The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(78)

Broderick gave his glass another counterclockwise swirl. “Loyal friendship is a gift, indeed,” he said neutrally. He briefly shifted his gaze over the top of his snifter, spearing the man with a look. “What was the gentleman’s name?”

“Lord Adinbrooke.”

Not a patron.

Broderick set his drink down. “I must confess to some . . . difficulty in reconciling the woman you are speaking of with the woman I know.”

Not once in the years he’d known her had she asked for anything. She’d accepted his offerings with words of thanks, but when he was insisting his sisters don satin, Reggie had quite happily donned her coarse wool skirts.

“I trust this would be very difficult.”

Broderick thinned his eyes into slits. “It is made more difficult as I knew the young woman ten years ago.”

There was a slight stiffening in the duke’s frame.

“She had neither baubles nor coins nor fripperies to her name.” In threadbare garments, her hands cracked and bleeding, she would have never been mistaken for a privileged nobleman’s mistress.

His Grace quickly regained his composure. “I don’t know how to account for that,” he said with a shrug.

No, neither did Broderick. Again, they were secrets belonging to Reggie, involving this very gentleman before him. He unfurled from his relaxed pose. “Do you know what I believe, Your Grace?”

The duke watched him cautiously. “What is that?”

“I believe Miss Spark is in fact correct.” Broderick flicked a hardened stare up and down the man’s frame. “You are a liar.”

Sputtering, the other man came to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I am a duke.”

Your single-minded determination to connect the Killorans to the nobility goes back far beyond Stephen. So do not suggest this venture to be vastly different . . .

The accusation Reggie had tossed at him days ago stung all the sharper now when confronted with the reasons for her resentment. “And I’m a man who can identify liars of any rank. If you believe I would accept any suit from a man who dallied with a young woman in his employ and then left her unmarried, you are a bloody lackwit.”

The duke’s eyes bulged in his face. “Well, I’ve never . . .” Giving a snap of his coattails, His Grace stomped over to the door.

No, it was likely he’d never been called out for his crimes.

“Glastonbury?” The duke stopped. “It is my hope that my sister will make a match with a nobleman . . .” He held the nobleman’s gaze. “But I’d have her find a man who is truly noble and honorable, and not a cur like yourself.”

“How dare you? You’d question my honor.” Red in the face, His Grace marched back to Broderick’s desk. “Do you want the truth? You guttersnipes don’t know a thing about Polite Society.” He curled his lip in a derisive sneer. “You’d defend Miss Marlow as though she were some fine lady.” Broderick stiffened. “But she is not. Nor has she ever been.” Spittle formed at the corners of the duke’s mouth. “She is, and was always, a whore. My whore.”

Rage flooded him. Pure. Vitriolic. And lifelike in its intensity.

Broderick jerked his left elbow out, catching the other man in the cheek.

The duke cried out and cradled the wounded flesh. “My God.”

Shooting out one hand, Broderick gripped the other man by his jacket and dragged him close. One inch taller than Broderick, the man was at least three stone heavier. Size, however, meant nothing in the Dials. “You may be a duke, but as you pointed out, I’m a guttersnipe from the Dials. Have a care with Miss Spark’s name.”

“You are mad,” the man whispered, stumbling away. He smoothed the lapels of his rumpled jacket. “She has you under her spell.” Understanding lit the duke’s eyes. “The whisperings have been correct. She is your mistress now.”

Now.

It was a throwaway utterance from an all-powerful duke. One solitary syllable. And yet a single word that marked the passage of ownership.

Only, Glastonbury didn’t speak of a notorious mistress who’d shifted affections or clients or any property. But rather, he spoke of Regina.

A triumphant smile turned the duke’s lips. “Why, it bothers you,” he observed as if he were one remarking upon a newly discovered wonder of the world. “You plebeians with your pathetic emotions. You are jealous that I tupped Miss Spark.” Ice glinted in his eyes. “And I’ll have you know, I did so quite often—”

Broderick was on the man in two long strides. He buried his fist in Glastonbury’s nose, welcoming the warm spray of blood from the bulbous appendage.

The duke cried out, crumpling to his knees.

Broderick bent down and stuck his face in the other man’s. “You mistake me as one who cares about your rank,” he whispered. Breathing hard, he caught Glastonbury by the front of his jacket and dragged him up onto unsteady feet. And with bloodlust pumping through his veins, he propelled him against the wall.





Chapter 21

You’ve made this entirely too easy . . .

With her belongings organized in neat piles according to color, Reggie gave a snap of her white cotton petticoat. The errant wrinkles shook loose, and she gave it another snap for good measure.

Focusing on that minute task kept her clinging on the brink of sanity.