The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(6)

No, this was no mere drunken wastrel of a patron from the Devil’s Den Stephen had sought out.

This was another sort of nobleman. And a far deeper-seated terror held her in its grip. A drunkard was careless. They were the ones easiest to sneak away from. Composed, clearheaded nobles were the ones who’d never stomach two Seven Dials street toughs sneaking about their properties.

Surely you’re not so dim-witted that you’d believe I’d ever welcome a match between you and my son . . .

Reggie closed her eyes, willing her past back to the grave where it deserved to stay buried. When she opened them, she found Stephen staring back.

“Shh,” she repeated that noiseless reminder.

After an eternal stretch of time, the gentleman took his leave, closing the door in his wake.

They were so close . . . so very close . . .

Elation built in her breast, a thrilling sense of victory that could come only in escaping certain doom. And it harkened back to another triumphant escape.

Her joy was short-lived.

Stephen jumped up and, scrambling over her, rushed to the front of the stable.

“Stephen,” she hissed as she struggled to stand.

The horse, an enormous black mount more beast than stallion, stamped its hoof and whinnied.

Or mayhap he sought to alert the master who’d gone off, unsuspecting that his stables had been invaded by strangers who had no place here.

“Get back,” she pleaded in a frantic whisper.

Either failing to hear or not caring about her admonishment, Stephen layered himself to the front of the stable doors and, stretching up on his tiptoes, peered out.

Squinting, she searched for the object of the boy’s focus. Her gaze landed on a tall, powerfully broad gentleman striding away from them. He cut such a quick path through the mews, his midnight-black cloak whipped furiously about his ankles. Not even the distance between them could hide the high quality of that garment.

A flash of silver glinted in the stables.

The black stallion snorted nervously, stamping his hooves.

Reggie’s gaze locked on the familiar sapphire hilt of Stephen’s dagger.

The boy reached for the handle.

What in blazes . . . ?

She grabbed his collar and yanked him back, hard. The blade sailed to the floor, flashing a shadow about in its descent, until it landed with a muffled thump upon the hay.

The stallion squealed, rearing up in the small space.

Reflexively, Reggie pushed the boy down and covered his body with her own. Her pulse thundered loud in her ears, muting the furious whinnies of the horse. She hunched forward, curling her body tight around Stephen.

The creature’s front hooves landed close to her head, trampling errant strands of her hair and tearing them from her scalp. Tears popped up behind her eyes.

And when the world at last righted itself, Reggie straightened.

Stephen scrambled out from under her; his eyes glinted with outrage. “Ya shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Reggie held his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I should have.” For so many reasons. If he wandered deeper down the path of violence and destruction, he’d ultimately be destroyed by it.

The boy glowered, his fury palpable.

Offering a truce, she rescued his dagger and handed it over.

The stallion intercepted her efforts.

A searing agony burnt Reggie’s ear, and she fought back a silent scream. She shot her hand up to apply pressure to ease the throbbing. Something warm and wet coated her fingers. She drew them back.

Blood soaked her palm, the darkness of the stables lending shades of black to the crimson stain.

Horror filled Stephen’s eyes. “Ya’re ’urt.”

“We have to go,” she whispered, yanking the hood of her cloak back into place. Pressing her hand hard against the sore flesh, she sought to staunch the flow once more with the coarse wool fabric. Blood immediately seeped through, coating her fingers. With her spare hand, she took Stephen’s fingers, and he hesitated.

She stared questioningly back.

There was a faint pleading in the proud boy’s gaze. “Don’t tell Broderick.”

“I won’t,” she said, squeezing his hand.

He searched her face. “You promise?”

“You have my word.” The longer they remained, the more they risked discovery at the nobleman’s residence. “Now we have to leave.”

This time, Stephen went unresistingly.

Making a slight crack in the slat, Reggie peeked out.

Empty.

Soon, however, these well-tended stables would be overrun with that nobleman’s staff.

And she had no intention of either her or Stephen being around when that happened.





Chapter 2

You will pay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But when you least expect it . . .

Broderick tossed the reins of his mount to a waiting servant outside the Devil’s Den.

What a bloody disaster.

With the hem of his cloak whipping an angry rhythm in time to his movements, he climbed the steps and sailed through the front doors thrown open for him.

“Mr. Killoran,” the butler greeted with a deferential bow of his head.

Not breaking stride, Broderick continued forward.

At nearly five in the morning, the crowd had already begun to thin, but the tables still remained crowded enough to cause a raucous din. Any other night the rapid clink of coins striking coins and drunken revelries of the nobles present would have the same calming, victorious effect it always did.