Calum shot a pointed glance over his shoulder. “He could have killed any one of us.”
Ryker tossed back the remaining contents of his drink. “I would hardly put Penelope’s ability to defend herself into the same category as you, me, or any other employee here.” How could Calum not see the distinction? Frustration stirred, healthy and safer than the earlier fear.
Calum grunted. He stared into his snifter a long moment.
“What?” Ryker snapped.
“The workers believe you are putting the club second.”
The club and those who live in it come before anyone else. Always. That rule, he’d long ingrained into his employees, was now tossed in his face.
“Has that been said?” he demanded on a steely whisper.
Calum lifted his shoulders in an infuriatingly casual shrug. “Everyone observed your response to Penelope’s return. It is not hard to surmise that you’ve come to care for the lady.”
Come to care for her . . . ? He opened and closed his mouth, but not even a whisper of air left his lungs. Care for her? The chit drove him mad one moment and had him in a fury the next. But she also made him smile, when he’d long believed himself incapable of mirth.
“That is why your dedication to the club is being questioned,” Calum interrupted quietly.
A denial sprung to his lips, and then withered there. Given Ryker’s fascination with Penelope, his employees were entitled to their misgivings. When the club had been taken down yesterday, he’d been solely fixed on finding his wife . . . and that had been only after he’d been off making love to her prior. “Nothing comes before the Hell and Sin.”
“Are those words for my benefit?” Calum inclined his head. “Or your own?”
Ryker steeled his jaw. “We’re done here. I have to return to the floors.”
Only striding past Calum and taking his leave for his daily rounds of the floor, he couldn’t shake off the challenge his brother had put to him.
Make it a home. A person couldn’t just read anywhere.
It had to be a place of comfort, a place you wished to be. A place you lost yourself in the words upon the pages so that you forgot they’d ever been lessons.
A lady, however, could not make those very essential changes without some much-needed assistance.
Penelope should know. She’d tried. She dusted her hand over her damp brow and a bothersome curl fell over her eye. She blew at it. The tight coil only fell stubbornly back into place. Now what?
She alternated her gaze between the gold frame, resting half inside, half outside the storage room, and the immobile figure at the end of the hall. The same six-foot-three or six-foot-four towering brother-in-law who hadn’t bothered to look back once.
Unless something was wrong with Niall’s hearing? Which he’d not truly given any hint of in the handful of exchanges she’d had with him. And he’d not given a hint of hearing difficulties. Except . . . She furrowed her brow.
Clearing her throat, Penelope cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hullo,” she called out loud enough that her voice echoed around. Candlelight played off the walls, and she squinted in the darkened space. By Niall’s unmoving frame, he gave no hint of hearing. “I am just saying hello, if you can hear me,” she said, this time louder.
“Oi can hear you.”
So he had heard. “I thought mayhap you couldn’t hear—”
“I hear fine,” he cut in, directing the words to the wall in front of him.
Hmph. He just chose to ignore her.
Then, can you really be surprised? Can you, given the derision and disdain reflected in the stares of every last member of the club she had contact with?
Who were the men who ruled this gaming hell? Surly, snarling bunch the lot of them.
Squaring her shoulders, Penelope returned her attentions to the ornate frame. The one nonnaughty piece in the lot. She gripped it by the corner and tugged hard. If she had someone to grab the other side . . . Penelope stole a peek down the hall. Alas, Niall remained motionless. That was fine. She’d rather sit through one of her mother’s endless lectures on propriety than beg a person.
With a grunt, she tugged the frame several times and then tumbled back, taking it with her. She landed hard on her buttocks. “Bloody hell.” Pain shot up her spine, and she reached back to rub the lower part of her back.
Worrying at her lower lip, she climbed to her feet, and then glanced once more at Niall.
“I require help.” As soon as the request left her lips, she curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. She was not in the habit of humbling herself before people who’d taken a dislike to her, but neither was she in the habit of biting off her nose to spite her face.
A vicious curse that would have set her brother Sin to blushing spilled down the hall. “What?” he snapped.
Nervousness danced in her belly. He is Ryker’s brother . . . He is Ryker’s brother. Except that mantra did little to erase the unease this man stirred.
“Is something wrong with your hearing?” he shot back, as he turned around.
Plastering on her most winning smile, she motioned to the frame. “I require help.”
A muscle ticced at the corner of his mouth. No doubt the only favor he’d care to assist her with was hailing a hack that would get her away from the Hell and Sin.
“You see, I’m trying to get this frame”—she pointed to the one at her feet—“to that room.” He followed her finger to Ryker’s office.
“That room?” he asked dumbly.
She nodded.
“That room?”
Mayhap he didn’t know he had difficulty hearing?
“Ryker’s office,” she clarified. Though given Niall’s ownership of the club and responsibilities here, he very well knew the room she spoke of.
His gaze fell to the portrait lying faceup from its fall. The field of vibrant yellow and purple tulips a cheerful backdrop of the dark austerity of this club. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she asked when still he said nothing.
The up-tilted corner of his lips would have been a smile on any other man. Except this one. There was a steely barbarity to him that sent fear rolling through her.
“Where do ye want it?” Niall asked, abruptly striding over. In one effortless move, he hefted the frame up.
More than half fearing he’d change his mind, Penelope rushed ahead of him and opened Ryker’s door. Once inside, she glanced about. Her gaze landed on the miserable, cracked frame behind the desk. That dreary, dark sketch that hinted at her husband’s desire for artwork in this very-important-to-him space. Given the size of that image, and the nail already anchored in that wall, she needed to just exchange one for the next.
“There.” She pointed to the spot above his leather wing-back chair.
“You want me to take that down?”
There was such glee in his tone, she tipped her head and studied him. Had she simply imagined his lack of interest in aiding her? In this instance, he seemed perfectly pleas—
“I asked if ye—”
“Yes,” she said with a quick nod.
A moment later, the glorious field of flowers hung in its new, much-needed home. The crisp green grass. The blue sky, painted with soft, white clouds, conjured an idyllic country setting amidst the dark, austere tones of this somber room. Capturing her chin between her thumb and forefinger, Penelope studied the painting. It was a start to creating a place where Ryker could have some peace.
“Is that all, my lady?”
Ignoring the jeering edge there, she shook her head. “I wish to remove those.” She motioned to the stiff seats before her husband’s desk. No person could conduct proper business or have a meaningful exchange in those miserable chairs. “I found several I’d like to replace them with in the storage room.”
He sketched an insolent bow. “It is my duty to serve you.”
Penelope frowned. “You do not like me much, do you?”
Niall lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Does it matter i
f I do?”
“Actually, it does,” she said quietly. By the details shared by Ryker about his bond with this man, it mattered very much. Niall, however, had been given reasons to be wary of the members of her station. As such, she could not expect to win the gentleman over in less than a week.
“No. I do not. Is there anything else you require?” he snapped.
There is a time for honesty and a time for politeness. “The chairs, if you will. Please,” she added. He muttered under his breath and saw to the task. Niall could have benefited from that particular one of her sister-in-law’s long-ago delivered lessons. Penelope would be damned if she allowed the nasty beast to ruin her efforts. He looked questioningly at her. Penelope cleared her throat. “If you will?” Without waiting to see if he followed, she swept from the room and made the return march to the cluttered space down the hall.
The creak of the floorboards indicated Niall trailed close behind. Her neck pricked with the feeling of his eyes on her, and she shook off the worry. Of course she needn’t fear this man. He was Ryker’s brother.
Nonetheless, when they reached the darkened room, she hesitated.
“Well?” he goaded.
Penelope entered, with Niall trailing behind. She did an inventory of the room; her gaze snagged the crimson sofa where she’d first made love with Ryker. Heat stained her cheeks, and she gave thanks for the dim space. “Would you be willing to help me . . . ?” Her words trailed off as he maneuvered furniture out of the way and single-handedly set to dragging the enormous sofa from the room.
Penelope smiled. Mayhap she’d have the surprise for Ryker completed sooner than she’d anticipated.
Over the next two hours, Penelope worked alongside Niall, carrying the smaller pieces from the office, while Niall effortlessly brought in the larger, bulkier ones.
Soon, the room was transformed from the austere office previously occupied by Ryker to a cheerfully colorful sanctuary. Studying their handiwork, she nibbled at the tip of her index finger. Yes, this was the ideal space to begin lessons. A dark bookshelf sat in the corner, with rose-inlaid tables alongside the sofa. Which did require new upholstery. Mayhap yellow. Nay, yellow would be too feminine. Perhaps a soft blue . . .
“Is there anything else you require?”
That uncharacteristically jolly tone brought her attention to the man who’d been less than subtle in his dislike for her. Even with that, he’d helped her, without question. “No, Niall.” Penelope stretched her hand out. “Thank—” He stormed out, slamming the door hard in his wake with such force the frame shook. “You,” she finished, lowering her arm to her side.
Well, then.
With his disapproval, Niall could go hang. She’d not converted this space for him but rather for her husband.
Penelope rushed from the room. Ryker would no doubt return soon, and she wanted to have the books she’d purchased prepared so the surprise was complete.
Chapter 20
Dearest Fezzimore,
The Pink Parlor curtains were hideous. Were. I’ve helped Mama by taking a sewing shears and cutting clever shapes into the fabric. I thought she would have been more happy.
Penny
Age 7 (Nearly 8)
Given the hours he’d spent on the floors, no one could doubt Ryker’s devotion to the club. Since early that morn, Ryker hadn’t caught a glimpse of his wife beyond her figure curled up in bed, with her delicate back to him, when he’d taken his leave. Of course, given his orders that she stay off the gaming floors, he should be pleased with her shocking obedience. And yet throughout the whole of the day, he’d skimmed his gaze over the room in search of her.
As he climbed the stairs to the private suites, he passed Niall. His brother touched his fingers to an imagined brim in an insolent show.
This unwitting fascination with his own wife was the madness that formed the basis of Niall’s accusations. Charges that called into question Ryker’s commitment to the hell and his devotion to the men and women who relied on him here. All merited, when the dark-haired vixen who coaxed words out of his mouth and roused his body should occupy his every thought. Ryker gave his head a disgusted shake.
He fished a cheroot from inside his jacket and paused beside a lit sconce, touching the tip to his smoke. Continuing on, Ryker took a pull from it. Midway down the floor, he paused. His gaze lingered on the closed door to their chambers.
Given the late hour, Penelope would no doubt be sleeping. She’d be wearing that silly modest night shift that may as well have been a frothy negligee for the effect she had on him. “Enough,” he muttered, and wheeled back, making his way to the safe confines of his office. He pushed the door open. For all the tumult Penelope had wrought on his club and his life, there was at the very least comfort in the . . . Ryker froze and then blinked.
It was dark.
There was no other accounting for the tricks his eyes played on him.
Ryker jammed the palms of his heels into his eyes and rubbed. Mayhap he had the wrong room? He turned in a quick circle, before ultimately fixing on the broad desk at the center of his kingdom. The piles of ledgers and papers that had once cluttered his desk had since been arranged in neat piles.
Broad upholstered chairs replaced the two narrow seats previously holding that spot.
He growled. In place of the dark, deathlike scene that had hung above his desk was a cheerful, vibrant painting with nauseating flowers.
Ryker spun around. Surely this was some mad jest? Who in blazes would dismantle an office and leave in its place this jolly—
“Penelope,” he thundered. Spinning on his heel, Ryker stamped out his cheroot and tossed it in the porcelain vase atop his mantel. He marched down the hall, and with each step, his fury grew. His office was his sanctuary. It was the place he’d constructed precisely as he saw fit, meant to convey the power of this club. Furthermore, how in bloody hell on Sunday had the lady single-handedly managed to move the furniture in and out of his room? By God, the servants who helped her should be sacked. His wife did whatever she pleased—from her hiring a hack to leave this club like she lived in Mayfair to visiting the gaming floors. But the men and women who worked here, they well knew the blasted demands and expectations. He reached his chambers . . . their chambers, and grabbed the doorknob.
“Something amiss?” Niall called dryly from down the hall.
Ryker wheeled back. Even with the stretch of distance, Ryker would have to be blind to miss the gloating grin. He growled and, with the other man’s laughter trailing after him, shoved the door open.
A gasp spilled around the room, and he found his wife in that silly but bloody tempting night shift in the center of the bed. A pen poised over a leather folio, she glanced at him with surprise. “Ryker, you startled me.”
“You aren’t sleeping,” he growled, shoving the door closed behind him and turning the lock.
“No.” She paused. “And if you believed I was, well, then, that was certainly no way to enter a room.”
The chit was mad. There was nothing else for it. He took in the pile of books scattered about the large, feather mattress. Tension rolled through him, and he yanked his jacket off, hurling it atop the pile of garments still littering his bloody room.
Penelope wetted her lips. “Are you upset?” she ventured, tentatively.
“My office.” Those were the only words he could get out through the fury of her high-handed overreach.
Caution melted from Penelope’s eyes and was replaced with a smile in their depths. “Oh, splendid. You saw it, then.”
Coming to a stop beside the bed, he layered his palms to the wrinkled coverlet and leaned forward. “I saw it,” he gritted out.
Her pleased grin slipped, and she set her pen down on the nightstand. “Are you . . . unhappy with it, then?”
At that faltering question, he went stock-still. The string of furious diatribe he’d intended, that had fueled his steps, stuck in his mouth. When he’d purchased the club, one of the first orders
of business had been to set up a place that was solely his. A place where he could shut out the world, and bar all entry, except on terms he set forth. “I liked my office.”
Penelope snapped her journal closed and laid it beside her. “And do you not like it better now?”
No. The denial sprung to his lips. But something held the words back. The hesitancy in her eyes, when this woman, bold to the point of mad, was anything but tentative. “I preferred my office as it was.”
His wife swung her legs over the bed and sailed over like a tempting siren. “Why?”
He furrowed his brow.
“Why did you like your office?” she clarified.
Her question gave him pause. The austerity of that space had matched the icy cool he’d lived his life by. The hard, narrow chairs intended to add to a man’s discomfort. The painting of death that conjured the remembrances of what awaited those who failed in the streets.
“Do you know what I believe, Ryker?” she asked, pressing her delicate palms to his chest. The scent of summer flowers filled his senses, heady and intoxicating. Distracting.
He managed to shake his head.
“I believe you’ve gone through life carefully keeping people out. In every way. If the chairs are uncomfortable, people won’t wish to sit. If you are snarling and snapping, people will flee in fear.” She tipped her chin up, meeting his eyes. Their gazes locked, and passion flared in their depths. Or was that his own reflected in her expressive gaze. “There is nothing wrong with letting people in, Ryker.” Somewhere along the way, they’d begun to speak of more than his office, and her uncanny ability to see deep inside to parts he’d buried from even himself turned terror over inside.
Swallowing a curse, Ryker dragged a hand through his hair. He glanced about the mess that she’d made of his bed now, too.
She followed his stare. “I was writing our lessons for the week.”
Their lessons? He choked on his swallow.
Four little lines creased her proud brow. “You did not forget we’d agreed to—”
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