, his youngest sister was very much the woman who’d been more of a trusted partner than anything else. “What do you require?”

Broderick gritted his teeth. “Introductions at the dinner party this evening for Gertrude.” The event would mark Gertrude’s introduction to Polite Society. It would also see Gertrude seated alongside some of the ton’s leading peers . . . gentlemen influential in Parliament, others with connections to the king.

Three pairs of Killoran eyes went to Ophelia. “Of course I’ll perform the introductions,” she said gruffly. “But neither will I support just any match. I love you, Broderick, but I’ll not see you marry Gertrude off to some nobleman to save your club.”

Nay, to save his sister. To see her settled.

Ophelia looked to Gertrude. “I’ll not sit idly by while you sell your happiness for noble connections,” Ophelia said softly.

“You forced yourself to London for a Season.” Gertrude settled her accusing gaze on Cleo. “As did you. Therefore, I ask that you please trust that I’m capable of knowing my own mind and making my own decisions.”

Broderick closed his eyes. When had he made such a damned mess of his family? Everything he touched turned to rot. But then, what did he expect? He was, after all, his father’s son.

The matter of this evening’s dinner party settled, he brought them to the other topic they needed to discuss. “Gertrude’s London Season is not the reason I’ve called you all here.” Broderick glanced around the room. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

That brought Ophelia’s head whipping around. “What?”

Cradling the snifter of brandy between his fingers, he evinced a calm he did not feel.

It was of course Cleopatra who asked the most important question. “Who?” she demanded, all steely ice as she surged forward with an abruptness that dislodged her spectacles, knocking them forward on her face.

Silent until now, Stephen puffed his chest out. “Oi know who it is.” From where he stood at the doorway, he slammed his left heel into the panel, commanding the room’s attention.

Every set of eyes swiveled in his direction, and he preened under that uncharacteristic level of importance placed on him.

Broderick silenced him with a look.

“Wot? Oi do.”

Yes, it was the youngest of the Killorans who’d gathered information they’d been too trusting to ever suspect.

Not even deigning to glance back, Cleo jabbed a finger at the empty spot beside her.

Muttering under his breath, Stephen dragged his heels across the room until he stopped beside his long-favorite sister. She’d always been the one who managed to gain his compliance, an otherwise impossible feat.

Broderick motioned for her to reclaim her chair, and for surely the first time since he’d entered Diggory’s gang and begun looking after the girls before him, she complied. He went on to detail the information brought to him by Stephen.

“Not only does Reggie intend to establish a rival club but she also sought to take the most profitable members of our staff and the most reliable guard.” With each enumeration, the sense of betrayal grew, and with it, the anger in his chest. “And she intends to do so not even three streets from the Devil’s Den.”

Ophelia shook her head. “Impossible.”

“Oh”—he rolled his shoulders—“I assure you. Quite possible. Stephen raided her rooms and found the documents.” He chuckled, the sound stripped of mirth. “Why, she even negotiated better rates from our suppliers at the expense of our own costs remaining elevated.”

“I can’t . . .” As one who’d let loyalty and honor drive her every word and action, Ophelia’s palpable outrage matched Stephen’s and Broderick’s in fury. His own sense of betrayal was reflected back in Ophelia’s blue eyes. “How could she do this?”

He tightened his mouth. Her reasons didn’t matter. “We let our guard down with Reggie.” That, however, did matter.