Raven (Gentlemen of the Order Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  Jessica’s pleading gaze shot to her sister.

  Being intelligent enough to know Sloane’s suggestion was a ploy for privacy, Sophia said, “If your footman directs us to the garden, we might examine its delights.”

  A knock on the door brought the housekeeper, not the footman.

  “Ah, Mrs Brogan, escort my guests upstairs and find suitable rooms, after which they would like a tour of the gardens.” He glanced at Jessica and offered a smile. “We shall discuss your findings over breakfast.”

  The low, throaty tone of Evan Sloane’s voice stirred something primal in most women. Thankfully, his sense of honour meant he wouldn’t touch Jessica even if she straddled him naked.

  Sophia stood and made to leave. “We shall see you both at breakfast.”

  Something in her eyes—a hint of trepidation—forced Finlay to capture her elbow and whisper, “All will be well, I assure you.”

  A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips. “Yes. I’m sure it will.” She looked at Sloane. “Thank you, Mr Sloane. We are forever in your debt.”

  “Cole is in my debt, my lady, and I intend to make him pay.”

  Sophia gave a light laugh before linking arms with Jessica and leading her sister out into the hall. The moment Mrs Brogan closed the door, Sloane released a curious hum.

  “So, you’re still in love with Sophia Adair. It’s not shocking news, but one couldn’t help but notice your outward display of affection.”

  Finlay silently groaned.

  He pasted an arrogant smirk. “As a client and an old family friend, it is my duty to allay her fears.”

  “Indeed. Just as it is your duty to stroke your thumb over the sensitive skin at her elbow.” Sloane slapped Finlay on the back. “Come. You look as if you need one of my famous concoctions. A good old wily whistle will soothe your tired limbs.”

  “Soothe my limbs and leave me comatose.” The wily whistle consisted of whisky and rum with a dash of sugar syrup. A man could singe his throat on the fumes alone. “I need my wits if I’m to explain the complicated events that brought us here this morning.”

  Sloane’s lips curled into a confident grin. “But you won’t say no.”

  “No, but I’ll take more syrup than rum.”

  Finlay relaxed on Sloane’s damask sofa while his friend sloshed spirits into crystal tumblers and stirred vigorously with a silver spoon.

  Sloane crossed the room and handed Finlay his drink. “I’ve added a crafty splice of sherry. It enhances the aroma.”

  “You mean it enhances the potency.” Finlay sipped the amber mixture, his successive pants cooling his throat. “Damn, that’s good.” One glass of wily whistle and a man might forget he’d kissed the woman he’d sworn to keep at arm’s length.

  “So,” Sloane began as he settled into the sofa opposite and swallowed a mouthful of the fiery potion. “Daventry gave me the basic facts.”

  “Such as?” The question was a means to save time. The members of the Order were sworn to secrecy, and Finlay trusted Sloane implicitly.

  “Miss Draper had an accident that left her mentally unstable. Everyone believes she married some fellow and now lives in India. Lady Adair has kept her sister hidden ever since, but suspects someone is trying to abduct the young woman.”

  Finlay explained everything that had occurred at Blackborne, everything except for the passionate kiss in the woods.

  Sloane mused over the information while enjoying his potent tipple. “Miss Draper appeared a little overexcited, but I wouldn’t say she suffers from hysteria. When I mentioned mermaids, she offered a logical response, not one born on fantasy.”

  “But you see why I needed to remove her from Blackborne?”

  “Because you suspect someone in that house is making Miss Draper ill.”

  He suspected Dr Goodwin used the contents of his vials to ensure Jessica remained unbalanced, disturbed. It was why he had stolen two samples from the doctor’s bag and would take them to an apothecary he knew in Hyde Street. The motive had to be money. A trip to Godstow would be necessary, too, once he’d determined Fitzroy Adair’s reason for venturing to Blackborne.

  “It’s the only logical conclusion.”

  Sloane fell silent for a time. “Let’s assume you’re right. The doctor has the most to gain. But from a professional point of view, his failure to help her would harm his reputation.”

  “No one knows he attends Jessica Draper.”

  Although Sloane’s comment raised a valid point. Why would Dr Goodwin want to move Jessica to a hospital near Oxford if not to assist her recovery? Even if he admitted her under an alias, other physicians would monitor his treatment of the patient.

  “The housekeeper’s behaviour is suspicious,” Sloane said. “And what of this fellow Blent? Those who appear helpful and considerate often have something to hide.”

  Another thought entered Finlay’s mind. Blent had found Jessica in the deadwood. Blent was the one who always carried her home. No one could corroborate his account. What if he was working with Mrs Friswell and had devious intentions?

  Finlay took a drink of wily whistle to ease his frustration. The more time he spent examining the facts, the more questions arose.

  “Knowing Jessica is safe here will make it easier to conduct an investigation. And as the days progress, we will gain a better understanding of her mental clarity.”

  Sloane coughed into his fist. “The days?”

  “You’ve no other case? No other plans?”

  “A woman was snatched in Green Park. Sergeant Reeves asked Daventry for assistance. I’m to interrogate the husband, but D’Angelo can deal with the matter.” Sloane sighed. “I’d planned an intimate gathering this evening, but it’s nothing I cannot rearrange.”

  In some ways, Finlay wished he was like Sloane, wished he could partake in pleasures without the complicated emotions. And yet there was nothing more satisfying than the intimacy shared by two people in love.

  “Do you think you will ever marry?” Finlay suddenly asked.

  The rum’s potency must have taken effect. Why else would he probe Sloane about his personal affairs? And Finlay’s confusion over his relationship with Sophia left him scrabbling for answers.

  Sloane laughed. “Rum makes the best of men spout nonsense.” As his amusement faded, something akin to regret flashed in his piercing green eyes. “Marriage brings children. Children risk inheriting my grandfather’s wicked ways. Two generations later, and I still bear the stains of his misdeeds.”

  Having the blood of a marauding pirate flowing through his veins was the reason Evan Sloane joined the Order. In helping victims of crimes, he hoped to atone for his grandfather’s transgressions.

  “Two generations later, and I possess the same damnable restlessness,” Sloane complained. “I crave excitement, need a woman who poses a challenge. I could never settle into the humdrum of family life.”

  Humdrum?

  Finlay imagined marrying Sophia, a sensual temptress, imagined nights of passionate lovemaking, days spent serving the Order. The scene was anything but tedious.

  “Perhaps when you meet a woman who sends your world spinning on its axis, you might think differently.” Not that Finlay had any intention of marrying again. Plato declared that the madness of love was a great blessing. Ballocks! He would rather wallow in ignorance.

  “A woman like Sophia Adair?” Sloane taunted. “If your morbid moods and constant pining are an indication, I would rather keep a mistress.”

  “I’m not pining.” And yet he was a meandering mess of contradictions. He feigned indifference, but his affection for her coursed uncontrollably through his veins. It ran deep, deep like an underground river—hidden from view, wild and fast-flowing. In the rapids, a man could barely catch his breath.

  “I won’t argue with a man who invites Thanatos to dine.”

  “Thanatos? I’ve never entertained death.” That wasn’t entirely true.

  “No, but you’ve taken unnecessary risks.”
>
  “Is that not the nature of being an agent?”

  Silence followed—a deadlock between two opponents who knew neither could win.

  Still, Sloane’s laugh was a white flag of surrender. “So, tell me about your plans. Tell me how I can be of assistance.”

  “Fitzroy Adair came to Blackborne. I need to know why.” Finlay mentioned the lord’s uncanny likeness to Mr Archer.

  “Interesting. Miss Draper may have met the fellow and mistaken him for her beloved scoundrel.” While cradling his drink, Sloane tapped his signet ring against the glass, the tinkle being a means to gain Finlay’s undivided attention. “There is another possibility. One I hope you’ve considered.”

  He knew exactly what Sloane was thinking. “Mr Archer has returned from India.” The thought had crossed Finlay’s mind on more than one occasion.

  “Indeed.”

  “And Dr Goodwin told him where he could find Jessica Draper.”

  The mystery was as intricate as a spider’s web. Jessica was the helpless victim ensnared in a trap. The carefully spun threads led in opposite directions. It was impossible to predict where the perpetrator would strike. Still, each strand was fragile. A sharp tug and it would easily break.

  “I will deal with Lord Adair.” The man was all pomp and pride. “Have D’Angelo check the passenger lists of any ships arriving from Calcutta in the last three months. See if Bartholomew Archer boarded a vessel.”

  “And I suppose I’m to play nursemaid and tend to the patient,” Sloane mocked, disappointed at being relegated to house duties.

  “No, my friend. While Jessica is in your care, you will use your interrogation skills. You will engage her in conversation and probe her mind. You will assemble every puzzle piece until you find what I need.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The truth.”

  Chapter 9

  Nerves held Sophia rigid. The rapid beating of her heart left her hands trembling. She rubbed the misted glass and peered through Mr Sloane’s carriage window as the vehicle drew to a stop outside the English Opera House. Numerous men in evening clothes stood beneath the lit portico, smoking cheroots, engaged in conversation. Only one man leant against the Corinthian column, radiating the strength of Samson. Only one man had the power to raze her defences to the ground.

  Finlay Cole straightened and crossed the pavement. He reached the carriage before the footman left his perch. Their gazes locked as he opened the door.

  “My lady.” He pulled down the steps and offered his hand.

  She would always be his lady.

  “Mr Cole. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.” She slipped her hand into his, suppressed a sudden gasp of awareness for the merest touch set her body ablaze.

  Eyes as dark as Erebus scanned her emerald green gown. “You look beautiful, Sophia.”

  She stepped down to the pavement and smoothed her hand over her velvet skirt. “Someone told me green is the colour of hope, of springtime, of new beginnings.”

  And I am wearing it for you, Finlay. For us.

  “The women of Windlesham believe green has the power to heal.”

  “I pray they’re right.”

  He glanced at the ruby necklace gracing her throat. “What of red, Sophia?” he drawled. “What does red signify?”

  “Red is daring. It speaks of a passion that cannot be tempered.” Red gave one the courage to be impulsive, bold. “I’m sure you know the rest.”

  “Indeed.” He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and led her through the crowd. “Did you send a note to Lord Adair assuring him of your attendance?”

  “I did.”

  They had spent the day apart. She had returned to the house in Portman Street, packed clothes enough for her and Jessica. He had called at the Order’s premises on Hart Street, though had seemed secretive about his other business in town.

  “Did you receive a reply?”

  “No. I left the house fearing Fitzroy might call.”

  Finlay cast her a sidelong glance and frowned. “Has Fitzroy Adair ever harmed you?”

  “Not physically. But he flies into a rage for the silliest things.” Just like his father. “Words are his weapon of choice. He can be quite calculating, quite cruel.”

  “Then, I look forward to the introduction.”

  The journey from the foyer to the stairs took longer than expected. The man who saved the life of Viscount Morley’s son attracted respect and admiration from the honourable gentlemen of the ton. With Finlay being a widower—one who must surely be searching for a wife—some casually made mention of their daughters’ skills and attributes.

  “You draw quite the crowd,” Sophia teased as they mounted the stairs to the upper boxes.

  “Hence the reason I rarely attend functions.”

  “I suppose people must be curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “You’re never seen in public with a woman.” A fact for which she had been entirely grateful over the years. A face twisted in envy was an unattractive look.

  “I spent time with you at Lord Newberry’s ball but a month ago.” Finlay paused to exchange pleasantries with an older couple waiting on the first-floor landing. “Many people saw us together.”

  “Only because your colleague insisted I play chaperone to his client.”

  Finlay had left the ball promptly when she mentioned dancing. Abandoned her to the sycophants who lined up to lead her around the floor.

  Perhaps it was time to dig deeper, to uncover those feelings he’d buried.

  “You’ve spent years avoiding me, Finlay.”

  His pause carried the weight of guilt. “Consider it a means of self-preservation.”

  That wasn’t the whole truth. “It amounts to more than that.”

  With reluctance, he said, “I’ve unintentionally hurt two women and wish to avoid hurting anyone again.”

  Obviously, he referred to her and Hannah, but the sight of Fitzroy standing in the corridor with two of his foppish friends robbed her of the chance to probe Finlay further.

  Mr Harrington, grandson to the Earl of Harley, gave her stepson a nudge. All three dandies turned to stare at her. Fitzroy’s jaw firmed, but he pasted a weak smile.

  “Sophia,” Fitzroy said, for he always used her given name. Usually, it carried a hint of contempt. Tonight, he was slightly more cautious in tone. “I’ve called at Portman Street numerous times this week to find you away from home. What a relief it is to see you alive and well.”

  Sly toad.

  “I am perfectly well,” she lied. She was lovesick, obsessed with the gentleman whose muscular arm she gripped. And fear for Jessica left her anxious. “Considering you’ve made an excessive number of calls, I must enquire if you are unwell.”

  Fitzroy puffed his chest as if ready to display his pretty plumes and prance about in all his splendour. “As you can see, I am in the prime of health. The salty sea air does wonders for the constitution.”

  Finlay said nothing, though he held a panther-like stare—sharp, deadly.

  By rights, she should make the introduction, but she would rather appear rude than draw attention to the fact the lord was of superior social standing.

  Consumed with his own self-importance, Fitzroy refused to acknowledge Finlay.

  “Jameson wishes to tell you about our sojourn to Brighton.” The lord’s lofty tone was almost comical. He gestured to the open door of his box. “Your escort may leave you in our capable hands.”

  Finlay’s bicep flexed beneath Sophia’s fingers. “Lady Adair is to sit in my box this evening.”

  Fitzroy’s confused gaze flitted left and right as if he’d heard whispers of a conversation but couldn’t determine the source. Such disrespect would see the fool dead on a mortuary slab. His friends sniggered. Though with their necks constricted by high collars and tightly tied cravats, they should conserve every breath.

  The childish performance ended when Fitzroy looked at Finlay Cole with feigned shock and
said, “And who the devil are you?”

  Finlay removed Sophia’s hand gently from his arm and stepped forward. “Me? I’m your worst nightmare.” The words were spoken slowly, with menace.

  Mr Harrington’s smile slipped faster than sand through an hourglass.

  Fitzroy used arrogance to stave off his embarrassment. “Ah, it seems the lady’s companion is the brooding type, keen to create a threatening atmosphere in preparation for the play.”

  From their wary glances, the lord’s companions seemed unconvinced.

  “Threatening?” Finlay mocked. “If you want threatening, I can do a damn sight better than that.” He straightened to his full, intimidating height. “I don’t care if you’re the King of Siam. Speak to me in such a disrespectful manner again, and I shall put a lead ball between your brows.” Finlay prodded Fitzroy between the eyes and the popinjay stumbled back. “Disrespect your stepmother, and I shall ensure your death is slow and excruciating.”

  Silence—like the seconds after the pull of the executioner’s lever—hung in the air.

  “Be warned,” she said before Fitzroy spouted something foolish. “Mr Cole is not a pretender to his skill in combat.”

  Fitzroy’s eyes widened with surprise. “Cole? Cole!” he repeated. “The man you said was dead so you could lure my father into marriage.”

  Oh, Lord!

  Now was not the time to air one’s grievances. People filled the corridor, eager to settle into their boxes. Thankfully, the patrons were too busy discussing Mrs Shelley’s arrival to take notice of their petty quarrel.

  “We will discuss this matter after the performance,” she said. “I suggest the study in Duke Street. I’m sure you can spare a few minutes once your soiree is underway.”

  Brushing imagined dust from his coat sleeves, Fitzroy said, “You shan’t bring him into my father’s home.”

  “Then name your place,” Finlay said with a huff of impatience. “I shall speak of this matter tonight, even if I have to dangle you by the ankles over the balcony.”

  Fitzroy’s cheeks turned plum purple. “C-come to my box after the performance. I can spare a few minutes then.”