Yes. That was the likely outcome.
With a calm he didn’t feel, he stuffed the note back inside his jacket. “It certainly makes a noble connection between our family and some powerful peer more . . . vital,” he said quietly. It had always been the goal he’d carried for the Killorans. That hadn’t changed, nor would it ever. That link would provide the last of his sisters with a security not afforded to those outside the illustrious ranks of the peerage. And moving amongst that world, Gertrude would at least be the one Killoran who could manage to watch after Stephen when he was returned to his noble father.
“Only a connection to the king ’isself can save ya.”
Nothing could. Broderick had accepted that. Not him anyway. There was, however, hope for his family and those who depended upon the Devil’s Den.
“If ya’re hoping Gert’s gonna make that match, ya’re even stupider than her damned cat, Brave.”
“She’s already agreed to a London Season.” It had been a capitulation that had come far easier than from either of their younger sisters. She’d made that sacrifice on behalf of the Killorans. Nay, on behalf of you. She believed it was about saving Broderick and the Devil’s Den. Just as Stephen did . . .
Guilt and shame made his tongue heavy, making it impossible to smoothly deliver words as he so often did. He coughed into his hand.
Stephen shrugged. “Don’t matter wot she’s agreed to. No one’s going to marry ’er with ’er eye.”
Anger coursed through Broderick. Ultimately, though, Stephen was just a boy in desperate need of guidance. A child who would have turned out vastly different from the dangerous, hardhearted person he had if it hadn’t been for Broderick. His chest tightened. “Look at me, Stephen,” he quietly ordered.
The younger boy hesitated and then brought his head up so he faced Broderick.
Laying his palms on his desk, Broderick leaned forward, shrinking the space between them. “No one speaks ill of a Killoran, and we certainly don’t do so to one of our own. Is that clear?”
Stephen ducked his head. “Yeah. It’s clear.” He kicked the toe of his shoe over the floor. “But I’m not really a Killoran,” he whispered, slipping into a flawless King’s English better suited to the noble he was. “And I don’t want to go back.”
“It’s not your choice. It’s not mine, nor Cleo’s nor Ophelia’s nor Gert’s.” A vicious pain, sharper than the last blade plunged into Broderick’s person, lanced him. At last, they would speak of it. Stephen’s fate and future had only been whispered about amongst Broderick and his sisters and never again mentioned to or with the boy after he’d first received the news of his circumstances.
Quitting his seat, Broderick came around the desk and squatted beside his brother. “You will always be a Killoran,” he said somberly. He covered Stephen’s dirt-smudged fingers with his palm. “We are not family for any blood that is shared but because of a bond that runs far deeper.” Even after he eventually left.
“If she marries a more powerful nob than . . .” His father. The fires of hatred burnt strong in the child’s eyes, chilling Broderick. “. . . him, might he arrange it so that I can remain here?”
Broderick scrubbed a hand over his mouth and then let it fall to his side. “I can’t make this go away for you, Stephen,” he said quietly. For everything else he’d righted for the club and the family, this was something that could never be undone.
His brother’s throat worked, that slight bob of his Adam’s apple the only hint of the grief tearing at him . . . and a small show of it, at that.
“When . . . he . . . your father,” he forced himself to say, “comes for you, we’ll have to let you go.”
“But why hasn’t he come for me already if he wanted me?”
There was an odd blend of both resentment and hope to that query that shattered Broderick all over again. “I . . . don’t know,” he said, settling for the truth. “I cannot presume to know why the marquess is doing or, in this case, not doing what he is.” Broderick held his brother’s eyes. The only answer was that the man was as mad as the gossip columns professed him to be. And I’ll one day soon have to send Stephen back to the marquess . . . “Eventually, you’ll have to leave. And I trust the marquess won’t allow us near you. If Gert weds into the same social circle, she’ll always be close.”
“So it’s to watch after me when I go to Mayfair, then,” Stephen said, his voice ringing hollow, his eyes avoiding Broderick’s. “Gert marrying.” He spoke in the deadened tones of one who’d given up hope. “Not to spare me.”
“That is not the only reason,” Broderick quietly conceded. “Gertrude will benefit in having a fortune and powerful connections.” They would provide his last unwed sister with a future Broderick himself was incapable of. “There are the staff and servants employed here dependent on—”
“Do ya think ’e’ll ’ang ya?”
Broderick didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Still, with the boy’s inclination to protect his family at all costs—be it burning down businesses or threatening lords—he measured his response. “I believe he’s within his rights to feel whatever rage he does for me, and for what he lost.”
“’e can go to ’ell.”
No doubt having lost his son and wife, the man was already there.
Stephen pulled his dagger out of his boot and passed it back and forth between his palms. “Ya were with Spark,” he casually remarked. Broderick scrutinized that distracted movement. Since when had his brother begun referring to Reggie by her surname? “Wot ya be needing her for?”
“Generally, everything,” he muttered, coming to his feet. He went and grabbed his brandy. And as panic twisted his brother’s features, Broderick took a long swallow. “I should ask you the same.”
Stephen spat on the floor. “No. Oi didn’t do anything. Wot did she say?”
“She told me I should keep a closer eye on you.” Which was wise advice.
His brother exploded. “She can go to hell.”
“Enough.” He’d not tolerate the boy disparaging her. Not Reggie. Broderick sharpened his gaze on his brother’s tiny frame. “What’s this about?” It was time they stopped dancing around whatever had truly brought Stephen to his offices this time.
“Oi don’t trust ’er.”
“Reggie Spark?” Unfailingly loyal and devoted to him, his siblings, and the Devil’s Den, today had been the first time in the whole of their time together she’d ever said no to fulfilling a task or request he’d put to her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Because she was concerned about you?”
“It ain’t that,” Stephen said, slashing a frustrated hand through the air.
Broderick managed his first smile since his world had been flipped over. “You don’t believe any woman is to be trusted.” How many times had the boy said as much about the serving girls and prostitutes and servants? For that matter . . . “You don’t believe anyone should be trusted.”
Stephen gave an emphatic nod. “And it’s true. They ain’t to be trusted.” He paused, wrinkling a dirt-smudged nose. “Except for Cleo, Ophelia, and Gert.”
Stephen might be a miserable little fellow, but he was loyal to the family, and he loved deeply. “Reggie is family,” Broderick reminded him.
“No, she ain’t. She’s just some peculiar harpy you rescued from the streets who was following after me.”
That disparaging assessment raised a frown, chasing away his patience for Stephen’s latest temper. “A harpy is a winged monster.”
“Precisely.”
Reggie, with her crimson curls and endearingly freckled, heart-shaped face, was more siren than monstrous mythical figure. As soon as the dishonorable thought slid in, he scowled, equally annoyed with Stephen . . . and himself for lusting after her, if even in the privacy of his own musings. “Reggie is more than whatever you’re making her out to be.”