“She wanted to name us. Fought Diggory on it. Said we deserved names. Said she was giving them to us whether he liked it or not.” Cleopatra glanced up from his desk and offered him a chillingly empty smile. One that had no place on her lips. One that he wanted to erase from her face and instead fill her life with laughter that dulled all the darkest memories she carried.
Then her words registered. He shook his head. What . . . ?
“For many years of my life, I was simply Girl.” Cleopatra traced the D upon her palm. “My sister Ophelia was Stupid, and Gertrude was Twit.” A mirthless laugh bubbled in her throat but never made it past her lips. “I went through those years of my life believing my name was Girl.”
Oh, God. Her profession briefly weighted his eyes closed. Dead. He wanted to kill Mac Diggory all over again, only this time with his bare hands, and not the mercifully quick bullet his sister, Helena, had put in the bastard’s belly. “What did Diggory do to Joan?” he asked quietly. “After she’d wanted to give you a name?” The most basic gift passed down to a babe to begin their place in the world, and she’d been robbed of it until a stranger to whom Diggory had turned her care over stood up to fight for her.
Cleopatra drew in a slow, noisy breath through her teeth, then let it out. “’e set fire to our apartments. Diggory told me to choose.”
Horror turned his blood to ice in his veins.
“Someone always pays the price for lines being crossed,” she said in an eerie echo of orders that had been hurled at Adair himself by that same monster. “Oi ’ad to choose my sisters’ burning room . . . or Joan’s.” She took her skirts in a deathlike grip, draining all the blood from her knuckles. “Oi chose my sisters.”
“Oh, Cleopatra,” he said on an agonized whisper. He wanted to take her pain, make it his own, and fill her life with the happiness she deserved. He’d spent years hating her, but she, in having no choice but to remain under Diggory’s control, had endured far more than Adair or his siblings.
She waved her scarred palm about in a stiff gesture. “Oi did what I had to do.”
“I know that.” He paused. “Do you?”
Growling, she jerked her chin up. “Didn’t I just say I did,” she barked, sounding like a wounded pup he’d come upon outside the Hell and Sin once.
“No. You said you chose your sisters.” He continued with the same calm he’d affected for that fractious dog. Had she ever made peace with the sacrifice she’d been forced to make? But then, did any of them?
A sheen of tears filled her brown eyes, those crystalline drops made all the brighter by her lenses. It was the first time he’d ever seen her cry. With an agonized groan, he pulled her into his arms.
She held herself with such tautness, a sharp wind could have snapped her slender frame. Tightening his hold upon her, Adair lowered his cheek atop the crown of her head.
When she spoke, her words emerged muffled against his chest. “She told me Oi needed to save them. She made the choice.”
And yet, Cleopatra had claimed ownership of a decision that hadn’t really been a decision, taking on the guilt of it. “Oi wish we’d been kept together,” he said roughly. “Oi wish that Oi’d been part of the same end of London as you and your sisters.” For how her life would have turned out differently. She and her sisters would have become part of his family, and she’d not have relied upon a merciless monster.
Cleopatra stepped out of his arms, and he fought the need to draw her back, close. “That could ’ave never been, and it could ’ave never worked,” she said in deadened tones. She blinked in rapid succession and then looked up, her thick brown lashes shielding her thoughts from him . . . but not before he caught the flash of regret. As soon as that emotion flickered to life, however, it was gone. She jutted her jaw out. “After she . . . was gone, I took over caring for me and my family—until Broderick.”
“And you’ve been taking care of them ever since.” Did she realize she’d taken on the mantle of responsibility to assuage a guilt that would always be with her?
“I haven’t done it alone,” she said defensively.
Reality intruded. “Killoran.” How easy it was whenever she was near to forget who her brother, in fact, was. To set aside all the enmity between their families and just . . . be two people who enjoyed being together.
“My brother,” she corrected. God, how he abhorred her connection to that vile bastard, and how he resented her injecting him here. “He’s a good man.”
He met that with a mutinous silence. Adair knew precisely who Broderick Killoran was.
Cleopatra carried on in more wistful tones than he ever remembered her using. “He joined Diggory’s gang when he was orphaned. He was educated, a scholar who knew books. Knew math and poetry and Greek mythology and how to dance and . . .” She scrunched her mouth up. “He knew a lot.” She grinned wryly. “Growing up on the streets, he knows even more now.”
Surprise filled him. Her revelation was the most he or his siblings had ever gleaned about the enigmatic proprietor. And the puzzle that had eluded him all these years now slid into place. Why, it all made sense. Broderick Killoran had offered Diggory the one thing none of his lesser-born street thugs could—a bookish mind.
“So that is how Diggory managed to keep books and handle a business,” he said to himself.
Cleopatra nodded once. “Broderick had power over Diggory. My brother demanded he have the right to keep us safe. After Diggory realized how powerful my brother in fact was, he never laid hands on me or my sisters ever again.”
How was it possible to find himself so very indebted to Broderick Killoran? His gaze slid to the scarred flesh—that letter D left upon her palm by a monster. A cinch squeezed off airflow to his lungs. She’d known so much suffering. Feeling her stare on him, he forced himself to say something. Cleopatra would interpret any admiration or warmth as pitying. “It’s why neither me nor Ryker nor Calum had ever been of true value to him.” And Diggory had been too small a man to see Helena’s skill with numbers.
“Diggory’s bounties all went to the Devil’s Den, but it was Broderick who built it into what it is and allowed me to become who I did inside our world.”
A woman of courage, strength, and influence, who with her business acumen where gaming hell business was concerned, could rival Adair and his brothers. He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “No one made you into the woman you are. You did that all yourself.” Her and the experiences that she’d suffered through and emerged triumphant, despite.
She shook her head. “You’re wrong there. You see me as Oi am now. Oi wasn’t always fearless. Oi didn’t speak my mind to Diggory. Oi found my voice when Broderick came ’round.”
Adair palmed her cheek. “Oh, Cleopatra. You’ve never been anything less than a warrior.”
Her lips parted, and a whispery sigh wafted out.
Wanting to ease the heartache he saw there and drive back talks of Diggory and Killoran and right or wrong and good or bad, he drew her fingertips to his lips. “My turn, then.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Visit the Hell and Sin with me,” he clarified.
It was an act his brother would have his head for if the truth were discovered, but for the first time since his siblings had each wed their respective spouses, Adair understood what it was to want to bring a woman nothing but laughter and happiness.
Her eyes went soft. “When?”
He grinned. “Now.”
Chapter 19
There had once been a time when the sole reason Cleopatra would have cared to visit the Hell and Sin Club was to learn its inner workings so she could plot its demise and bring it down.
Forty minutes later, after a carriage ride through the empty London streets, Cleopatra made her way through the dark lanes of St. Giles, filled with an altogether different kind of eagerness to visit the hell. One that stemmed from a desire to step inside Adair’s club. That was a world she was wholly comfortable within.
Nay. You wa
nt to know everything about Adair Thorne and his world for reasons that have nothing to do with the long-standing rivalry between your clubs.
Adair slipped his hand into hers, and she automatically folded her fingers around his. She stole a sideways glance at him, this man who’d come to mean so very much.
He was the first person whom she’d shared secret parts of herself with, agonizing memories she’d not even revealed to her siblings. And what will happen when you have to leave him . . . ?
A dull, knifelike pain stabbed at her chest, but Cleopatra pushed back the grief that came in thoughts of their parting. She would steal whatever time she had left with him.
They reached the end of the street, and he drew his hand back. “Here,” he murmured, adjusting the cap he’d given her before they’d left Black’s townhouse. He briefly inspected the boy’s breeches and dark jacket she’d donned.
“’ow’s Oi look, guv’nor?” she teased, dropping a jaunty bow.
Adair lingered his gaze on her hips, and her earlier levity faded. When he lifted his eyes to hers, the heat within their green depths scorched her. “Perfect,” he said hoarsely. “You look perfect.”
And Cleopatra, who’d never been made to feel anything but the boylike, bespectacled sister of Broderick Killoran, felt beautiful.
“Come,” he murmured, setting a slow path along the pavement. They stepped around several drunken sailors snoring in the way. “I’ve guards stationed at each entrance,” he explained.
“If they’re worth their weight as guards, they’ll wonder why you’re here at this hour . . . with a young boy, no less.”
He scowled, but he was prevented from saying anything more as they reached the steps of the club.
To the two burly guards’ credit, they gave no outward reaction to Adair’s late-night visit. They did each, however, linger a curious stare on Cleopatra. “Mr. Thorne,” they both said in unison.
Adair inclined his head and reached past them to unlock the door. “Anything suspicious?”
“No, Mr. Thorne,” the crimson-haired guard supplied. He stole another peek in Cleopatra’s direction.
Adair motioned her forward.
As he closed the door behind them, she did a sweep of the spacious, open floors under construction. So this was the Hell and Sin.
Wordlessly, she moved deeper into the establishment, past beams of wood and tables littered with building supplies and materials, taking in the hell. She took every last corner in with her eyes.
Since she’d been a girl she’d heard tales of the rival club. There had been men, desperate lords and underhanded thugs of Diggory’s—and her brother’s—who’d infiltrated the walls of this once great place and brought back details. Cleopatra had taken in every detail of that hated family, secretly longing for a glimpse herself of how they ran their establishment. Her intrigue had only doubled upon learning of the changes Black, Thorne, and their other brothers had put into place: ending prostitution, hiring women in valuable roles throughout the club.
She picked her way over the charred carpet. All the gaming tables had since been removed, and but for several stubborn pieces of satin wallpaper that hadn’t burned or been pulled off in the aftermath, there was little trace of the club she’d heard spoken of.
Sadness filled her breast for all that had been lost . . . for all Adair, who loved this world, had lost. She knew what it was to lose her home to fire, but the place that had burned down about her ears had been dank apartments filled with vermin and lice. She also knew what it was to have found security and shelter inside the Devil’s Den and what it would be to lose all of that and begin from scratch.
In an effort to comfort her, Adair took her by the hand and proceeded to guide her about the club, speaking animatedly. “This is where the additional seating you suggested goes,” he said, gesturing to the area. “We’ll blend whist, faro, and hazard tables on this side.” He pointed across the cluttered but open space. “The roulette tables and vingt-et-un will have their own places over there.”
“We have a similar layout,” she acknowledged. Who would have ever believed she’d be sharing details about her family’s establishment with this man before her . . . and what was more, offering guidance to help improve his business. It would only represent greater competition.
Why did none of that seem to matter any longer?
Because you love him . . . and that is so much greater than the profits earned or the patrons fought over.
Adair continued speaking with a boyish enthusiasm that only made her feel all the more miserable. I want him to be the bearish, angry man who confiscated my blade.
She allowed him to tug her to the back of the hell. “These are the private game rooms you suggested,” he said as she stepped inside.
This space, largely complete, bore no hint of the chaos of the previous part of the establishment. Sapphire-blue satin wallpaper had been affixed to the walls. Rich mahogany gaming tables were set a distance apart, allowing for privacy. With the matching mahogany bar and crystal chandelier, the elegant rooms were befitting a White’s or Brooke’s, and not the seedy establishments owned by their respective families.
“Well?”
She turned back, and at the bright grin on his face, she hesitated. “It is lovely.”
His smile slipped. “You disapprove.” How much he’d come to know her that he’d sensed that reluctance on her part.
Cleopatra clasped her hands before her. “It’s not that I disapprove.”
Adair looked pointedly at her hands.
Damning that telling gesture, she let her arms drop. “You need to figure out what you want,” she said bluntly, giving him the truth he sought. “I already told you before, Adair,” she went on before he could speak. “You don’t know what it is you want. You don’t know if you want to be a seedy hell or a fancy club in the posh ends of London.”
Splotches of red suffused his cheeks. “The ’ell and Sin is a seedy hell.”
“Why?” she shot back. “Because you were born in the streets? You rose up.” They both had. “And yet, you’re now stranded between two worlds.” Cleopatra caught his hands in hers and gave a light, reassuring squeeze. “It’s time to pick one.”
Horror rounded out his eyes. “What are you suggesting?” he demanded, his voice graveled like an old Roman road.
She retained his hands when he made to pull them back, tightening her grip. “You’ve spent weeks on the rebuild and redesign. You’re constantly revising ideas—”
“Because you made suggestions that I hadn’t considered,” he bit out.
“Because you don’t want to make this the place where your club is forever established,” she predicted. “You, just like your brothers and sister, want out of St. Giles.”
Adair ripped his arms back and held them up as if he’d been burned.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said gently, drifting closer. “You spent your life believing certain things to be fact: your place was in St. Giles, my family is evil, you could only run a scandalous club.” She tilted her head back so she could meet his gaze. “Not everything is as it always seems. It—”
Adair swallowed her words with his lips.
She stilled, and then she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew herself closer to the hard wall of his chest.
His tongue stroked between her lips over and over until she melted against him, a molten puddle of uselessness. “Are you . . . doing this to silence me?” she managed to gasp out between his bold, erotic kisses.
“Would you care if I did?” he breathed against the place where her pulse throbbed at her neck. He nipped and sucked at that sensitive flesh.
Moaning, she arched her head so he could better avail himself of her flesh. “I w-wouldn’t b-be pleased . . .” She struggled to get the words out, clutching her fingers in his lush brown hair and holding him close. “I d-don’t like to be—” He slipped free the laces at the top of her chest, and the fabric fell open, exposing her skin to the co
ol night air. Lowering his head, he caught a nipple between his lips. She hissed out a breath as he laved the tender bud, suckling it. “I—I confess,” she cried out softly, dropping her head back. “I—I’ve quite f-forgotten what I was . . .” He flicked his tongue back and forth over the swollen tip and then turned his attentions over to her other, neglected breast. “Adair,” she pleaded.
He caught her up, and then scooping her in his arms, he carried her over to the leather button sofa at the center of the room. Pausing, he stooped over her, his hands on the edges of his shirt. His chest moved with the force of one who’d raced across London and back. She dipped her eyes lower, to the muscular expanse of his oaklike thighs . . . and at the apex where his shaft tented the fabric of those dark garments.
“Look at me, Cleopatra.”
All the air left her.
He stared at her, his eyes hot with hungering. For me . . . he desires me. And she marveled that a man such as Adair Thorne, a model of male perfection, wanted her.
“I want to make love to you,” he said. His voice was husky and low, and it heightened the growing need to have him back in her arms.
She smiled slowly, and then never taking her gaze from his, with steady fingers Cleopatra lifted the shirt over her head and tossed it to the wood floor. The white lawn fabric landed in a noiseless heap.
Adair’s Adam’s apple worked up and down, and he stretched out a reverent hand, palming her left breast. He tweaked the sensitive tip, bringing her eyes briefly closed. She bit the inside of her cheek when he again stopped. But then, he began working her breeches down over her waist, sliding them past her hips.
Unabashed, she kicked them away and stood before him naked.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed hoarsely.
His compliment fueled her, and going up on tiptoe, she pressed herself against his chest. Gripping his nape, she forced his head down for her kiss, mating her mouth with his. All these years she’d scoffed at the women inside the Devil’s Den who’d excitedly whispered about sex. Only now, with Adair’s strong, callused palms roving a path along her buttocks and cupping that supple flesh, did she understand what compelled so many of those women. There was no shame or regret. There was just a burning heat that seared her from the inside. Guiding her down onto the sofa, Adair came over her and laid claim to her mouth once more. They dueled with their tongues, thrusting and parrying. Their breath came melded as one in a ragged, desperate rhythm.
The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers Book 1) Page 22