by Clee, Adele
No one knew the man behind the facade. No one knew of his hopes and aspirations. No one knew the effort it took to keep his promise to Atticus Atwood.
“People see what I want them to see, Miss Atwood. A selfish rogue obsessed with the next conquest.” A man incapable of anything other than drinking and whoring his way around town.
She nodded, recognition flashing in her eyes. “You were right when you said I know nothing of the situation. It seems I am ill-informed on many counts.”
“Take heart. Your ignorance stems from your father’s need to protect you, protect you from the villains who disapproved of his work.”
She firmed her jaw and ground her teeth. “Villains who must be made accountable for their crimes.”
“It is not the thugs on the streets who pose a problem. Not the men who steal bread to feed their starving families. Men in positions of power wield the deadliest weapons.”
Miss Atwood sat quietly for a moment before narrowing her gaze. “I’m beginning to see what my father saw in you, sir. You’re remarkably perceptive.”
“I had an excellent teacher.”
Lucius peered through the window, noted they were approaching Curzon Street, and so rapped on the roof. He welcomed the distraction, welcomed a means of focusing his mind on anything other than her compliment. It was better if Miss Atwood disliked him, better if she found him rude and obnoxious.
The jarvey brought the hackney to a halt near Chesterfield House—a Palladian-style mansion with gardens that ran half the length of the street. With some reluctance, Lucius offered his hand and assisted Miss Atwood’s descent.
“We should walk in silence,” he said, trying to shift his awareness to something other than inhaling the perfume of her hair.
She walked next to the mansion’s garden wall, and he fell into step beside her. He didn’t offer his arm, for that would cause problems on many fronts. With the pistol weighing heavily in his pocket, he couldn’t offer his coat to protect her from the chilly breeze but did insist she draw the blanket across her chest.
“I get the sense we’re waiting for something,” she whispered just as he became aware of faint footsteps padding behind.
“Yes, waiting for proof my theory is correct.” He kept his voice low.
“What theory?”
“That having appeared at the auction house and declaring a desire to obtain Atticus’ books, you have marked yourself as a potential target.” He paused. “If I’m not mistaken, we’re being followed.”
Her eyes grew wide with alarm. She took ragged breaths, sending puffs of white mist to mingle with the night air. “You think he means to do us harm?”
“Keep calm. He will make his intention known.”
Miss Atwood gulped. “As this is a night for honesty, sir, I should inform you that I’ve been followed home numerous times these last two weeks.”
Fear almost rendered him immobile. He wanted to grab her upper arms, press her against the wall and demand to know why she’d not mentioned it sooner.
“Are you certain it wasn’t an admirer?” he said, though concern weighed heavily in his voice. “Or Ashby hoping to catch a glimpse of your maid when he should be running errands?”
“Most certain. Particularly if one considers the threatening letters I received, letters demanding I obtain the journals.”
What the devil!
Again, it took every effort to keep walking. Her butler mentioned she’d received upsetting news but couldn’t find the evidence of her distress. What was the point of having a spy in her house if not to keep abreast of potential threats?
Lucius took hold of her arm and led her across the street. He brought her to an abrupt halt outside Mayfair Chapel.
“Move your mouth as though you’re talking but don’t speak,” he said. It wasn’t an indulgent request, but it gave him a moment to survey their surroundings.
Gazing beyond her luscious lips, he squinted through the gloom. A well-dressed gentleman passed beneath the street lamp on the opposite side of the road before turning left into Chesterfield Street and disappearing into the night.
“Perhaps my fears were unfounded,” he said, drawing her past the chapel towards Half Moon Street. “Still, when we reach our destination, I want to see these threatening letters, if I may.”
“There’s no need, I can recite the words from memory.” Though she seemed composed, he heard the cracks in her voice, fractures of suppressed fear.
“You’re good friends with Mrs Cavanagh. You should have approached her husband and spoken of your concerns.”
“They’ve had their own problems to contend with. I didn’t want to add to their burden.”
He didn’t like that she’d dealt with this trauma alone. Distancing himself from Miss Atwood was a mistake. But a scoundrel couldn’t court a friendship with an unmarried woman without ruining her reputation.
“From now on, you will be my burden, Miss Atwood. Is that understood?”
The lady drew a sharp breath. “You may have inherited his possessions, sir, but you’re not my father. I—”
“Trust me, Miss Atwood. I definitely don’t think of you as a daughter. But you will inform me should you receive another note, should a devil follow you home or a thug break your kitchen window.”
As soon as the last comment left his lips, he realised his error.
Miss Atwood came to an abrupt halt. “How did you know someone broke the kitchen window? I never mentioned it.”
Lucius was considering how best to tackle the next revelation when a carriage turned into Half Moon Street. The vehicle slowed as it drew near, which would have been nothing unusual had someone not flung open the door and vaulted to the pavement.
“Grab the woman!” the coachman yelled before yanking a pistol from beneath the folds of his greatcoat and aiming it at Lucius.
Chapter Five
The attack happened quickly.
Fear wrapped its sharp fingers around Sybil’s throat when the burly coachman took aim and fired his pistol at Mr Daventry.
A bright flash, a puff of smoke and a whiff of sulphur permeated the cold night air. Sybil screamed—her protector didn’t deserve to die like this. She screamed again when a pair of sturdy arms grabbed her around the waist and hauled her backwards.
By God’s grace, Mr Daventry anticipated the trajectory of the lead ball. With remarkable agility, the gentleman crouched, rolled and then sprang to his feet, unscathed.
“Hurry up, fools!” The driver tugged on the reins to slow the carriage. “Get her in the damn coach.”
The brute, whose grip was as lethal as his foul breath, squeezed the air from her lungs as he lifted her off the ground. Unable to wriggle, Sybil kicked his shins, though he barely flinched. Then his accomplice jumped out of the trundling conveyance and grabbed hold of her feet.
“Get off me, you ugly brute!”
Mr Daventry drew his pistol and fired.
The coachman’s sharp cry sliced through the chaos as the ball hit his upper arm. The shot spooked the horses. But despite his injury, the coachman captured the reins and brought the carriage to a crashing halt.
Mr Daventry ran, vaulted up onto the box and punched the driver hard in the face. A fight ensued. Vicious grunts and groans echoed along the deserted street.
The glow of candlelight appeared in the upper window of the house opposite. No one raised the sash and called for the watchman. No one came racing downstairs to offer their assistance. Not even when the brutes threw Sybil into the vehicle and clambered inside.
One thug rapped on the roof, but the conveyance failed to jerk forward and pick up speed. While they exchanged nervous glances, Sybil studied their faces, memorised every mark and blemish. Having seen Mr Daventry move with such athletic prowess, she had every confidence he would come to her rescue. And when he did, they would drag these felons before the magistrate.
“Go see what’s ’appened to Fowler,” the blackguard with the flabby chin ordered.
; “I ain’t goin’ out there,” snapped his bearded accomplice.
They continued arguing, but the decision was made for them.
The doors on both sides of the carriage flew open. Before her kidnappers could gather their wits, Mr Daventry thrust his hand inside the vehicle and pressed his blade to the bulbous neck of one fiend. Surprisingly, her butler appeared at the other door, wielding a hunting knife to keep the other devil in his seat.
“Move a muscle and I’ll push this blade so far into your throat I’ll pin you to the squab.” Mr Daventry’s eyes were feral, his tone brutal. He looked every bit as dark and as dangerous as the devil. With his free hand, he reached for her arm and beckoned her to move towards him. “Hold on to me, Miss Atwood, and step down to the pavement. Blake, if your man so much as murmurs, silence him for good.”
When Blake nodded, it occurred to her that he bore a slight resemblance to Bower, Mr Daventry’s butler.
Sybil shuffled backwards on her bottom. She took hold of Mr Daventry’s strong arm and managed to climb out of the vehicle.
“We must discover who sent them,” she panted, straightening her skirts. “These men hold valuable information.”
Her footman appeared.
“Escort your mistress into the house, Harris. I shall follow shortly. Stand guard and don’t open the door to anyone but me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Since when had Lucius Daventry been on familiar terms with her staff?
And why were they so keen to follow his orders?
“Don’t move, Harris,” Sybil instructed. Had the man forgotten who paid his wages? “You can play escort while I fetch a constable. Great Marlborough Street is the closest office.”
“No!” Mr Daventry barked. “I’d no more trust a constable than I would these filthy rogues. If you want to be of help, search the boot for a length of rope.”
Sybil glanced at the empty box seat.
“The driver is unconscious and is no threat. But be quick.”
Slightly alarmed, but pleased to be of use, Sybil climbed up to the box seat. The driver lay sprawled across the footboard, blood seeping from the bullet wound, staining the arm of his coat. With one eye trained on the lifeless rogue, she rummaged around in the skeleton boot until she found the rope.
Mr Daventry used his blade to shear the rope in two, and with the help of her butler bound the thugs’ wrists.
Straightening, Mr Daventry turned his attention to her. In a voice surprisingly warm and brimming with concern, he said, “If you wish to be of further help, I ask that you wait indoors. I shall meet you there—you have my word—and then we shall decide how best to tackle our problem.”
Perhaps it was the way he asked or his choice of words that called to her sense of reason. “My father trusted you, Mr Daventry, and so I shall afford you the same courtesy.” She glanced at the thugs wrestling against their restraints. Despite knowing the gentleman could handle himself in a brawl and that the men were no longer a threat, she said, “Please be careful.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched. She couldn’t read the fleeting emotion in his eyes, but he inclined his head and reiterated his earlier instruction for Harris to guard her front door.
Once inside the house, Mrs Goodhope arranged for tea. It came as no shock to the housekeeper that Blake possessed a hunting knife or that he was more than capable of brandishing the weapon.
“Your father hired Mr Blake because of his military background.” Mrs Goodhope poured the tea as Sybil watched the scene outside from her drawing room window.
“Strange that he never told me.” Sybil took her tea from the trestle table and hurried back to her snooping spot. “I presumed he had always been in service.” Blake had replaced the ageing Hanley mere months before her father’s death.
“He was in service before coming here, in service to Mr Daventry.”
“Mr Daventry?” Sybil whipped around to face the housekeeper, spilling her tea onto the saucer. “And no one thought to mention the fact?”
Mrs Goodhope’s brown eyes widened. “I would have mentioned it, ma’am, if I’d known it was important.”
For a year, Sybil had been living with a spy. A spy! Her disloyal butler had been feeding Mr Daventry no end of tales. That’s how he knew about the broken kitchen window. That’s how he knew of her morning rituals.
Had she discovered this news before two thugs had bundled her into a carriage, both Blake and Mr Daventry would have felt the sharp edge of her tongue. Now, beneath the simmering anger at being treated like a child, she felt nothing but gratitude.
“It’s of no consequence. I just wish my father would have had a little more faith in me,” she muttered almost to herself.
Sybil turned her attention back to the window. Surely Mr Daventry had tortured the information from the rogues by now. The carriage had rocked so violently it was liable to snap a spring.
What the devil was keeping him?
As if prompted by her thoughts, the carriage door swung open, and Blake and Mr Daventry jumped to the ground. They lifted the driver down from the box and deposited him inside the carriage. Mr Daventry climbed inside and moments later handed Blake the driver’s coat.
“What on earth are they up to?” Curiosity kept Sybil pinned to the window as Blake shrugged into the blood-stained garment. He snatched the coachman’s hat from the footboard and thrust it onto his head.
Mrs Goodhope moved to stand at Sybil’s side. “It looks like Mr Blake is sitting atop the box. Yes, he’s taking the reins.”
“Good Lord! That means he’s going to drive.”
Blake flicked the reins, and the kidnapper’s carriage jerked forward, picked up speed and disappeared into the night.
“Well!” Sybil clenched her teeth. “The lying toad.”
She wasn’t sure what concerned her most. That Mr Daventry had broken his promise or that the gentleman was alone in the carriage with three violent criminals. What if they mounted a surprise attack?
“Ma’am, I’m sure Mr Blake has a good reason for darting off like that and forgetting his duties.” Mrs Goodhope sounded just as panicked.
“I was speaking of Mr Daventry, not Mr Blake.”
The rumble of a carriage outside kept Sybil at the window. Mr Daventry’s plush carriage rolled to a halt outside the house. Bower, his butler, opened the door and alighted first. He assisted Miriam to the pavement, spoke to the other occupants, then escorted the maid to the iron railings and opened the gate leading down to the servants’ entrance.
Sybil darted to the front door where Harris stood on sentry duty.
“Quickly, Harris, open the door.”
“But, ma’am, Mr Daventry—”
“Mr Daventry is not your employer.” Sybil opened the door herself and hurried out. Miriam was already at the servants’ door with the butler following behind. “Bower!”
The burly servant looked up. “Just returning your maid home safely, ma’am.”
“I need to take command of Mr Daventry’s coach.” Mr Daventry wasn’t the only one who could break a promise.
Sybil informed Bower of the attack in the street, of his master’s sudden and swift departure. The servant seemed far from shocked by the dramatic turn of events and simply nodded.
“Then I’d best be on my way, ma’am.” Bower climbed the stone stairs, and with hands the size of mallets closed the gate. The loud clang reverberated through the street. “I have my instructions.”
Instructions?
But it had been a surprise attack.
Sybil was about to protest, but Bower was already climbing into the carriage. He glanced out from the conveyance and said, “Mr Daventry always keeps his word, ma’am,” and then slammed the door shut.
“Well!” was all she could say as the coachman gave a quick flick of the reins and the carriage charged off in pursuit.
Tonight she had learned more about Mr Daventry and his relationship with her father. Yet the man still proved somewhat of a
mystery. Indeed, it was as if Sybil had been whipped into a whirlwind and was still spinning.
Returning to the house in somewhat of a daze, she considered going to bed. But how could she sleep knowing Mr Daventry might be fighting his way through another vicious battle?
A battle of her creation.
A battle brought about by her desire to discover the secrets of her father’s journals.
Besides, Bower’s comment replayed over her mind. Mr Daventry had promised to return—and Mr Daventry always keeps his word—and so she would sit and wait patiently in the drawing room, indulge in a large glass of sherry to mend her tattered nerves.
Sybil sensed Mr Daventry’s presence before she opened her eyes. She could feel his powerful energy thrumming in the air, could smell the alluring scent of his cologne.
So seductive.
So potent.
As her mind regained focus, she realised she was curled on the sofa and must have fallen asleep. Nerves forced her to keep her eyes closed a little longer. Had she kicked off her shoes? Had she removed the pins from her hair? Was she lying there in a state of dishabille?
The sound of his relaxed breathing suggested he had been in the drawing room for some time. How long had he stood quietly watching her?
Sybil opened her eyes slowly, only to meet Mr Daventry’s intense stare. He was seated in the chair opposite, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled, his muscular thighs straining against his buckskin breeches.
“Mr Daventry. You’re back.” She sat up and drew her loose hair over one shoulder. “What time is it?” The thick green curtains were drawn. The candle flickered in the lamp, and the fire still burned, yet she felt like she’d slept for hours.
“Almost dawn.” His voice was a low, husky hum. Against the fire’s amber glow, he looked more sinful than ever. “Forgive the delay. I called at Brook Street to wash and change.”
Sybil noted his clean shirt and pristine cravat, noted he had taken the time to shave. “You should have woken me.”
