But still, he was one to be feared, even more than any of those mad men and women.
In her pocket Sethos chirped, the tiny creature darting back and forth, until Gertrude dipped a hand inside her cloak, unsure if she sought to calm herself or the mouse. She swallowed slowly. Or mayhap she sought to soothe the both of them.
The marquess glanced around at his servants. “You are dismissed.” He issued that command in slightly graveled tones; they were rough ones belonging to a man unaccustomed to speech.
And while the long row of servants neatly filed out, Gertrude used that distraction as an opportunity to study the man whose wrath her father . . . nay, her entire family . . . had earned, taking in every detail.
Angled as he was, his focus trained on the backs of his staff as they marched off, the marquess presented a powerfully broad profile. With heavy muscles straining the fabric of his coat sleeves, he radiated strength enough to challenge and conquer any London street fighter. In fact, his broad physique was better suited to one of her family’s guards than a proper lord, and yet his garments alluded to his wealth and status and marked him as different from the Gertrude Killorans of the world. His midnight-blue wool neckcloth was finer than any garment she’d worn or sewn in the first fifteen years of her life. That double-breasted morning coat accentuated with black satin buttons, those small gleaming articles in the shape of . . . she squinted . . . lions. Lions that were as menacing as the man himself.
And everything down to the long, golden mane shoved haphazardly behind his ears painted him as that primitive beast to be rightly feared.
At last, every servant had gone, so all that remained were the marquess and two others, an eclectic trio: one a burly Runner, the other a bespectacled butler.
“You are also dismissed.”
For a glorious instant she believed it was she and Stephen who’d been issued that coveted pardon.
But then the pair sprang into movement, with Lord Maddock’s servant ushering off that uniformed figure beside him.
Until no one but the three of them remained.
Gertrude’s knees knocked together, and she gave thanks for the heavy fabric of her cloak and gown that muted all sound and obscured all movement.
At last, the marquess glanced at Gertrude, only that penetrating stare, piercing in its intensity, lingered but a moment before he shifted it over to Stephen.
On it went.
An endless study. Meant to unnerve? Or was it that he was as uncertain as Gertrude herself in this moment? And through it, Gertrude searched for a glitter in those dark eyes that spoke to his madness. That unnerving glint she’d seen in too many people on the streets of London who’d either been born with that sickness in their blood . . . or who’d succumbed to the pressures of surviving.
Only . . . the Marquess of Maddock’s brown gaze was a direct one, clear and belonging to a man at war with himself and not the demons in his head. Lord Maddock continued to move that stare between the child he’d lost and the woman who’d invaded his home. Again, he glanced briefly at Gertrude, and the vitriol and hatred there stole her breath away. Neither unexpected nor unfamiliar for the number of people in St. Giles who’d been wronged by Mac Diggory. In this man, however, that loathing had a lifelike force of one who wished her gone, not only from his residence but also from this earth altogether.
Do not make the first move. Do not utter the first word.
That lesson, ingrained into her by Mac Diggory, hadn’t been doled out from an affectionate father who sought to look after a beloved child. Rather, it had been a rote assignment he’d handed down to each child in his gang, meant to preserve his commodity—boys and girls who built up his coffers.
And here all along she’d believed there’d been no gifts Mac Diggory had given her. But now, those words rolling through her mind in his hated Cockney kept her focused. They kept her from wilting any more than she already had for this stranger.
At the lengthening silence, Stephen moved closer to her, the first time in the whole of his life that he’d sought any support from her.
She took an involuntary step back, toward the door.
Stephen stared at Gertrude, his eyes so stricken that the sight of his fear managed to keep her rooted to the marble foyer when every instinct within screamed for her to flee.
Gertrude managed a feat no other single one of Diggory’s descendants could have: she set aside the rules that guided those in the streets and showed the first weakness.
“Say hello to”—Gertrude stumbled—“your father.”
Chapter 5
His own son could not even say hello to him.
Nay, the child would not offer Edwin a single word.
By the street-hardened glint of his brown eyes, there were any number of words the boy would like to say to him. None of which were warm in nature.
It was at best . . . an inauspicious beginning.
His son’s antipathy was also, ironically, a good deal safer a detail to focus on than the fact that Edwin’s household had been invaded by Mac Diggory’s daughter.
Mac Diggory, the man who’d taken it all. Who’d killed his wife and babe and robbed him of—
The young woman cleared her throat. “Stephen,” she prodded. As soon as the last syllable left her lips, the young woman’s lips parted on a whispery gasp.
Edwin’s entire body recoiled.
She pressed a palm to her mouth, staring over those callused, ink-stained fingertips at Edwin.
Stephen.
A stranger’s name, and yet the one he’d been given. By another man who’d served in the role of father. The role that had belonged to Edwin and been taken from him.
It was just a reminder of everything he’d been robbed of . . . and of how complicated every aspect of this reunion, and life, would be from this point onward.
And it stirred the always-fresh embers of his hatred, for the Diggorys and Killorans, or whatever those scourges of the earth chose to call themselves on a given day. They’d taken so much from him, and now this spawn of Satan had also taken away Edwin’s first meeting alone with his son.
Awkwardly, Edwin sank to one knee so he could meet August . . . Stephen . . . his son’s gaze. Wary. Mistrustful. Angry. They were Edwin’s eyes, just . . . in a different way.
The space between his son’s brows puckered.
Edwin was expected to speak. That was his role as a father . . . to take control of a situation when so much had been wrested away from him years earlier. “Hullo.” The muscles of Edwin’s mouth pulled. That was the first and best word he could offer the child he’d not seen in seven years. A graveled “hello” roughened with fury and rage for the boy’s . . . de facto sister. But then, what words were the right ones in moments such as these?
That lame greeting was met with prolonged silence from the child and a deepening disdain in his eyes.
“I . . .” Nothing. Edwin’s mind went blank, and then the past trickled in, happier times, ones that were simpler and safer . . . As long as you don’t tell your mother, you can have one more treat . . . The babe’s laughter pealed around the recesses of Edwin’s mind. “There are sugared Shrewsbury cakes prepared,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had Cook prepare Shrewsbury.”
“Are ya offering me treats like Oi’m a child?” his son spat, squeezing the vise about Edwin’s heart.
August was a child. He was of an age where he should be at Eton, or educated at home with only the finest scholars, but no one in Polite Society would dare take him as anything other than a boy.
His son took a surging step forward, knocking into Edwin and nearly toppling him backward. “I’ll tell you what ya can do with yar—”
“Stephen,” the young woman clipped out, managing to defuse the child’s fury when Edwin had been unable to, and he wanted to toss his head back like the beast he’d become to snarl at the enemy before him, so capable with his child.
August stepped back. Not taking his taunting gaze from Edwin, he folded his arms at his spindly chest.
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“Thank His Lordship,” Diggory’s daughter urged.
His father. Not “His Lordship.” Not “my lord.” I am the child’s father.
“You needn’t thank me.” Edwin directed that at his son, ignoring the woman who’d dared to issue that directive. Treats had been the lure he’d used to soothe a child’s tears. How did one ease this little stranger’s worries? He held his son’s gaze. “I would ask for a few moments to speak alone with . . .” Edwin’s gaze slid involuntarily over to the proudly silent chit.
“My sister,” August snapped.
His true sibling—the only one he would ever have—had been brutally slain by the man he’d called father. Nonetheless, Edwin conceded the point. Fighting him on the alternative history that had been written around his life would accomplish nothing. “I would discuss several matters with her.”
August hesitated. Suspicion lit his eyes. “You wanting to get rid of me?” Suspicion and something worse . . . hope.
Edwin didn’t know what to do with the boy. Or how to be. Or what to say. But he wanted him here anyway. “No,” he said quietly. “I am not trying to get rid of you.”
The boy’s shoulders sagged.
Miss Killoran touched a hand to August’s arm, squeezing slightly. Some unspoken words passed between the pair, a long look that hinted at the bond they’d forged. They were, as he’d claimed earlier, siblings. It was a status she’d imposed, stealing like the thief she and her ilk were.
And while Edwin stood there, an interloper in his own household, hatred burning his tongue like vinegar, all that kept him from hurling epithets and the words of loathing he’d carried for her and all the Killorans was the waif-thin boy beside her.
At last, Miss Killoran drew her hand back. Her lips moved, but whatever she said remained inaudible. Was it a trick of a thief to hone that quiet?
August slid a sideways glance in Edwin’s direction. “Fine,” he muttered.
It was a capitulation grudgingly given, but Edwin would accept any triumphs, no matter how small, where his son was concerned.
“Marlow,” he barked, and then his neck immediately went hot at the sharp stares turned on him.
With his wife’s death and son’s abduction years earlier, Edwin had lost the veneer of civility ingrained into every nobleman.
Therefore, when Marlow trotted out from the shadows and stopped before him, Edwin measured his tones. “Will you accompany . . . Aug—” Fire gleamed in his son’s eyes. A silent dare and battle waged . . . that Edwin would not win. Not like this. “Accompany Stephen to the kitchens.”
Marlow turned a smile on the boy. “If you’ll follow me?” he offered.
Stubborn as the day he’d entered the world, flipped upside down, refusing to turn, and torturing Lavinia, his son stood there. And then he nodded once. “I’ll go.” August leveled a finger at Edwin’s chest. “You threaten her. You hurt her. You so much as shout at her?” He made a slashing motion at his throat.
This was how August had lived. Violence had been seared into his soul. Agony ripped through Edwin, and in stoic silence, he mourned the child he’d lost all over again.
Marlow glanced uncertainly between his charge and Edwin.
“Stephen,” Miss Killoran chided with an affront better suited to a high-end governess than the street rat Edwin knew her to be.
“I meant what I said,” the child warned Edwin, touching a finger to the corner of his eye.
And a moment later, that unlikely pairing marched off, Marlow filling the quiet with cheerful questions that went unanswered until they disappeared, silence reigned altogether, and Edwin found himself alone with the enemy.
He flicked a frosty stare up and down her slender frame. Her drab brown hair, drawn back. Brown eyes. One of her eyes peculiarly vacant, the other clever and indicating she was one to be carefully watched. She was . . . the forgotten one. The only Diggory daughter who’d not had a formal London season and therefore had been easy to dismiss as irrelevant. He’d once made the perilous misstep of letting one of society’s dregs inside his residence. He’d not make the same mistake again. He’d already faltered too many times where this stubborn chit was concerned. “My offices.” Sweeping one arm out, he urged her onward.
Miss Killoran hesitated, and then smoothing her palms along her muslin cloak, she started down the hall.
Edwin followed, close enough to have an eye on the Devil’s daughter while also setting her on the correct path to his offices. To a place where he could meet her, away from his son’s threatening stare and without worry over judgment.
“You would renege upon an agreement I reached with that bastard; I should see him hanged for your failure to respect the terms,” he hissed close to her ear.
She drew her shoulders back. Prouder and more fearless than Joan of Arc being marched to her own fiery fate, she said nothing. Rather, she moved with steps most ladies of the ton could not so effortlessly affect.
And his ire only climbed. How dare she be so coolly composed?
Edwin stepped into her path, and reaching past the chit, he pressed the door handle. “Get inside,” he whispered. “Now,” he added at her hesitation. When she still made no move to heed that order, he leaned close. “Have you realized too late that you’ve entered the lair of a madman?” he whispered against her ear.
A hint of apple blossoms and lilac filled his nostrils, the scent of her unexpectedly sweet and maddeningly appealing.
The young woman angled her chin up a notch. “I’m less worried about myself than I am about my brother.”
Edwin reeled. He should have learned the moment he’d set foot in his foyer and found her there waiting that she’d not be cowed into anything.
The whole world reviled him. Everyone feared him. Even his loyal servant Quint Marlow did.
Of course the only bloody person in the damned kingdom who’d spit his madness in his face was Broderick Killoran’s sister. Edwin sought and found his footing once more. “Your . . . brother?” He stretched those two syllables out, letting the icy disdain drip into them.
“Yes, my brother,” she said evenly, not taking his bait. Rather, she assessed him, sizing him up. “Furthermore, I should point out, I violated nothing. With regard to your terms?” She wrapped that last word in a derisive sneer. “I’d suggest you place more attention upon the verbiage you use—or in this case, did not use.” With a toss of her head, she swept into his offices, taking up a position at the center of the room.
Edwin flared his nostrils, glowering after her.
Had she been any other woman, he’d have been impressed by her show of bravery and spirit. But she was not. She was the offspring of the man who’d dismantled Edwin’s life.
Battling for control of the quagmire of emotions roiling within him, he followed. Not taking his gaze off her, not offering her his back, Edwin reached behind him and pushed the door quietly closed.
The young woman blinked, then squinted as if she struggled to follow his every movement.
“Miss Diggory,” he said, stretching that silken whisper out, elongating those hated syllables. He propped a shoulder against the heavily paneled oak door and studied her.
The young woman dipped a graceful curtsy, flawless in its ease. “My lord,” she murmured.
Edwin sharpened his gaze on her. Where was the street-roughened Cockney accent the papers and gossip claimed clung to the Killorans still? For all intents and purposes, London’s finest, proudest lady might as well have stood before him.
Who was this . . . daughter of Diggory? The one few spoke of and about whom little was known.
He pushed himself away from the door, and folding his arms at his chest, he took slow, predatory steps closer, walking a path around her. His earlier assessment in the darkened foyer of the woman had proven correct. Drab brown hair. Nondescript brown eyes. Of medium height, and in possession of a slender frame that left her cloak hanging unflatteringly upon her, there was nothing extraordinary about the last unwed Killoran. Whi
ch was no doubt why she’d not snagged herself a wealthy or powerful husband as her sisters had already done. At his lengthy scrutiny, she dared him with her eyes. And yet for her . . . ordinariness, there was a strength of spirit that radiated, casting a soft blush upon cream-white cheeks, that marked her as . . . interesting. She was interesting. He stopped abruptly. Seeing this woman in any light except the darkened one was a betrayal to his late wife and his children, both living and dead . . . and himself.
“I was clear with my demands. Get out now, Miss Diggory.”
The stubborn chit pursed her slightly too-full lips. “As I said earlier, you were less clear than you give yourself credit for,” she challenged, ignoring the latter part of his directive. My God, she is an insolent bit of baggage. “And my name is Killoran.”
The names were synonymous and interchangeable.
Edwin stopped before her so only a pace divided them. “And tell me, where was I not clear?” he purred. “Was it the part about making sure Broderick Diggory hangs, as he deserves, that was not clear?” The color bled from her cheeks. “Or was it my stated intentions for your sisters . . . what are their names? Ophelia? Cleopatra?” he asked, mocking that Shakespearean queen’s name, and the woman in front of him frowned deeper. “How . . . unfortunate it would be if their business ventures were both to fail.”
The young woman curled and uncurled her coarse hands at her sides. “Do not threaten my family,” she said coolly.
He’d hand it to her. She remained undaunted.
“Or what, Miss Diggory?” A muscle ticked at the corner of her right eye, but she did not rise to the bait, either. “Will you set my townhouse afire and attempt to steal my son . . . again?”
Her features leached even more of their color, leaving those previously blushing cheeks a ghastly grey-white. And for her earlier brave show, it was her turn to falter. “I didn’t . . .” And he celebrated that triumph over his enemy.
“What was that?” he barked, cupping a hand around his ear. “You didn’t what?” Destroy my life? Shatter my family? “Kidnap my son?” he settled for, refusing to voice aloud his greatest agonies before this of all women.
The Bluestocking Page 6