Except, those four couples were not all Blacks. There was one interloper who’d easily inserted herself in the fold.
“They did invite us,” Ophelia felt compelled to remind her family.
Gertrude and Stephen spoke as one.
“What?”
“Wot?”
Ophelia shifted on her feet. “It’s just that Gertrude said they believe we’re scum.”
“Uncouth scum,” Gertrude reminded.
“But Mr. and Mrs. Dabney did invite me to dine,” Ophelia went on, “and all of us to the unveiling of their new establishment.” The couple didn’t have to make any attempt to include them—the family who’d burned their once great club to nothing more than ash—twice.
“They’ve been glaring at us since we sat,” Stephen pointed out, motioning to the group in question.
“Mayhap because you haven’t stopped talking,” Gertrude said.
“Why, even Cleo’s glaring at us,” Stephen gritted out, ignoring their eldest sibling’s chastisement.
They looked as one to the front of the hall.
Except it was not Cleo who commanded her notice.
Ophelia’s heart skipped a beat. Connor.
He is here.
Connor occupied a distinguished place in the front row on the left-hand side of the hall, sandwiched between his father and his duchess.
Her stomach lurched.
Just then, the dark-haired beauty lifted her head and whispered something to Connor. He angled his head. Sitting as a silent observer to that pair, with their heads bent and bodies bowed toward each other, Ophelia felt like an interloper in that private exchange. Whatever his reply, Connor earned one of those perfect pink blushes and a widened smile before the pair refocused on Eve Dabney.
Ophelia gripped the sides of her chair so hard her nails made indents on the oak.
The evidence of their closeness threatened to shatter Ophelia, and yet she was unable to look away.
“See, Oi told ya she was glaring,” Stephen crowed triumphantly.
“As she should.” Gertrude turned her thumbs out, pointing them at Ophelia and Stephen. “You are being unpardonably rude, and we are attracting attention.”
“She’s a traitor,” Stephen muttered. “Taking up with the fancy nobs and Black gang.”
Forcing her macabre attention from Connor and his duchess, Ophelia frowned at her youngest sibling. “They are doing good for the children here,” she admonished and then started. Hadn’t she herself been precisely like her brother, failing to see any of the good their rivals and the nobility were capable of? Blinded by her hatred, she’d allowed herself to see nothing more than the crimes of most and not the good of some.
“Ya, too, then?” Stephen shook his head, disgust rampant in that jerky movement.
“I’m merely pointing out—”
“Perhaps you’ll do said pointing later,” Gertrude interrupted in hushed tones. “People continue to stare.”
This time, while her brother continued to make his displeasure known, Ophelia fell silent, noting with her gaze the latest attention they’d drawn.
Connor glanced over his shoulder. He held Ophelia’s gaze, his steel-grey eyes piercing and teasing at the same time. The Duchess of Argyll followed his stare to where Ophelia sat, shattering the connection.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Stephen jammed an elbow into her side, and she grunted.
“Wot are ya doing?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Ya’ar eyeing the Hunter.” Ophelia curled her toes in her slippers. “That ain’t nothing.”
“That isn’t nothing,” Gertrude automatically corrected on a hushed whisper. “It is . . . oh, blast. Do I need to escort you out?” she warned.
Hope briefly lit Stephen’s freckled face, which he swiftly concealed.
But not before Ophelia had detected the fleeting sentiments, and the truth slowly trickled in.
He didn’t want to be here. His constant haranguing and bid for escape didn’t have to do with the Blacks or the lifelong rivalry between their families—but rather his own insecurities. It was a sentiment Ophelia could see because she herself had experienced it countless times since she’d been banished to Cleo and Adair’s fancy townhouse. Feelings which had been made all the worse by observing Connor and his duchess—a woman he called friend and had one day hoped to marry.
And by the lady’s blatant intentions, one day would.
Ophelia jumped up. “I’ll take Stephen,” she whispered.
She was met with surprise by the pair of siblings flanking her.
“But . . .”
Before her sister could launch a protest, she grabbed for her brother’s hand. Stephen hopped up with such zeal, his seat scraped loudly along the oak floorboards.
Wincing, Ophelia took her brother by the elbow and guided him down the long row of Empire chairs. “Excuse me. Pardon,” she muttered as they made their way from their seats and out into the spacious, cheerfully painted corridors of the foundling hospital.
As they strode through the empty halls, her brother whistled a familiar tavern ditty while Eve Dabney’s distant voice carried, some of her words moving in and out of focus.
“We should not, however, take on the care of these children because it is an obligation.” Ophelia’s ears pricked.
“Clever work back there,” Stephen cut in, a grudging appreciation coating those few words. “Managing to wrestle us both free of that rot.” He glared. “Doesn’t mean Oi forgive ya for making eyes at a bloody investigator.”
“Hush,” she scolded, darting out a hand to swat him.
Stephen danced out of her reach and, revealing his tender years, skipped down the hall at a brisk clip.
“No,” Eve Dabney was saying. “We should not look after these boys and girls because it is an obligation we have—even true as that may be—” Ophelia slowed her steps and then stopped. She strained to hear all of the other woman’s words. “Rather, we should do it because we wish to. Because we see the cleverness of . . . the spirit . . . the potential of all.”
As Ophelia listened, she stared at the portraits lining the yellow-painted walls, frames containing the likenesses of boys and girls, more babes than children, some near in age to Stephen and others older.
Since she’d overtaken the responsibility of the children in the Devil’s Den, she’d done so with the need to spare them from the suffering she herself had known. It had been a single-minded mission in which she brought those boys and girls into the club, but then it had been Gertrude who’d overseen them in the ways that mattered. Their education and, through that, their futures.
Unlike Connor’s angelic lady, who’d spent years working for the betterment of those children’s lives. And Ophelia? She hadn’t thought much beyond the simple task of saving them . . . until Connor. Saving, however, looked like many things, and it was not the neat one-time effort Ophelia had exerted since she’d taken on the hiring of those children.
A portrait of a pale-haired girl with dimpled cheeks beckoned, drawing Ophelia over. She lingered before the baroque wooden picture frame. The ornate carvings were a contradiction to the shyly smiling child’s modest white frock.
No, she was nothing like Lady Argyll. Ophelia’s efforts had been purposeful, yet how meaningful had they been? What thoughts had she put to who those same children would one day become? The opportunities that awaited them. Unlike the Connors and Eve Dabneys of the world.
The irony was not lost on her. All her life she’d reviled the people born to the ton when there had been those like Calum’s wife, and men such as Connor’s adoptive father, who didn’t care for birthrights, whereas Ophelia and her own family had failed to see those struggling in the streets as anything more than new staff to hire. It didn’t matter that they’d offered work. It didn’t matter that they’d found security and safety in the Devil’s Den. For how fleeting were those gifts? What of the women employed as prostitutes because there were
no other options? Or the children when they became adults? Was the Devil’s Den all they would know? Before she’d been reunited with Connor, she would have said that would be enough . . . for any person. It should be. For it was vastly preferable to the darker options.
Another wave of guilt swamped her.
“Wot are ya doing?” her brother called loudly, his voice pinging off the high ceilings.
She didn’t blink for several seconds.
Then Stephen called out again, grounding her in the present. “Come on already!”
Reluctantly pulling her gaze from that portrait, she held a fingertip to her lips, urging him to silence.
Mumbling to himself, Stephen kicked the broad plank floors with his foot.
How very angry he was.
Just as Ophelia herself had been. As Cleo had been. And so many of them.
You have passed judgment on your sister for smiling, taking it as a sign of weakness. You’ve condemned her for changing. When it was really Ophelia who all along had been so very wrong . . . about so very much.
“Ophelia?” her brother urged, motioning with his fingers for her to come.
Ophelia joined him and ruffled his tangle of golden curls.
He ducked to escape that sisterly pat. “Wot ya doin’?” he demanded again, swatting at her hand.
Despite his grumblings, Ophelia gave his head another rub. “Come, let us explore.” Ducking, she looped her arm through his and forced him to accompany her. They traced their steps through the earlier tour they’d received of the establishment and made for the outdoor gardens. “Talk to me of how you’ve been spending your time at the club.” She started. How many times had she referred to it as a “club”? Never had she referred to it as a home, too. “What have you been doing there?” Stephen had once been used as an arsonist to set blazes for Diggory, and that dangerous passion had dogged him still long after a bullet had ended the Devil of St. Giles.
“Nothing’s changed without you.” A pang struck at what should already be a needless reminder of how expendable they each were. “Been watching the foights from the observatory,” he said with a boyish enthusiasm that made her wince.
“What of your lessons?” she asked with the maternal edge Gertrude was noted for and had mastered years ago.
Her brother beamed. “MacTavish and some of the other guards taught me how to smoke a cheroot.”
“Stephen,” Ophelia choked.
“Wot? All the boys and men there do it. Some of the girls, too,” he added with a shrug.
“Not those manner of lessons. Rather . . . Gertrude’s lessons.”
“Foine.” He gave another one of his negligent shrugs.
In that instance Ophelia discovered a newfound appreciation for the impossible task her sister had taken on . . . motivating Stephen and the other boys and girls to value an education. Ophelia dusted her spare palm over her face. What future awaited him? Oh, he’d forever be a partner in the gaming hell . . . but was that all? Would the purpose of his and their existence be to build their fortunes as Broderick intended, without thinking of how they might benefit those people beyond?
“Stephen.” She weighed her words carefully. A single misstep would shut down any and all discourse with her most obstinate sibling. “You have to also take time for your schooling.” Never before had she truly appreciated Gertrude’s role in educating Stephen and the other children in the club . . . until she’d seen the life Connor had made for himself.
Stephen groaned. “Oi think Oi’d prefer to listen to Dabney’s wife run on about nonsense.”
Gathering him by the arm, she steered him back. “Splendid. We’ll just slip quietly back in while the—”
“All right, all right,” he entreated, digging his heels in.
They locked in battle, and then, capitulating, they reversed course once more.
“Oi’ve been reading.”
After a week apart from her brother Stephen, that had certainly been the last pronouncement she’d expected from him. She smiled, proud of his efforts . . . and relieved. “That is splen—”
“Ya know, those gossip columns Broderick’s so keen to follow.”
Her smile froze on her face. Oh, bloody, bloody hell. “Indeed?”
“Oi always thought reading, and those papers, was a waste of moi toime.” They turned at the end of the hall and continued on to the corridor that led to Eve Dabney’s gardens. “But it turns out there is useful information to be ’ad in there, after all,” he went on as they reached the doorway.
Ophelia cast a longing look over her shoulder.
“All the papers are talking about how ya’re smitten with that bloody investigator,” Stephen hissed.
“Will you hush?” she ordered, doing a quick glance about. Ophelia grabbed the handle and let herself outside, and she welcomed the soft warmth of the afternoon sun on her face.
A bevy of giggles and laughter filled the gardens from where the children played.
“Ya didn’t deny it,” he charged, following close at her heels.
“Ya’re being foolish.”
“Ya just slipped back into yar Cockney. Mayhap ya’d all be wise to be loike me and not waste yar toime with hiding who ya are. Makes lying easier.”
She scowled. “I’m not lying.” She wasn’t smitten. “I . . . I . . .” Stephen stared expectantly back. Ophelia rubbed a hand at her throat. “I simply . . .” Enjoy being with him. Oh, God. Her mind balked. Her body trembled. Ophelia skittered a panicky gaze about, alighting on a wooden case. “Here . . .”
“Where are ya going?” her brother called after her.
Dropping to her haunches, she plucked out two rackets and a ball. She balanced her burden and shoved awkwardly to her feet. “Take this,” she ordered, holding out one of the wood rackets.
Stephen whistled between his two missing front teeth. “Ya’re mad.” Nonetheless, with the child’s curiosity he’d managed to retain, he came over and took the racket.
“Back up several steps. Two more,” she instructed and then held up her filled hands. “Stop.” Focusing on the white ball, she delicately tapped it toward him.
Stephen made no move to volley that shot; the ball landed and then bounced upon the grass several hops before landing at a little girl’s feet. She set aside the small doll she’d been playing with, grabbed the ball, and tossed it over to Stephen.
He grunted as it hit him in the back of his knee. “Ya’re just trying to distract me from talks about ya and that blighter.”
Actually, she had been.
Ophelia called over her thanks to the girl and paused. The same little girl from the portrait she’d studied a short while ago waved back.
Ophelia froze, her gaze locked on the child’s corn-silk curls and cherubic cheeks.
During her darkest, most frightening days, Ophelia at least had her sisters and eventually her brothers. Who did this little girl have? Or had she been like Connor? Alone without a friend or family member in the world?
“Hullo?” Stephen shouted, waving his arms back and forth, bringing Ophelia out of her musings. “Ya didn’t answer my question.”
“It wasn’t a question,” she reminded him as she scooped up the ball. She swatted it at him. It struck his racket, and they went back and forth, volleying the ball. “Furthermore,” she added as Stephen cursed, flailing to keep the projectile in the air, “it was a statement. And an untrue—” Her gaze caught at the point just beyond Stephen’s shoulder, where that angelic little girl now spoke with a visitor.
Ophelia’s heart began to race.
A visitor who managed more silent steps than Ophelia or any of her kin.
Squatting beside the girl, a bag in hand, Connor briefly glanced up. The sun’s glow cast a halo about his dark curls, giving him the look of a fallen Lucifer. He was—
The ball knocked her in the forehead.
She grunted.
Jerked back to the moment, she blinked wildly, pressing a finger to the bruised flesh.
&
nbsp; “Untrue statement, my arse,” Stephen muttered.
Chapter 13
She’d been playing with the boy.
Even her presence out here alone was an incongruity with all the other ladies present for the unveiling of Eve and Calum Dabney’s newest foundling hospital.
From where he knelt, speaking with Grace, Connor bowed his head.
“Do you know her?” the girl whispered.
“I do.” He had for most of his life, if only for fleeting moments in time.
Discovered by Connor when he’d been investigating a case several months ago, Grace now had a place in Eve Dabney’s foundling hospital. So had begun his connection with the Dabneys . . . and the little girl Grace.
“She looks like an angel.” Gracie spoke in awestruck tones of the young woman baldly staring back at them.
Connor reached into his jacket and fished out the bag of peppermints the child so loved and handed them over. “May I beg your pardon, Lady Gracie?”
The small child giggled. “You are pardoned, sir.”
With a wink, he shoved to a stand. “Miss Killoran,” he called over, redirecting his attentions, “we meet again.”
“From wot Oi’ve read in the papers, it ain’t really much of a surprise,” the small boy beside her piped in.
Ophelia gave the child a discreet but still discernible kick to the shins.
The pair glowered at each other for a long while, exchanging equally black looks; a whole conversation played out between the combative duo without so much as a word spoken or needed.
Tamping down a grin, Connor wandered over, passing by another child at play, until he reached Ophelia.
She had the look of an owl startled from its perch. “You,” she blurted out, sounding like one of those night creatures.
The boy nudged her in the side, startling her into words. “Forgive me. Con—Mr. Steele,” she hurriedly corrected. Too late. By the dangerous narrowing of his eyes, the boy had detected that slip. “Allow me to introduce my brother—”
The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2) Page 18