The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(8)

Broderick fixed a hard look on his brother.

“Foine, foine. We’re going,” he muttered.

A nearly imperceptible glance passed between Reggie and Stephen, that look so infinitesimal it might have been imagined.

Stepping deeper into the room, Broderick allowed his siblings by. He looked to Gertrude, the eldest of his siblings, who, in the whirlwind of Cleo’s and Ophelia’s marriages, had slipped into the unfamiliar role of leader in the club. A role she’d shown marked ease in taking on.

“Call for the—”

“I’ve already called for Dr. Craven,” Gertrude interrupted.

He yanked off his gloves. “Do not—”

“I’ll not allow him abovestairs until you’ve summoned him.” She raised a brow. “Is there anything else?”

“That’s all.” He faced Reggie.

Behind him, he registered the soft click as Gertrude shut the door.

Before he could put a question to her, Reggie spoke. “I really am fine, you know,” she muttered, quitting her chair. Her modest skirts settled into place and put on full display the amount of blood she’d lost. She took up a place at the makeshift station of medical supplies Gertrude had abandoned.

Cursing, Broderick set aside for now his meeting with Walsh and hurried to Reggie’s side. “Who did this?”

The stubborn woman who’d served as his assistant since he’d taken over ownership of the club dipped her cloth in the water and wrung it out. “It’s merely a flesh wound,” she said placatingly. Any other woman on his staff would have already been reduced to tears by the hint of blood.

It did not escape his notice that she’d failed to answer his question. But then, since he’d found her at London Bridge all those years ago, that is precisely the way she’d gone about answering any questions about herself . . . or her past: she didn’t.

Shedding his cloak and then jacket, Broderick layered both over the back of the chair. “Sit,” he ordered, dragging over another seat.

Reggie’s lips formed a perfect, plump circle.

“I said, sit, Reggie.” He unhooked the cuffs of his shirt and shoved his sleeves up. “No man, woman, or child who works for me comes back looking as you do now. Not without someone paying a price.” And particularly not this woman, who’d become his closest confidante outside of his sisters.

Grudgingly she released the cloth. It landed with a plunk, pinging drops of water over the edge of the porcelain bowl and marking the oak side table.

“You’re making something out of nothing,” she muttered after she’d sat.

Time should have given him plenty of lessons on how to handle—or rather, deal with—this woman. Reggie, however, wasn’t one to be handled, by him or by anyone. She possessed a calm pragmatism and control over her speech that could have run circles around the best barristers in London. And if she wished to hold on to a secret, she’d clamp her lips shut and deny herself breath before conceding to the one putting demands to her.

“Here,” he urged. “Let me see.” Taking her chin, he tipped her head sideways so he could assess the extent of her injuries. His heart twisted, and in that instant the sword hanging over him and his family was forgotten. “Reggie, you look dreadful.” Dried blood splotched her cheeks and caked her hair. At some point, it had also formed a paste that matted loose strands to her face.

“My, aren’t you the charmer,” she said drolly.

Grabbing the forgotten cloth, Broderick washed the grime from her cheeks. His hands shook with a staggering weakness that should have appalled, but instead fury, frustration, and something worse weighted him: fear.

When staff changed, Reggie had been the steadfast one inside this hell. The scared girl he’d escorted from London Bridge had been so transformed over the years, into someone indomitable . . . or rather, that’s how he’d allowed himself to see her. What would I have done if she’d been hurt?

But she was safe. Here with him, still.

With me?

She winced.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, steadying his palms.

He knew so much about this woman, and yet . . . how had he not known until now the satiny softness of her skin? And suddenly what had been a perfunctory task became something more. The air crackled around him. It sizzled like the earth right after a lightning strike. And damn if he hadn’t always been drawn to that danger.

He released the soggy cloth.

Hooding his lashes, Broderick tucked the clean strands behind her uninjured ear and availed himself of an unobstructed view of her heart-shaped face.

The first time his guards had discussed Reggie Spark had been three years ago when Broderick had first inherited the Devil’s Den from the scourge of the Dials. Seated around the breakfast table, awaiting Broderick’s first meeting to commence, the kitchens had buzzed with bawdy talk about the different girls on staff.

Four guards had made the mistake of speaking ill of Reggie, deeming her too ugly to bed and too clever to marry. They’d been tossed out on their arses—they had worked their last day at the Devil’s Den.

That had also been the last time anyone had spoken ill of her.

As an employer who’d vowed never to take advantage of those females on his staff, he’d been outraged at the bastards who’d besmirched Reggie’s reputation. Now he saw past that fury to something else: the truth about how wrong they’d been.