by Clee, Adele
A collective gasp rang through the room.
“Five thousand!” Lord Newberry cried before Sir Melrose made his counter-offer. The golden-haired Adonis flashed his perfect teeth. “You know I can settle immediately, Daventry.”
Five thousand!
“Six!” Sybil blurted. Heavens, she would need to sell her mother’s jewels should she have cause to bid again, and that was most definitely out of the question. “And I, too, can settle today.”
Cassandra tugged Sybil’s pelisse and whispered, “Have you lost your mind? You’re gambling with your future.”
The menacing tone of the anonymous letters had robbed Sybil of her facilities. If she stopped to consider the full implication of the threat, she would crumple to her knees a quivering wreck.
Indeed, numerous things had occurred to leave her nerves in tatters. Twice during the last week, a stranger had followed her home. Someone had smashed a pane of glass in the kitchen window, though the culprit must have been starving as he stole nothing but a hunk of bread. Someone had delivered an ox’s heart in a box, though Cook had not placed the order. Sybil had woken to find her bedchamber window open, the curtains flapping phantom-like in the wind.
“The items are of no use to either of you.” Sir Melrose’s croaky voice dragged Sybil from her haunting reverie. “Price should not be the only consideration. As an elected member of the Royal Society, you can trust Mr Atwood’s work will be treated with the utmost reverence.”
“And yet many are critical of the Society’s approach to science,” Sybil said. She read the broadsheets. How else was a woman to keep abreast of current affairs?
She turned to Mr Daventry, who appeared to have lost interest in the conversation. A sullen gentleman in the front row had captured his attention. The quiet figure cared nothing for the argument amongst the bidders. Indeed, he studied the equipment on display as if he could read their untold secrets.
“Seven thousand.” Lord Newberry’s bid sent the room plunging into shocked silence. “Take it now, Daventry, for I shall not make such a generous offer again.”
The mention of his name drew Mr Daventry’s attention back to the men with more money than sense. “Perhaps there is some fault with your hearing, Newberry. I’ve had a change of heart. The items are no longer for sale. Not today at any rate.”
Sir Melrose’s eyes bulged in their sockets. “Atwood would be mortified by this debacle.”
“As Miss Atwood kindly reminded me, her father would want his possessions to go to a worthy patron. I suggest those who are interested in obtaining the items should send a written statement of how they intend to use the collection.”
“This is outrageous!” Sir Melrose barged past those in the seats next to him. He lacked the courage to approach Mr Daventry and pursue his complaint. “You shall have my explanation as to why these items are of importance within the hour.”
When Sir Melrose stormed from the room, other men rose cautiously to their feet and ambled out behind him. Their whispered objections were inaudible, although one anonymous person blamed Mr Daventry’s lack of breeding for his disgraceful conduct.
“Well, Daventry, you certainly enjoy causing a stir.” Lord Newberry brushed the sleeves of his elegant coat and ran his fingers along the brim of his top hat. “I shall be at my club should sense prevail. I doubt you’ll receive a higher bid.”
“I’ll have your written statement before I make my decision,” Mr Daventry countered.
An arrogant smirk played on the lord’s lips as he made to depart, but he stopped abruptly and focused his piercing blue gaze on Sybil. “Perhaps you would care to ride out with me tomorrow, Miss Atwood. Surely a lady with your adventurous spirit would enjoy a wild ride in a racing curricle.”
Mr Daventry cursed beneath his breath.
Sybil might have been flattered—Lord Newberry was as wealthy as he was handsome—but suspicion flared. He had never shown the remotest interest in her before.
“Be careful how you use the term adventurous, Newberry.” Deep furrows appeared between Mr Daventry’s brows. “Just because the lady is outspoken when it comes to her father’s personal effects, do not presume to know her character.”
Good Lord!
Was Mr Daventry defending her reputation?
“I’m sure Lord Newberry meant no slight.” She turned to the lord whose angelic features were so opposed to Mr Daventry’s prominent cheekbones and sculpted jaw. “I’m afraid I have a previous engagement, my lord.” It occurred to her that one of the bidders might be the vile person behind the threatening letters. Perhaps Lord Newberry would go to any lengths to achieve his goal. “Mr Daventry invited me to tea. With luck, I shall have an opportunity to examine my father’s journals before they are shipped to the worthiest bidder. No doubt, I will find something interesting written in the volumes.”
There, that set the cat amongst the pigeons.
Both men conveyed instant displeasure.
Both men acted oddly at her sudden declaration.
An uncharacteristic look of panic passed over Lord Newberry’s fine features. Mr Daventry kept a stone-like expression, but she could almost hear his silent raging.
Perhaps the idea had merit. Perhaps it would help to know why so many men wanted access to her father’s journals. Knowing Mr Daventry would never invite her to take tea, she would have to find a way of stealing into his home, find a means of examining the pages in those mysterious books.
Chapter Two
Superstition proclaimed that bad luck came in threes.
The scandalous nature of Lucius’ birth had been the first unfortunate event. He imagined a bitterly cold January day, a rather bleak period that served as a foundation for his childhood. Eight years later came his mother’s disappearance—more an inevitability than bad luck when one considered the shouts and sobs echoing through the house at night.
Meeting Atticus Atwood had been his salvation, until the man pronounced Lucius head of their secret organisation, the Order of Themis, made him promise to protect his daughter and then promptly died under suspicious circumstances.
“I hardly think that’s fair, Daventry,” Newberry said in response to Miss Atwood’s comment about inspecting her father’s journals. “All potential purchasers should be allowed to examine the goods.”
Lucius glanced at the lady in the jaunty green hat that marked her as the most original woman of his acquaintance. The lady who saw fit to turn his life upside down with her snooping and witless comments.
“Miss Atwood is mistaken if she thinks one bat of her lashes will bring me to my knees.” He had held his desire in check for so long, she could flaunt her impressive breasts and he would still be immune.
As if hearing his thoughts, Newberry stole a glance at Miss Atwood’s generous bosom, and Lucius imagined ripping the lord’s eyeballs from their sockets and feeding them to the crows.
“Persuasion comes in various forms, Mr Daventry,” said the lady who haunted his dreams.
His mind might have concocted a lascivious scenario, but he had conditioned himself to suppress dangerous thoughts of Sybil Atwood.
“Clearly you’re accustomed to women using their attributes as common currency,” she continued. “Heaven forbid a lady might employ logical reasoning to sway your decision.”
“Nothing you could say or do would sway my decision, Miss Atwood.” He hoped his razor-sharp tone conveyed his point. The lady’s life was at stake, a life worth more than a selfish moment of pleasure.
Newberry snorted. “Then you’re a stronger man than I, Daventry.”
Lucius ignored the half-hearted compliment. “Should you still have an interest in the items, Newberry, I shall expect your letter this afternoon.” He flicked his gaze towards the door as he had no desire to discuss the matter further.
Newberry did not incline his head but departed with a mocking snort and a comment informing them that he always got what he wanted.
Though still in the company of her friend, Mr
s Cavanagh, the urge to tear into Miss Atwood burned in Lucius’ veins. “Do you have the remotest idea what you’ve done?” he muttered through gritted teeth.
The lady cast him a beaming smile, which went some way to calm his temper. Once, from the shadows of Atticus’ dark hallway, he had secretly witnessed her soulful cries, witnessed her crumple to her knees, grief-stricken. The harrowing sight had wrenched at his heart, and he would give anything not to see it again.
“I loved my father dearly and merely wish to reclaim his possessions,” she said in the sincere way that confirmed she knew nothing about Atticus Atwood’s real work.
The truth carried no shame.
But the truth would get one killed.
Indeed, he had to get rid of her. He had to send her home, had to hurt her enough that she would never dare approach him again.
“Frankly, your father didn’t want you to have his journals. He told me so himself.” It was not a lie. Atticus loved his daughter. Her safety had always been his primary concern. A concern Lucius had inherited, along with the written texts that people would commit murder to obtain. “Atticus may have been forward-thinking, but he wanted a man who understood his motives and principles to take possession of his life’s work. In that regard, he found you lacking.”
Fool! Lucius silently cursed. It would take more than that to hurt a woman with a backbone of steel.
“And clearly that man is not you, Mr Daventry,” she countered. “You speak of principles, yet you have the morals of a sewer rat.”
The harsh comment roused admiration rather than anger. He had never met a woman willing to call him out for his scandalous behaviour. Perhaps she would have a different view if she knew the truth.
“And your father would be ashamed to see you sneaking around town like an incompetent constable from Bow Street. Disguising yourself as a widow will not save your reputation.” She always wore black when she spied on him. “He left you financially secure so you might do something worthwhile with your time.” He twisted his mouth in a feigned look of disdain. “And yet here you are with your petty arguments about that which you know nothing.”
The lady jerked her head back, affronted.
If he saw so much as a tear in her eye, he would falter. Lucius tore his gaze away, pretending to survey those men still sitting in the auction room.
Everyone had left.
Panic sent his heart shooting to his throat.
He looked at the empty seat vacated by the quiet gentleman with the pasty white face and thin lips. The ghostly figure who hid in the shadows, watching his home.
Damnation!
Lucius’ gaze shot to the table. The scientific artefacts remained, but some light-fingered beggar had snatched the journal from the oak bookstand.
“Damn him to the devil!” Lucius dragged his hand down his face while he contemplated his next move. He rounded on Miss Atwood. “Must you persist in being such an annoying distraction?”
The lady blinked. “Evidently, you have no control over your temper, sir. Must you persist in being rude to the point of—”
“Good day, Miss Atwood.”
Lucius had wasted enough time trying to make the woman see sense. Ignoring her shocked expression, he took to his feet and raced from the room. Barging past the few men conversing on the landing, he gripped the polished bannister and practically flew down the two flights of stairs.
“Mr Daventry! Wait!” His nemesis’ frustrated voice trailed behind. “What on earth—”
“Go home, Miss Atwood!” he shouted as he skidded along the tiled hallway and shoved more than one man in the back in his bid to reach Gilbert Street.
As one would expect at eleven o’clock on a Monday morning—on a street so close to the museum—scholars laden with books and letter cases and portable writing slopes crowded the pavements. Tourists hurried from their lodging houses, eager to reach the building of wonders located on Great Russell Street.
“Hellfire!” Lucius cursed almost to himself. It was impossible to identify his quarry amongst a sea of black top hats.
“Mr Daventry?” Miss Atwood came to an abrupt halt next to him. She clutched her chest and gasped a breath. An action that drew his gaze to her heaving bosom.
Saints preserve him!
He must have wronged someone to deserve this fate.
Lucius forced himself to study the people on the street. “I’ve nothing more to say to you, Miss Atwood.” He pitied Mrs Cavanagh, for the poor woman was left trailing behind her irate friend. For the last fifteen minutes, she had sat in silence, deep furrows a permanent feature on her brow. “Mrs Cavanagh has heard enough of our petty quarrels for one day.”
“The j-journal,” Miss Atwood panted. It took every effort not to steal another glance at her flushed cheeks and parted lips. “The one you displayed on the table. It’s … it’s gone.”
The distress in her voice was unmistakable. Part of him wanted to maintain the charade, make her think the object of her desire was lost, stolen by the fiend who had sat quietly throughout the proceedings and waited for the opportune moment to strike. Perhaps then she might put the past behind her and live the life Atticus intended.
But Lucius knew Miss Atwood better than that.
Besides, if there was one thing he couldn’t bear, it was seeing pain and suffering in her eyes. Hearing grief in her voice at the loss of something precious would be like a barbed arrow to his heart.
“I suspect the fellow with the sallow complexion is the culprit.” The truth hung like a heavy weight on his tongue. Honesty was his only option lest she take to her heels and chase after the blackguard. “There is something you should know, Miss Atwood.” He could feel her penetrating stare long before he turned to face her. “The stolen book is not your father’s journal.”
Relief replaced the fear in her eyes. “Yet it looked so similar.” The twinkling of those vivid green gems made it easier to raise his defences.
“My morals may be questionable on occasion, but I would never risk losing Atticus Atwood’s work.” That was far from the whole truth, but it would be enough to appease her.
“Only on occasion?” she challenged. “Is there a woman in the ton you have not bedded?”
The muscles in his abdomen clenched when the obvious answer sprang to mind. If she were anyone but Atticus Atwood’s daughter, he would bed her in a heartbeat. “Opinion is not reality. Perhaps you should remember that when you make your veiled accusations.”
He expected a witty retort, but instead, she narrowed her gaze and studied him with some curiosity. “Come now. Mrs Sinclair is your fourth mistress in as many months, is she not?”
The fact the lady had been monitoring his movements to such an extent proved flattering and terrifying at the same time. “You’ve been taking notes. When did you develop a deep interest in my personal affairs?”
“One can hardly help but take note. You engaged in an amorous clinch in Craddock and Haines’ bookshop!” She gestured to Mrs Cavanagh, who was pretending not to hear their conversation. “We both saw you.”
“A man might devour numerous pages in a book before he decides if tackling the volume will be worth the effort.” Perhaps he should tell Miss Atwood that he had known she was there, that he had staged the interlude for her benefit. It was better if she believed he was the most dissolute man of the ton. Better for them both. “You saw me because you were following me around town dressed in widow’s weeds.”
“You stopped responding to my letters. How else was I to learn of the auction?”
The last comment raised an important question. “How did you know the auction was being held in Gilbert Street?”
He had been secretive in his arrangements. The process had involved men registering their interest—an important part of the plan in catching Atticus’ murderer. He sent letters informing them where the auction would take place. He had changed the time and place twice. And still, his nemesis had appeared.
An arrogant grin played on her li
ps. “Can you not guess?”
“Do I look like a man who enjoys playing mind games?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You have such a terrible temper I cannot imagine anything rousing your amusement.”
“As always you base your opinion on very little evidence. Thankfully, your sex makes it impossible for you to take the bar. There are enough fools in wigs sending men to the scaffold.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut. “One cannot help but form a judgement on what one sees.”
“And that is the problem with the world, Miss Atwood.” He was desperate to learn how she had known to come to Gilbert Street but would not give her the satisfaction of pressing her further. “For the umpteenth time, I bid you good day. Go home.”
He moved to walk away, but she captured his gloveless hand and held it in a firm grip. The sudden shock, coupled with the intimate tingle of awareness, sent his pulse racing.
“This ring was given as a mark of respect, though I have no notion why.” She stared at the gold band on his middle finger, intrigue forming the basis of her enquiry. “My father must have seen something respectable in you, something that eludes the rest of us. He wore it for years. He could have given it to his cousin, but he gave it to you. Why?”
Every nerve in his body sparked to life, igniting the raging desire he’d thought he had buried beneath a mound of soil and a stone monument engraved with the words rest in peace.
“May I remind you that we are standing in the street.” His cold tone was so opposed to the heat burning in his chest. He moved to pull his hand away, but she gripped it tighter. “Your reckless manner will be your downfall, Miss Atwood.”
“This symbol meant something to my father,” she said, tapping the ring. She spoke of the weighing scales etched into the red carnelian stone. “I noticed the same symbol on various documents, documents I presume you now possess.”
The woman was too inquisitive. Dangerously inquisitive. Such an active mind would bring nothing but trouble. “Allow me to offer you advice, Miss Atwood.” He did not wait for a response. “You should do everything in your power to conquer this inane curiosity. I have already suggested ways to cure your boredom.” He glanced at Mrs Cavanagh, whose expression spoke of the weariness of being ignored for the last ten minutes. “Perhaps you might start with learning to be a better friend.”
