“Did you hear me?” Calum’s concerned voice drew her back from the brink, and she clawed her way from the never-absent horror. “I said, your brother believes Diggory has penetrated the Hell.”
She managed an uneven nod. “I heard you,” she said, despising the faint quality of her reply. Nearly twenty years later and the man’s name alone could reduce her to the blubbering, begging girl she’d been. “It wasn’t Dig—him,” she said blankly.
He studied her the same way he eyed the patrons on the gaming hell floor, and she went still under that scrutiny. “You don’t see the threat he poses.” His was a statement of fact, and the tight frown on his lips hinted at his displeasure.
They couldn’t see her as anything more than a girl who still battled nightmares of her past. Yet, they were the ones who saw demons in the dark. This talk of Diggory, the threat he posed now, so vastly different from when she’d been a child, this she could handle with a woman’s strength. “I see the threat, Calum. To the club,” she elucidated. “Not to me.”
For a long while, Calum stared incredulously back. She remained still under his perusal. “Do you truly believe that?” he asked at last. His probing manner better fit a Bow Street Runner than a protective brother.
Where her brothers believed some twisted game of revenge drove the bastard and that he intended her harm, Helena was rational enough to see she no longer served a purpose for Diggory. “I’ve no doubt he’s responsible for the damaged shipments,” she said, pragmatically. “But that is all. He doesn’t know I keep books here.” If he did, then he’d have tried to off her already. As such what use would he have with her?
Calum scoffed. “If you believe that, then you’re a fool.”
The faint click of the door killed all further debate on Diggory and his plans. Their gazes went as one to the front of the room.
Ryker filled the doorway. Five or so inches past six feet with thick muscles and a crooked nose from too many London street fights, he possessed midnight-black hair that lent an ominous quality to a man already feared by all. And most of the time, Helena did not exclude herself entirely from that company. The only brother she shared any blood with flicked a harsh, unforgiving stare between Calum and Helena. Unflinching under his fierce scrutiny, Helena sat motionless. Ultimately Ryker settled his focus on her. “What is this about?” A lethal edge of steel underscored his demand.
Snapping the ledger closed, Helena shoved to her feet. “Ryker.”
Calum jerked his chin. “Your sister slept late.”
This again?
Her brother closed the door behind him. His ice-blue eyes seemed to take inventory of her person. “Why?” he asked, his voice harsh and guttural as one who said few words and valued silence.
She despised the heat rushing to her cheeks. “I was more tired than usual.”
Ryker folded his arms across his broad, muscled chest. “Why?” He was relentless.
Because I was dragging a man from the main floor of our apartments. Because I was desperately kissing a too-handsome nobleman. A nobleman whose full name she’d not even bothered to learn.
Helena pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Because I was tired. Because I—”
“The nightmares?” he supplied for her.
Ryker and his crew had lamented her as being the worst liar of their small street-made family. They’d done their best to school her on the art of prevarication; after all lies often saved lives.
“Yes,” she lied.
Some lies came far easier than others.
He rolled his shoulders. “You’re certain?”
The glint in his eyes indicated he knew she withheld from him. After all, you didn’t carve out an empire built on faro tables and roulette wheels if you hadn’t perfected the ability to perfectly read others. But to tell all about the man named Robert was the manner of crime Ryker would never forgive. “I’m certain.”
“She’s certain, then,” he said to Calum. And just like that, the matter was over.
Once again, frustration gripped her. Though she appreciated the support and security they’d provided her through the years, she was now a woman, and yet she was treated with the same hovering overprotectiveness befitting a small child. “I believed I’d been summoned to discuss the liquor accounts,” she said, proud of the evenly modulated tones. “Or am I really here to be questioned about my sleep habits?” Tossing aside the ledger, she stuck her leg out and tapped her foot in an agitated staccato.
Ryker said nothing. Instead, he assessed her with that impenetrable stare that saw all and knew even more. Then, he strode over to his desk with the ease of a man who ruled the world. She stiffened at his approach, but he continued past her. “As you are in an answering frame of mind, I’ll have you also answer for the nearly depleted brandy stock,” he said in cool, emotionless tones as he settled into the high leather wingback chair behind his desk.
At the abrupt turn in questioning, Helena blinked and struggled to readjust.
He leveled her with a look, and she sprung to motion. “I spoke to you last month about the increasing expenditures for spirits.” She claimed the chair opposite him. “At this precise time, last year, the club membership and attendance were seven percent less.” Helena turned the book for his perusal.
He didn’t so much as shift his gaze from hers. She jabbed a finger at the column. “And yet, you’ve only increased the budget for spirits by five percent.” Helena shook her head. “Even as skilled as I am with the accounting, I can never make those numbers work.”
“I don’t,” like excuses, “tolerate excuses.” Close enough. “In anything.”
“It isn’t an excuse,” she said, equally pragmatic. Her spectacles slipped and Helena shoved them back into place. “It is a fact.” And time had proven facts were what governed every aspect of Ryker Black’s life. “In your bid to compete with Forbidden Pleasures—” Her brother’s gaze darkened, but he otherwise gave no indication of her mention of Diggory’s club. She continued, ignoring the warning look Calum shot her. “You are determined to provide the greatest quality—”
“Would you have me compromise the reputation I’ve established?” That hushed, gravelly whisper barely reached her ears.
Ryker took great pride in the empire he’d built. As he should. No one, not even her, his only sister, knew the details of how he’d amassed his wealth. But for all his success, it was clear to those closest to him that he lived with nightmares that came from how he’d had to scrape together some of those funds in the early days. She shoved her braid behind her shoulder. “I am telling you to be wise in the suppliers you use,” she said with a bluntness she’d learned at this man’s hand. “The delivery that comes to the club has consistently yielded, on average, four to six broken bottles each month, and each case.” The detail oddly suspicious enough in itself. It was too mathematically precise. It had also been quickly discounted by Ryker and the others.
Alas, battling the nightmares of her past as she still did, they erroneously questioned her rightfully suspicious spirit, in matters of business.
Ryker didn’t miss a beat in his relentless questioning. “How many cases do we require to sufficiently stock the club through the month?”
“Ten cases of brandy, seven cases of whiskey, and six of sherry,” she said unhesitantly. For as they’d long jested, Helena knew little about people, but she indisputably knew her figures.
“And what percentage increase has the club seen in membership since last month?” he shot back.
Helena clenched the arms of her chair, as guilt assailed her. She gathered up her ledgers, organizing them into a neat pile. “I have not finished the calculations.” Never in the course of her time as bookkeeper had she ever failed to complete an assigned job.
Her brother tightened his mouth, that faint hint of his displeasure more glaring than if he had verbally condemned her. She curled her toes into the soles of her serviceable boots. What would he say to the fact that she’d been otherwise occupied with o
ne of his lofty patrons? “I will see to it by the end of the day,” she promised.
Ryker glanced past her, and she followed his stare to Calum who stood at her shoulder. “Place the order.”
The other man nodded.
Helena folded her hands together and rested them on her lap. “I would like to handle the negotiations.”
Two pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction.
Ryker reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers before him. “What?” That harsh, emotionless whisper would have terrified most.
She jutted her chin up a notch. She’d never been one of those women to favor fancy garments and baubles. She’d long appreciated the uselessness of those fripperies. Thin slips of soft satin did little to protect one from the harsh elements of a cold London winter. What she’d long found pleasure in were numbers and negotiations. “I want to speak to our liquor distributor.” She may as well have asked them to slay the monarch and name Helena queen for the peculiar looks she earned. She didn’t ask for much. Largely because she needn’t ask for much. Through her handling of the finances and the hard work of her brothers, the club ran like a well-oiled machine.
This request, however, was about more than a practical purchase . . . it was about stepping outside these walls and having a say in the blade she’d carry to protect herself.
Calum took a sip of his brandy and continued to study her with that indecipherable expression. He was the first to break the silence. “Niall handles those discussions,” he supplied for her brother.
Ignoring the other man’s logical determination, she looked to Ryker. “Yes, but he’s not been effective.”
Another look passed between them. Calum whistled between his teeth, and stepped back, motioning for Ryker. For the same way they’d not let her set foot outside, was the same way they’d not cede over this important responsibility. “I’m in need of a new weapon,” she continued. “And thought when I went to market I could also—”
“You already have a weapon,” Ryker interjected with a frown.
It came as no shock he’d be distracted by that particular piece, and not the request she’d put to him. “I’ve had the same one for nearly twenty years.” And in a matter of seconds a fancy lord nicked it. Self-disgust tasted bitter in her mouth.
He peered at her with that dark, unflinching stare and she resisted the urge to shift. No person should have the power to disarm a person with a single look. “Very well. Tell Adair.” Tell Adair. Because Ryker was entirely too busy to see to such mundane matters as “another” blade for Helena, and she was, by their thinking, unable to care for herself should the situation merit.
“As for the liquor distributor,” she began, neatly steering the discussion to the original point of request.
“No,” Ryker said in final tones.
“But . . .”
He fixed a glower on her that withered the protest on her lips. Shoving to her feet with stiff movements, Helena gathered her folios and, just like that, she was dismissed. Again. Odd that she, who was singlehandedly responsible for the finances of the club, should somehow still be treated like a small child who didn’t know her own head. It was a good deal better than the fate of most women. But she didn’t want “a good deal better.” She wanted her deserved control. Helena started for the door.
She frowned at having been so easily dismissed. That was Ryker. She didn’t doubt his love. She didn’t even doubt he’d lay down his life to save hers if the situation warranted. But neither would he ever be the affectionate, warm brother who’d comfort.
Perhaps life as a pickpocket, and then whatever other dark secrets he kept, had forever frozen his heart.
Helena marched over to the door.
“Oh, Helena?”
She paused, her fingers on the handle.
“Niall discovered a patron leaving the club earlier this morning.”
Bloody hell. Blasted Niall whose job it was to walk the gaming floors missed nothing. Just tell Ryker. If she mentioned the whole of the events and how she’d handled it, then the matter would be between them and they could hate her handling of it, but at least she’d own it and harbor no secrets. Except something stayed the words on her lips. Where did the urge to protect this stranger come from?
“Did you hear me?” Ryker, who never repeated anything, asked the question a second time.
If he learned of what had transpired last evening and . . . her skin burned all the hotter . . . this morning, he’d lop the other man’s hands off. She quirked a brow. “Is that a question?”
He folded his arms. “Do you know anything of it?” he asked bluntly.
One could never out-question Ryker. She shook her head. “No. Nothing.” She wet her lips. “Why do you expect I would know . . . ?” Her nervous ramblings trailed off at the slight narrowing of his gaze. “No.” She tipped her chin up defiantly. “I don’t know anything about any gentleman in the private suites.”
Ryker said nothing for a long while, continuing to study her with the same unrelenting, fierce stare that had earned him the reputation as one of the most ruthless men in the streets of St Giles.
“Is that all?” she asked, commandeering his inquiry.
He gave a brusque nod, and again she reached for the handle.
“Helena?”
She stiffened.
“I didn’t mention anything about a gentleman in the private suites.” Her stomach dropped, and she cursed her loose tongue. “There were rules.”
Were rules?
No word master, she still picked up on that defining term. Fear blotted out coherent thought.
“You ask for more control in the running of the club, and yet . . .” He arced a single black eyebrow up. “It was reported that you had one of the guests in your chambers.”
The world came to an abrupt screeching halt. He knows. Panic slapped at her. Of course he knew. He knew everything. His summons had nothing to do with her accounting. His earlier inquiries about the books all had been nothing more than a bit to cleverly test her loyalty and word. How neatly she’d walked into his trap. “It was a mistake.”
He tightened his mouth. “Yes, it was.”
Silence descended, and she shifted back and forth on her feet. Surely that was not all he’d say on it? Surely, there would be some charged response beyond “Yes, it was.” Helena hugged her books close. “Is there anything else you require?” How was her voice so calm?
“That is all.”
Helena nodded. Perhaps she was more a coward than she’d ever believed. Abandoning her previous fight, she jerked the door open and raced from Ryker’s and Calum’s knowing eyes. She sprinted down the halls, her breath coming fast from her exertions. Skidding to a halt outside her office, she threw the door open. As soon as she was safely inside, she closed the door and let fly a string of curses.
There had been little reason for her to withhold anything of what had transpired last evening between her and the nameless gentleman. So why had she not shared the truth of it?
Helena slowly banged the back of her head against the door. How could she have been so foolish as to leave her door open? As it was, her brothers had questioned her judgment and ability to care for herself. Inevitably, they would have learned of the nobleman who’d found his way to the private suites.
Leaning against the door, she borrowed support from the oak surface. Even with her brother’s stern-faced disapproval, there was certainly a deficit in her character. For in this moment, she was not thinking about the inevitable ramifications of lying not once, but twice to Ryker . . . but the stranger in all his golden perfection. Her breath quickened.
And brother’s disapproval be damned, she’d not trade that night—or Robert’s kiss—for anything.
Chapter 7
Rule 7
The club, and those who live in it, come before anyone else. Always.
The following morning, in order to get a grasp on the midweek floor activity, Helena abandoned her usual bookkeeping work in favor of the
observatory that overlooked the gaming floor.
Nay, her scan of the Hell had nothing to do with the golden-haired gentleman who’d made her blood race, and her skin tingle. Nothing at all.
Liar.
Thrusting aside thoughts of Lord Robert With-No-Surname from where she now stood, Helena continued her sweep of the gaming floor.
The roulette tables were full.
The faro tables were not.
Ten partially empty tables in total, three less than the previous week.
She froze. Those mundane details and her midnight visitor now forgotten, she took a step closer to the glass window and peered down. Mayhap she needed spectacles for more than reading and her calculations now, because it looked a good deal like . . . it looked very much like Ryker was speaking to someone.
Nay . . . a gentleman. She briefly rubbed her eyes. Surely not. But the sight remained.
Ryker didn’t speak to anyone. Niall, Calum, and Adair, they often did. Ryker, never. He generally moved as a specter among the gaming floors, avoiding gazes, and assessing his empire, and that was all. She scrabbled with her skirts. What if he’s replacing me because of my folly . . . ?
Helena registered the door opening, and then closing. “Helena,” Calum said with a heavy amount of surprise. “What are you doing here?”
She lifted her hand in an absent greeting, but remained fixed on the teaming on the floor below. “I’m assessing the tables,” she explained, vaguely.
For a solitary figure like Ryker to suddenly form a pair, with a stranger, was reason to give one pause, indeed. All the more peculiar when Ryker, coldly emotionless and reserved, engaged a portly, smiling, and wildly gesticulating man in discourse.
Helena leaned closer, and squinted. Her breath fogged the glass, but she quickly brushed it back, leaving a palm-print stain. The discourse between those two men was not what she should be attending. Particularly with the still-incomplete reports for Ryker. There was something vaguely familiar about the bewhiskered man with his balding pate. Just then the man thumped Ryker on the back.
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