by Clee, Adele
Noah removed his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Miss Dunn just as the silent tears trickled down her cheek.
“I do not weep for myself, you understand, but for the infant.” She took the silk square and dabbed her cheeks. “My brother added to our family’s humiliation by refusing to marry Clara. I can assure you, there is not a respectable bone in Howard’s body.”
Silence ensued while the lady dried her tears. She offered to return Noah’s handkerchief, but he insisted she keep it.
“If I had a sister and a rogue abused her in such a cruel fashion, I would kill him with my bare hands.” He paused. “Are you certain you want me to find your brother?”
Was Howard Dunn not best left to conduct his nefarious business elsewhere? Assuming he was still alive. A fact that was becoming increasingly doubtful.
“I am not certain of anything, sir, not anymore.”
Noah glanced out of the window. It was a mere five-minute journey to Tavistock Street, and so he would have to return to the subject of Lord Benham being a suspect once he’d dealt with Hemming.
He pulled his gold watch from his pocket and checked the time. “We can continue this conversation later. Unless there is another secret you wish to divulge.”
“No, no more secrets.” She hesitated. “There is something you should know about Lord Benham, but we can discuss it after the appointment. I hope you understand why I was reluctant to speak of this matter. I hope you understand why this was a hard tale to tell.”
“Indeed.”
Noah wondered how she fared living across the road from the hospital. Did witnessing the women’s struggles firsthand remind her of Miss Swales’ ruination? Did seeing proud mothers cradling their babes rouse painful regrets?
He cleared his throat. “As we’re fast approaching our meeting with your publisher, I must ask a few personal questions, if I may.”
Miss Dunn nodded confidently, though he sensed an underlying tension at the mere mention of Mr Hemming.
“What do you want to know?” She gripped the seat.
“Have you given Mr Hemming any indication you would be open to his romantic overtures?”
She straightened abruptly. “Certainly not.”
“And have you ever embraced, ever kissed?”
“No!”
“Has he mentioned marriage?”
“On occasion.”
“And has he touched you intimately without your permission?”
Miss Dunn’s cheeks flamed. She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. “He said he misread the signs. That I gave the impression I was open to his advances, particularly after accepting his gift.”
“Gift?” Noah muttered a curse. It was a common ploy used by a seducer to shift blame.
“A pretty silver bookmark in a velvet case. I returned it the moment I realised it gave him an excuse to manhandle me in a rakish fashion.”
Noah’s hands throbbed to manhandle the blackguard, too.
“Are you loyal to Mr Hemming? What if I found you another publisher?”
Hope sprang to life in Miss Dunn’s eyes. Indeed, her whole countenance brightened. “You know a publisher who is willing to consider a woman’s work?”
“I do,” he said, his heart feeling suddenly full at the prospect of helping her. “Mr Lydford is a forward-thinking man, and a friend. He published my poetry when most thought it unsuitable reading material.”
She smiled. “And yet I’m told every man in London owns a copy.”
“Mr Lydford did not regret his decision.”
“I would be eternally grateful if you could arrange a meeting with the gentleman. The sooner I untangle myself from Mr Hemming’s web, the better.”
“Excellent.”
Miss Dunn’s contented sigh became a groan when the carriage rattled to a halt outside the goldsmith shop in Tavistock Street.
“How will this work?” she said, the sudden onset of nerves evident. “I do not want Mr Hemming to know I sought the help of a professional investigator.”
Noah had no intention of revealing the real reason they were meeting with the publisher. “How are your acting skills?”
She blinked in surprise. “Poor at best. Why, what would you have me do?”
“All I ask is that you agree to everything I say. That you support whatever claims I make regardless how ludicrous. You must be convincing if we’re to establish if Mr Hemming is guilty of a crime against you.”
“A crime?” She fell silent, though he could almost hear the cogs turning in her mind. “You think he might have sent the blackmail note?”
“He is one of the few people who know you write as Cain Dunnavan. When frightened, women tend to seek help from men they know.”
“You think he wrote the note to lure me to his office?”
“I think it’s worth testing the theory, worth laying a trap. Don’t you?”
Chapter 6
Telling Mr Ashwood of her family’s shame brought a surprising sense of relief. For the last month, ever since Clara had been spirited away to Northumberland in the dead of night, Eva had lived with the guilt. She should have done something to protect her friend. She should have spoken to Lord Benham the moment Howard’s behaviour roused her suspicions.
It was too much to hope her brother had fled the country never to be seen again. The coward had created a scandal and left Eva to suffer the shame.
How could one’s sibling be so callous, so cruel?
“Remember, we must dangle the bait if we’re to lure vermin into our trap,” Mr Ashwood said as he opened the wrought-iron gate leading to the alley between the goldsmith shop and the apothecary.
Eva nodded, a sudden rush of confidence filling her chest.
Mr Ashwood was the most capable, most sincere man she had ever met. She had been waiting for the moment he proved a disappointment, and yet the more time she spent in his company, the more she admired him. Every kind and competent action restored her faith. And despite being a sensible woman, she struggled to fight her growing attraction.
Foolish gal!
“And if Mr Hemming is not the rodent we seek?” she asked. Her publisher had wandering hands but lacked the backbone necessary to commit a crime.
“We dangle our bait elsewhere. Namely, Lord Benham’s door.”
Lord Benham!
Heavens above. Now she knew why Mr Ashwood’s colleagues called him Dauntless. Lord Benham had money, connections, rights that came with his position. The viscount could afford to prosecute her for defamation. Could ruin her for good. Had she not suffered enough in her brother’s name?
“I doubt a gentleman of Lord Benham’s standing would hire someone to steal my boots.” And what would he have to gain from the murder of her cobbler?
“It’s highly likely he’s responsible for your brother’s disappearance,” Mr Ashwood countered.
She could not argue. It was only a matter of time before the lord sought vengeance. “Still, you cannot pry into a peer’s affairs.”
Mr Ashwood came to an abrupt halt beside the shiny brass plate bearing Mr Hemming’s name. He faced her and arched a reprimanding brow.
“Miss Dunn, I will give you another piece of advice. Learn to use your weaknesses to your advantage. As I have done.”
Eva snorted. “If you have weaknesses, sir, I’ve yet to see them.”
“When your father is a shameless devil, you have two choices. You can hide in the corner, afraid to meet anyone’s gaze, or you can let people believe you possess the same dangerous streak.”
She considered this tall, broad-shouldered man, with his determined eyes and firm jaw. Beneath his devastatingly handsome face lingered a deadly force. Yes, she could imagine people fearing what he might do.
“No one respects a coward,” he added.
“What should I do, sir? March into Lord Benham’s house and demand to see his sister?”
She knew the answer before he spoke.
“If Miss Swales is important to you, then ye
s. Climb onto your plinth of shame, shout and scream and incite the crowd to riot. Do what you must until you have Lord Benham’s attention. Be clever about it. Use your brother’s recklessness to your advantage.”
Eva stared at him, a little in awe of his strength and resolve. He proved a conundrum. Never had she met anyone so fascinating.
“You’re right,” she said, aware she was gaping like a besotted fool. She could not recall ever wanting to kiss a man. But she had an urge to kiss Mr Ashwood. “I should not have given up so easily.”
“No.”
Their gazes remained locked.
The nervous tension in the air grew palpable.
“Well, Mr Hemming will be waiting,” she eventually said before she took his advice and did something unbelievably reckless. “And how will we bait my publisher?”
“We will improvise.” He opened the door leading to the tiled hall and narrow flight of stairs. “I prefer to let the suspect’s actions determine how I proceed.”
Mr Ashwood sneered at the brass plate on the wall before gesturing for her to enter the premises. As she mounted the stairs, it took every effort not to trip for she could feel the heat of his gaze scorching her back. A glance behind confirmed Mr Ashwood was watching the sway of her hips, not minding his step.
Mr Hemming’s clerk sat at a cluttered desk in the room opposite the stairs. He pushed to his feet, straightened his spectacles and wiped his hands on his trousers before hurrying forward to greet them.
“Good m-morning, Miss Dunn.” The young clerk bowed and then fussed with his mop of blonde locks to hide his receding hairline.
“Good morning, Mr Smith.” Eva motioned to the commanding gentleman beside her. “This is Mr Ashwood. He will join me when I meet with Mr Hemming today.”
The clerk’s eyes widened as he scanned the breadth of Mr Ashwood’s chest. His nervous tic made him wink incessantly. “Is Mr Hemming aware you’ve b-brought company?” Mr Smith’s voice trembled the way it always did when speaking of his employer.
“Not to my knowledge.” Eva offered a reassuring smile.
Mr Smith glanced at the door at the end of the hall as if it were the entrance to Hades. “Then I had best inform him of—”
“There’s no need,” Mr Ashwood interjected. “Miss Dunn has an appointment, and I am here at her behest.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Rams butt, Smith. We haven’t time to waste lingering in the corridor.”
“N-no, sir,” the clerk stuttered.
Mr Ashwood placed his hand at the small of Eva’s back. “Lead the way, my love.”
The clerk frowned with confusion upon hearing the endearment, while Eva shivered with delight. Oh, her reaction bordered on ridiculous. Clearly, Mr Ashwood wished to make it known he had a vested interest in her welfare.
It was a warning.
A claim of ownership.
Bait.
“Follow my lead,” Mr Ashwood whispered in her ear as they neared Mr Hemming’s office, though it must have looked highly inappropriate to the poor clerk watching while shuffling his papers. “Play the role.”
Eva swallowed deeply before knocking on the publisher’s door.
“Enter,” came the usual lofty reply.
“You enter,” Mr Ashwood muttered. “I’ll wait in the shadows.”
Eva pasted a smile and burst into the room. She looked to the desk only to find the wingback chair empty. Then she spotted the devil, who thought his handsome countenance gave him a right of entitlement, relaxing on the sofa near the hearth.
“Good morning, Mr Hemming,” she said, succeeding in banishing her nerves. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Mr Ashwood did not follow her into the room.
“Everett. Call me Everett. How many times must I tell you, Evangeline?” Mr Hemming stood. His wicked grin matched the suggestive look in his eyes as his gaze caressed her body. “After our last little interlude, I think we’ve moved beyond the use of formalities. Obviously, you’re just as keen to continue our stimulating conversation.”
The man made her skin crawl.
“You speak of our misunderstanding.”
“Was it a misunderstanding, my dear? I think not.”
The lying toad. “You cannot think I welcomed your advances.”
Mr Hemming moistened his lips. “You came here alone at night. Invented a tale of blackmail to gain my attention. What else is a man supposed to think?”
“It wasn’t a tale.”
“Well, let’s continue our discussion away from Smith’s pricked ears.” Mr Hemming moved to close the door, but Mr Ashwood blocked it with his booted foot.
“Miss Dunn is here in a professional capacity.” Mr Ashwood’s stern voice echoed through the musty space as he pushed open the door and strode into the room. “She has no desire to hear more of your pretentious claptrap.”
Mr Hemming reeled from the insult and shuffled back. “Who the devil are you?”
“Someone keen to protect Miss Dunn from lecherous leeches.”
Mr Hemming stared. Open-mouthed shock turned to seething arrogance. “Miss Dunn and I have been friends for three years. If the lady needs protection, the responsibility falls to me.”
“You’re only her publisher.”
Bristling, Mr Hemming puffed out his chest. “I’m a damn sight more than that. What gives you the right—”
“The lady has agreed to be my wife. I believe that gives me a greater claim.”
His wife!
Mother of all saints!
This wasn’t dangling bait in the hope of trapping vermin. This was a pistol shot between the eyes.
Shock didn’t even begin to define the look on Mr Hemming’s face. His cheeks turned deathly pale. He shook his head repeatedly as if attempting to dismiss the last words spoken from Mr Ashwood’s lips.
Guilt and pity fought to conquer Eva’s resolve. But that was her problem. Mr Hemming had a way of making her feel responsible for their frequent misunderstandings. He often accused her of being too familiar—reminded her of promises never made.
No one spoke.
The heavy sound of Mr Hemming’s ragged breathing disturbed the deafening silence. His gruff gasps became snorts and then loud, hearty laughter.
Eva glanced sideways and met Mr Ashwood’s calm, reassuring gaze.
Play the role, came his silent plea.
Indeed, she could not let her soft heart rule her head. She had given Mr Hemming too many chances, and the devil knew how to play to her weaknesses.
Mr Hemming clutched his abdomen as he continued to find Mr Ashwood’s declaration amusing.
“Oh, I have to admit you had me fooled for a moment,” the publisher said before letting out another loud guffaw. “My dear, if this is a ploy to make me jealous, I must say you succeeded.” He exhaled to gather his composure. Then, mimicking Mr Ashwood’s deep voice, he said, “The lady has agreed to be my wife.” He laughed again. “Oh, for a second, I was floundering.”
“What is it about our betrothal you find hard to believe?” Mr Ashwood said in a manner so cool, so composed.
“Anyone who knows Evangeline would find the suggestion of marriage highly improbable.” Mr Hemming dabbed the corners of his eyes. “Marriage! Ha!”
Mr Ashwood cleared his throat. “Why is that? And before you answer, I must warn you that I will not tolerate your blatant use of her given name.”
Mr Hemming’s smile fell, but then he laughed again. “Very well,” he said, taking time to get his emotions under control. “No doubt Evangeline wishes to bring me up to the mark, so I’ll play this game.”
“Trust me. This is by no means a game.” Mr Ashwood’s voice held a sinister edge, though her publisher was too full of mirth to notice.
“Then tell me how and where you met. Evangeline rarely leaves the house these days and has made no mention of you before.”
“I shall let Miss Dunn explain.” Mr Ashwood gestured to her, and with remarkable poise added, “The next
time you use her given name, I shall grab you by the throat and knock that arrogant smirk off your face.”
Mr Hemming’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to know whether to take the threat seriously.
“I met Mr Ashwood three months ago,” Eva lied. Still, it felt like she had known him a lifetime. “In Vincent and Teale’s book shop in Bedford Street.”
“We share a love of poetry,” Mr Ashwood said, his tone soft and warm as if recalling a treasured memory. “She is, without doubt, the only woman ever to hold my interest. I found myself desperate to deepen our acquaintance.”
Oh, he was so convincing.
So good at this.
“We meet in the park every Wednesday, take a picnic and discuss a particular poem.” Creating a romantic fantasy proved easy when Mr Ashwood was the object of one’s desire. It occurred to her that she would like to stretch out on a blanket in the sunshine and have him read poetry.
Mr Hemming seemed unconvinced. “What was the last poem you discussed?”
Eva smiled, grateful for the recent conversation in the carriage as it would add authenticity to their tale. “We spoke about how the metaphor of a nomad failing to drink from an oasis relates to a man’s fear of commitment.”
Mr Hemming focused his attention on Mr Ashwood. “What’s the poem called?”
“The Journey. Last week we discussed her godfather’s poem, The Wanderer. We share an interest in Norse mythology, too.”
Mr Hemming’s gaze hardened. “And what if I told you Miss Dunn promised to marry me? That we agreed to announce our betrothal.”
“Then I would call you a liar. You’re her publisher, nothing more. She has no interest in pursuing a relationship with you when she is in love with me. Indeed, I have come today to return your advance and to inform you that she has found another publisher.”
Mr Ashwood reached into his pocket and removed a folded note. With a contemptuous glare, he threw it onto Mr Hemming’s disorderly desk.
A muscle in Mr Hemming’s cheek twitched. “You think ten pounds will free Miss Dunn from her contract? She owes me a damn sight more than that.”
“The note is for a hundred pounds. I’m certain that should suffice. I expect your clerk to issue a receipt.”
