by Clee, Adele
Damnation! It looked like he was trying to prevent her from leaving, as if he had something important to say.
The lady gave a light laugh. “Good day, Mr Ashwood. And thank you for your help. I’m rather ashamed I lacked the strength to deal with Mr Hemming.”
“Don’t be.” Noah squeezed her hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Like a true predator, Hemming knew to play to your weaknesses. As soon as Mr Lydford returns, I shall arrange a meeting.”
Her blue eyes brightened. “That would be wonderful.” She glanced at the ungloved hand clasped around hers. “Good day, sir.”
Noah released his grip.
She opened the carriage door, and her footman hurried out of the house. The young, golden-haired servant offered his hand. A lonely woman might take advantage, suggest a way the servant might supplement his income. And yet he knew Miss Dunn would never abuse her position.
“Miss Dunn!” he called, leaning forward in his seat.
“Yes.” She swung around, excitement flashing in her eyes.
“Please inform me when you receive the next blackmail note. Equally, send word to Hart Street should your brother return.”
She nodded. “I will.”
“And it would be wise to err on the side of caution when venturing about town.”
“You mean don’t walk the streets alone at night.” Her amused smile tugged at his insides.
“Exactly.” Hell, why couldn’t he simply say goodbye and shut the damn door? “If you must go out, take your maid and hire a hackney.”
“Have no fear, sir. I rarely attend functions and have no need to revisit Mr Hemming. Goodbye, Mr Ashwood.”
“Goodbye, Miss Dunn.”
Noah slammed the door and rapped on the roof. He fell back into the seat as the carriage lurched forward and rattled along the cobbled street. Later this afternoon he would meet Lucius Daventry. It would afford an opportunity to address his priorities. To forget about this little infatuation and focus on what mattered—working to right a catalogue of injustices.
* * *
“Cole tells me you have a new client, a new case.” Lucius Daventry splashed brandy into a glass and swallowed the contents. Despite his tall, athletic frame he looked tired, a little weary. “When I asked him about it, he told but half a tale. You know it’s important to keep the men informed of your whereabouts.”
Noah sat behind the desk in the study, elbows resting on the polished surface, his hands clasped. “It’s a complicated case.” Made more complicated by the fact the client was an original with a mouth as sweet as honey.
Daventry left the glass on the side table and came to sit in the chair once occupied by Miss Dunn. “I’m all ears.”
“Are you certain you wish to hear about it now? You look as exhausted as Sloane when he carried the boy from the slums. And he’d not slept for three days.”
Daventry rubbed his eyes. “It’s what comes from having two infants cutting teeth at the same time. Perhaps I should have listened to my bull terrier of a nursemaid and set up the nursery in the east wing.”
“You could sleep in the east wing. Though I imagine you let Sybil get a good night’s rest.”
While Lucius Daventry was as determined and as dangerous as all the members of the Order, he did not hide the fact he was deeply in love with his wife. Noah couldn’t help but be slightly envious of his situation.
Daventry grinned. “She’s extremely grateful, and that’s all I wish to say on the matter. Now, for some reason, you’re reluctant to reveal certain aspects of the case.”
“Not at all,” he lied.
Daventry would see through his facade. He would remove Noah from the case and have Cole assist Miss Dunn. Perhaps it was for the best. But what if Hemming refused to accept he had lost his lady love? What if they had to play the betrothed couple a while longer?
“Miss Dunn, isn’t it?” Daventry replied. “Cole said that before giving her name, the lady was preoccupied with remembering an acid that can kill a man in seconds. What a novel introduction.”
“The lady is unique.”
“Annoyingly unique, or temptingly unique?”
There was little point postponing the inevitable. It was better to use reason with Lucius Daventry than to get caught in a web of lies.
“A man who admires courage and intelligence might lose his head.”
“I see.” Daventry studied Noah through narrow eyes, or maybe he was so tired his lids were too heavy. “Perhaps you should tell me her story.”
Noah wasted no time. “Her reprobate brother has been missing for a week. He is in debt to Flannery, the Turners and Mortuary Manning for a total of twelve thousand pounds.”
“Hell!” Daventry cursed. “Then the man is as good as dead unless he can find the funds.” He paused. “Still, we’re not in the game of helping—”
“Her cobbler was bludgeoned to death over a week ago. She received a blackmail note threatening to reveal a secret identity, forcing her to visit her publisher at night. While warding off the publisher’s amorous advances, someone broke into her house and stole every pair of shoes she owns. A thief attacked her and stole her boots as she walked home. Oh, and someone stole her undergarments from the washing line.”
Daventry relaxed back in the chair while absorbing the catalogue of information. “Publisher, you say? The lady writes?”
“Novels.”
“No wonder she captured your interest.”
“You know I hate to see a woman without family or means struggling to defend herself against threats from all quarters.”
Daventry’s penetrating stare softened. “Indeed.”
The man had once found himself in similar circumstances and was now married to the woman he had saved.
“We help those without funds, without connections,” Daventry continued.
“Miss Dunn has no friends and rarely ventures into society.”
Noah explained about her brother’s dastardly deeds. How he ruined his sister’s closest friend and stole his mother’s jewels.
“He ruined Benham’s sister?” Daventry’s features twisted in disdain. “And you agreed to find this devil? Is he not best left to rot in whatever sewer he’s crawled into?”
“I don’t care if the fool is a bloated corpse bobbing about the Thames. Manning will want his money and will go to any lengths to get it. The lady needs our protection. Manning is not averse to kidnapping.”
It wouldn’t come to that, but Noah’s current task was to get Daventry onside. Sir Malcolm Langley, a magistrate at Bow Street, had made it his mission to see Manning hang. He was busy gathering evidence and witnesses to crimes. Hopefully, Manning was too occupied to worry about punishing Miss Dunn.
“No.” Daventry sighed. “Manning is not averse to anything.”
“And you know what will happen to Miss Dunn should Manning take her in payment for the debt.”
“She’ll be sold to an evil bastard abroad who enjoys beating women.” Daventry rubbed his jaw as he considered the dilemma. “If the brother is dead and Miss Dunn is short of funds, we will pay the debt to Manning.”
If only that were possible.
“We cannot intervene. Sir Malcolm is getting closer to securing evidence to arrest Manning. There’ll be a trial. The Order must be seen to follow the law. If we’re to continue to offer support to the needy, we cannot be held to ransom by murdering scoundrels.”
That didn’t mean Noah couldn’t personally assist Miss Dunn.
“Agreed.” Daventry pursed his lips. “What about the Turners?”
“They’ll kill Howard Dunn if he fails to pay. But I’ve never known them take revenge on an innocent woman.”
Silence ensued.
“One thing is clear,” Daventry said. “You cannot work this case alone. There are too many loose ends. Good God, you have the mystery surrounding the blackmail note, the stolen boots and the murder of her cobbler to solve.”
Noah explained all that had occurred so far, omitt
ing to mention he had kissed Miss Dunn for the hell of it—because he couldn’t resist. He made no mention of their fake betrothal, either. Daventry would be sure to warn him over his foolish lapse in judgement.
“I’ve arranged for someone to guard her door and another to keep watch on Mr Hemming.” They had a group of capable men to call upon, ex-sailors and soldiers, good men who had fallen on hard times but who sought to make an honest living.
“That’s fine for the publisher. But if Manning is involved, I’ll send Bower to guard the lady’s house.”
Despite his military background, Bower worked as Lucius Daventry’s butler and played coachman on occasion. He had assisted his master during many late-night skirmishes at the docks and in the rookeries. He was loyal to a fault and would report directly to Daventry.
“Sloane and D’Angelo will work with Sir Malcolm to secure Manning’s arrest,” Daventry added. “Cole will assist you until the brother is found, and the debts satisfied. Perhaps let him deal directly with Miss Dunn. There’s not a woman alive who can rouse affection in his chest.”
Noah fought the urge to jump to his feet and protest. But the master of the Order cared about his members. Daventry had seen men die while working to save innocent victims. He was on a mission to ensure no one else died while in pursuit of the truth.
“What of Lord Benham?” Noah said. “He has a motive for murder.”
Daventry despised men who used their positions in society to escape their crimes. Not that Howard Dunn didn’t deserve punishment.
“It’s not as though I can call at his residence and question him about the disappearance of Howard Dunn,” Noah added. “I imagine the peer will go to great lengths to protect his sister.”
“And we would do the same in his position. Finding the brother is paramount.” Daventry spent a moment in quiet contemplation. “Lord Newberry is having a ball at his home in Cavendish Square. Benham will surely be there. I shall arrange for invitations. A few questions exchanged while sipping champagne will allow an opportunity to gauge Benham’s reaction.”
Noah inwardly groaned.
No doubt his uncle would be in attendance.
“It will take more than a glass of champagne to loosen Benham’s tongue.”
Lucius Daventry cast a wry smile. “Then use Miss Dunn as bait.”
Chapter 8
“Ma’am, you must make a choice soon.” Kathleen held up the bright blue gown Eva had worn the last time someone forced her to parade amongst quality. “You’re to leave for the ball in two hours, and I might need to make alterations.”
Eva didn’t want to make a choice. She wanted to slip beneath the coverlet and hide until dawn. While logic said Lord Benham was a prime suspect in her brother’s disappearance, the thought of being within a few feet of the viscount filled her with dismay.
“Ma’am?”
Eva’s gaze drifted to the exquisite red gown draped over the chair. She had purchased the material on a whim. Had taken it to a seamstress in Spitalfields who made the most remarkable creations for a reasonable price. The fantasy of being the most confident woman in the room—not the need to attract a gentleman’s eye—had been her motivation.
And yet all thoughts turned to Mr Ashwood.
One kiss—one pleasurable kiss—one kiss that had curled her toes and roasted her insides, had turned her mind to mush.
“The blue reflects the colour of your eyes, ma’am,” Kathleen continued, dragging Eva from her reverie.
“The blue is best worn with jewels. And the only slippers I possess have red bows.” She was making excuses. Trying to delay the inevitable. The only saving grace was that she didn’t have to face Lord Benham alone.
Kathleen winced before daring to say, “Ma’am, I can change the bows.”
The suggestion brought a lump to Eva’s throat. “They were my mother’s favourite slippers. I haven’t the heart to change a thing.”
Thoughts turned to the diamond earrings, the ruby brooch and the pretty topaz and cannetille necklace, stolen by the rogue whose desire to cherish the jewels should have taken precedence over saving his own scrawny neck.
“No, I shall wear red,” Eva said with renewed determination.
But how would she maintain an air of confidence with Mr Ashwood at her side? A mere glance from the man turned her into a quivering wreck.
And how was she to hold her head high knowing of the dreadful things her brother had done? Equally, her father was famous for being one of the greatest profligates of his time. And she still hadn’t explained to Mr Ashwood how she knew Clara Swales, let alone inform him of Lord Benham’s role in this dreadful business.
“The red is so daring I won’t need jewels.”
“You’ll need rouge, ma’am,” Kathleen said, returning the blue dress to the armoire. “Just a touch on your cheeks. A light pass of carmine blush will do the trick.”
Eva groaned as an internal war raged.
The thought of a night spent mingling in society brought on a bout of nausea. The thought of a night spent laughing and dancing with Mr Ashwood filled her with a different feeling entirely.
* * *
Disappointment hit like a savage blow to the stomach. A hard wallop to wake her from her pathetic fantasy.
It was Mr Cole, not Mr Ashwood, who stood in the hall, dressed in black. While he looked the epitome of elegance and sophistication, there was no mistaking the dangerous undertone hidden beneath.
“Good evening, Miss Dunn,” came Mr Cole’s gruff greeting. He scanned the red gown but appeared totally indifferent.
The gentleman lacked Mr Ashwood’s charm, lacked the teasing gleam in his eyes that made a lady’s heart flutter. He seemed so cold, so detached from all personal thoughts and feelings. Oh, this would be a long, insufferable night.
“Good evening, Mr Cole.” If she could rouse a glimmer of a smile on his solemn face, it would be an achievement.
“No doubt you were expecting my colleague,” he said dryly.
“I presumed Mr Ashwood was dealing with my case, yes.”
It was Mr Ashwood who sent the note sealed with his monogram. The note—informing her of the need to attend Lord Newberry’s ball—carried the gentleman’s teasing tone and unique scent. The man’s alluring persona oozed from the page. Excitement had squeezed the breath from her lungs. And her thoughts had turned to dancing, to touching him, to a romantic stroll in the garden, to another toe-curling kiss.
“Your brother’s debts make this a complicated case,” Mr Cole said, scanning his environment through dark, critical eyes. “Mr Daventry wishes me to assist Mr Ashwood.”
“Mr Daventry? Ah, yes. The gentleman who hired you to help right the imbalance of justice.” Eva was intrigued to know what prompted wealthy men to chase criminals and put their lives in danger.
Mr Cole motioned to the rectangular mark on the wall. “What happened to the painting that used to hang there?”
She glanced at the dirty smudges. “I had to part with it, sir.”
“It wasn’t stolen?” Suspicion coated every word.
“No. I sold the painting this morning. Has Mr Ashwood informed you I have parted ways with my publisher?”
Had Mr Ashwood mentioned they’d shared a long and lingering kiss while standing in the middle of Mr Hemming’s office? Was that the real reason Mr Cole stood in her hall looking like the devil come to claim another soul?
“Out of concern for your safety, Miss Dunn, my colleague had no choice but to convey details of the case.”
“I see. I trust I can speak in confidence.”
“Absolute confidence.”
“Then with regard to the painting, not only do I need funds for household expenses and the purchase of new boots, but after Mr Ashwood’s kind gesture, I am now in debt to Mr Daventry to the sum of one hundred pounds.”
Mr Cole’s expression remained stone-like, but the slight widening of his eyes said he knew nothing of Mr Ashwood’s generosity. Surely he had recorded the expe
nse.
“To whom did Mr Ashwood pay a hundred pounds?”
“My publisher.”
“For what purpose?”
“To release me from a contract.”
“Hmm,” he mused, yet two frown lines appeared between brows almost swamped by a mop of sable hair.
Kathleen’s sudden appearance brought light relief. “I have your cloak, ma’am. There’s a mighty chill in the air tonight.”
There was a frosty atmosphere in the hall, too. Mr Cole was so difficult to read. So reserved. So stern.
“Allow me.” He snatched the gold cloak she had not worn for two years and draped it around her shoulders.
His fingers brushed absently against her nape, though she felt nothing. Not the delightful shiver that shot to her toes as a result of Mr Ashwood’s touch. Not the need to turn on her heel and meld her body to his. Not the desperate hope that he felt the same way, too.
“Will Mr Ashwood be attending tonight?” she asked as Mr Cole led her to his carriage. If she were to face Lord Benham, she would rather have a man named Dauntless as her companion.
Mr Cole ignored her question and gestured to the hulking figure sitting atop the box of an unmarked carriage parked at the end of Brownlow Street. “Bower will watch your house until we bring an end to these troubling matters. He’s a strong, capable man, one used to dealing with villains.”
“I see.”
Witnessing the burly individual should have settled her nerves. But Mr Ashwood would not have appointed such a sturdy watchman if there was nothing to fear. Indeed, the sudden thought of sleeping alone tonight chilled her to the bone. Filled her with dread.
Dread held her rigid in the carriage seat as they rattled through town on their way to Lord Newberry’s ball in Cavendish Square. In Mr Ashwood’s company she felt safe, protected. Mr Cole made her want to run for the hills, not race into his embrace.
To pass the time, she studied Mr Cole’s conveyance. The black leather seats were so opposed to the inviting red ones in Mr Ashwood’s carriage. The potent smell of Mr Ashwood’s cologne—bergamot, exotic spice and some woody essence—roused primal urges when in the confined space. In Mr Cole’s carriage, she was too scared to breathe.
