The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(88)

“Come,” she said gently, urging his focus away from the gentleman too arrogant to make use of the riding paths.

Stephen remained immobile.

She whipped her head between him and then the rider. What . . . ?

The boy dropped to the ground and crawled on hands and knees behind the boulder at the edge of the Serpentine. “Reggie?” he implored.

Letting go of her racket, she crawled over, joining him. She ducked down and made herself as small as possible against the smooth surface of the rock.

“You’re hiding,” she whispered.

“Shh.” Pleading with his eyes, Stephen touched a fingertip to his lips and peeked around the edge of the boulder.

The rider, just beyond the clearing now, slowed his mount to a trot.

With his reins in one hand, the gentleman lifted the other to dust off his brow. All the while, he did a sweep of Hyde Park; there was a frosty deadness to those near-obsidian eyes that chased away the warmth of the morning sun. The stranger wheeled his mount but then stopped. He leveled a stare back over his shoulder, focusing on the abandoned blanket littered with items.

Stephen’s cheeks lost all their usual youthful color.

After a moment that stretched out into eternity, the nobleman urged the stallion off in the opposite direction.

Her small charge’s body sagged against their makeshift shelter, and he made no move to abandon their hiding place. They remained there in a safe silence until only the chitter of insects filled the morning sky.

“Can we leave?” Stephen whispered.

Reggie nodded. She hastily gathered up the items scattered about and, falling into step beside Stephen, moved quickly through the empty Hyde Park.

Stephen was the first to break the quiet. “Ya going to ask who that was?” he demanded, anger mixed with resentment. He was spoiling for a fight. She’d not, however, give it to him. That anger would only further destroy him.

“No,” she said gently, not demanding answers or expecting them. From the boy’s volatile response alone, she already knew who the dark-haired rider had been. “One doesn’t pry into another’s past,” she reminded, dragging forth another unwritten rule of Seven Dials.

“One does if one’s past catches up with ’em.”

Another rule and a fair point.

Reggie stopped, and Stephen dragged his heels to a reluctant halt beside her. As she clenched the basket in one hand, she adjusted his crooked cap with the other, straightening the beloved article. “I don’t care about the rules of the Dials. I have no right to demand answers about your past.”

His throat moved. “He’s my da.” His da. Her heart ached for the loss known by both father and son. So many lives torn asunder by one unwitting act on Broderick’s part. The Killorans’ lives had been fuller for Stephen’s presence, but another family had been shattered and a boy forever changed.

“And he’s going to kill Broderick.” Stephen unsheathed his dagger; the whine of his blade sliced through her thoughts. “Oi can always off him.”

“Put your knife away,” she said gently. “Violence is never the answer.”

He hesitated and then tucked the knife back in his boot. “Sometimes it is,” he mumbled.

Yes.

If ever there had been a man deserving of a beating, the Duke of Glastonbury was amongst them. Stephen’s father, however, was different. “Your father was wronged,” she said softly. “And he’s hurting.”

“Ya’d defend him?” he demanded.

“I’d imagine how he must feel.” A heavy ache that would forever be present settled around her breast. “To lose his family. His wife. His beloved son. All the resentment you carry over the fact that he”—will—“might take you from your family . . . is how he has felt for more than eight years.”

His lower lip trembled, and her heart cracked at that evidence of his vulnerability. A reminder that for all his bluster, he really was just a child. “Come,” she said gently, taking his hand in hers. He made to tug it back but then gave a slight squeeze.

They resumed their quick walk to the carriage. Not another word was spoken until they’d completed the short ride to Mayfair.

As soon as the driver yanked the door open, Stephen jumped out. And then, reaching back, he held up a small hand.

Balancing her papers in one hand, Reggie accepted that offering. How she was going to miss him. And yet, if he remained in the Dials, he would always be the angry, volatile, knife-wielding boy. He deserved a new beginning. “Reggie?” he said as they entered through the foyer. She stared quizzically back. “Thank you.”

He touched the brim of his cap and then darted off.

Tugging off her gloves, Reggie passed them off to a servant along with her cloak and then made her way through the halls to the music room.

She had not been there long before the faintest rapping sounded at the music room door.

Her papers sprawled over the top of the pianoforte, Reggie glanced over to the front of the room.

“Reggie.” Gertrude lingered in the doorway, making no attempt to enter.

“Gertrude,” she greeted, pulling the door wide. “Is everything all right?”

The younger woman cleared her throat. “No. No. Everything is fine.” She glanced briefly down at the floor. “I am fine, that is.” The other woman toyed with her skirts. “I wanted to thank you for your recent defense in the carriage and for saving me from the Duke of Glastonbury’s attentions.”