The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(55)

“Brava,” Clara praised, managing an awkward clap with the floral teacup in her fingers. “Sneaking past his guards while all the Killoran siblings were otherwise occupied. Some would say that is an insurmountable feat.”

Reggie bristled, tired of yet another challenge to her integrity. “Part of the arrangement I made with him was that when my services are not engaged, I’m granted time to see to my own business.”

With a snort, Clara toasted Reggie with the cup. “Something has me believe that this freedom”—she motioned to Reggie and the work laid out before her—“is not what he intended.”

Reggie caught her lower lip. No, her slipping between Mayfair and the Dials in the middle of the day when anyone might see was likely not the agreement he’d had in mind. Not while any missteps she made would have disastrous consequences for Gertrude’s reception amongst the ton. Guilt needled at her conscience, but she forcibly thrust it back. She’d spent years putting the Killoran family first before everyone, including herself. Now she faced ruin far greater than that of her reputation if she didn’t succeed in her plans. “Then he’ll need to be more specific in his future transactions.”

Clara’s shoulders shook with her amusement as she filled the half-empty cup in her hands to the top. From behind the rim of her teacup, Clara blew on the piping brew. Laughing softly, she offered Reggie another small salute.

She was the only person in all of England to take her tea hot and not lukewarm. Reggie dropped her elbows on the French satinwood table. “May I ask you a question?”

Clara gave a slight nudge of her chin.

She pointed to the steaming floral porcelain pot. “Why do you always drink your tea hot?”

The other woman leaned forward. “Truthfully?”

Reggie nodded.

“Because everyone expects I should drink it one way.” She shrugged. “To hell with them.”

“Hmph,” she said with a dawning understanding. “I . . . can appreciate that.” Reggie picked up another pencil. For years she’d been Broderick’s loyal assistant. The expectation was that she’d place his wants, wishes, and needs above all . . . including her own interests. And for so long . . . she had. She’d done precisely that. Reggie’s gaze fell to the last number she’d tabulated. What a pathetic fool she’d been.

She resumed her new calculations based on the additional expenses they’d lost to Broderick’s increased price of the building. The loss of one thousand pounds required adjustments to every other detail that had previously been worked out.

While Clara sat quietly sipping her tea, Reggie let her pencil fly over the page. The click-click-click of the tip striking the table was soothing.

For in this, there was something she’d been without, something she so desperately yearned for: control.

“How did he react?”

“You know,” she muttered, blowing back a bothersome curl that fell over her brow. “He charged us one thousand pounds more.” A factor which Clara had taken far better than she should have. In fact, she’d displayed no outward anger or upset with Reggie . . . which had only magnified Reggie’s tremendous guilt. “And severed my employment as his assistant.” Which was bloody fine, as she’d rather walk the long trek to London Bridge again without a pence to her name than ever serve on his staff.

A hand covered hers, and she started, glancing from Clara’s palm to the other woman’s eyes. “That is not what I meant.”

“He . . .” Reggie absently picked up the porcelain chamberstick at the middle of the table. The flame danced back and forth, wafting a faint cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. She trailed the tip of her finger between the outstretched hands of the courting couple, the look of longing that passed between them expertly crafted even in cold stone. Feeling the other woman’s eyes on her, Reggie set it down. “He was angry. He accused me of betraying him. And . . .” Hurt. There had been the flash of that vulnerability in his gaze, too. Reggie chewed at her lower lip. Whatever warmth he’d once felt for her was gone. And it was better this way . . . for now she could hang up the false hope she’d carried in her heart.

“And?” Clara pressed, leaning forward in her seat.

She shook her head, unwilling to share that intimate hint of vulnerability. “And he made it clear that I’d been stripped of my role and previous duties within the family.” Her heart twisted. Not wanting to reveal her weakness for a man undeserving of her pain, she returned her attention to the last column.

“Reggie?”

She hesitated, then lifted her head.

“You are better off.”

“I know that,” she said automatically.

“No, you don’t,” her friend gently corrected. Again, she stretched a palm out, covering Reggie’s. “But someday, after you say it enough and gain your freedom, then you’ll finally realize it.”

Disquieted at how easily Clara had read the lie within her words, Reggie cleared her throat, steering them to more neutral topics. “I don’t know how to make up the one thousand pounds.” She’d always been proficient with numbers, but it would take the maneuverings of a damned wizard to snip enough here and there to account for all that Broderick insisted on taking.

Setting down her cup, Clara was immediately all business. “The liquor distribution?”