The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  The right thing?

  She might have challenged his right to make the claim, but the gentleman strode over to the bell and tugged hard.

  “Regardless of what you think of me, Miss Atwood, you will do exactly what I say without argument.” He moved behind the desk, unlocked the top drawer with a key from his coat pocket and removed a pistol.

  “Blessed saints!” Sybil gasped. “You do not need to threaten me with a weapon.”

  “Your father’s enemies watch from the shadows. After the debacle today, they will have followed you here, and will assume you’ve examined his journals.” He snatched a sheathed blade and slipped it into his boot. “Now they will attack us from all quarters.”

  A knock on the study door brought the butler.

  Servants who held such a prominent household position were often past middle age and carried an air of refinement. Mr Daventry’s man looked as if he’d come from a prizefight in the rookeries.

  “Bower, I’m going to escort Miss Atwood home in the hackney.” Mr Daventry paused as if expecting her to protest. “You spoke to the jarvey and told him to wait on the corner of Brook Mews and Avery Row?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bower’s voice was as deep as the scar cutting through his left brow. “The lady told him to wait on Davies Street where she’d alighted and paid half the fare.”

  Mr Daventry turned those gunmetal eyes on her. “If you must behave recklessly, Miss Atwood, learn to be less predictable. In this game, one cannot afford to make such a blunder. Oh and never trust the word of a starving boy looking to earn a penny.” He switched his attention back to his servant. “You’ll find Ashby in the mews with Miss Atwood’s maid. Wait ten minutes before mentioning our departure.”

  The last instruction forced Sybil to say, “You cannot expect me to leave Miriam behind. She must come with us in the hackney.”

  Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “If you value your life and that of your maid don’t argue.” He scanned her attire. “Now remove your cloak.”

  “My cloak? Is that necessary?”

  “Would I waste time asking if not?”

  There was something salacious about the look in Mr Daventry’s eyes as he watched her untie the ribbons and slip the garment off her shoulders. His jaw firmed when he glanced at her low décolletage.

  With some annoyance, he snatched the cloak and threw it to Bower. “Wake Kitty and ask her to wear this. Make sure her red hair is visible but not her face.” He continued to bark orders. “Don my hat and greatcoat. When Furnis returns from his ride around town, you and Kitty will take my carriage and escort the maid home.”

  It occurred to her that Mr Daventry and Bower were of a similar height. Both men had black hair. Both men had broad shoulders. Yet her host possessed an unnamed quality that marked him as unique. Memorable.

  “Before venturing to Half Moon Street, visit Boodle’s. The majordomo will approach the carriage. Pay him to take my message to Lord Newberry and wait for a reply.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clearly, Bower had prior knowledge of this secret message as he did not take receipt of a note, but merely inclined his head and left the room when dismissed by his master.

  Mr Daventry gestured to the door. “We will leave via the garden. Will you be warm enough?” Again, his gaze drifted to the neckline of her dress. He didn’t wait for a response but snatched the tartan blanket from the wingback chair and thrust it at her. “Cover your hair. It’s so vibrant it’s sure to catch a man’s eye.”

  It came as a shock to hear concern in his voice.

  More of a shock to hear a hint of admiration.

  Sybil took the blanket and draped it over her hair like a shawl. The man who proved more confounding by the hour escorted her through the servants’ quarters and into the garden.

  “You accuse me of making a blunder,” she said, hurrying to keep his fast pace. “Sneaking out of the back gate is the most predictable means of escape.”

  “Who said we are sneaking out of the back gate?”

  “Oh! As we’re marching through the garden, I assumed—”

  “I’ve mastered the art of taking precautions, Miss Atwood. Trust me. When it comes to your safety, I have the situation under control.”

  Chapter Four

  Hellfire!

  Lucius pasted a confident grin. With assured strides, he led Sybil Atwood to the summerhouse in the corner of the garden, though his heart hammered in his chest, and his mind whirled in turmoil.

  Miss Atwood’s prying would be the death of him, the death of the ton’s most scandalous rogue. If some blighter didn’t shoot him for defending the woman who placed herself in perilous situations, he would expire from the effort it took to keep his real emotions at bay.

  At least twice in the space of thirty minutes, he had let his guard slip. He had watched her intently, drooling like a randy schoolboy as she slipped the cloak off her shoulders. Like the most creative playwright, his mind acted out a seduction scene—a full-blown drama involving a ravishing on top of his mahogany desk.

  “Forgive me,” the object of his torment began as she hurried to keep his pace, “but why are we going to the summerhouse? You said we were leaving here and taking a hackney.”

  “What reason might two people have for heading to a secluded shelter in the garden?” Indeed, his rampant mind envisioned Act II of the play entitled The Desperate Desires of Lucius Daventry. Perhaps The Mystery of Mr Daventry was a more apt title. Devil take it, he could not explain the force that drove him to crave Miss Atwood’s company.

  “Now you’re teasing me, trying to scare me with empty threats to steal my virtue.”

  “What makes you think they’re empty threats?”

  “Because tonight you’ve had the perfect opportunity to teach me a lesson and instead you asked if I was warm and gave me a blanket.”

  The lady had a point. “You’re right. I’m not about to ravish you in the summerhouse.”

  “Perhaps you’re the one who should have a care,” she blurted. “Perhaps I might ravish you to get what I want. Have you thought about that?”

  Lucius laughed to prevent himself from imagining Act III. “Why would you do that when you despise me?”

  “I don’t despise you, Mr Daventry. If you had explained your motive for holding the auction, we might have avoided this unnecessary conflict.”

  The conflict was necessary if he was to keep his sanity.

  “Miss Atwood, you’re a woman governed by her heart.” Damn. The comment sounded like a compliment. “You would never give yourself to a man you didn’t love.”

  And that was his saving grace.

  “Earlier you said I was reckless,” she countered. “And loneliness is as dangerous as a curious mind when it comes to behaving inappropriately.”

  Lucius knew the anxious feelings that rose from isolation. He knew their destructive force, knew the way negative emotions played havoc with one’s thoughts. The memory of Miss Atwood sobbing on the stairs flashed before his eyes, and he didn’t want to dwell on all the ways they might ease each other’s suffering.

  Thankfully, they came to a halt in front of the summerhouse, preventing him from saying something he might regret.

  He reached into his fob pocket and withdrew the ring containing four iron keys. “Follow me. Stay close.” He sensed her hesitation as he led her behind the garden house and unlocked the wooden gate in the brick wall.

  Miss Atwood remained so close he could smell the sweet scent of her rose perfume. “I assume your neighbour knows you have access to his garden.”

  “Whether he does or not is immaterial considering I own this house, too.” Lucius locked the gate behind them and pushed through the darkness. “Besides, I bought the section of land that runs the length of the row. Consequently, all the gardens are shorter, and I have a hidden escape route.”

  The lady stopped and observed the high hedgerow blocking the view of his neighbour’s house. “So this is a secret alley?”

&n
bsp; Lucius unlocked the gate leading to the next garden. “It provides a means of escape without alerting the spies watching my door.” And it gave him an advantage when surprising hired thugs loitering in the mews.

  He was about to step through into the next garden when Miss Atwood touched his arm. “You’ve taken some rather drastic measures in the name of safety.” The words brimmed with concern. “Living cautiously must take its toll. I should know. Following you secretly through town these last few weeks has been exhausting. Have you lived like this since my father’s death?”

  He had lived like this since he was a boy of eight and believed a wicked devil had entered his home and stolen his mother away. He had lived like this since being hounded for his illegitimacy at school. Since joining the Order of Themis and gaining more enemies.

  “Someone betrayed your father. I mean to stay alive long enough to string the blighter up on a makeshift scaffold.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He glanced at the dainty hand resting on his sleeve. The soothing touch might easily tear a confession from his lips. “I suggest we stop talking lest we alert every resident in the street of our presence.”

  “Of course.”

  Her hand slipped to her side, and he felt the loss instantly.

  They crept through the gardens until they reached the last house. From there, they entered the mews.

  Wisps of mist reduced visibility by a sufficient degree for them to exit the mews unnoticed. Despite grave reservations, he captured Miss Atwood’s hand. “Hold on to my arm. I intend to move quickly.”

  She offered no objection.

  Every nerve in his body sparked to life when her fingers wrapped around his bicep, but he convinced himself that playing protector formed the basis of these confounding emotions. He owed Atticus Atwood his life, and though his mentor was beyond the grave, Lucius lived to make him proud.

  A few brisk strides brought them out onto Avery Row. Seeing the hulking shadow of the hackney roused a modicum of relief.

  “Evenin’, governor.” The jarvey—a fellow with ruddy cheeks and a bulbous nose—tipped his hat. “Back to Half Moon Street, is it?”

  Lucius kept his attention trained on the hackney driver, looking for telltale signs that said a man was not who he claimed. “What street runs parallel with Soho Square?”

  “What street?” The jarvey pursed his lips in contemplation. “To the east or west?”

  “West.”

  “That would be Dean Street.”

  “Why are we going to Dean Street?” Miss Atwood whispered.

  “We’re not.” The reasoning behind his question would soon become apparent. “And the street connecting London Wall and Long Alley?”

  The jarvey frowned. “You mean Brokers Row?”

  “Take us to the north side of Curzon Street.” From there, it was a few minutes’ walk to Miss Atwood’s home. It would give Lucius an opportunity to know if someone trailed them from the shadows. “I’ll rap the roof when we wish to alight.”

  Despite wearing a deep frown, the driver nodded.

  Lucius threw the man a sovereign for the inconvenience and assisted Miss Atwood into the vehicle.

  In the dark confines of the cab, he was acutely aware of the lady’s penetrating stare pinning him to the seat. “You doubted the driver’s identity?”

  “A few simple questions can be the difference between life and death,” he said as the conveyance jerked forward and picked up speed. “A thug from the rookeries would not have been so quick to answer.”

  “You must spend every waking minute fearing an attack.” She lowered the blanket and patted the copper locks he imagined would slip like silk through his fingers.

  “I fear no one, Miss Atwood.” No one but her. She could unsettle him with a single glance. In her company he became forgetful, concentrating only on the sound of her breathing, on the way her lips moved to form words. “But I have a responsibility to guard the truth. And the truth can be dangerous.”

  Her beguiling eyes narrowed as she considered him with a level of scrutiny he found unnerving. “Then you must have considered the possibility that while we are journeying across town, someone is breaking into your house to steal my father’s journals.”

  “Do you think I would keep my prized possessions at home?”

  She released a lengthy hum. “No, I am beginning to see that you’re far too clever to make such a foolish mistake.”

  Usually, compliments failed to penetrate his steely reserve. One could not disregard people’s opinions only to coo with delight at the first sign of praise. And yet her good opinion was like a secret weapon to his battle armour.

  “Have no fear. Your father’s personal effects have never left the vault.”

  “The vault?” She blinked in surprise. “Sir, please tell me you have not placed your trust in a bank. My father often said one should be wary of all institutions.”

  A smile touched his lips. Atticus had said the same thing to him, many times. “No, I have not placed my trust in a bank. The vault is in a secret underground location. I could tell you where, but then I would have to find a way to ensure your silence.”

  The corners of her mouth curled in amusement. “What would you do, Mr Daventry, sever my tongue with hot pincers?”

  “Nothing so Draconian.”

  She shuffled in the seat. “Women seem to have no problem doing what you tell them.”

  “There you go again, Miss Atwood, concocting a story based on what you suppose is true.”

  He should never have mentioned the vault.

  He should have known it would feed her curiosity.

  “You can trust me with a secret,” she persisted. “After all, we share a common goal.”

  “And what goal is that?”

  “To keep my father’s work safe. To catch the villains who threaten our lives.” A sudden rush of emotion fractured her confident tone, and he knew what she was about to say. “To find proof to support your theory regarding my father’s murder and to exact a fitting punishment.”

  Knots wrung tight in his stomach as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingers. He might have mocked her—as she knew nothing about his confidential activities—but she had made her point with surprising discernment.

  It seemed the time for honesty was nigh.

  The truth was the only deterrent.

  Lucius sat forward. “I swore an oath to your father. An oath to protect the one thing he considered most important. I would rather die than break that vow.”

  Miss Atwood sat forward, too. Their knees brushed as the hackney rumbled along the murky street. “I have the utmost respect for my father’s work and would have sworn the same oath.”

  “You misunderstand. While I go to great lengths to protect his journals, I promised to protect something far more valuable.”

  “What?”

  “You, Miss Atwood.”

  “Me?” She jerked back as if they had bounced through a rut in the road. During the next few seconds, she shook her head and gave a half-hearted laugh as if it was the most ludicrous thing she had heard all season. “My father died almost a year ago and not once have you made a house call.”

  “A scoundrel does not call at the home of an unmarried lady.” No, he hid in her garden and wrestled the thug trying to climb through her kitchen window.

  “You could have written a note.”

  “And alert you to the dangers lurking outside your door?”

  “You underestimate my ability to cope in difficult situations.”

  “Madam, I have the full measure of your character.” She was wildly tenacious, spirited, would need a strong, virile man to hold her interest.

  Her eyes grew wide, and she snorted. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  This was where matters became awkward. “I know more than you think.”

  “But I’m a private person. You couldn’t possibly—”

  “You have a fondness for poach
ed eggs in the morning.” He sighed. “Insist on reading the broadsheets with your afternoon tea.”

  Miss Atwood gaped.

  “You venture into town every Wednesday,” he continued, “and while you admire the gloves in Hatcher’s window, you never enter the shop to make a purchase.”

  “The assistant is snooty. I live in hope Hatcher will hire a replacement.”

  “You visit the circulating library weekly. Read gothic novels at a ridiculous rate.”

  “Where else might an unmarried lady find excitement?”

  “I’m hardly the best person to ask.” Although numerous suggestions sprang to mind. “Monsieur Messier designs your hats. You prefer the scent of roses to any other fragrance. You wear green, not because it enhances the vibrancy of your hair or because men tell you the colour makes your eyes sparkle like emeralds.”

  She swallowed deeply. “Why do I wear green?”

  “Because it was your mother’s favourite colour. When you feign a smile and move about in society, you feel as though she’s with you. Should I go on?”

  “No, Mr Daventry.” She clutched the blanket to her chest as if finding herself shockingly exposed. “You have said more than enough.”

  “You’re not the only person with a skill for snooping, Miss Atwood.”

  After a moment’s silence, she said, “But you’re rude or ignore me when I see you at a ball or soirée.”

  “Unlike you, I take a covert approach to work.” Protecting her had become more than a job to him. “I merely abide by your father’s request to allow you freedom from fear.”

  “To take on such a dreadful burden, you must have respected my father a great deal.”

  “More than you know.” Atticus Atwood had been a friend and mentor, and Lucius had dealt with his grief alone.

  An air of melancholy filled the dark space. No doubt they were both consumed with memories of the past. Fond thoughts of a man who put the needs of others before his own. Angry thoughts at the injustice served by fate’s cruel hand.

  Miss Atwood’s shoulders sagged, and she breathed a sigh. Numerous times she cleared her throat before saying, “Then I am at a disadvantage, sir. You have the measure of my character while I have made dreadful assumptions about yours.”