The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(72)

Cleo’s recent admonishment whispered forward.

And when you discover her motives, then tell me it doesn’t matter . . .

Just as he didn’t know what had brought the then eight-and-ten-year-old girl to offer her virtue for a sovereign. That had been the value she’d placed on herself. That realization all these years later struck in ways his younger self had been too jaded to see. “I’d spare her that fate you knew.”

“And do you believe your siblings would ever allow that to befall Gertrude?” she demanded. “You’d rather place that trust in a nobleman?”

That took him aback.

Reggie took a step closer, and in the narrow quarters, her movements had the tips of their toes touching. “Do you know what I believe?” She didn’t allow him a place to so much as breathe. “This is about you.” He stiffened. No one, not even his siblings had questioned his motives, and yet this spitfire would call him out. “This is about your love of the peerage.” She peered at him, working her gaze over him. A woman searching for secrets and answers. “And do you know . . .” The fight seemed to go out of her as she fell back on her heels. Reggie hugged her arms around her middle. “I cannot in this instance say whether you’d turn away the most powerful peer if he provided you what you so desire.” With a disgusted shake of her head, Reggie turned to go, but then she paused, facing him once more. “You remain so convinced that a nobleman might save Gertrude and the Devil’s Den.” She plucked at her skirts, those distracted movements wrinkling the shimmery fabric and leaving creases within the fine garment. “But Broderick, oftentimes what appears to be at the heart of our salvation is just a different form of strife.”

And with that ominous warning, she slipped out.





Chapter 19

Be warned, nothing can save you. I am coming for you. Just as you and yours came for mine, I am lurking. Waiting.

Lying at the center of the stage with Clara at her side, Reggie stared overhead at the still-glorious mural vibrantly captured above. The wide-smiling cherubs dancing in their pastel skies and clouds served as a mocking juxtaposition to the doom hanging over her.

And now because of their connections to her . . . over Clara, Gertrude, Broderick.

And all the Devil’s Den.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

A week. Or was it now six days? A panicky laugh built in her chest.

Her partner in business turned her head. “That bad?”

“Worse,” Reggie squeezed out.

“Killoran?”

And oddly, this time, the one who’d upended both her heart and her existence was not to blame. Reggie was the one responsible for all her own problems. She always had been. Lord Oliver’s face flickered forward, and she slapped her palms over her eyes in a bid to blot out the thought and memory of him. And yet the threat hovered. Lingered.

“What is it?” Clara urged.

Emotion clogging her throat, Reggie shook her head. “I can’t.” Not yet. Even though Clara, whose fate and future were inextricably linked to Reggie’s, was deserving of every last detail. “I found a builder.”

The other woman abruptly sat up. “What?”

Remaining in her supine position, Reggie fished into her pocket and pulled out the scrap given to her by Cleo. She handed it over.

The other woman yanked it from her fingers.

“It’s all there,” Reggie said, not even looking at the note she’d received the previous evening from Broderick’s sister. “According to Cleopatra, the builder would offer us an extremely fair and generous rate and also a promise to begin and end construction in no more than a month’s time. Perhaps sooner, depending on how he finds the conditions.”

“Yes,” the other woman blurted. “Of course he can come in. I’ll arrange a meeting with him and discuss the contract.” She alternated her stare between that page and Reggie. “It must be dire.”

Reggie glanced over, a question in her eyes.

“We’ve been searching months for an architect who’ll one, deal with women, and two, work with a whore, and three . . . who we can afford.” She waved the page. “And yet you’ve found all three and appear as though you’ve just attended your own funeral.”

Reggie sank her teeth into her lower lip. “It’s bad,” she whispered. . . . Look what you made me do . . . This is all your fault . . . Lord Oliver’s charges rolled through her head, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. “I’m poison.” Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them back, willing them away. “You never, ever should have agreed to any venture with me.”

“Stop that,” the other woman demanded, slapping the page down.

“It’s true.” Drawing in a shuddery breath, she sat up. Before her courage deserted her, Reggie recounted her meeting with Lord Oliver, taking care to leave out the most shameful ends of her relationship with the gentleman. When she’d finished with a pared-down version of the history between her and Oliver, silence met her telling.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Clara said quietly, wiping a hand over her eyes.

“Precisely.” In the past ten years she’d crossed not only one of the most powerful peers in the kingdom but also the most ruthless kingpin in the Dials. Drawing in a breath, Reggie shoved herself upright and, drawing her knees close, looped her arms around them. “You should do it alone.” She’d not begrudge Clara a new beginning because of her own mistakes.