“And what about what the girl wants?”
He scoffed. “Ladies don’t marry bastards from the Dials.”
“Did you offer for her?”
He let his stony silence serve as his answer to Calum’s tenacious questioning. Then his relentless brother plunged the final blade. “Her name is splashed in all the papers, linked with yours. Killoran has no doubt already learned her identity.”
The clock ticked away the tense, passing moments, and Ryker balled his hands, damning Calum for that unwanted reminder.
A knock at the front of the room split the quiet. “Enter,” he boomed.
Niall pushed the door open.
“Why aren’t you on the floors?” Ryker barked, welcoming an outlet for his fury. Given the volatile tension simmering inside the club, hadn’t he already learned the danger in stepping away from the floors?
“Oswyn found someone creeping around the alley by the servants’ entrance.”
Killoran.
He stiffened his shoulders.
Swiveling around, Niall motioned someone forward. “Demanded to see you,” he explained, as the small, cloaked figure filled the doorway, sopping water all over his floor.
Then, the woman shoved her sodden hood back and he jerked erect. Midnight curls. Pale cheeks. Blue eyes flashing equal parts fire and fear met his. “You owe me a meeting, m-my lord.” All attempt at unflinching strength were shattered by that slight tremor.
He narrowed his eyes.
By hell.
Chapter 6
Dearest Fezzimore,
Mother has banned me from climbing the elm tree outside my window. She did not, however, make any such mention of the oak outside Poppy’s chambers. Which is fortunate . . . after all, the oak is taller.
Penny
Age 10
Who knew the ticking of a clock could be so loud? Particularly in a room filled with not one, not two, but three brutish strangers. Mayhap, murderers.
He is a killer . . .
Her sister Poppy’s words floated ominously around Penelope’s mind, and she swallowed hard. If ever a man was a killer, it would be Ryker Black, with his hard, unforgivable stare. The gentleman’s thickly corded biceps, straining the fabric of his black jacket, were better suited for a street ruffian.
She dipped her eyes lower, to his thighs. Oaks. His legs may as well have been mighty oaks as broadly powerful as they were. Cheeks burning, she jerked her gaze up.
Why did it suddenly seem safer to focus on the whole killer business than this wild fluttering in her belly?
Think of rainbows and meadows of flowers. Think of white lace. Nay, not white lace because that only conjured images of Mama, last evening, and Penelope’s ruin. Her entire reason for being here.
Better anything than thinking of her body’s response and Poppy’s claims about the man before her.
He is a killer . . .
Thrusting aside those four words, she called forth the brief but more telling pieces shared by the Duchess of Somerset. He’d been awarded a title for an act of bravery . . .
Penelope gazed at the coarse strangers; their surprisingly fine attire was at odds with their rough language.
“Does anyone know she is here?” At Mr. Black’s lethal whisper, terror clutched her throat and threw into question the grand reasoning that had led to her visit.
The hulking beast who’d dragged her inside the club gave his head a shake. “No one was outside.”
Mr. Black looked through her. “You’re certain?”
Penelope struggled to swallow. Oh, God. Mayhap she’d been foolhardy placing such stock in his sister’s assurances. “Are you going to kill me?” she blurted.
Three pairs of equally ruthless eyes went to her. Fear turned her mouth dry. Of all the scrapes she’d gotten herself into through the years—spiders inside one governess’s armoire, the stitches removed from all Mother’s hems, the stroll in the Duchess of Somerset’s gardens—this was the gravest one.
He is not a killer . . . He is not a killer . . . He is a duke’s son. Also a viscount. Who also happens to be the proprietor of one of the most wicked gaming hells in London.
Mr. Black leveled the other men with a single forceful look. Wordlessly, they backed out of the room. As the clock continued beating a grating rhythm, her panic mounted. She sent a frantic look down the hall.
“Well?”
Penelope shrieked and whipped her head sideways.
At some point, Mr. Black moved so only a handful of steps stood between them. The candle’s glow bathed his face in an ominous light. It accentuated harsh, angular features nicked with scars. A crooked nose, undoubtedly from too many fights. The midnight hue of his hair, and the near obsidian shade of his irises Lucifer would have fought him for. And yet . . . there was a primitive beauty to him, a masculinity that conjured whispery thoughts of ancient warriors and battlefield heroes. Her pulse pounding in her ears, she retreated a step.
This was a mistake.
Poppy! You are here for Poppy.
Penelope jerked to a halt. With slow, precise steps, she turned and faced him squarely.
Mr. Black stood motionless. Coolly dispassionate, he betrayed not a hint of a grin, grimace, or sneer. He may as well have been one of the carved statues that graced the front steps of his sinful establishment. Huddling inside her wet cloak, she took a faltering step forward. Then another. And another.
Her teeth chattered in time to that blasted clock. In a bid to avoid his deadened eyes, she flicked her gaze over his room. One could tell much about a person by the items they surrounded themselves by. The dark mahogany seats devoid of upholstery and the cluttered desk spoke of a man with little time for material pleasures.
She worried her lower lip. How very sad for the gentleman—
“What do you want?”
The raspy whisper brought her attention snapping back. She fiddled with the clasp at her throat.
He’d not make this easy for her, would he? She sighed. Then, what did you expect? A man who’d ruined her, and made no formal offer as any gentleman would, wasn’t really one who would be in the habit of easing people’s fears. But neither had he killed her. At least not yet, anyway . . .
“They say you are a killer,” she said, remarkably calmly. “But I do not believe—”
He shot a hand out. A gasp exploded from her lungs and she shrank back, but he merely shoved the door closed behind her, and then strode to his sloppy desk. Papers and ledgers filled the broad surface. Parchment dangled from the edge. His office required tidying. It was a silly detail to note. Particularly given her own precarious state. Messy furniture was easier to attend to than the possibility of having a knife plunged in her heart. Or mayhap he’d use a gun? She gulped.
He perched his hip on the only sliver of space on that untidy desk and Penelope forced her eyes to Mr. Black’s.
Surely he intended to offer her a chair? Penelope beat the tip of her boot in time to the ticking clock, counting the passing seconds. So he did not intend to offer her a seat. Hmph. “M-may I?” Penelope motioned to a vacant chair.
“May you what?” At his sharp demand, her mouth went dry.
Surely he possessed the rudimentary understanding of proper behavior? She wrung her hands together. “May I sit?” Penelope followed his gaze to her distracted movement, and then abruptly stopped. She let her arms fall to her sides.
He jerked a finger at the chair. Battling down the fear threatening to choke her, Penelope shrugged out of her velvet cloak. She made to set it on the opposite seat.
“What are ye doing?” Did he work at that threatening whisper, or was it one of those menacing tones a man was simply born with?
“Uh . . .” But surely he wasn’t that much of a monster that he’d force her to shiver away in a rain-soaked cloak. Healthy annoyance dulled her earlier dread. “My cloak is damp,” she explained. Despite the chill left by her jaunt into the storm, her cheeks burned. “I am cold, and it hardly would be comfortable to spe
ak with you about—”
“You have five minutes before I return to my floors, miss.”
“My lady.”
His eyes thinned to impenetrable slits.
Do not say anything . . . Do not say anything . . .
Except of all the dreaded tendencies shared by the Tidemores, there’d always been the one of filling voids of silence with useless prattling. “It is just that you called me ‘miss,’ and I’m a lady. My brother is—”
“The Earl of Sinclair. What. Do. You. Want?”
Well. Her brother; his best friend, Lord Drake, a reformed rake; and her brother-in-law, Christian, also a reformed rake. Not a single one of them had been so . . . direct. She wrinkled her nose.
The ghost of an empty smile pulled at his lips, and he pushed away from the desk. He took a step, towering over her. “Was it to ask me if oi was a killer?” There was a mocking quality to that question.
She frowned.
“Yes, that is part of the reason I’ve come.” Actually that was largely the reason she’d come. She tipped her head back. “Are you?” After all, a lady couldn’t very well marry a murderer. No point in saving your reputation and honor but forfeiting your life.
“Worried oi’m going to nick ye, princess?” he jeered.
“Well, I did willingly come here,” she reminded him. In weighing the risks against each other, this had seemed the better option. Seemed. “And your sister vowed you were honorable and good.” His sister saw it. The King saw it. Surely that meant something?
He snapped his eyebrows together. Or mayhap not.
“C-could you step back a bit? I am having difficulty looking up at you.”
Surprise glinted in his eyes, but then was gone so quickly she might have imagined it. Then, shockingly, he reclaimed his spot at the desk.
“I was ruined last night,” she said, twining her fingers. She glanced down at the interlocked digits. Surely he’d say something to that. An apology? A murmur of regret? Anything. Alas, did she truly expect more from a man who’d pulled a blade on the gentleman who’d stepped into the gardens last evening? What was it that made a man incapable of words?
“Your ruin was your fault,” he said frostily.
“Yes.” She’d not place all blame on him. Ruin came to young ladies who hid under stone benches in their host’s gardens. “It is done,” she said softly, forcing her eyes away from her white-knuckled grip. And it could never be undone. “They say your club will never be the same.”
His entire body jerked erect, the first remarkable crack in his composure. That telling reaction spoke more volumes than an entire library about this man. Where he didn’t care about people, he cared about this place.
“I have a sister,” she revealed. “Well, three sisters. Patrina, Prudence, and Poppy, but you see, Poppy is the only sister who is unmarried.” A grimace pulled at her lips. “That is, other than me. But you see, Poppy is seventeen, nearly eighteen, and she’ll have her Come Out soon, and . . .” Catching his horrified look, she let her words trail off. “Uh, yes. As I was saying . . . about Poppy. No one will marry her with this latest scandal.” She squared her shoulders and fought for the same courage that had sent her from the safety of her brother’s townhouse, to a hired hack ride to St. Giles, to this very room. “Unless, I make it right.”
“Make it right?” His words could rival a winter breeze, and she shivered.
He did not care that her reputation was in tatters and her hopes of a happily-ever-after with an honorable gentleman ended so quickly. And why should he? I am nothing to him.
“Well?” he snapped.
“Why, we have to marry of course.”
When Ryker was a boy of seven, instructing Niall on how to use a gun, the other boy had discharged it too close to Ryker’s ear. A ringing hum blotted out all the uproarious street sounds and the other boy’s frantic crying. This moment was not unlike that long-ago day.
“What?”
“Marry,” she said, confirming his hearing was fully intact. She proceeded to gesture wildly with her gloved fingers. “But that is only if you’re not a murderer who intends to kill me.” The lady stared expectantly at him.
He shook his head, and the lady sank into her seat.
“Oh, thank goodness.” A breathless laugh fanned past her lips. “I did not believe you were a murderer. The gossips do spread the ugliest rumors, don’t they?”
“It wasn’t a confirmation.”
She tipped her head, and a black curl tumbled over her eye.
“Oi was merely thinking you’re bird witted.”
The young miss . . . He sneered. Nay, the lady’s lips formed a perfect circle. Then, she blinked rapidly. “Oh.”
Ryker stared quizzically at her. What manner of societal miss braved the streets of St. Giles alone, snuck down alleys, and attempted to steal into his club? If her furious brother, the papers, and his empty club hadn’t stood testament as proof, he’d have believed she was, in fact, a plant of Killoran’s. Then, given the spitfire’s cursing and impressive right cuff in the gardens last evening, should he be at all surprised she stood before him now?
Ryker brushed his hand over his jaw, studying her. Yes, she was either brave or mad. Or mayhap a combination of the two. She’d come here, risking her life and no doubt her virginal body in the streets . . . all to secure a husband.
That was what he’d expect of a woman of the ton. “Ye’d marry a murderer to have a name?” An illegitimate name, no less. “Or is it moi title?” Either way, it spoke to the lady’s desperation and greed. “Oi’d say that makes ye a whore, my lady,” he said, deliberately using those long-buried Cockneys.
The lady’s cheeks went ashen, and if he were one of those men capable of feeling compunction or remorse, this moment would have been one of them. But he’d long lost all weakening emotions . . . particularly for those lords and ladies of polite Society.
Her chin quivered. “No,” she said, with impressive evenness. “I would marry you to save my sister Poppy.”
He took in that profession, and then worked his gaze over her. From the top of her wet, limp curls to the dripping hemline of her silly white satin gown, she was very much of the Quality. Life had proved those women soulless . . . not much different from the doxies in the Dials. The only difference being these women whored themselves for a name and title. Except this one before him now claiming to want marriage . . . to save her sister? Loyalty amongst her kind may as well have been the gold at the end of the rainbow Niall had told him about when they’d been small boys.
“Is it real?”
The question teeming with curiosity slashed into his musings.
“Your Cockney speech,” she explained. “You move in and out of it, and I cannot determine whether you do it unintentionally or whether you’re using it to scare . . .” Her words trailed off as he pushed to his feet once more, towering over her. The long, graceful column of her neck moved. “R-regardless,” she said, loudly clearing her throat. She stood and ducked past him, retreating several steps. “I-it hardly matters if you speak in Cockney or not.” A stammering English princess with fear in her eyes couldn’t truly believe that. Those women spread their legs only for their titled lords . . . which he now was.
A frustrated growl climbed his throat, and the miss whose ruin would bring down his club continued backing away from him. “Do you always jabber this much, girl?” Ryker slowly advanced.
She gave a juddering nod. “Yes.” Then . . . “I am not a girl. I’m eighteen, nearly nineteen.” In the Dials, when he’d had her years, he’d already stolen a fortune and killed more men than he allowed himself to think of. In Mayfair, she may as well still be a child in her fancy nursery.
Her legs knocked hard against a table filled with ledgers, and the piece tottered, spilling the books to the floor. The too-slender lady dropped to a knee and proceeded to stack his books. “Do you always say this little?”
At any other time, he’d have been taken aback by that open challenge. �
��What are you doing?” he barked, and she froze, raising terror-filled eyes to his. Since he’d purchased and built this establishment, not one stranger had gained entry to this office, and but for the proprietors, not a single other had dared put a finger on his books.
She followed his gaze. “Uh . . . picking up your books.” And just like that, she returned her efforts to organizing that pile she’d knocked down. “And my name is Penelope, I might add.” It was one of those fancy ones the peerage, with their visions for advantageous matches, gave to their daughters, otherwise useless to them. “If we are to be married, then you should call me Penelope, and I should call you . . . ?” She stared pointedly at him.
If we are to be married . . . ?
Ryker dusted another hand over his face and glanced around for someone to enter his office and announce this exchange to be one grand farce. Him marry her?
“Very well, I shall call you Lord Chatham.”
“Black,” he bit out. He’d sooner barter with the devil than use that bloody title.
“Then I shall call you Mr. Black.” Springing to her feet, Lady Penelope stumbled back under the weight of the ledgers in her arms. As though she’d merely spoken of the weather and not their futures tied together, she set them down. “Of course, as my brother indicated to your sister, you didn’t truly offer for me.”
No, he hadn’t offered for her at all, if she wanted to be truly precise.
“Will you?” She fiddled with the ledger resting on the top of the stack. “Offer for me, that is?”
“You’re a bloody lunatic,” he breathed. There was no other accounting for it. Ladies didn’t traipse through the streets of St. Giles, in fancy velvet, in pouring rain. They didn’t enter the most notorious gaming hell in London. And they certainly didn’t ask men like him for marriage.
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