Women . . . using their own talents and skills and not their bodies to survive. A place where women do not have to rely upon the mercies of any man . . .
Broderick leaned close. The crisp, masculine sandalwood scent of him filled her senses, weakening her defenses. “Because that is not the favor I need of you, Reggie,” he murmured, his chocolaty-smooth baritone managing to turn that otherwise hideous moniker into something seductive in its beauty. A dangerous half grin ghosted his smile, revealing even, pearl-white teeth and dimples in his cheeks. “Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” he pressed softly.
She forced her breathing into an even cadence.
This was Broderick at his most dangerous, one who used his charm and wicked appeal to effortlessly bring others ’round to his wishes.
This was also the first time that he’d turned that charm upon her.
Reggie, however, had made perilous missteps with men equally skilled in tempting a lady out of her own thoughts.
“Don’t use that seductive tone on me, Broderick.” She pursed her lips. “Save it for the prettiest serving girls you want to work an extra shift to please your ducal patrons.”
He reared back. “Egads. I wouldn’t seduce you, Reggie.”
The horror etched in his face and coating his words ripped a hole in a heart that had beaten too long for a man who would never see her. “I know,” she said too quickly. “Of course I don’t think you would. I . . .” Stop rambling. Mortified, she curled her toes tight into her arches until her feet ached, all the while welcoming that discomfort.
“When have you ever known me to say I was without choice?” Broderick asked somberly, directing another, safer, question her way.
Never.
“This isn’t solely about you wanting to make your damned connection to the nobility,” she snapped. “This is about the manner of gentleman you’d contemplate pairing her off with.”
He bristled. “I wouldn’t marry her to just any damned bounder.”
“No,” she snapped. “Just the most powerful one with the greatest debt to you.” Reggie shook her head, disgusted. “You underestimate your sister if you think the only gentleman who’d marry her is an indebted-to-you nobleman.” Anger, hurt, and fury roiled in her chest and drew the words rapidly from her lips. “A wastrel. A whoremonger whose only desire, whose only wish,” she hissed, “is for more coin to toss down at your tables. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Broderick reached for the door handle. “I’d ask you to reconsider your decision,” he attempted once more.
He, who asked for nothing from anyone. She felt herself weakening and wanted to be there for Gertrude and him. And yet she could not. “There is nothing that would make me change my mind.”
Broderick moved a piercing gaze over her face. “I respect you and call you friend.”
Friend. Bitterness sat heavy on her heart.
Broderick took a step closer, and then another, until she was forced to tip her head back to meet his gaze.
“It was why I put Gertrude’s request to you.” He lowered his face close; his breath, tinged with tobacco and brandy, fanned her skin, her heart quickening at the masculine pull of those scents. His next words, spoken on a steely whisper, penetrated the daze he’d cast. “Be not mistaken; regardless of your very clear opinions on my actions and the benefits of a match between Gertrude and a nobleman, I’ll have your cooperation . . . whether you freely give it . . . or not.”
And with that silken threat, Broderick bowed his head and left.
Fingers shaking, Reggie closed the door. She promptly collapsed against it, taking support from the oak panel.
Leave. Pack your belongings, take Clara with you, and go. They had funds enough to survive until they set up their music hall.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, reality quashed it. Her setting up a business that would draw away patrons would be seen only as a betrayal. And regardless of the time he knew a person, Broderick didn’t tolerate those who moved against him. No, her motives wouldn’t matter. Her dreams. Only his empire did.
She knocked the back of her head against the panel.
Damn him. Damn him for always having possessed this single-minded fascination with the peerage. That lot of cold, ruthless, soulless bastards who’d steal a young woman’s happiness and cast her out without a hint of remorse for all she’d lost. The day he’d implemented changes, bringing those dissolute lords into the club as patrons, she’d been filled with a sickening dread. It had remained, day in and day out, growing, as consuming as the fear that one day he would walk through those doors. But this . . . She pressed a shaking fist to her mouth and bit down hard. Broderick would disguise a demand as a request, all the while stripping her of a say.
She could not go back there.
Would not.
Not for Gertrude nor Broderick nor anyone. Yes, he’d saved her, but she’d also given him her loyalty and service, all the while holding futile dreams for more . . . with him.
I was so devoted that I failed to see how precarious it was to trust that he had a like devotion until I had it all yanked out from under me . . .
Before her courage deserted her, Reggie rushed back to her armoire and grabbed her cloak . . . and left.
Chapter 6
Mayhap you are thinking . . . my sister can save me. Let me disabuse you of such foolish hopes. No one can . . .
She’d said no.
With frustration coursing through him, Broderick returned to his offices to find a small, familiar figure stationed outside the door.
Seated against the panel, his knees drawn up to his chest and his cap pulled low over his eyes, Stephen followed Broderick’s approach.
Mistrustful. Wary. Cynical.
They were all ways in which the boy had been twisted by the Dials. Because of me. It is all because of me.
His chest tightened.
As soon as he reached him, his brother popped up.
“Stephen,” he greeted, forcing a casualness past the wad in his throat. “Would you care to . . . ?” Stephen reached past him and let himself in. “Join me,” he finished dryly.
Once they’d entered, his brother kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. The mud caking those dirty soles fell to the floor in small clumps.
“Your hat,” Broderick called over as Stephen plopped himself into his usual seat across from the desk. The threadbare cap that he’d worn since he’d picked his first pocket and set his first fire—it was as much a part of him as his angry soul. That article, however, had also proven a shield that hid his eyes, and Broderick wasn’t above removing that protection to aid his ability to read the boy.
With a curse, Stephen swiped the cap from his head. Slouching in his chair, he watched Broderick with suspicion spilling from those dark irises.
Helping himself to a brandy, Broderick joined his brother at the opposite side of his desk. “Why do I take it this isn’t to be one of our usual meetings?” His spirited, stubborn brother visited often, and when he did, Stephen spoke openly and with enthusiasm about a day in the future when eventually he’d run this club. Only in the past, where Stephen had peppered Broderick with questions about the gaming hell business, patrons, and dealings of the Devil’s Den, now he remained silent.
“What are you going to do?” The boy held up a small, folded note with a familiar seal inked into the crease.
Broderick searched inside his jacket. Bloody hell. With a curse, he held his hand out. “How . . . what . . . ?”
“I’m not just a fire setter—”
“An arsonist,” he automatically corrected.
“I’m the best pickpocket, too,” the boy said with an inordinate amount of pride, puffing out his chest.
“Stop picking mine.” Broderick snatched the damning letter from his brother’s hands.
All the boy’s earlier bravado flagged, and he glanced down at the tips of his boots. “You’re going to hang.” It wasn’t a question.