Grosvenor Square
For all the crimes upon your black soul, you’d attempt to foist a street rat born in the gutters off as my son? That is the least of the vile deeds you’ll pay for . . .
As a young woman who’d once watched over her younger siblings and then stepped into the role of governess, charged with the care of a nobleman’s three daughters, Miss Regina Spark had extensive experience looking after children.
Not a single one of those previous charges, however, had been a jot like the one she’d shadowed from the Dials all the way to the West End of London.
The fancy end, where she and those she now called family were unwelcome, and the last place Reggie cared to be.
And yet, this night, she had no choice.
Her eleven-year-old quarry, Stephen Killoran, more than a foot shorter than Reggie, darted quickly around a corner, disappearing down Park Lane. What he lacked in stride he made up for in stealth.
Running through a litany of curses that would have scandalized the family she’d once had, Reggie increased her pace and followed suit until she lost him from sight.
Her chest rising and falling, Reggie stopped and did a sweep of the quiet streets. She surveyed Somerset House in the distance. The moon bathed those grounds, a blend of buildings and gardens that didn’t know if they wished to be in the crisp English countryside or a part of the metropolis they, in fact, were.
Where are you . . . ? Where are you . . . ?
Panic pounded in her breast. I am too old to be running after a boy who doesn’t want to be found. She should be seeing to her own business, setting up the future she dreamed of for herself. And yet . . . this child was like family.
And Reggie’s obligations—for now—belonged to Broderick Killoran, the proprietor of the Devil’s Den. Gathering her coarse wool skirts in hand, she rushed in swift pursuit.
At last, he stopped. So quickly, so unexpectedly that Reggie stumbled to a halt, catching herself against a stucco townhouse.
Stephen doffed his cap, a threadbare article better suited to the pickpocket of years ago and not the beloved boy whose family had more money than Croesus.
Reggie’s breath settled into an even cadence as she willed him to lose himself in the shadows once more. With Ophelia, the middle Killoran sister, only recently sprung from Newgate, they could not lose Stephen to that merciless gaol.
As it was, after Stephen had set the rival club, the Hell and Sin, afire, destroying the establishment in one reckless move, it was a miracle he’d not already found himself hanged for his crimes. Society didn’t discriminate amongst the age of sinners. Desperate children, men, and women swung equally, as a reminder to all that to the world, the only lives that mattered were those born to the ton.
Given that, Reggie should jar him from his endlessly motionless state in the middle of the street. And yet she forced herself to remain frozen to her spot.
Waiting.
Watching.
Trying to sort out what it was about this enormous brick residence with its limestone accents that made him careless enough to stand in plain sight.
In the far distance, the rumble of carriage wheels upon the stone thoroughfare jerked him from his reverie.
Giving his head a shake, Stephen took off running once more. Not breaking stride, he caught the ineffectual black fence erected around the white limestone double residence and hefted himself over. His cap flew backward, landing forlornly on the pavement, forgotten by the child who was already rushing off. But who was also always in possession of it.
Regina once again raced forward. When she reached the same gleaming black fence, she scooped up Stephen’s forgotten hat and stuffed it between her teeth.
Her heart pounded, and she waited for the hue and cry to go up. She scaled the fence and swung one leg over, straddling the structure. Her skirts tangled about her legs, and the cool night air slapped at her exposed limbs. In her haste to find Stephen, she stretched her boot to the ground, miscalculating the distance.
Reggie went down hard, landing on her back in the midst of a small designed garden under an arched window.
She winced as pain jolted from her buttocks all the way up her back and down to her feet, radiating agony down to the soles of her serviceable black boots. A handful of stars peeked out from behind a thick cloud cover, twinkling overhead as if in celestial amusement.
Wincing, Reggie shoved herself to her feet. She hurriedly pushed her skirts down and bolted along the side of that grand residence.
Oh, bloody hell.
I am not meant for this . . . She’d been rot at sneaking and subterfuge when she’d first joined the Killoran family, and she was just as rot at it all these years later.
Still for that truth, this family had become the family she’d lost, and she’d scale the bloody Tower of London in order to save a single one of them, if she must.
Reggie had reached the back of the endless building when something hurtled at her, knocking her hard into the side of the townhouse.
She opened her mouth to scream when a pair of accusatory, anger-filled eyes met her own. “Ya’re following me, Spark.” The absolute frost in his gaze chilled her.
He’s just a boy.
Just a boy, but one who had an age-old wariness in his jaded eyes that most grown men wouldn’t have in seventy years of suffering through this existence.
Reggie made her lips move up in a smile. “You forgot this,” she whispered, holding out his cap.
He stared at her as if she’d sprung a second head. “This is what ya came after me for?”
By that suspicion-laden query, he’d not remembered losing the article. Questions perked at the back of her mind. Unimportant ones for now, but their meaning surely mattered and would be explained later.
“Does Broderick have you watching me now?”
That unenviable task fell to the boy’s eldest sister, Gertrude. Partially blind, however, Gertrude wasn’t one to rush off through the streets of London. “No. I saw you sneak out.” Reggie settled her features into her sternest governess expression. “What are you doing here?”
Stephen spat at her feet. “Ain’t yar business. Ya ain’t a Killoran.”
He was a mere boy whose life had been endlessly harder than any adult’s, let alone a child’s, and even knowing that and telling herself that, it didn’t make Stephen’s well-placed barb hurt any less. Reggie leaned down, sticking her face close to his. “No. I’m not.” Not by blood. “But regardless, I’m not leaving you to snoop around some nobleman’s household.” Not when he’d a history of setting fires all over London that had very nearly seen people killed.
Stephen’s eyes said “go to hell” more loudly than had he shouted the words into the early-morn quiet.
The sharp bark of a lone dog echoed around the night sky. Reggie’s heart jumped.
“Scared of a fucking dog,” he taunted. “Wot Oi’m doing here ’as nothing to do with ya.” The boy pressed his hands against her stomach and shoved hard.
A smaller person would have gone down under that impressive shove. Reggie stumbled but caught herself against the townhouse.
Stephen was already running around back.
She briefly closed her eyes. And all those years ago, she’d believed her charges a challenge. Not a single spider in her tea nor a poorly hiding girl could have compared to this.
Nor was this boy merely an assignment to her, either.
Setting out after him, Reggie crept along the same path Stephen had followed until she reached the mews ’round back. The eight-door, brick stables covered in meticulously groomed ivy could comfortably sleep the entire staff of the Devil’s Den.
She skimmed her eyes over each wood panel and then snagged her gaze on the sixth door, cracked slightly.
Drawing in a silent breath through her tensed lips, Reggie hugged the building one more moment before sprinting across the courtyard. The heel of her boots striking the graveled grounds thundered loud. Or was it merely fear that magnified her damning footfalls?