And hellfire, there he went again, losing his h like the lowborn rookery rat he was. As their circumstances had improved, Jasper had seen them all educated as best he could. To be sure, the Suttons were no lords and ladies. But they had done everything in their power to make The Sinner’s Palace one of the most well-known establishments in the East End. Along with the Winter family, they ruled supreme.
And what a rule it was.
“Rafe,” Pen said, a plea in her voice and her eyes both. “There is no need to tell Jasper about seeing me dressed as I am. Please. You know how protective he is.”
That nettled.
He raked his fingers through his hair and winced when he unintentionally connected with the sore lump once more. “And I ain’t?”
What did you strike me with, Miss Wren?
It was clear he had some business yet to conclude with the fiery-haired woman.
“Of course you are protective.” Pen patted his shoulder. “I hardly meant to say you aren’t.”
“I ain’t one of Jasper’s dogs. No need to pet me.”
Or to attempt to distract him, which was what she was doing. He wasn’t a green lad. He knew all the tricks, having employed them himself on innumerable occasions.
“I do miss Barnaby,” his sister said with a sigh.
He missed Jasper’s dogs as well, and he couldn’t deny it. Well, mayhap not Arsehole. The scamp was always eating his boots, barking, or otherwise causing mischief.
“Get your own hound then,” he suggested. “It ought to keep you busy enough that you aren’t wandering about dressed like a lad and finding yourself in all manner of scrapes.”
She tugged at the cravat she wore, pulling at the knot—a damned fine one, in his estimation. “Perhaps I will. But for now, I ought to at least make certain the gin merchant is not here.”
“Scovey ain’t here and you know it,” Rafe countered. “Who taught you to tie such a fine knot?”
Doing so was an art. It had taken him years to perfect the skill. A man had to at least play the part of a gentleman sometimes.
“I taught myself.”
“Stop lying.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you didn’t ’ear me, maybe you should open your wattles,” he suggested, perhaps unkindly.
Pen’s shoulders went stiff beneath that ridiculous coat she was wearing. Christ, she had stuffed them with something to make herself seem larger than she was, and more masculine too. What the devil? Something suspicious was afoot.
“My ears are open,” she snapped. “Why are you speaking flash?”
The answer was easy. “So you remember who and what you are. You’re a Sutton, girl. As am I. You cannot fool me. Something is amiss here, and I won’t stop until you admit it.”
Someone had taught Pen to tie a proper cravat. Someone had been the reason she was sneaking about like a common thief, dressed as a cove and lying to her brother.
“And why should you think I’m trying to fool you, Rafe Sutton?” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
Now she was trying for outrage? Ha! He would not be distracted.
“Who?” he demanded curtly. “Give me a name. Tell me who the worthless fribble is. There has to be a gentleman involved. Am I wrong?”
She went pale. “Rafe, please.”
“No secrets, Pen,” he said, refusing to soften. “Suttons protect our own. Jasper ain’t here, but I am. So you answer to me now.”
And holy hell, but what a frightening realization that was. The responsibility of his siblings rested heavy as a boulder on his shoulders.