“You are nothing if not surprising.” His eyes flashed with wry humor. “Shall I continue my demonstration?”
Blast the luck, her cheeks heated at his question. She could feel them going pink, if not crimson as a blooming beet. And blast it, he noticed. The gleam in his eyes betrayed that fact as clearly as any smug words he might utter.
She made a show of repuffing the tops of her sleeves, compressed as they’d been by his hands. “I assure you that will not be necessary.”
“You’re quite sure of that? I’d be willing to oblige, if you needed more convincing.”
“Absolutely not.”
Even as she spoke, more heat rushed to her face. She smoothed the lace at her cuffs, avoiding eye contact with Stanwyck. Good heavens, what had come over her? Through the years, she’d developed an immunity to the most persuasive of the male species. This rogue who’d spent most of his life traipsing around in search of hieroglyphics and skirts to lift should not challenge her wherewithal.
“You do know how to wound a man, Miss Devereaux. And just as I was getting started.” If only the humor in his tone could disguise the heat in his gaze.
“Perhaps you will now see fit to focus your efforts on our reason for coming here.” My, how serious she sounded, even to her own ears.
“As my efforts to validate my status as a rake have fallen miserably flat, shall we head to dinner? With any luck, your temperamental spirit guide may convince my beloved sire to put in an appearance.”
Curiosity had always been Sophie’s strongest asset. Or so she liked to think, despite her aunt and uncle’s insistence the quality was the greatest cause of feline death the world had ever known. As a girl, she’d had an insatiable hunger to investigate the most mundane of mysteries, such as what precisely the family’s housekeeper kept secured in a bottle she referred to as her special tonic. One covert taste of the throat-burning potion, and Sophie learned a quite literally bitter lesson regarding the perils of snooping. Not that the experience had dampened the trait that came so readily to her. To the contrary, investigating secrets seemed akin to nourishment, as essential to her nature as taking a breath.
Seated in the sleek brougham Gavin Stanwyck employed as his primary conveyance, Sophie regarded him beneath the veil of her lashes. Perhaps Uncle George and Aunt Mildred had been right after all. The way Stanwyck intrigued her was indeed a dangerous thing. Her need to know what drove the man went well beyond what she deemed necessary. Whether or not the man was a scoundrel had no bearing on the mission.
The nature of his character should be entirely irrelevant to her inquiries. For all she knew, she could be wasting her time. She sensed the man was up to something, felt in her bones he’d come to Trask’s occult salon for some purpose far removed from his stated intent. But she had nothing more than her skills of observation and her intuition to guide her. In truth, Stanwyck might well be a skeptic out to make a fool of Trask and anyone connected with him. Or, he might simply be an arrogant eccentric who took pleasure in leading her on a goose chase.
Studying him as he watched the goings-on outside the coach with a hawklike focus, she brushed aside the latter possibility. This was no brash second son out to amuse himself at her expense. No, something had spurred Gavin Stanwyck to come after Trask. She’d seen how he glared at the man, detected the cool animosity in his gaze.
There was more to Stanwyck’s appearance at Trask’s door than a foolish quest.
Looking away, she ran her fingers over the carriage’s rubbed leather upholstery. Quite luxurious. And yet, the conveyance was not in the least ostentatious.
Growing up in her uncle’s household, Sophie had not been accustomed to fine things. She’d had a good life with Uncle George, far better than most children who’d found themselves orphaned and penniless. But her uncle and aunt had a fondness for saving a pence or two or three, stashing away their tin for a rainy day. What little abundance there’d been in the household had not been hers to claim. Rather, it had been bestowed upon her guardians’ only child. A willowy, sweet-natured girl, Lottie had married a perfectly respectable barrister three days after her twentieth birthday and settled into a comfortable existence. Unlike Sophie, as her aunt was ever so fond of reminding her.
And then of course, there was the incident. To this day, Aunt Mildred could not speak of the occurrence without appearing close to apoplexy. What had happened the night of Sophie’s debut had made laughingstocks of them all, or so her aunt believed. Thank heavens dear Lottie had already found a husband, before Sophie had gone and created a stir that still wagged tongues.
She certainly had a knack for causing a commotion, didn’t she? Her gaze trailed over Stanwyck, as leisurely as his kiss had been earlier that evening. She’d left her good sense behind when she’d agreed to Stanwyck’s scheme, hadn’t she? Heaven knew she shouldn’t have let him kiss her. That had been a tactical error on her part.
A sigh escaped her, whisper soft. What was done was done. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d see to that.
The silence seemed a heavy cloak, stifling her. She fiddled with the lace on her sleeves, forcing herself to look at something other than the angles and planes of Stanwyck’s chiseled face.
A soft clearing of his throat pulled her interest back to him. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he turned to her, his expression unreadable.
“Is something wrong, Miss Devereaux?”
“Why no, whatever would make you ask?”
“I heard a sigh. I presume you were the source of the sound.” The tiny crinkles around his eyes served only to enhance his ruggedly cut features. “Unless, of course, Esme decided a coach ride would be preferable to popping in and out at will. If so, she sounds far too weary to be of much help tonight.”
My, the devil was observant, wasn’t he? She hadn’t realized he’d detected the hushed sound. “If Esme were to sigh, you would not be able to detect the otherworldly frequency.”
“Otherworldly? Is that so?” He cocked a brow in that infuriating way of his. “Well, then, is something troubling you?”
“No. Not at all.”
His expression grew more serious. “If you’ve grown weary tonight, we may pursue the matter of contact with my father at another time.”
Rather surprising, that. Perhaps as likely as if he’d offered to send his driver and carriage on a course to the moon. She certainly hadn’t anticipated he’d show any concern for her comfort with the agenda he’d set. Did he wonder if he’d gone too far in his attempt to prove himself a rogue?
He most certainly had. There was no arguing that, regardless of how delicious the experience had been. But she would not cast aside an opportunity to learn more about his motives over something as fleeting as a kiss.
She infused a light tone into her voice. “The night is young. I see absolutely no need to postpone this sitting.”
He gave a nod, though his expression contradicted the gesture. “You’re quite certain?”
“I am feeling well, thank you.”
He leaned closer, studying her with the same focus he’d devote to deciphering an ancient symbol. The crisp scent of his shaving soap filled her senses. “You do appear a bit flushed. Perhaps you’ve had cause to become…overheated.”
Devil take the knowing gleam in his eyes! Did he observe every nuance of her reaction to his nearness…of her response to him?
“It is a bit warm in here,” she countered. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
He lifted a hand to his jaw, grazing his fingers over the dark stubble of new beard. “Very well, then. But do speak up if you have a change of heart.” His eyes flashed. “Or better yet, have Esme transmit the message.”
So much for his concern. Something in his gaze—his arrogant assurance she’d welcome another attempt to prove himself a scoundrel, most likely—seemed designed to infuriate her. Surely, the man did not believe his blasted kiss had left her too flushed and addled to carry on. The very notion was preposterous. He was toying with her. We
ll, two could play at this game.
She smoothed her skirts, folded her hands in her lap, and plastered a prim look on her face. “I suppose it is possible your intent to play the rake has induced a delayed onset of the vapors. Pity there is no fainting couch in sight.”
The somberness in his eyes gave way to a look that might well have been respect, even as a hint of amusement touched his lips. “I cannot imagine you are a woman who swoons, much less with such mild provocation.”
“Mild provocation?” she repeated with a lift of her brows.
A wolf’s smile curved his tempting mouth. “Trust me, Sophie. If our circumstances were different, that would have been only the beginning.”
Oh, my. Her blasted cheeks flamed again. She could feel them heating, even as he settled back against the upholstered seat, still watching her, as if to drive home his point.
Again, her fingers went to her cuffs, plucking nonexistent wrinkles from the lace. “I concede this round to you. You have convinced me. You are, indeed, a bit of a scoundrel.”
He frowned, a contrived expression a child might well see through. One could hope Gavin Stanwyck was a more accomplished scholar than he was an actor. “Only a bit? You do know how to wound a man.”
Picturing the sheathed dagger she’d strapped to her thigh, she bit back a smile. “Perhaps better than you know.”
The carriage clattered to a stop. Moments later, the driver opened the door and peered inside. The round lenses of his spectacles and graying muttonchop whiskers lent his plump face an owlish look. With a smile, he announced they’d arrived at their destination and let down the steps.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” he said, flashing Sophie a grin as he tipped his wool cap.
“Not at this time, Avery.” Stanwyck stood and departed the coach, then escorted Sophie from the conveyance.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Avery.” Stanwyck regarded the man with genuine warmth. “I anticipate we will depart in an hour’s time.”
“Good enough, sir.” Avery scrambled onto the bench, cracked the reins, and rambled off over the cobbles.
“Loyal as they come,” Stanwyck remarked, watching the coach barrel along the street. “And generally, a man who approaches life at what one might term a leisurely pace.”
“Which would not seem to be the case tonight.”
Stanwyck nodded. “I suspect a certain matron has caught the man’s eye. She runs a public house she inherited after her husband left this earth. The peculiar thing of it is, Avery does not imbibe. Not a drop.” He offered Sophie his arm. “One can only conclude his interest lies in something other than what’s on tap.”
“Based on the evidence you’ve presented, one can only reach a logical conclusion.”
“Logic has little to do with it. I’ve known Avery since I was a lad. He’s a kindhearted soul. When his wife died a few years ago, the loss took a sad toll.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
“You could say so.”
“How very touching. He was a fortunate man to have experienced an enduring love.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree, Soph—Miss Devereaux. I question the value of any emotion which renders one so vulnerable to pain.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie strolled through the main dining room of the café, taking in the sights and sounds of the place, smiling at all she encountered. Why, she even returned the flirtatious glance of a mustachioed young man who’d boldly taken her in. Hiding in plain sight generally proved an effective camouflage. Anyone who spotted her with Stanwyck would assume she was his latest conquest. Or perhaps, if they possessed a glimmer of recognition, they might associate her with Trask’s occult gatherings. But they’d be hard-pressed to connect her with the unassuming reporter who’d stood in this very place a year earlier, compiling a not-so-riveting account of the itinerary of some American heiress on the hunt for a husband and a title. Surrounded by society women decked out in their finery and jewels, she’d blended into the background, seemingly unnoticed by those who’d come to see and be seen.
Stanwyck kept a light touch on her elbow as they made their way to a table in a shadowed corner. He’d insisted on a location somewhat removed from the other patrons, a spot that would provide privacy and a bit of quiet.
Candles in elaborate crystal holders lent a soft glow to the table. The golden light cast a sheen over Stanwyck’s warm chestnut hair. He wore his locks a bit longer than was fashionable, brushing his collar. What was it about the man that drew her interest like a moth to a flame? What would those soft strands feel like against her fingertips?
The time he’d spent beneath the Egyptian sun had darkened his complexion, the sun-bronzed shade rugged and, she had to admit, ridiculously appealing. Somehow, it suited him, that look of a man who lived much of his life beyond the confines of four walls. Tiny crinkles etched along his eyes further defined his features, lending character, while a fine coating of stubble, a shade or two darker than his hair, defined the contours of his face. She curled her fingers against the utterly mad urge to touch him, if only to feel the contrast of textures between the prickly new beard and his smooth skin.
He’d dressed the part of a gentleman. A finely tailored jacket in a subtle charcoal tweed emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while his silk waistcoat and four-in-hand necktie posed a striking contrast against the pristine white of his shirt. He might well be a rogue at heart, but this evening he seemed every bit the proper Londoner.
Despite their secluded spot in the café, a tall, beautiful woman sashayed past. Vera Fairchild’s corseted waist had been cinched so tightly, she might well have portrayed a human hourglass. She paused in that dramatic way of hers, making eye contact with Gavin, her smile offering an invitation to more than her table. Unsurprising, really. The actress was known for her theatrics and her conquests, both on and off the stage. Gavin Stanwyck would certainly tempt a woman like her. If not the man, his fortune would prove a potent lure.
For his part, Stanwyck regarded the actress with an expression that bespoke his lack of interest. Sophie couldn’t explain why his disinterested response to the blatant temptress pleased her, not even to herself. What the man did with a woman like Miss Fairchild had no bearing on her mission. Or on her, for that matter. So, why did it give her a little thrill to see the man regard the woman as though she were no more appealing than a day-old bowl of porridge?
A waiter approached the table, his bearing dignified, his expression properly bland. With a well-honed efficiency, he suggested a fine vintage of Bordeaux which Stanwyck approved. He uncorked the bottle and poured the aromatic ruby liquid into two exquisite crystal glasses.
The server turned on his heel with a military-like precision and left them. Sophie raised her glass, taking in the robust bouquet of the wine. She’d have to keep her head about her. This was certainly no time to imbibe beyond a sip or two.
Stanwyck turned his attention to Sophie. A wolf’s smile curved his mouth. “You’ve no worries. I’ve no intention of getting you foxed. I need your senses on full alert for dear old dad.”
“I’ve no worries of the sort. Though I can say I’ve never been foxed, as you put it.”
One dark brow hiked ever so slightly. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. Someday, perhaps a time when we’re not waiting on Esme to make her appearance and bring my father along for the ride, we shall have to give that a try. It might loosen you up a bit.”
“I have no need to be loosened up. Now, shall we get down to business?”
He nodded and took a drink of wine, regarding her silently for a moment, as if working out his next move. “Has Esme arrived? She certainly does get around.”
“As a spirit, Esme is not hindered by physical boundaries. Travel is much more fluid for her.”
“Good to know.” He set his glass before him, resting his hand on the table. His fingers were long and lean and tanned, powerful yet gentle when they’d touc
hed her. Would the rest of his body be as sun-dusted as his hands and face?
Mentally shooing away that scandalous question to some remote corner of her mind, Sophie raised her glass and took a sip. She’d no time to entertain such inane wonderings about Stanwyck. If the thought was not pertinent to her investigation, she could not spare even a moment to entertain it. She must remain focused on the case at hand, a mission that had nothing to do with the specific details of Gavin Stanwyck’s body, no matter how tempting those queries might be. Until she knew what had led Stanwyck into her path, she could not allow herself to become distracted, not even with envisioning what lay beneath Stanwyck’s utterly proper attire.
“Esme has not yet made her presence known,” she said, deliberately bland.
“Any chance she’ll pop in before the main course? I was hoping to get this over and done during the soup course and enjoy the rest of my meal.”
“I cannot imagine she gives a fig over your dinner plans. She is beyond earthly cares, and from what I gather, you have not impressed her.”
“Now, that wounds me, Miss Devereaux.”
She gave a little shrug. “That was not my intention.”
His other brow cocked. “Honesty is the best policy and all that rot, eh?”
“Indeed.” She allowed a small smile. Controlling this evening was to her best advantage. He’d already gotten the better of her with the kiss, setting her off-balance, if only for a breath or two. She would not let him catch her unaware again.
If only she could work out his reasons for bringing her here, for the whole charade that had brought him to Trask. Stanwyck’s desire to lure his father back into this realm was no more genuine than her little chats with Esme. He made a show of being flippant, but beneath the cavalier remarks, his doubt was shaded with what seemed contempt for the endeavor. Did he fancy himself to be a debunker of spiritualists? Did he hope to unmask her as a fraud?
She’d have to keep him at bay, feeding him a morsel of Esme’s insights here and there, just enough to keep him on the scent. If he were simply a scientist out to expose a charlatan, she’d wish him well soon enough, after her time with Trask was over and she’d fulfilled the objectives of her mission. But for now, she could not risk him shredding her cover identity to ribbons.
When a Lady Dares (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) Page 9
