by Clee, Adele
Heavens, how long had he been sitting there gaping?
“I needed a moment to gather my thoughts. And you were sleeping so peacefully it seemed a shame to disturb you.”
“It’s been an exhausting evening.”
His gaze searched her face before drifting down to her white-stocking feet. “I considered letting you rest and calling tomorrow, but I gave my word I would return.”
“And you always keep your word.”
“Indeed.”
Silence ensued.
A strange heat formed in her stomach when their eyes met. For some foolish reason, her tongue felt thick in her mouth.
After swallowing numerous times, she managed to say, “Did you discover who hired the thugs to attack us?” She wanted to ask what on earth possessed him to dart off into the night, to risk his life in such a reckless fashion.
“You mean who hired them to kidnap you and hold you for ransom,” he corrected. His jaw firmed. “I’m sure you can guess what they would have demanded in exchange.”
“My father’s journals.” Guilt festered. Had she not attended the auction, this wouldn’t have happened. If only he’d told her why he didn’t want her there. “You’re angry. I’ve made things difficult.”
“It is not anger that holds me rigid in this chair, Miss Atwood. It is not anger that makes my stomach lurch at the thought of what they might have done to you.”
“You’re frustrated. You swore an oath to my father, and I’m making it impossible for you to honour your vow.”
“Unbelievably impossible.” He brushed his hand through his thick black hair and sighed. “Where you’re concerned, frustrated is a word I would use to describe my current state.”
If his suspicions about her father’s death were correct, she wanted to help him not be a hindrance. “What can I do to ease your suffering?”
An amused snort escaped him. “Oh, I can think of a few things you might do, Miss Atwood. You can start by agreeing to heed my advice.”
Sybil sat forward. “If you mean to tell me to find a husband and take up painting, save your breath.”
“Have no fear. I doubt there’s a man in the ton who can handle your wild temperament.”
“No, sadly, I find them all rather lacking. Or, more to the point, they find me lacking. Who wants a wife who gallivants about town like an incompetent constable from Bow Street?”
“Who indeed?”
The air thrummed with that strange energy again, and she found it almost impossible to hold his gaze.
“Thankfully, you have returned unscathed,” she said to ease the nervous fluttering in her chest. “And what of the men foolish enough to mount an assault? I assume you didn’t deposit them at Bow Street.”
“No. I would need to accuse them of a crime, and we have enough to contend with at present.”
“We?” Her heart leapt in excitement, and she clasped her hands to her chest. “So you agree I might assist you in this case?”
His expression turned solemn. “Numerous men are trying to obtain your father’s journals. Once they have proof of the contents, they will presume we are party to the incriminating information. Then they will kill us, kill us both.”
Perhaps it was his grave tone or the hard look in his eyes, but Mr Daventry had a way of striking fear into her heart. After the incident in the street, she believed his concerns were not unfounded.
“Whether I like it or not, our paths are entwined,” he continued. “Though it goes against my better judgement, we have no option but to remain together until we resolve this matter. Until we eradicate the threat.”
Remain together?
What on earth did he mean?
“You cannot stay here.” She swallowed at the thought of meeting him on a dark staircase in the middle of the night. “While my father was a champion of women’s rights, there are limits to what he considered acceptable. Even under such dire circumstances.”
“Agreed. Besides, I cannot catch a murderer when confined to this house.”
“Oh!” Surely he didn’t expect her to stay in Brook Street, in the home of a known seducer. “If people discover I’m living in Brook Street, they will assume I’m your new mistress of the month.” And Mrs Sinclair would certainly have something to say about that.
He watched her through dark, sensual eyes. “And who would want the inconvenience of being labelled a mistress without receiving any of the pleasure?”
Pleasure!
The word caressed her mind, worked its way slowly down through her body—as smooth and as rich as the finest cognac—to ignite an internal flame.
“Who indeed?” she breathed.
Mr Daventry’s gaze brought tingles to her skin as he studied her from the comfort of his chair. “Every nerve in my body tells me it is unwise to draw you into this partnership. Logic says there is no other option.”
“What do you suggest?”
A weary sigh escaped him. “I’m going to take you away, to a secret place ten miles from here. We will conduct our investigation from there. Only venture to town to implement parts of the plan.”
She should have been nervous at the prospect of leaving town with the scandalous son of a duke. But her father had trusted this man. When she took a few seconds to examine her heart, it came as some surprise to find she trusted him, too.
“Don’t look so glum,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “It is only a temporary measure, and I can be entertaining company.”
“That is my fear.”
“What? Can you not enjoy the company of a woman you don’t want to bed?”
“Who said I don’t want to bed you?”
Sybil laughed to suppress a pleasurable shiver. No doubt the man was extremely skilled between the bedsheets.
“Mr Daventry, if we are to become colleagues, you must cease with the teasing.” Her heartbeat pounded in her chest though she had done an excellent job of hiding the wild rush of emotions.
The gentleman stood and straightened his coat. “I shall return for you tomorrow at midnight. In the meantime, Bower will remain here and keep watch. I ask that you tell no one of your plans. Not even your maid.”
“I cannot bring my maid?”
“No.”
Sybil stood though her legs were shaking. “Are you going to tell me where we are going?”
“No. The house is large and draughty. Bring warm clothes.” He spoke with the cold indifference she was used to. “When we arrive at our destination, I will explain how I came to know your father, and why these men want to kill us. I will let you read what he wrote in the books.”
Chapter Six
Lust wasn’t meant to be a complicated emotion.
Lucius knew what it was like to be held in the grip of desire. But he feared his obsession with Sybil Atwood went beyond satisfying a craving.
He’d lived with the hunger for years, long before Atticus’ demise. He’d done everything to banish the yearning. The confusing part was that he found gratification in ridiculous things—in her smile, her laugh, in the way her cheeks flushed red when he’d spoken of pleasure, the way she inhaled the scent on his handkerchief before drying her tears.
He might have analysed the last point further, had the rumbling of an approaching carriage not drawn him from his reverie.
Sitting astride his black stallion and hidden deep amongst the shadows of beech and oak trees, Lucius kept his gaze trained on the narrow woodland road. On such a gloomy night as this, he was invisible to passersby. But Miss Atwood would be perched on the edge of the seat, gripping the overhead strap, her gaze pinned to the window, wondering when he would appear.
He waited for the unmarked carriage to pass as it climbed up towards Bronygarth. Perhaps he should have warned Miss Atwood she would be travelling alone. Perhaps he should have explained the need for detours, for changing vehicles, for his absence.
Doubtless, the lady would take pleasure in berating him, which would calm the rush of longing he’d experienced since d
eciding they would sleep in the same house.
Lucius hung back in the darkness to ensure hired thugs weren’t trailing behind. Once confident they had eluded their pursuers, he edged his horse onto the muddy track and headed for the seventeenth-century castle near the edge of the woods.
Samuel—a young groom whose golden hair was as bright as his temperament—stood near the steps leading to the castle’s studded oak door.
Lucius dismounted. He waited for the boy to hang the lit lantern on the metal crook in the ground and then gave him the reins. “Have your father ride Phaedrus down to the toll road and then scout the perimeter.”
“Aye, Mr Daventry, sir.”
Father and son had been loyal servants ever since Atticus had saved the boy from being sentenced to ten-years transportation.
Lucius left his horse in Samuel’s care, mounted the stone steps and cleaned his boots on the iron scraper. In truth, he would prefer to wait until morning to discuss matters with Miss Atwood. Daylight carried an air of respectability. Subdued lighting, dark corners and the need of a warm bed roused lascivious thoughts.
Miss Atwood was standing before the huge stone fireplace in the hall when he entered, warming her hands on the heat from the flames. She heard the clip of his boots on the checkered tiles and merely cast him a sidelong glance.
“Welcome to Bronygarth,” he said cheerfully to defuse the pricking tension. “I’m sorry if the journey was unpleasant, though I’m sure you understand the need for caution.”
“Bronygarth?” Her shoulders relaxed beneath the heavy material of her dark green cloak. “It’s an odd name for a castle situated ten miles north of London. Did your mother’s relatives descend from Wales?”
“Not that I’m aware, but then I know nothing about my mother’s family.” Nothing except that the maternal grandmother he had never met had named him sole beneficiary in her will. The inheritance wasn’t a huge sum by society’s standards, but it was enough to make wise investments and earn him a small fortune. “I bought the house as a ruin. Some parts are still in need of renovation.”
“Is it haunted?” Miss Atwood glanced at the lofty ceiling, at the broad staircase rising between vast gothic arches, at the hanging cobwebs, faded tapestry and the suit of armour in need of a polish.
“No doubt ghosts wander the halls at night.” He dismissed the image of her hurrying along the cold corridors in her flimsy nightdress, looking to throw herself into his comforting embrace. “Though I have yet to meet a phantom on the stairs.”
“What of your servants?” She straightened and looked around as if waiting for the butler to appear to take her cloak. “Surely they’ve heard eerie whispers, seen strange shadows.”
“Not to my knowledge. Besides, the house runs on minimal staff.” Lucius trusted only a handful of people to keep his secrets. He stepped forward and offered to take her cloak. “As there are no maids, you will need to fetch your own water, dress yourself, style your hair.”
“I am more than capable of washing and dressing,” she said, slipping the garment from her shoulders and handing it to him. “Though had you mentioned it earlier I might have put more thought into packing.”
He frowned. “More thought?”
“Front fastening stays would have been preferable.”
“Fear not, Miss Atwood. I’m adept at untying laces and ribbons.”
“I’m sure it is one of your greatest talents.” She turned to warm her hands on the fire. “Am I to clean out the grate, too?”
“Jonah attends to most household chores. He’s a footman-of-all-work, if you will. And Tomas prepares meals.”
She looked at him and arched a brow. “Poor Mrs Sinclair. How does she tong her ringlets without help?”
Did he note a hint of jealousy in her tone?
The possibility roused both hope and fear.
Lucius stepped closer. “You’re the first woman I’ve brought to Bronygarth.” He hadn’t wanted to feel a feminine presence in the house, or more to the point, feel its sudden absence.
Silence ensued as their gazes locked—the same silence that vibrated with a potent energy whenever they were alone together.
“The hour must be close to two,” he continued. “Sleep beckons. I can show you to your room, and we can discuss your father’s work in the morning. Or I can take you to see the journals.”
She glanced at the dim staircase, at the feeble glimmer from the candles flickering wildly in the standing candelabra. “There’s an air of loneliness here, a sense of isolation. I’m not sure I will sleep if left alone on a wing.”
Lucius shuffled uncomfortably. “You won’t be alone. You will sleep in the room adjoining mine.” Devil take it. His tongue felt clumsy as he formed the words. “We must take every precaution, and there are few chambers in the house I would call habitable.”
Miss Atwood swallowed deeply. “Oh, I see.”
“You can lock the adjoining door and take the key.” He didn’t mention he had a spare.
She opened her mouth to speak, and the slight tremble of her bottom lip belied the confident tilt of her chin. “Will I be able to sleep after learning about my father’s work?”
“I expect learning more about him will rouse old memories. The truth is often hard to hear.” Lucius’ stomach sank as an old memory burst into his mind. He recalled the day he begged the duke to tell him about his mother. The day his father uttered the words “she’s dead”.
Miss Atwood gave a weak smile. “Knowing more about my father’s secrets might bring comfort. And talking about loved ones can be a huge help.”
Talking? How did one begin to unravel the knot of questions plaguing one’s heart and mind?
“Then I shall start by showing you the vault.” No one but Atticus had seen the secret room, and he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake trusting the man’s daughter. “You will need this.” He felt an inner chill when he returned her cloak. “It’s bitterly cold out tonight.”
She slipped the garment around her shoulders, fiddled with the ribbons, struggled to tie a bow. “So cold my fingers are numb.”
“Wind blows over the battlements, sending draughts through the east wing. Here, allow me.”
A nervous smile touched her lips when he stepped forward to attend to the task. “So, you’re skilled at tying ribbons, too?”
“Dressing a woman can be a sensual experience.”
“And you have had no end of practice.”
“Not as much as you might think.” He stood so close her essence threatened to consume him. As soon as the ribbons were secure, he stepped back, keen to maintain some distance. “The entrance to the vault can be found near the lake.”
“Near the lake?” Excitement danced in her eyes. “How intriguing. Lead the way, Mr Daventry, and I shall follow.”
“Lucius,” he said as they descended the front steps. He took the lantern hanging from the metal crook. “I think we have progressed beyond the need for formality.”
“Lucius,” she repeated with a warmth that surprised him. “I presume you’re named after a relative.”
“My mother chose it. That’s all I know.” He hadn’t meant to speak so sharply, but it was the reason his father still called him boy.
“Well, you will probably protest, but I would rather you call me Sybil,” she said, dispelling any awkwardness. “You always sound so cross when you refer to me as Miss Atwood.”
“That’s frustration, not anger.” Still, he wasn’t quite ready to use her given name. “You’re as stubborn as you are curious.”
“And as reckless as I am stubborn,” she teased. “How do you tolerate my company?”
“I have a hardy constitution.”
Navigating the garden at night proved hazardous. Miss Atwood tripped over the protruding root of an oak tree and had no option but to hold his arm. Every touch brought a profound sense of familiarity.
The storm clouds hung thick and low, the blackness creating a suffocating tension that mirrored his internal
dilemma. Had they walked beneath a sky of twinkling stars—their path lit by the silvery light of the moon—he might have felt more optimistic about revealing the life he kept secret.
Lucius brought Miss Atwood to a halt before the lake that glistened like shiny black glass in the dark. Beneath the still water lay the truth that might one day change opinion. But those keen to possess the journals wouldn’t rest until the books were burning on a bonfire.
“Are we to swim to that island?” She laughed as she pointed to the grassy mound in the middle of the lake.
“Not in these temperatures. But you will need to take my hand. The stairs are steep. Moss makes them slippery underfoot.” He held the lantern aloft and motioned to the low stone wall hiding the narrow flight of steps. “This used to be an escape route for the tunnels running beneath the house.”
Again she looked at him—not in the salacious way women usually did—in the way that said she found him fascinating, found more to like than a handsome face and a tongue that could bring untold pleasure.
She accepted his outstretched hand without hesitation, clutched his fingers tightly as they descended the worn steps. With some reluctance, he released her to draw a key from his coat pocket. Lucius unlocked the iron door at the bottom, locked it behind them once they had stepped into the old stone tunnel.
“Is the vault located beneath the lake?” she said as they climbed down another set of old steps. The sound of dripping water must have unnerved her, as she asked, “Is it safe?”
“Your father assured me it is.”
Lucius explained briefly about the design and what he knew of the castle’s history. The story of a priest who hid in the tunnels for months, of a recluse who believed the end of the world was nigh and spent most of his time underground, too.
She listened with interest. “Remarkable. What is even more remarkable is the breadth of your knowledge. As your conquests are well noted, I assumed you cared about nothing other than satisfying your cravings.”
That was his intention.
“Miss Atwood, my work has led me to associate with certain people I would ordinarily avoid. I’m no saint. And you’re right. I have used my conquests to satisfy fleeting cravings. Equally, gaining information has always been my primary goal, as you will soon discover.”
