The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

  “She’s yar friend?” the boy asked, incredulity rich in his voice. “Looks loike a fancy lady to me.”

  “Don’t be deceived by fancy garments,” Ophelia put forward in her Cockney.

  The boy’s eyes went round, and he looked to Connor.

  Ophelia lingered at the doorway, fiddling with the fabric of her cloak.

  Catching his gaze on her, she stopped that distracted movement. She had the look of one sorting through pieces of a puzzle, attempting to make them fit into something of sense.

  “Ophelia, allow me to present Ned. Ned, Miss Killoran.”

  The boy stopped midchew and then swallowed down that too-large bite. “Killoran?” Wariness settled in his gaunt features. “Diggory’s Killoran?” Cheeks pale, Ned shoved back his chair.

  Connor handed over the glass of water.

  The child hesitated, and then thirst won out over fear. He audibly gulped down his drink, all the while keeping a wary eye on Ophelia.

  She frowned.

  Did she take offense at that deserved reaction elicited by the gang she’d belonged to . . . and, by her place within the Devil’s Den, still did?

  “Miss Killoran saw us on North Bond Street,” he explained for the lad’s benefit.

  The mistrust only deepened in Ned’s eyes. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “And followed us ’ere?”

  Connor slid a lingering glance in Ophelia’s direction. “Indeed.” Color flooded her cheeks. “Why don’t you continue eating while I see what pressing business Miss Killoran sought with me this afternoon.” He motioned to his office door.

  Ophelia hesitated and then followed him into the spacious rooms. Leaving the door open so he might survey both the boy whom he’d been questioning and the woman who’d been following him, he propped his hip on his desk.

  Ophelia did a small circle. Her eyes missed nothing, touching on every detail of the room: the gilded figural clock atop the mantel, the pair of leather library armchairs, his brown leather-top desk. “What is this place?” she asked slowly as she came back to face him.

  “My offices, madam.”

  She tipped her head at an endearing angle, and the pale strands that had been knocked loose fluttered at her shoulder. “Your offices?”

  Connor laid his palms on the edge of his desk, opening his body’s positioning. Years of posing questions had given him the appreciation and value of what one’s body could convey . . . and, more important, what it could elicit. “Mmm, madam. My turn. Why were you following me?”

  “I . . .” Ophelia looked over her shoulder to where Ned still sat, shoveling bread into his mouth again. When she turned back, she spoke in hushed tones. “I . . . wanted to be sure he was . . . safe.”

  It shouldn’t grate that she believed him capable of hurting a child. After all, he very well knew from the worst possible ways the evil the orphaned boys and girls of London suffered. “And you intended to help him?” he countered without inflection.

  Her narrow shoulders moved up and down in a little shrug. “If he required it.” She took a step forward and folded her arms at her chest. “My turn.” With the fire in her eyes and her proud, regal carriage, she had the bearing of a seasoned military commander. She was magnificent in her fury. “What are you doing with him?”

  “I’m questioning him.”

  She pursed her lips tightly. “Questioning him on behalf of your Mad Marquess?”

  He lifted his head in acknowledgment.

  “You’ll ask him about his . . . past?”

  A past, present, and future that was certain to include a litany of crimes that could not be forgiven in a lifetime. “Will I ask him which street gang he’s belonged to?” he murmured and then answered his own question. “I will.” Nor could there be any doubting the child had allegiance to some street tough. Those men and women owned the orphans of East London the way the nobility had stables of horses.

  Ophelia surged forward and quickly sank back. “I’m taking him with me.”

  “You’re—?”

  “Taking him with me,” she elucidated in slow, drawn-out tones. The young woman tilted her chin defiantly.

  “I assure you the boy is indeed safe in my care. Far safer than . . .”

  The color on her cheeks deepened at that unfinished slight. “One who’d sell his services to a murderous nob,” she sneered. “I hardly think so. You’re not questioning him.”

  Over Ophelia’s shoulder, he stole a look in Ned’s direction.

  His neck arched, he craned his head, taking in the exchange. The original unease he’d watched Connor with since he’d approached magnified in his expressive eyes.

  He silently cursed. “Bloody hell, Ophelia. I’m not going to turn him over to the magistrate for crimes he was forced to commit.” Ones he himself was guilty of. Furthermore, why was he answering to her when he answered to none on matters of his investigations?

  “Very well,” she conceded slowly. “You may ask him your questions. But I am remaining with him through your interrogation.” He was already shaking his head. No one, unless he’d orchestrated their presence for a reason connected to his case, sat in on an interview or interrogation. “I’m not asking you,” she said bluntly. “I’m telling you. If you wish to speak to him, then you’ll have me here, and if not, then you can take your damned case”—she shoved the sizable file on his desk closer to him—“and stuff it up your arse.”

  In the course of his life, since he’d been rescued by the Earl of Mar, no one had ever dared speak to him so. Oh, they’d whispered about him and sneered, but none had dared challenge him to his face, and in such a flagrant way. Not a single person had dared hurl such a stinging delivery.

  But then, he’d wager there was no one quite like the fuming woman before him. A smile tugged at his lips.

  Squinting, she narrowed her eyes. “Something funny, O’Roarke?”

  He schooled his amusement. “Very well,” he conceded. “You may remain.”

  She sprang forward on her heels and then sank back. “What?”

  So she’d expected a fight from him.

  He, however, knew better that there were more benefits to be had by meeting her demands. This was one of them. If he’d not capitulated, she’d have only made his work here all the more difficult.

  “You may sit and observe.” Connor gathered his belongings . . . when he registered the silence. He glanced up. “What is it?” he asked impatiently. “Do you have any other requirements or demands?”

  Ophelia remained frozen.

  He arched an eyebrow.

  “No. No questions.”

  “Then, shall we begin?”

  Chapter 8

  Life—more specifically, men—had given Ophelia countless reasons not to trust their motives.

  He’d agreed to her demand.

  Oh, when she’d bit out the vow to remain through his interview, she’d thought hers was a futile bid.

  Commanding, self-possessed, he was an investigator who’d never willingly relinquish so much as an inch of his investigation.

  But he had.

  At her demand.

  She didn’t trust that too-easy capitulation for a bloody instant.

  As they returned to the main rooms where Ned sat, his bread gone and half the pitcher of water empty, the child looked up.

  Ned whipped a terror-filled gaze in her direction.

  Hers. Not Connor’s. The boy’s earlier mention of Diggory and the antipathy etched in his weary features said he trusted her less than he would the Devil. It hit her like a kick to the stomach.

  Everything she’d done had been to spare the innocents on the street from suffering at the hands of ruthless lords, and yet she’d never before seen that which was before her—until now. They fear me. They feared Ophelia and her family because of the ruthless reputation they’d earned for their rank and role in the late Diggory’s gang. A boulder was weighing on her chest, restricting airflow.

  This is what the Killorans had become?


  Nay, this is what they’d always been.

  “Miss Killoran?”

  Connor’s murmur cut across her horrified musings. She started and, averting her stare, seated herself on the cane and gilt-wood chair in the corner.

  Connor pulled out another chair, the legs scraping along the oak floorboards. “Thank you for your patience, Ned,” he said in gentle tones . . . ones she’d expected a man such as him incapable of. Ones she’d expected any man incapable of.

  Ned chewed at a fingernail. “Ya talk loike the fancy blokes.” He spat the nail on the floor. “Ya a nob?”

  At that wise—and previously neglected—detail on her part, she started. For Connor did speak with the cultured English of the finest lords and not the tones of one born outside the peerage. He always had. Not for the first time, questions whirred about his past.

  Connor leaned back and laid his arms on the sides of his chair. “Far from it. Miss Killoran saved me.” His gaze locked with Ophelia’s.

  “And wot’s she doing here?” The boy turned around and jabbed a finger in her direction.

  How very much like her this child was. Wary. Mistrustful. Direct. Only . . . as Connor had accurately pointed out, she’d emerged on the other side of evil to find wealth, security, and power.

  “Miss Killoran?” Connor asked as if there was another present. “She wanted to sit in. Look after you.”

  “Her? Look after me? Or kill me?” The child glared at Ophelia once more. “Does she have to be here?”

  Those insults struck like a barb to the chest, with well-placed arrows left there to burn. All these years she’d seen the good her family had done and yet had been blind to the fear her kin inspired because of their birthright . . . and the things they’d done to survive.

  “Miss Killoran is not the Devil you fear,” Connor assured.

  She sat motionless. For . . . she was. She’d killed and stolen and maimed men.

  She was undeserving of that defense.

  “I’ll get my coins when ya’re done with yar questions?” the boy groused, Ophelia seemingly forgotten.

  Oi’ll get my coins when I’m done?

  Her mouth went dry as memories tugged at her.

  All you need to do, gel, is take my palms . . . read them.

  Fighting back the always present demons, she focused on the boy.

  A faint tremble racked his frame. The tips of his shoes barely brushed the floor, highlighting the great disparity between the two: Connor, an imposing wall of strength, power, and confidence; and Ned, scared, small, and uncertain.

  “You’ll be richly rewarded for your time and answers,” Connor quietly assured. “In no way will you be punished for anything you reveal.”

  From under a tangle of red curls, Ned peered at Connor. “This a trick? Ya gonna turn me over to the law?”

  “There is no trick here. I’m simply looking to gather information to help my investigation.”

  The boy puffed his chest. “And ya think Oi can ’elp?”

  “I certainly hope you’re able to,” Connor said somberly, picking up the glass Ned had been drinking from. Instead of pouring another, he weighed the small tumbler in his left palm.

  The boy watched Connor’s every movement. “Oi can’t stay long.” Ned wetted his lips. “Oi’ve . . . moi business to see to.”

  No doubt a gang leader he answered to.

  Her heart ached all the more.

  “I suspect you’ve seen much in these streets,” Connor noted, passing that glass back and forth between his hands.

  Ned pumped his legs, a childlike movement at odds with the hardened glitter in his eyes. “Oi ’ave.” Planting his hands on the table, he leaned forward. “Oi ain’t snitchin’ on anyone, if that’s wot ya’re lookin’ for.”

  That fierce devotion to one’s gang leader came not from love or any true loyalty; rather, it was inspired by fear.

  Connor fished inside his jacket, and as he pulled out his hand, a flash of metal glinted.

  “Have you held a gold full guinea in your hands?” From between his ink-stained fingertips, Connor offered the coin for the boy’s inspection.

  Ophelia studied the exchange with an intensifying wariness. Where in blazes was he going with his questioning?

  Ned didn’t spare the coin in question a second glance. “Plenty o’ toimes when Oi’m . . .” Stealing. Flushing all the way to the roots of his hair, Ned abruptly closed his mouth. His waiflike frame shook wildly under what he’d nearly revealed.

  “Then you know a real one versus a fake that someone tries to foist off on you,” Connor went on, giving no indication he’d noted the boy’s fear. He flicked the coin through the air.

  Ned shot a palm open and easily caught the piece.

  “Well?” Connor encouraged.

  Reticently, the boy forced himself to examine the coin.

  “Is it real?”

  At Connor’s probing, Ned turned the King George III guinea back and forth, assessing it. “Yes,” he acknowledged and returned the shining coin. “If ya can’t tell a fake coin from a real one, ya ain’t know nothin’ in the streets.”

  His attention reserved for the boy, Connor’s lips formed a smile, and the amusement there colored his voice. “Aye, you would be correct on that score.”

  Aye.

  It was that lone lilting word that sang as he spoke, hinting at the faintest of brogues.

  Who was Connor Steele? Refined Englishman who spoke like a noble? An Irishman? A Scot? After all, how very easily Ophelia had shed her own street speech for the proper sort.

  “I am skilled enough to identify a real coin.” That modest statement didn’t fit with one who’d earned a reputation as a ruthless Runner who’d never failed a mission. “However, I wanted to see if you were able to.” Again picking up the empty glass, Connor held it aloft in one hand and the coin in other. He tapped the bottom three times, the guinea clanging loudly, and then it emerged from the bottom of the crystal tumbler.

  Both Ned’s and her gasps filled the offices. Why . . . why Connor’s was a skilled trick suited for the circus act her brother had sneaked Ophelia and her sisters into years earlier when he’d joined their gang.

  “How . . . what . . . ?” the little boy stammered.

  Grin widening, Connor wordlessly turned both over, and where before there had been a guardedness to Ned, now he eagerly grasped the glass.

  The boy dumped out the coin and, squinting, held the tumbler close to his eyes. “How’d ya do that?” he demanded. From the inside and then out, Ned poked the bottom of the glass. “Ya’re a wizard,” he answered before Connor could speak.

  “If I were, I’d certainly have a good deal more of those gold guineas.” Connor again winked, and that subtle gesture softened him, made him real and approachable and a figure not to be feared.

  Ned chuckled and turned the coin back over.

  Her heart did a little somersault in her chest.

  Or mayhap that gentle teasing made Connor a figure to be feared for altogether different reasons.

  A grinning Ned settled back in his chair, all his earlier worry washed away.

  The truth slammed into her. Why, that is precisely what he’d sought to do . . . put Ned at ease. Was it merely an investigator’s strategy to lower a person’s defenses, to wheedle information? And yet Ned had been a stammering, frightened child moments ago. Had Connor wished, his ruthlessly cold demeanor could have as easily managed that feat.

  Struggling to make sense of his efforts, she scrutinized the nuances of the exchange unfolding before her.

  The pair spoke as more a casual dialogue between equals than the most formidable Runner in England and a slip of a child.

  “You were familiar with Mac Diggory?” Connor was asking. That hated name raised the gooseflesh on her arms and doused the room in cold.

  Ned hesitated, glancing briefly at Ophelia before continuing. “Aye.”

  “Were you a member of his gang?”

  “Was, until h
e died.” He spat on the floor. With the hatred that burned in the boy’s words, they might have been spoken by Ophelia herself.

  Only . . .

  Her heart squeezed sharply.

  It had been her father who’d terrorized this boy.

  “How did you come to be in his gang?”

  “Me da sold me to ’im.”

  Sold him.

  He was just another one of so many boys and girls who’d been bartered, used, and traded as slaves . . . but her stomach pitched anyway, as it always did at the evidence of that suffering.

  To keep from giving in to that nausea, she focused on the exchange between investigator and street waif. Through the course of the relaxed interview, she hung on Connor’s every word. By God, he was bloody good at what he did. Far more impressive than she wanted to credit . . . and certainly more than she wanted him to be. Ophelia could handle coldhearted, sloppy Runners who didn’t give a jot about the unfortunates in St. Giles. She knew less what to do with a man who occasionally slipped in and out of a lyrical brogue and who sought to allay a child’s fear.

  With his thumb, Connor artfully flipped that coin in a distracting turn. Perhaps this was what made him so skilled an investigator. This ability to ask questions and distract. Ophelia sat there a silent observer, desperately trying to find the path Connor was leading the boy on.

  “Do you know many of the boys bought by Diggory?”

  “Oi do, sir.”

  Connor held up a palm. “I’m no gentleman. I’m from the same streets you are. I’d like to hire you as part of my staff, Ned.”

  The boy jolted. “Beg pardon, sir—Mr. Steele?” Hope blazed to life in his eyes . . . dashed a moment later by mistrust. “You having a laugh at me, sir?”

  “Not at all.” He proceeded to share minimal details, painting a portrait of a heartbroken father and a beloved child lost in St. Giles.

  Ophelia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. As much as she could admire his assuaging the boy’s worries, she took exception with him presenting a ruthless lord as anything less than what he was.

  Connor tossed the coin, and Ned caught it once more. “Those are all the questions I have for today, Ned.”

  The child’s eyes formed round saucers, and as if he feared Connor would change his mind, he stuffed the gold King George III into the front pocket sewn on his shirt. “Sir, thank you,” he said, a smile dimpling his cheeks, highlighting the thread of innocence that still lived within the boy.