The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(84)

Now he confronted the truth . . .

I don’t want her to struggle.

There was room enough for both Reggie and him. Nor did he wish to wrest control from her. He wanted to see the world she ultimately created and support her, and it shouldn’t have taken an understanding of her past to have accepted the rightness of that. A lightness filled his chest.

“Are you attending us?” Ophelia snapped.

Feeling three sets of eyes on him, Broderick flushed. No. “I am,” he lied.

“We were in the middle of discussing the sacrifice you’ve required of us over the years,” Ophelia went on. What a bastard he’d been. Ophelia briefly looked to Gertrude. “The same sacrifice you’ve recently asked that Gertrude make: marrying a nobleman.” His sister smoothed her palms over her lap. “Now, Cleo and I came to Mayfair to marry a nob. We did it for the good of the club and for the connections you so desperately craved.”

How empty that wish had been. When he walked the steps of the gallows, it wouldn’t matter the connections he had with those respectable peers. His family—Reggie—they were all that had ever mattered. He’d been so consumed by his own thirst for wealth and power that he’d failed to properly appreciate the gifts that he did have.

He struggled to swallow around the emotion clogging his throat.

It had always been about them. Only now did he see how greatly he’d wronged his siblings—and Reggie. He’d wronged her, too. He’d manipulated them, using their love for one another. When it had never been anything more than a ploy to see them secure and safe.

So many mistakes.

But he could put them to rights now. This could be the last good he did before his time was up.

Gertrude finally spoke. “What exactly are you saying, Ophelia?”

“That there are other paths to respectability that do not require your sacrifice.”

At that, Gertrude’s mouth tightened. “Because I’m a wallflower. You don’t think I can make a match.”

“It is because of the scandal created by Broderick—”

Broderick spoke over Ophelia. “No,” he announced. “It is because you deserve to find love as Cleo and Ophelia did.”

Stunned silence met that pronouncement.

“What?” Ophelia blurted.

All along he’d believed Gertrude’s security was dependent upon how powerful, how connected her husband was. Only to discover that having the love of a good, honorable man was what mattered. Cleo and Ophelia were testaments to that. Each of his sisters had married men who’d lay down their lives with no questions asked to protect them. “It doesn’t have to be a nobleman,” he said quietly to himself.

His sisters exchanged a look.

“Broderick?” Cleo asked hesitantly.

Ignoring his youngest sister’s prodding, he kept his focus on Gertrude. “I want you to find love with a man deserving of you. I don’t care what station he is born to.” His throat bobbed. Reggie had opened his eyes to that. “As long as you’re happy.” Before he was gone, he’d have her know that. “I want you to find joy in someone who brings you a like happiness. Someone who is your partner. Who builds you up but who is also unafraid to challenge you to be a better person. Someone . . .” Like Reggie.

She had given him that gift. She’d shown him that a person’s worth wasn’t linked to their rank but rather to the strength and beauty of their spirit.

Shocked silence rang around his office.

“But at what cost, Broderick?” Gertrude quietly intoned, her meaning clear.

She’d sacrifice herself for me. All the while failing to realize he’d intended the opposite: her salvation when he fell.

In desperate need of a drink, Broderick stood and stalked over to the mahogany sideboard. “Out with it, Ophelia,” he said, grabbing the nearest bottle and glass. Splashing several fingerfuls of whiskey into a tumbler, he took a long drink and grimaced.

“It is far easier to hang a gaming hell proprietor from the Dials than a nob from Mayfair,” Ophelia pointed out.

Broderick dropped a hip against the sideboard. “It depends on which fellow you’re asking,” he drawled, lifting his glass in mock salute.

Gertrude scowled. “Your death isn’t a matter to jest about.”

Smoothing his features, he inclined his head. “My apologies. Ophelia? If you would continue.”

Ophelia patted the back of her pixie tresses, those previously long, lustrous, near-white strands chopped off when she’d been in Newgate. Another failing. Another sister he’d failed to protect.

He grabbed the bottle and poured another drink. Eyed the contents of his glass and then topped it off.

“As I was saying, it’s easier for Maddock to lead the charge for your execution when you’re . . . you’re . . .” She motioned to him as he made to set the bottle down. “You. It would be vastly different if he sought to execute a proper English lady’s husband.”

He paused, hovering the bottle just above the smooth surface of the liquor cabinet. “Why would they execute a proper English lady’s husband?” he asked, puzzled, glancing around the room.

Cleo released the curtain, and her spine snapped erect.

“They wouldn’t,” Ophelia said, tossing her hands up in exasperation. She stared expectantly back.