The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  Miss Atwood swallowed deeply. She was so engrossed in her search for answers she had given Mrs Cavanagh little consideration.

  “You’re right,” she said, releasing his hand and making her apologies to her companion. “Rudeness is a trait I despise, and I shall spend the rest of the day making amends. And what of you, sir? Are you able to take your own advice? Can you not extend the hand of friendship and assist the daughter of your mentor?”

  Having sworn an oath to Atticus Atwood, he had spent the last year secretly playing knight errant. He had spent the last year training his mind and body to ignore this clawing attraction. Being cold and callous and downright rude was a means of protecting her. A means of self-preservation, too.

  “We are not friends, Miss Atwood.” That would be a stretch too far. He was just a mortal man with a carnal craving. Prone to bouts of recklessness. Prone to bouts of weakness. “We will never be friends. Therefore, the same rules do not apply.”

  She swallowed numerous times. “What happened to you?” The words were but a whisper. “Have you no heart?”

  Now it was his turn to swallow past the hard lump forming in his throat. “My heart is black.” He refused to give her hope. “My father ripped it from my chest as a child and roasted it on a spit.” Atticus had done everything in his power to repair the damage. “Now, I must return to the auction room before someone attempts to steal your father’s scientific artefacts.” They were worthless objects purchased from various pawnbrokers as part of the ruse.

  “Something is dreadfully amiss, Mr Daventry, and I believe it has to do with my father.”

  Ignoring the comment, he moved past her, got as far as the door before her haunting last words chilled him to the bone.

  “I shall never stop looking for answers. Not as long as blood flows in my veins.”

  Chapter Three

  Wrapped in her thick green cloak, and shrouded by a thin ghostly mist, Sybil found it remarkably easy to move unnoticed through the streets at midnight. A lady had to be careful where she walked. Thankfully, at this ungodly hour, the wealthy occupants of Brook Street were either tucked in their beds or making merry at a fancy rout or soirée.

  With his dwelling situated on the south side of the street, one could access Mr Daventry’s garden via the mews. Privacy when conducting illicit liaisons was not an important factor for a libertine who boasted of his conquests. But for a would-be snoop like Sybil, it gave her a means of entering the house undetected.

  As arranged, Mr Daventry’s valet had slipped out into the mews to meet her abigail. All Sybil had to do now was enter through the servants’ quarters, and while the couple discussed their blossoming relationship, she would search the study for her father’s books.

  Simple.

  And yet Sybil wasn’t prepared for the rush of excitement she experienced upon entering the devil’s lair. The hairs on her nape prickled to attention. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Absurdly, the urge to learn more about the man who was as mysterious as he was rude thrummed in her veins.

  After mastering the basement’s creaking staircase without alerting the staff, Sybil crept to the room at the end of the dim hallway. In most grand houses, the study was a place where men struggled with the pressures of making financial decisions. Not that she expected Mr Daventry to use the room for such a purpose. No, she envisioned finding the rogue sprawled semi-naked on the chaise, Mrs Sinclair straddling his thighs while he feasted on mounds of bare flesh.

  Sybil cursed her vivid imagination.

  She had made sure Mr Daventry was not at home. He visited his mistress nightly, always before the stroke of twelve. Indeed, Sybil had sat hidden in a hackney on Davies Street for the best part of an hour, watching the entrance to the mews. The urchin she’d paid to spy on her quarry confirmed Mr Daventry’s departure.

  And yet the man’s powerful presence still lingered.

  The pang of apprehension did not act as a deterrent. Despite her heart hammering against her chest, she turned the doorknob and slipped into the dark room.

  The thrill of invading dangerous territory left her weak at the knees. It took a moment to settle her ragged breathing as she stared into the gloom.

  Mr Daventry’s potent energy invaded the darkness. She narrowed her gaze and focused on the empty chair behind the desk. The rogue’s unique smell reached her nostrils, although that was no surprise. She often woke at night and caught a whiff of his seductive scent.

  Pushing aside her trepidation, she moved to the bookcase left of the desk. The glass doors were locked, the keys missing. A quick scan of the gold lettering on the spines confirmed Mr Daventry liked philosophy and law, though she would lay odds he never read them. Why would a man who enjoyed lascivious pursuits be interested in moral principles?

  She turned her attention to the desk, to the quill next to the sheet of paper. While it was the height of bad manners to read a person’s missive, she couldn’t help but notice the single sentence scrawled in black ink.

  Ignorance, the root and stem of every evil.

  Strange.

  It was one of her father’s favourite quotes, yet it sounded more like a personal message. To some extent, she was ignorant. A quest for knowledge had brought her to Mr Daventry’s home tonight.

  Shadows of doubt held her rigid.

  Had Mr Daventry discovered how she’d learned of the auction? Had the valet confessed to his friendship with her abigail? Was Mr Daventry aware of her plan and had faked his departure?

  As her mind ran amok and her pulse soared, something else struck her as peculiar. So peculiar, she padded over to the fireplace.

  The room was so warm one would expect to find flames dancing in the grate. But a quick prod with the poker confirmed someone had recently piled fresh coal on top of the glowing embers.

  “A man visiting his mistress would have no cause to keep his study warm.” Mr Daventry’s rich, masculine voice echoed from the shadows. “That would have been your next logical thought, Miss Atwood.”

  Shock made her gasp.

  The urge to flee quickly followed.

  “Now you’re wondering how I returned to the house without you noticing.” He sighed. “You waited at least twenty minutes before entering the garden. Of course, you needed Ashby to unlock the gate, and the man can be somewhat tardy.”

  Sybil put her hand to her heart for fear the organ might burst through her chest. She peered into the darkest corner of the room—the gentleman’s excellent hiding place.

  “One would think a man besotted with a woman would be early for his secret rendezvous,” she replied, stepping closer to the only person who roused her interest and her temper. “Not arrive ten minutes late.”

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, she noted the outline of his broad shoulders as he lounged in a wingback chair.

  “Oh, I have no doubt Ashby thinks himself in love. How long did it take your shameless maid to lure him with her womanly wiles?”

  “I assure you, sir, Miriam is far from shameless.” An unmarried lady could hardly keep a maid with loose morals.

  “Is she not frolicking in the mews as we speak?”

  “Frolicking? They mean to marry.”

  “So I gather.”

  “I imagine they are discussing how they might keep their positions and still make a lifelong commitment. Of course, they will have to find lodgings.”

  “I’m sure a discussion of any sort is the last thing on their minds.” From the realms of his secret lair, the devil snorted. “If Ashby is anything like his master, he will be stroking the tops of your maid’s stockings by now.”

  Heat flooded Sybil’s cheeks. “Not all men have your voracious appetite for sin. I’m surprised you bother fastening the buttons on your breeches.”

  “Passion is a potent drug, Miss Atwood.” The teasing words drifted from the darkness to play havoc with her insides. “The clawing need keeps a man awake at night. Makes him restless. In desperation, he fantasises about all the eroti
c things he might do with the object of his desire, but that only intensifies the ache.”

  Heavens!

  “Shouldn’t you be berating me for stealing into your home, not educating me on the power of unsated lust?” Sybil preferred arguing with him than acknowledging the odd sensations thrumming through her body. “And I take umbrage at talking to a shadow.”

  The shadow rose to his full, imposing height and prowled out of the gloomy depths. Dressed impeccably, as usual, she couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like in relaxed attire. Were his arms really that muscular? Or was his tailor an expert in exaggerating elements of a man’s physique?

  “People rarely surprise me, Miss Atwood. You do not strike me as a woman who would resort to manipulating the hired help. Yet you risked your maid’s reputation merely to steal a glance at your father’s books. One cannot help but be a little disappointed in your character.”

  “Disappointed in my character?” Sybil gave an unladylike grunt. Still, the need to defend her position took hold. “One cannot fight a burning attraction.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I’m flattered you find me remotely appealing. Every indication leads me to believe you despise me.”

  “You despise me just as much.” Oh, he loved provoking her. “Besides, you know very well that I am speaking about Miriam and Ashby. They met a month ago when he was collecting your shaving soap from Floris.”

  Mr Daventry folded his arms across his broad chest. “You mean they met when you were following Ashby in order to satisfy your obsession with me.”

  Obsession?

  Ha!

  But Sybil caught herself. Perhaps the gentleman did dominate her thoughts too often.

  She forced herself to look him in the eye. “At that point, I was trying to determine how a man like you gained my father’s favour.” At that point, she hadn’t received the threatening notes or learned of his intention to sell the journals to the highest bidder. “I have witnessed your antics in the ballroom. The way you sneak away to dark corners with your mistress of the month. My father would never have approved.”

  “Nor would he approve of you gallivanting around town on a fool’s errand. Your father’s books hold a certain value, and men are willing to go to great lengths to obtain them.”

  Sybil knew firsthand how depraved these men were. The letters demanding she claim the books were meant to frighten and intimidate. Reading the theories might help her discover the villain’s motive. Why else would she risk entering Mr Daventry’s home in the dead of night?

  “Yes, and you’re desperate to be rid of the burden.”

  “The books are not the burden, Miss Atwood.”

  She ignored the sarcastic remark. “Will you let these men win? Will you bow down to these brutes? You don’t strike me as the cowardly sort.”

  Something she said struck a nerve. Mr Daventry gritted his teeth and practically growled. He stepped forward, forcing her to shuffle back until her bottom came to rest on the edge of his desk.

  “I bow to no one, Miss Atwood. Not to my father, not to those men who believe themselves superior, and certainly not to men who make idle threats.”

  “Which is why you should sell your books to a woman. Sell them to me. You must admit it is only fair—”

  “For the love of—” Mr Daventry pushed his hand through his ebony hair. “I’m not selling the damn books. It is all a ruse to catch a murderer.”

  His sudden pained expression spoke of instant regret.

  “To catch a murderer?” she repeated, aghast. Confusion reigned. “But I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not meant to understand. It was your father’s wish you remain ignorant.” Mr Daventry rubbed his forehead and looked to be in a dreadful quandary. “Please, Miss Atwood, go home. Invest your time mastering the usual ladies’ pursuits.”

  Go home?

  How could she rest when her mind was consumed with murder?

  “Did someone close to you die? Is this an old case? Did my father write about it in his journals?” Sybil spoke so quickly she struggled to catch her breath. Her life depended upon discovering the answer. “Might there be a prosecution? Is that why so many people are seeking to obtain them?”

  Mr Daventry shook his head. “The answer is no on all counts.”

  He was hiding something.

  “You can tell me. You can trust me.” She made the mistake of touching his arm, and he shot back as if she had scorched him with a hot poker. “But this has something to do with my father. Was he assisting you in—” Sybil stopped abruptly as another, far more terrifying, thought took root. “Lord, no! Tell me you don’t suspect my father—”

  “Forget my foolish words.”

  “But—”

  “Forget the comment spoken in haste.”

  “You think someone murdered my father. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Panic took hold and squeezed her throat until her voice lost its power. Her knees buckled. Lucius Daventry caught hold of her arm and kept her upright. Tears welled. Covering her mouth with her hand was the only way to stop herself from retching.

  Mr Daventry dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it in her direction. “Don’t cry.”

  He waited until she snatched the silk square before turning away. Clearly he had little tolerance for weeping women.

  She grabbed his coat sleeve. “I deserve to know the truth.” Water trickled down her cheeks. “If there are doubts surrounding my father’s death, you have no right to keep them from me.”

  “Conjecture is not fact,” he said while facing the fireplace. “A theory without sufficient evidence is worthless in a court of law.”

  “Then you must believe someone stole into our house to commit this vile deed.”

  She had found her father dead in his bed. Having struggled with a weak heart, it was presumed the organ had failed him during the night. That’s what she told the coroner. A choking sob burst from her lips as she recalled his blue lips and grey complexion.

  Mr Daventry sighed. With some reluctance, he turned to face her, and she saw another rare glimpse of compassion. “Ignore my theory. I am suspicious by nature.”

  “Suspicious only when you have just cause.” She dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief, and the divine scent of his cologne had a bizarre soothing effect on her nerves. “You apply logic to every situation.”

  “I have a wild imagination, am prone to moments of fancy.”

  The lie rang as loud as a church bell. He was rude and obnoxious, but he always spoke the truth.

  “No, I don’t believe that. You’re not the whimsical sort. You’re a man who takes what he wants without compunction.”

  “Not everything I want.”

  Silence ensued.

  Despite the host of questions swarming around in her head, despite the excruciating pain that accompanied thoughts of her father’s suffering, she couldn’t help but wonder what treasure eluded a man as powerful as Lucius Daventry.

  “If you do not confide in me now,” she eventually said, “I fear terrible images will haunt me for the rest of my days.” Sybil stared into the storm-grey eyes that often stole her breath. “I shan’t sleep wondering what happened, wondering if there was something I could have done to help him.”

  “There was nothing you could have done.” He glanced at the floor as she wiped tears from her eyes. “Your father kept his work private for a reason.”

  “It’s the only part of his life he refused to share.”

  “As I said, for good reason.” Mr Daventry’s voice carried the wisdom of experience.

  Sybil paused as she tried to assemble the pieces of the puzzle. “You assisted him in his quest for knowledge, didn’t you?” It was the only explanation to account for her father’s generous gift. Atticus might not have approved of Lucius Daventry’s immoral pursuits, but he respected his opinion as a colleague and associate.

  “I admire intelligence when used wisely.”

  Wisel
y?

  She could hardly believe the word had fallen from Mr Daventry’s lips. Was this not the debauched devil who sauntered through ballrooms committing sin?

  “My father possessed many admirable qualities.” Which was why someone had to fight for the supposed injustice. “If there is a hint of truth in what you suspect, then he did not deserve to meet such a dreadful end.”

  The tears brimmed again, and Mr Daventry muttered a curse.

  “Rest assured. I am working to prove my theory.” Even in the gloom, she saw a darkness pass over his features. “When I do, I shall exact the worst kind of revenge.” He paused, let her absorb the menacing undertone that suggested he had no qualms killing a man. “But now I have another problem. A pressing problem that requires my undivided attention.”

  “You refer to me and my snooping. I can be persistent when I want something. But surely you understand my need to examine the books. What my father wrote in those journals might have cost him his life.”

  “Your snooping is akin to a signature on your death warrant. You’re the most reckless woman I have ever known, and I have known many.” He straightened and glared. “In coming to the auction you’ve given your father’s enemies reason to believe you possess knowledge of his work.”

  “Not necessarily. Men think me sentimental.”

  “Men think you will stop at nothing to get what you want. You told everyone in the auction room you respect your father’s vision.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you respect your father. You know nothing about what he did with his time. You know nothing of the risks he took. But I can tell you it had nothing to do with science.”

  Sybil blinked. Though loath to admit it, Mr Daventry was right. “I know he would never do anything nefarious.”

  Mr Daventry rubbed his jaw in frustration. “Doing the right thing carries greater penalties than some criminal acts.”