The Bluestocking Page 4

  “What is it?” Ophelia prodded.

  Gertrude drew in a breath. “I’m accompanying him.”

  Silence met her avowal.

  Ophelia was the first to break it. “What?”

  “I’ve been like a mother to him.” Gertrude looked between the shorter pair before her. “I tended his scrapes and readied his meals.” And held him as a boy when he’d been haunted by nightmares. “I’ll be the last to see him.”

  Cleo frowned. “You can’t. The marquess was clear in stating he didn’t want us there.”

  “He doesn’t want you there,” Gertrude amended, stripping that statement of inflection and offering it as the pragmatic fact it was. Before her sisters could argue, she launched her defense. “You know the terms.” Gertrude glanced between Ophelia and Cleo. “You both do.”

  “What is this about?”

  Engrossed in their debate, they’d failed to hear Broderick’s approach. Arms folded at his chest, he stared expectantly at them, waiting for an answer. “Gert has it in her head to escort Stephen,” Ophelia elucidated.

  Not allowing Broderick to try and sway her from her course, Gertrude hurried to defend her plan. “Someone should be with him. You?” She pointed to Broderick. “You can’t. You’ll hang. And you?” She looked to Ophelia. “Your situation, if the marquess wishes it, is as untenable as Cleo’s. You’ll join him for a handful of minutes, deliver him to the marquess, and then see everything your husband built destroyed? Destroyed when I can as easily see to it.” Gertrude drew in a deep breath. “I am accompanying him.”

  Ophelia’s brows shot to her hairline. “But Stephen won’t . . .” Her words trailed off, color blazing across her cheeks.

  “Want me?” Gertrude lifted an eyebrow.

  Her middle sister spoke on a rush. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine,” Gertrude said gently. Her feelings weren’t hurt by the realization of her place in Stephen’s affections. She’d done nothing to protect him when he’d most needed it. Whereas Cleo and Ophelia and Broderick all had. It was why she had to do this, now. “I’m going, and it’s time.” As it was, they were nearly twenty minutes late.

  “Gertrude,” Cleo began.

  “She’ll make the journey with him,” Broderick said quietly.

  Surprise shot through her, that emotion reflected back in her younger sisters’ gazes. It was the first time he’d ever ceded any assignment or role to her in lieu of her younger sisters.

  Broderick held her gaze. “You will go.”

  “I don’t need anyone coming with me.”

  That snarled response came from beyond the circle of their group.

  The servants and guards wisely took themselves back inside, leaving the Killorans with the snarling boy.

  “Stephen—” Cleo said gently.

  “Go to hell,” he said, cutting off whatever his elder sister would say. “I’m not a baby.”

  No, he wasn’t. He’d been robbed of that state years earlier.

  Tears welling behind the smudged lenses of her spectacles, Cleo drew Stephen close and hugged him.

  And despite the fact that life on the streets of London had proven the peril in any displays of weakness, Stephen didn’t struggle free of Cleo’s embrace. Nor did he fight when Ophelia took him in her arms next.

  Gertrude blinked furiously. They would expect her to cry. She, the weakest of the Killorans, would be the one to lose control of her emotions and give over to tears.

  He’d never again steal furtive strokes of her many cats when he thought the world wasn’t watching.

  He’d never join her at the oak breakfast table, long before the rest of the house or world had risen, cleverly but still transparently fishing for any knowledge she possessed on ancient weapons. That had been one bond they’d shared. And never again would they do any of these things together.

  Oh, God. It was too much.

  Glancing away from the final goodbyes, Gertrude looked to the open doorway. Stephen’s favorite of her menagerie, Gus, lingered at the doorstep. She snapped her fingers four times in quick succession.

  The tabby bounded down the steps, stopping at her feet.

  She bent and scooped him up, hugging him tight. He squirmed in her embrace, attempting to nose around her pocket.

  “Do behave,” she scolded. Gus squiggled around a bit more before settling into her arms. “It is time,” she reminded the group once again.

  Wrenching away from Ophelia, Stephen stalked off without a final goodbye for Broderick.

  Broderick’s face spasmed, and Reggie quickly slid her fingers into his, clutching his hand.

  Cleo made to call after Stephen as he rushed to the carriage, but Broderick shook his head, staying her efforts. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “It is better this way.”

  It wasn’t. It wasn’t better for any of them, this divide the marquess was forcing upon them.

  It didn’t matter that Broderick hadn’t intentionally ordered the kidnapping of a nobleman’s child. It didn’t matter that neither Gertrude nor Cleo nor Ophelia had known the truth of his identity until just recently. The only consideration the marquess had taken into account was his own deserved resentment and hatred for all of them.

  And I will journey to that household.

  Another chill scraped down her spine. Before her courage deserted her, she released Gus. He landed on all fours and sprinted into the carriage Stephen had climbed inside.

  “He will be fine,” Gertrude promised.

  He would be educated as he should have been, and he would never have to worry about a thief on the streets looking for revenge against the boy who’d slighted him or her in the past.

  Even telling herself that did little to ease the tension knotting her stomach.

  It was time. She looked between her siblings. “I . . . I . . .” And fearing they’d see every last secret she carried, Gertrude coughed into her hand. “I should see to Stephen.” And with that, she rushed off after her brother.

  MacLeod, standing at the doorway of the carriage, held a hand out. “Miss Killoran,” he said in his familiar greeting, that thick Scottish brogue warmly comforting because of its familiarity.

  She managed a smile for the loyal guard’s benefit. With a word of thanks, she let him help her up.

  “Smiling again,” Stephen groused in the corner.

  Gertrude squinted in the darkened space, struggling to bring her brother into focus. Her lips turned down into a grim line. She settled onto the bench opposite her brother, and Gus leapt over, joining the surly little boy. “I was—”

  “Don’t care what you were doing or why,” he muttered, tugging the brim of his favorite cap lower over his brow, that single article so wholly out of place with the high-quality burgundy jacket, fawn trousers, and gleaming, buckled black shoes Broderick had insisted he don.

  MacLeod slammed the door shut, throwing even more shadows upon the velvet upholstery.

  If one looked upon the surface, they’d see nothing more than the vitriol Stephen had directed her way, but when one lived life with only partial vision, one viewed the world with greater depth and attention to each detail. Stephen snuck a small hand over, onto the bench beside him, and finding Gus, he stroked the sensitive portion of the cat’s back. With a loud purr, the tabby scooted closer and leaned into that touch.

  “At least you don’t prattle on like Ophelia.”

  It was the closest he’d ever come to a compliment . . . to anyone she remembered, Cleo included. Her lips twitched.

  As if he’d recognized that show of weakness, Stephen growled and quickly drew his palm back. “When in ’ell are we leaving?”

  “Not ’ell. Hell,” she automatically corrected, then grimaced. “Though neither, whether spoken grammatically correctly or in Cockney, is appropriate.”

  “I ain’t—”

  “You aren’t.”

  “Looking for any of your speech sessions,” he spoke over her. It didn’t escape her notice that he had, however, modif
ied his speech. He directed his gaze down at the floor.

  “Stephen, look at me.” That quiet directive brought his shoulders back. “I said, look at me,” she repeated. “Speaking in your Cockney or cursing . . . It will not get you sent back to the Devil’s Den.”

  His lower lip trembled. “I don’t want to go back.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said softly. “And it is all right to be upset and miss everything you kn-knew here.” For there had been good. This had been the first place in which they’d had peace and safety and security. And laughter. For all the vices that existed within the Devil’s Den, there had been those shared moments of laughter, too. Granted, they had been fleeting moments from individuals who all had learned the peril of expressing any emotion. Leaning over, she covered his hand with her own.

  Stephen’s big Adam’s apple jumped as he looked down at her callused fingers. “The marquess wouldn’t ever let me go back, a-anyway.”

  “No.” Because what was there to say? The marquess, by all intents and purposes, had waited longer than any other nobleman would have to retrieve his child. He owed the Killorans not a moment more with his kidnapped son.

  A moment later, the carriage lurched forward and began a slow roll through the crowded streets of St. Giles on a journey that would be the last one her brother made from the Devil’s Den.

  The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the rattle of the wheels as they rumbled over the grimy St. Giles cobbles filled the carriage, accentuating the silence. Hammering home each passing moment that marked their arrival at Stephen’s new—and yet, oddly also his first—home.

  To give her fingers something to do, Gertrude clutched the corner of the curtain and pulled it back slightly.

  In the near distance, the handful of guards and her siblings remained rooted to the pavement, staring after Broderick’s black carriage.

  “Let it go,” Stephen said, his voice wavering.

  She started, following his stare to the velvet draperies.

  He growled. “I said let it go.”

  Gertrude released the fabric, and it fluttered into place.

  “Broderick said Oi—I couldn’t bring my weapons.” He spoke like a child deprived of his favorite toy and not the near arsenal he’d amassed over the years. Stephen stuck his index finger out, and Gus lapped at the tip of it several times. And then, giving a shake of his head that revealed his feline displeasure, Gus settled into the other side of the carriage, away from Stephen’s reach.

  “Yes.” She paused. “He believes it essential you begin to acclimate to life amongst Polite Society.” Even as she said it, she recognized the inherent impossibility of Stephen . . . or any other member of the Killorans . . . settling easily into the life of the peerage. It wasn’t possible.

  Stephen’s incoherent rumblings of displeasure were lost to her ears.

  “I insisted they be packed.”

  Stephen paused. His eyes went unblinking, his mouth fell open, and then he scrambled forward onto the edge of his seat. “What?” For the first time since he’d come face-to-face with his father again, a sparkle of joy glimmered in his eyes. “Broderick said yes?”

  “It required some . . . convincing.” The pointed reminder that they could not very well leave Stephen in unfamiliar territory without any means to properly defend himself, should the need arise.

  As quickly as that happiness had come, it faded. Stephen’s features fell and then returned to the stony mask of indifference.

  Gertrude stared across at him, and a sense of desperation ran through her. This need to take away his fears and assure him that all would be well. But they would both know the lie there. Surviving in the bowels of East London had long ago proven the world was ruthless with no true promise for tomorrow except uncertainty.

  Sethos squirmed in her pocket and peeked his head out. Gertrude held her palm out, and he jumped into it.

  From his seat next to Stephen, Gus sat up, his ears pitched forward and his hind legs poised to pounce.

  “Don’t.” At her stern directive, the tabby hesitated before collapsing onto his belly. With the tip of her index finger, Gertrude stroked the top of the tiny mouse’s head.

  Not another word was spoken. The carriage continued its slow roll through London, and as they drew farther away from the Devil’s Den and Stephen’s former life and closer to the posh end of Mayfair where he’d spend the rest of his days, her brother slumped lower and lower in his seat.

  And then they stopped.

  The carriage rolled to a slow, lurching halt that signaled the end of their journey and the beginning of a new one for Stephen . . . and Gertrude. Hands shaking, she carefully tucked Sethos inside her cloak pocket.

  A handful of minutes later, someone knocked on the lacquered door.

  “Just a moment,” Gertrude called. She waited, straining her ears as MacLeod’s familiar heavy-booted footfall receded before she turned back to Stephen.

  His gaunt cheeks ashen, he had the same look he’d had when Diggory forced him to drink down a tankard of spirits.

  “I know you don’t want to be here,” she said quietly, those words needing to be spoken because he deserved to feel everything he was feeling in this instance. “And I know we don’t truly know what manner of man your father is now.” Or who he’d been in the past before his life had been ripped asunder.

  Stephen’s gaze fell to the gleaming gold buckles affixed atop his shoes.

  “But Stephen?” She waited until he reluctantly picked his head up. “He didn’t let you go.” Tears stuck in her throat, and she struggled to get words out past them. “You were taken.”

  “I was just an heir.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said automatically.

  “Pfft.” He directed his words at the floor. “That’s all a nob’s child is.”

  Gertrude drew in a breath. “It is time.”

  Leaning forward, she adjusted his crooked cap so it sat straight and then tucked his hair behind his ears. “There.”

  “You aren’t going to take it? Broderick said I couldn’t wear it.”

  “It’s part of you, Stephen.” Just as his fascination with ancient weaponry was. “I’m not looking for you to present yourself as someone you are not for the marquess. I’m looking for you to be who you are.” With all his flaws. And pray the gentleman was not the ruthless madman the papers and society professed him to be.

  She stretched a hand up to the ceiling, but he stayed her.

  “I didn’t appreciate you,” he whispered, his voice so threadbare the words were nearly swallowed up by a passing conveyance. “You weren’t as bad as I made you out to be.”

  Oh, God. She was dying inside. Slowly. Piece by piece. Tears flooded her eyes, blurring his beloved and so-often-angry face. “Th-thank you.” The driver knocked once. No! I’m not ready yet. She’d never be ready. “Just a m-moment.” Her voice cracked. Gertrude turned back to Stephen. “I want you to know you’re going to have a w-wonderful life.”

  Stephen’s lower lip trembled. “I’m not.”

  “And one day, you’re going to be so very happy.” Rap-Rap. “I said, just a moment,” she cried and then continued on a rush, letting the words fly. Wanting to say so much. There wasn’t enough time. There never would be. “You think you won’t be . . . but someday you’ll marvel, Stephen, that you ever w-wanted to stay.” With us.

  With a sob, Stephen launched himself across the carriage and into her arms.

  Gertrude caught him as his small body knocked them both off-balance. “It is going to be all right,” she whispered against his temple. Holding her brother. Wanting to hold on to him forever.

  “I l-love you,” he rasped against her chest.

  And as the boy who’d not cried in years wept against her now, she patted his back in the hard, staccato thumps that had always calmed him at night.

  Another knock sounded. This one firmer. More impatient.

  Stephen stiffened, and she knew the moment her brother had
resurrected the barriers he’d so masterfully built up. Angrily swiping the back of his sleeve over his eyes, he growled. “Bloody impatient bastard. Eager to drop me off.” He reached for the handle, and agony clutched at her heart.

  No.

  I cannot let him go. Not without being sure he is safe.

  Stephen clasped the handle, and the panic threatened to suck her under.

  Be strong . . . for Stephen. She buried her trembling hands in her skirts and forced her features into a mask that strained the muscles and was just a moment away from crumpling.

  Her brother tossed a glance over his shoulder. “I will miss you, Gert,” he whispered. He flashed his mischievous half grin. “And not just because I’m going to be alone, either.”

  I will miss you.

  That was it.

  Before he could press the door handle, Gertrude lunged across the carriage and knocked him off-balance. “Oomph,” he grunted, falling into the side of the carriage. “What in hell was—?”

  “You’re not going to be alone,” she said, her words rolling into one another.

  He cocked his head. “I’m not?”

  No, he was not. Her lips formed a tremulous smile, her first real one since she’d discovered Stephen belonged to another. “You won’t be alone, because I’m staying behind with you.”

  Chapter 4

  The evil carried out by the Diggorys through the years proved they were not a people to be trusted. From Broderick Killoran, who’d issued the command that had seen August stolen, to Mac Diggory, who’d given the orders that left Lavinia murdered. Base savages was what they were. Soulless animals.

  Standing on the Maddock crest at the center of his office carpet, Edwin stared unblinkingly at the paneled doorway.

  They had arrived . . .

  He consulted his timepiece once more.

  Twelve minutes ago. With a growl, he stuffed the chain back inside his jacket.

  “We’re sure he’s in there?” he barked.

  “I . . . I believe so, my lord,” Marlow called from beyond his shoulder. “He was seen departing by the Runner, in the same carriage.”