He’d thieved, killed, and deceived countless souls. And now, if he went forward with this, he’d add selling himself to the list of sins that blackened his soul.
Ophelia glanced around. “It is settled, then?”
The noose gripped him by the neck and squeezed all the tighter.
There was, however, one last attempt at salvation he might seek, one that didn’t include a bride.
One that was long overdue.
Chapter 23
No doubt you have convinced yourself there is still a way out . . .
With the Killorans assembled for another family meeting, Reggie found herself with the unenviable task of watching after Stephen.
Oh, bloody hell.
“Yeah, well, Oi don’t want to be with you, either.”
Splendid.
“I didn’t say anything,” she gritted, walking at a brisk clip through an empty Hyde Park.
Stephen quickened his strides, keeping up. “Yes, you did. With your eyes.”
How did a boy see so blasted much? “Then mayhap you should try being a little friendlier.”
“To you?” He snorted.
Reggie stopped abruptly and dropped the basket in her fingers onto the dew-soaked grounds. “You’ve been horrid to me since the night I found you outside that nobleman’s residence,” she snapped.
The color leached from his cheeks, and he rushed over. “Shh,” he ordered, slapping a finger to his lips.
She dropped her hands to her hips. “No. No, I won’t be quiet. I was looking after you that night. I saved your blasted cap because I know it’s your favorite.” She flicked a hand at the very article. “And I said nothing to your brother about where you’d been.” When she should have. After the fires Stephen had set and the unpredictability of his volatile temper, she’d owed it to Broderick to report all the details of that night. She took a quick step toward him. “And yet you’ve treated me as though I’m an enemy.”
He flinched. There were few insults greater to one who lived in Seven Dials than that one. “I didn’t want Broderick to trust you.” He paused. “I thought you’d tell Broderick where you found me.”
So that was what this had been about? She sharpened her stare on his face. “Well, then congratulations are in order. I gave you my word, and you succeeded in driving a deeper wedge between your brother and me on nothing more than a fear I’d turn your secret over to him.” Though that wasn’t altogether true. She was the one most responsible for the lack of trust that had developed between them. Stomping over to the basket, Reggie jerked open the lid and pulled out the gingham blanket inside. She gave it several hard snaps, and then not sparing another glance at her sullen charge, she sat.
Stephen hovered, shifting back and forth on his feet. There was not a prouder, angrier boy in all the Dials than the one beyond her shoulder. And yet . . . he wanted to join her. The moment she invited him over, however, he’d bolt like one of Gertrude’s skittish cats. Reggie fished her notepad and pencil from the basket. With the tip of his scuffed boot, Stephen kicked a rock at her feet. The pebble grazed the hem of her skirts. She opened her book and flipped through the pages. “Generally, if you wish for a person’s attention, you say their name.” Not even glancing up, Reggie held one of the stones aloft. “You do not kick things at them.”
“Got it,” he mumbled. He kicked another pebble; this time the well-aimed tip of his shoe sent the projectile flying in the opposite direction. “It’s all your fault.” His lower lip trembled.
“What?”
“Gert could’ve married herself a duke, and you came along and ruined it.”
Her stomach sank. He knew. “Your sister would have never been happy . . . or safe with him.”
“But he’s more powerful than any lord in London, and you angered him and now Broderick.”
She went absolutely motionless. “What?”
“’e beat him up. Real good, too. Might’ve broken ’is nose.”
Reggie’s mouth moved but the words ceased coming. What? Her thoughts ran together. He’d . . . beaten Oliver? “Why, why did you do that?” she whispered, dropping her face into her hands. It was an act that would never go unpunished, and Broderick, who craved respectability above all else, had raised the ire of a duke . . . for her.
Stephen sat next to her. “You all right?” he asked hesitantly.
No. “Yes.”
“Did he . . .” His words trailed off, and she glanced over. “Did he hurt you?”
Reggie stared ahead. A breeze dusted the Serpentine, sending a small ripple across that otherwise placid surface. “He did.”
Stephen said nothing for a long while and then cleared his throat. “I don’t really hate you, you know.”
It was a significant admission from a boy who hated everyone.
“And I don’t think you’re a miserable little bugger.” She paused. “All the time.” She softened that by ruffling the top of his head.
Stephen ducked away from that show of affection and adjusted his cap.
Her heart pulled. How different he would have been—how less fearful, more nurtured—had he found himself the cherished boy of a marquess. While his gaze was directed out at the swans, she studied him. How very different he’d been from her own brothers. Who had Cameron and Quint become in the years since she’d last seen them? Her throat worked. They’d be grown men now.
Stephen nudged her with his elbow. “What?”
She drew a breath. “Nothing.” Reggie retrained her energies on the music notes she’d already put to page.
“They were going to have a meeting.”
She furrowed her brow.
“Ophelia called it. They were coming over and didn’t want me around.”
The little boy stole a glance around and then spoke in a hushed whisper that she strained to detect. “Do ya think it’s about ’im? My . . . my . . .” He shook his head, unable to force the remainder of that sentence out.
His father.
The man who sought to destroy Broderick and everything he’d built . . .
The man who was the reason Broderick prepared for his eventual hanging.
A lone warbler gave a mournful cry. “I don’t know what it’s about,” she confessed. “I’m not afforded the same privileges I once enjoyed.”
Stephen dropped his chin atop his knees and rubbed back and forth.
They settled into an easy silence, with Reggie resuming her work on the first musical arrangement for her eventual hall.
Stephen nudged her foot with the tip of his boot.
She stared over questioningly.
“Do ya want ta play with the racket and balls?”
For this boy, who cursed like a sailor and still thieved for his own amusement, there were so few glimpses of that innocence. Not allowing him an opportunity to change his mind, she fetched the set from her basket. “Here,” she said, thrusting over one of the rackets.
“Ya ever play this before?” he called over as they got themselves into position.
She gestured for him to move back. “Oh, quite often.” I won again, Regina . . . Can we play another . . . ? A wistful smile hovered on her lips.
He volleyed the first shot. “With who?”
The ball sailed past her racket and hit her in the knees.
“What?” she blurted.
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Who did you play with?”
“I . . .”
The approaching echo of a horse’s hooves saved her from answering. Together they stared off into the distance, squinting as the rider drew closer. There was something familiar about that powerful mount. Shielding his eyes with his racket, Stephen moved his other hand to the dagger at his waist in a gesture of self-defense ingrained into all who lived in the Dials. Atop a monstrous black mount, a gentleman raced at a reckless pace, tearing up the grass as he went.
“Bloody nobs,” Stephen spat, releasing the hold he had on his weapon. “They think”—he faltered, his voice fading to a whisper—“the world is their due.”
“Come,” she said gently, urging his focus away from the gentleman too arrogant to make use of the riding paths.
Stephen remained immobile.
She whipped her head between him and then the rider. What . . . ?