Page 94 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Alexandra straightened and gave the factotum her best steely look, the same one she gave ruffians eyeing her pockets with interest. “Mr. O’Sullivan.” Her voice was firm. “I love him every bit as much as you do. Imagine how you would feel if I orderedyouto return to the club and wait.”
“Oof.” Doyle clicked his tongue. “She’s gotta good point there, boss.”
Mr. O’Sullivan tilted his head back and let out a long breath. “Fuck. That she does.”
Chapter 33
Going down into that cellar made Thorne feel like he was a child again.
The stench hit him first. It was the musty odor of old stones, water, and enclosed space. The second? He couldn’t tell if it were real, or another waking nightmare: the piss and shit that emanated from one corner of the room, the sweat of a dozen bodies in a space that got tighter and tighter as they grew. They had all huddled in the darkness for warmth, and for comfort. One of the few comforts they had during the hours between their tasks. Steal enough to earn food, and the rats might not come in the night.
But the rats came, perhaps attracted by the scent of a boy who perished from cold or hunger. They came, and their noises would pierce the black.
More memories erupted: cold winters pressed up against the other boys for warmth; being kicked awake by a hard boot; broken bones and bloodied fingers when he didn’t do a job right.
The tread of boots on the stone steps drew Thorne’s attention.
Patrick Whelan stood silhouetted against the doorway, holding a lantern in his hand. Another memory came fast: Thorne was twelve years old, waiting on this man to come down here in the dark. Hoping for another opportunity that would earn him scraps for a job well done.
God, he’d worked so damn hard for the pathetic bites of food he’d been given. So damn hard for any praise at all.
Now that Thorne’s eyes had adjusted to the lantern light, he could see his former tormentor more clearly. Whelan had aged a great deal since Thorne stuck a knife in his gut on the new London Bridge and tossed him into the Thames. His face was heavily lined and his hair had grayed all the way through. Whelan was once a mountain of a man—not as large as O’Sullivan, but formidable. Terrifying. Now he was as thin as an opium addict. But while his body had lost its musculature, his eyes were still as sharp and cunning as ever. Cold, dead eyes. Devoid of warmth and emotion, for the man was incapable of either.
“I was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Whelan said. “You learned a lot from me in these walls, Nicky boy.”
“I suppose I did,” Thorne replied.
A strange calm settled over Thorne. Yes, he had learned a lot from this man. He had learned about survival. He had learned about how to lie awake at night and plan how he’d gain power. He had learned every shrewd skill necessary to take it, whether at the end of a blade or in the houses of Parliament. And now he was the master of the East End.
And every fucking street in it.
“I reckon you owe me a debt for that,” Whelan continued. “And for the money I lost when you pulled Seymour’s contract. I promised my men a share of the blunt.”
Thorne gave a small smile. “Isthatwhat you think? That I owe you money for the assassination contract on my wife?” He gave a sharp laugh. “How far you’ve fallen, to be beholden to other men.”
Whelan straightened, his lips flattening. “Yeah, you got grand, haven’t you, lad? I reckon you could use reminding of where you come from.”
“I know where I came from,” Thorne said, very softly. “I’ve never let myself forget.”
“That right?” Whelan’s eyes glittering in the lantern light. “Seems to me you’ve forgotten. Almost got a toff’s accent now. Wearin’ those fancy clothes, playin’ lord with your lady, you seem little different than a nob. You and I both know that you’ll never be more than the lad I picked from the gutters, who’d whore himself out for a bite of bread and kill a man for a fuckin’ coin.”
Some dim flicker of shame went through Thorne, chased away by his memories of Alex. Alex, kneeling beside the bathtub, asking him to go on that journey with her in the future. Alex, tracing his scars and hearing the story of each one. Alex, granting him forgiveness, a gift he had never allowed himself to hope for. She knew his darkest secrets, that life he had kept hidden from her in Stratfield Saye. Thorne understood now that truth held some power, for it was an offering:Here is everything I have done, and everything I’ve learned. Will you take me as I am?
And Alex had taken him, past and all.
“Never say you’re jealous,” Thorne said with a laugh.
“Jealous?” Whelan snarled, moving closer to Thorne. “Yeah, you’ve changed, Nicky-boy, if you think I’m jealous of a fuckin’ pretend nob. Your wife’s softened you up, ain’t she? You’re thinkin’ you’re respectable now?”
“What matter?” Thorne suddenly felt impatient. “Seymour pulled the contract. She’s nothing more to do with us.”
“She’s everything to do with us!” Whelan hissed. He lashed out with his fist, slamming it against Thorne’s jaw. Thorne stepped back, but showed nothing; no pain, no fear. He had grown used to Whelan’s fists years ago. They had left their marks on him. Whelan grasped the front of Thorne’s shirt. “You came back four years ago with enough blunt to ruin me and thought I wouldn’t find out where you got it? You have my best men slaughtered and think I won’t fuckin’ notice?”
Thorne licked the blood from his lip. “After what you did to O’Sullivan and me and the rest of the lads, it was fair play.”
“I fed you, sheltered you—”
“Forced us to steal for you, murder for you, whore ourselves out and sleep in this dark cell at night. Aye, fine father figure you are.”
