Including you.
That was, of course, all this was about: how the ton viewed the Killorans. That was all it had ever been about with him, as long as she’d known him. That reminder shattered his mesmeric hold and the illusion she’d allowed herself. Fool.
She tugged the fabric from her person, freeing it from his hands. “No one with the name ‘Reggie’ shines,” she muttered. Tossing it aside, she retrieved the bolt he’d previously discarded. “And I like this.”
He snorted.
“What?” she asked, her indignation creeping up. “Because it is not the brightest nor the most extravagant, it does not mean it’s not lovely in its own right.”
His lips twitched, the corners tilting up in the faintest half grin. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in any shade other than brown.”
She started. He’d noticed the dresses she’d worn.
He caught the slight puff of her brown wool dress. “I notice everything,” he murmured, following her thoughts with an unerring accuracy.
Her chest constricted, and for an endless, terrifying instant, she believed he toyed with her. That along the way he’d at some point gathered the truth of her affections. In the mirror, Reggie searched his face for evidence of that knowing. Finding none, relief chased off the horror. “Well, I like it,” she repeated. “It’s the color of chocolate and . . . and . . .”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, hush.” She held the muslin close to her breast. “It’s a perfectly fine color.”
Broderick touched the tip of her nose. “Precisely.” He glanced to the door. “Enter.” His voice boomed around the parlor.
Madame Colette pushed the panel open and swept inside.
“You shall find Miss Spark far more agreeable,” he promised as the modiste approached. “No browns for her.” He continued over Reggie’s protestations. “No matter how much the young woman might insist. I want her in rich greens, lavenders, deep shades of blue.” Broderick’s gaze locked with Reggie’s. “I don’t want simply ‘fine’ for my sister’s companion. I want a masterpiece.”
Reggie slapped a hand over her eyes. “Companions do not neeeeed masterpieces.” She let her arm fall and tried to reason with him. “We simply need dresses. Proper ones. Modest ones. Uninteresting ones.”
“All of that means the same thing,” he drawled.
She gritted her teeth. “I know. I was attempting to make a point that servants do not wear extravagant gowns. Isn’t that right, Madame Colette?” With her palpable loathing for her clients missing those noble connections, Reggie could certainly count on support there.
The modiste angled her body in a way that made it clear there were only two participants in this conversation, and Reggie was certainly not one of them. “I only do masterpieces, Meezter Killoran.” Madame Colette patted the back of her turban.
“Of course, madame,” he purred. Quitting Reggie’s side, he moved to gather the other woman’s spare hand. He trailed his lips over her wrist. “She’ll need a gown readied in two days’ time.”
No! Reggie sprang forward on the balls of her feet in protest.
“Two days?” Madame Colette squawked, slipping out of her already-poor French accent. “Why . . . why, that is impossible. It takes no fewer than two days for a seamstress to craft a day dress. Let alone a masterpiece. And . . . and . . . that is if the girls are working without a moment’s rest.”
Relief brought Reggie back on her heels.
Through the modiste’s tirade, Broderick had retained hold of her hand. Over those smooth fingertips, he eyed the woman like she was the only one in the room. It was a skill he’d turned against any staff member or servant whose cooperation he required. Reggie, however, had always seen right through it and had refused to fall over herself at that ploy. “Ah, but you’ve not two . . . but . . . six young women here. Not just any women.” The gaggle of seamstresses arched forward on the balls of their feet, hanging on the promise he dangled.
Reggie tapped her boot, that annoyed thump muted and dulled by the thick Aubusson carpet.
“But the finest seamstresses at Madame Colette’s,” he finished, ushering in a collection of sighs.
His gaze crept just beyond the woman’s shoulder, over to Reggie.
Had he always been this infuriating? “Really?” she mouthed.
He winked.
“Non, non, non. Friday, Meezter Killoran, at the earliest.”
Reggie waved her fingertips in the air. “My current wardrobe will do splendidly until you have time to create your latest . . . masterpiece.”
Alas, she remained invisible for all the notice paid her.
“Two days. One hundred pounds more.”
The modiste’s eyes bulged in her face.
At that weakening, Broderick pounced. “A woman of your talents and skills,” he murmured, walking a slow circle about the modiste. “You are surely capable of anything.”
It was foolish in the extreme to feel anything over his blatant attempt to charm a bloody gown from the sharp-tongued woman. Especially because Reggie knew the exact game he played. And yet another unwanted wave of jealousy stung her.
Madame Colette tittered. “One gown.” Reggie’s earlier hope proved fleeting. Bloody hell, he’d charmed the miserable harpy into this. “Not one more.” She clapped her hands once. “Now, shoo, you scoundrel. You’ve left me with a”—the modiste finally spared Reggie a glance—“near impossible task.”
Broderick flashed that pearl-white smile that dimpled his left cheek. “But not impossible.”
“You are shameful,” Reggie mouthed as he stalked past. “Shameful.”
He winked. “And you’ll have your gown in two days’ time.”
Her heart sank. Blast. “I already have”—Broderick was already through the door—“a gown,” she said under her breath, the audible utterance buried behind the firm click of the door.
The earlier levity instantly faded from the group of seamstresses and the modiste.
“Now, Miss Spark.” The slight, sneering emphasis there indicated precisely what the modiste thought about Reggie Spark from the Dials. “It is time to turn you into a silk purse.”
Chapter 13
The question you must be asking . . . when am I coming for you . . . ?
The first Killoran meeting inside their new Mayfair residence took place the next morn.
“I found Lucy and Walsh,” he said, not mincing words. Removing the stoppard from a decanter, Broderick splashed several fingerfuls of the amber spirits into a glass. He took a long drink and grimaced. “It did not go well.”
Cleo sat forward in her seat. “What happened?”
Running through a methodical accounting of everything that had transpired since his meeting with Walsh, Broderick filled his siblings in on the ever-pressing threat posed by Maddock.
Through his telling, Ophelia’s frown deepened. “Who located them?”
He looked over to his middle sister. A question darkened her gaze. Broderick shifted in his seat, the leather folds groaning in protest.
With a growl she stomped over and slapped her palms on the side of his desk. “You hired another detective?” Other than her husband, that was.
“I’d been working with him long before you married O’Roarke,” he gritted out. “Furthermore, you are missing the damned source of concern in all this.”
“No, I’m not,” Ophelia spat, as stubborn as she’d always been. Of all his levelheaded, collected sisters, her temper had always burnt as hot as Stephen’s. “Had you enlisted my husband’s assistance, we wouldn’t even now find ourselves in the circumstances we do.”
Heat suffused his cheeks.
And damn if Ophelia wasn’t right. “I should have used him, but I did not,” he gritted out that admission. “As such, I’m electing to focus on what we might still be able to control.”
As one, the sisters looked to Gertrude.