The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  He gestured for her to continue along the arched tunnel leading to the next solid iron door some five inches thick.

  “You see,” she began, waiting for him to lead the way, “had you used my given name it wouldn’t have sounded like a reprimand.”

  “It wasn’t a reprimand, merely a means of providing context. Now, I need to concentrate on the next task. We can discuss my failings later.”

  He extracted another key from his fob pocket. The brass implement was cylindrical, and he pushed it into the same shaped hole in the door. To the left was a wooden plaque filled with tiny brass cogs. Each cog had an unusual shape cut into the centre—a star, a hexagon—and he moved them in the specific sequence ingrained in his memory. The correct combination released the pulley system, which allowed him to turn the door handle and enter the underground chamber.

  “I assume someone else knows the combination,” she said.

  “I am yet to name my successor. Pray I don’t end up a bloated corpse in the Thames.”

  “That would be a tragedy on many levels.”

  “Why? Would you miss me, Miss Atwood?”

  “I believe I might.”

  The lady followed him into the chamber, a small room that looked more like a wine cellar than an underwater storage facility. After glancing numerous times at the ceiling, she walked towards the first in a row of wooden chests resting on a two-foot-high plinth. She raised the heavy lid and pulled back the red velvet cloth covering one tome.

  “This can’t be my father’s journal.” She scanned the spine, ran her finger over the date embossed into the leather binding. “1756. This one refers to the Seven Years’ War.”

  Lucius closed the iron door, and the loud clunk made Miss Atwood jump. “Those are your grandfather’s journals.”

  She swung around to face him. “My grandfather’s journals? Did he record his scientific theories, too?”

  Lucius braced himself. He had an awful lot of information to impart.

  The question was where to begin.

  “Follow me.” He closed the lid of the chest and led her to the metal trunk sitting on a plinth at the far end of the chamber. “This is a transcript of a trial.” He delved inside the trunk and removed a black letter case. “The boy was twelve years old when threatened with transportation for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Miss Atwood looked between him and the letter case and frowned. “My father was always interested in law. He fought to abolish the severe punishments handed to children.”

  “He did more than that. He was head of a secret organisation called the Order of Themis. A small group of men who share the same ideals.”

  “Themis?” She edged closer, so close every nerve in his body sprang to life. “The goddess from Greek mythology.”

  “The goddess of fairness and law.”

  She glanced at his ring, at the symbol carved into the carnelian stone. “Themis carries the Scales of Justice. My father believed the poor often commit crimes out of necessity.”

  “Indeed. And affluent members of society look for scapegoats when committing evil deeds. As members of the Order, we hunt for evidence to cast doubt on the witness statements in some prosecutions.” It was more complicated than that. “Samuel was one such boy, wrongly accused of larceny. Your father secured his release, and now he lives here as my groom.”

  “You speak of the cheerful boy in the stables? He looked at me as if I were an angel descending from heaven, not a weary woman clambering out of an unmarked carriage.”

  “You’re Atticus Atwood’s daughter.”

  “And you have taken my father’s place as leader of the Order.”

  “I have.” Relief rushed through him. He’d never thought to confide in anyone, anyone outside the Order. “Your father also uncovered corruption amongst privileged society. These files and journals contain evidence of trials, of bribery, of the underhanded way the rich abuse the poor. They are truthful, accurate records of events.”

  She glanced at the leather-bound book in his hand. “And so someone named in one of these books murdered my father to hide his crime.”

  “I believe so. And now the felon will use you as leverage.” Guilt bubbled like bile in Lucius’ throat. He had failed to save Atticus but would do everything in his power to save his daughter. “Some men believe they are bidding on important scientific theories. One man is bidding because he knows the truth.” Lord knows how.

  “And you held the auction merely to see who would bid?”

  “Yes. The auction was a means of gathering information. Had you not arrived, I would have found an excuse not to sell.”

  “Then you should have thanked me for my timely intervention.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is Lord Newberry a suspect? He was desperate to win the auction.”

  “His conduct suggests he is hiding something. The same is true of Sir Melrose. Your father was working on various cases before his death. Complicated proceedings involving negligence and fraud.”

  Lucius didn’t mention that the runner working on the same cases was found dead in the Thames. Or that it meant he had lost two close friends in the same month.

  Her gaze drifted as she became lost in thought. Eventually she looked at him. “You’ve yet to tell me what happened to the thugs who attacked us on Half Moon Street.”

  Lucius decided on the short, concise version, not the version involving torture, threats to gut the brutes, or the struggle to hold their heads in a water barrel until they kicked and flailed and fought for breath.

  “The solemn man who stole the journal from the auction room hired them to kidnap you. They were to take you to a warehouse near the docks. We waited there, but the devil failed to show. I know he speaks with a Scottish accent. But that is all.”

  Miss Atwood put her hand to her throat. “And what happened to the men?”

  “I have an associate who owns a shipping company. The men are on their way to Portsmouth having taken work aboard a vessel bound for Calcutta.” He never explained his actions, yet he found the need to say, “I gave them the chance of honest work. I couldn’t leave them to continue their criminal activities on our streets.”

  Her green eyes grew vibrant as she studied him. She placed her hand on her abdomen and exhaled. “Sir, you are more complex than I ever imagined. I’m puzzled by your motivation. I’m in awe of your strength and determination. Baffled by your behaviour in the ballroom.”

  “I would hate to be predictable.”

  She glanced around the chamber and smiled. “Your mind is a source of wonder. You control all of this. You’re responsible for protecting my father’s legacy, for documenting the truth. And yet my innate curiosity is desperate to know if you’re happy.”

  “Happy?” He almost choked on the word.

  “What brings you contentment? When you’ve sought your revenge, what then? Will you continue to live a life where you have to sneak through your neighbours’ gardens?”

  Part of him wanted to confess his worst fears, wanted to explain how the past made it impossible for him to feel truly content. Part of him wanted to get rid of this woman, for she asked questions he could not answer.

  “Miss Atwood, I have been raised on a diet of disappointment, a menu of misfortune. Had it not been for your father’s intervention, I would be the scoundrel seeking to numb my pain in dark corners of the ballroom.” He gestured to the wooden chests. “Guarding this gives me the only stability I have ever known.”

  Pity filled her eyes. “And what if it is all washed away? What if water floods this chamber to rot the foundation upon which you’ve built your life?”

  “It won’t.” Still, the thought sent a bolt of fear straight to his heart. He lived to protect Atticus’ work, had no other purpose. “I have taken every precaution.”

  “You cannot thwart every threat. You cannot prevent a natural disaster.”

  The urge to steer the emphasis away from him took hold. “What will you do when we’ve brought you
r father’s murderer to justice?” he countered. He wasn’t the only one who clung to Atticus’ memory. “Will you continue to hound and harass me, desperate to know why your father trusted me with his work, not you? Will you still feel so desperately inadequate?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath and drew back. Hurt swam in her eyes and left him fighting the urge to pull her into an embrace.

  The few seconds’ silence felt like a lifetime.

  “It’s late,” she said coldly.

  “Yes.” He placed the case in the trunk and closed the lid. “I’ll show you to your room. In the morning, you can return here and examine the journals.”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  Lucius secured the room and led her back through the old stone tunnel. She took his hand when climbing the worn steps, and despite the frosty atmosphere, he felt the thrumming energy of her life force mingling with his.

  Neither spoke on the walk back to the house.

  Neither spoke as they mounted the broad staircase.

  For months he had behaved badly, been rude, blunt. It was different then. He was keeping an oath, protecting her life. Now, standing outside her bedchamber in a corridor lit only by a wall lantern, he found he couldn’t walk away and pretend he didn’t care.

  “I spoke out of turn. Forgive me.” He never apologised for his conduct. “When under attack, one draws on their opponent’s weaknesses.”

  Miss Atwood swallowed deeply. “It wasn’t an attack. I loved my father, but I saw how work took its toll.” She gave a light laugh. “Of course, I believed he was suffering from anxiety over solving a scientific equation.”

  “Righting the injustices of the world was important to him, as it is to me.”

  Miss Atwood nodded, though her downturned mouth still spoke of concern. “I’m sure many people welcome your intervention.” Then she did something that heated his blood, something that tormented his heart and teased his cock. She placed her hand on his coat sleeve and said, “Thank you, Lucius. I know you wish it were otherwise, but I am so grateful for your honesty tonight.”

  There was another awkward silence.

  He had to walk away before his imagination took to forming another act in the play entitled The Desperate Desires of Lucius Daventry.

  “Good night, Miss Atwood.” He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor. A large glass of brandy awaited. He could not enter his bedchamber until satisfied she was asleep.

  “Mr Daventry,” she called. “May I ask you something?”

  He came to an abrupt halt, held himself rigid as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Will you dismiss Ashby?”

  The question surprised and delighted him. Their lives were in danger and she was worried about his servant.

  “Dismissing a man for falling in love would make me the heartless cad who saunters through the ballrooms.” A man just like his father.

  “But men are rarely tolerant when it comes to betrayal.”

  “Is it betrayal to follow one’s heart? Should loyalty always prevail? It is a complicated dilemma.” One he knew only too well. “Good night, Miss Atwood.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Perhaps because I find the puzzle somewhat perplexing.”

  Chapter Seven

  Locating the dining room was easy when all one had to do was follow the smell of coffee and cooked bacon. Sybil entered to find Mr Daventry reading the newspaper while tucking into a hearty breakfast. A man with his strength and stamina must have quite the appetite. He was so engrossed in reading the article he failed to hear her enter.

  “Good morning, Mr Daventry. Please, don’t get up.”

  Last night, she had spoken his given name with ease.

  In the cold light of day, the word felt too intimate.

  On the subject of intimacy, and their cozy sleeping arrangements, she wondered if he knew he’d called her name during the throes of his nightmare? The painful cries had tugged at her heart. It had taken all her strength not to unlock the adjoining door and rush to his aid.

  The gentleman looked up from the absorbing article. Those intense grey eyes spent an age surveying her copper curls hanging loosely over her shoulders.

  Sybil tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m far too impatient to style it myself, and there’s no one here to object.” When he failed to respond, she said, “I presume you have no complaint?”

  “No, no complaint. Your hair is as wild and as temperamental as your character. When restrained, it makes me a little nervous.”

  She smiled, pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. Her stomach rumbled as she caught a whiff of bacon. “So you do have some weaknesses, sir.”

  “Some.”

  “I heard you last night.” The man lived for the truth, and so there was little point avoiding the subject. “You called out in your sleep.”

  From the firming of his jaw, he knew what she had heard. “My demons appear when I’m at my most vulnerable. Perhaps I should have given you some warning. The problem occurs whenever the environment is unsettled.”

  Well, he did not appear embarrassed to speak openly. “Your demons sound rather wild and temperamental, too.” She scanned the cut of his expensive dark blue coat and the crisp folds of his cravat. “Though you present yourself as quite the opposite.”

  “Does that make you uneasy, Miss Atwood?”

  “On the contrary, I fear seeing you relaxed and unrestrained would make me a little nervous.”

  Again, his penetrating gaze studied every facial feature. “My demons are well behaved during daylight hours. They get a little restless after dark, but I keep them on a tight leash.”

  “Unless brutes attack you in the street,” she said, recalling the expert way he had fought the beasts. “Then you let them loose.”

  “Then I let them cause untold havoc,” he agreed. He rose from the chair and moved to the platters on the sideboard. He lifted the china covers and began filling a plate.

  Sybil took a moment to survey the dining room. Dark oak wainscoting and dull blue wallpaper made the space feel rather bleak. The cold flagstones added to the austere atmosphere. There were no paintings of sour-faced relatives hanging from the dusty picture rail. Nothing to indicate the owner’s history. If anything in the room embodied the master’s complex character, it was the Elizabethan-inspired fire surround—tall and dark with intricate carvings and fascinating detail.

  Mr Daventry appeared at her left. “Tomas makes a perfect poached egg,” he said, placing the plate in front of her. He was so close she felt the same tingling awareness she had last night. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Mr Daventry leaned closer as he poured her beverage, and she was captured again by his alluring scent. “Can I get you anything else, Miss Atwood?”

  Something in his tone made her pulse race. Sybil glanced at the table and looked for the rack and butter dish. “Toast?”

  He moved to the sideboard and returned with toasted bread cut too thickly and butter in a chipped china keeper. “No one here has time to polish silver.”

  “Butter is butter regardless of how it is served.”

  “Most ladies would frown upon our unrefined ways,” he said, returning to his seat.

  “I am not most ladies.”

  “No,” he mused. “I’ve been aware of that for some time.”

  Sybil cleared her throat to mask her rumbling stomach. “Should I take that as a compliment or a criticism?” she said as she buttered her toast.

  “You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Atwood. Do you think I’m a man who cares for custom and convention?”

  “I think you are a complete mystery, Mr Daventry. Today, I’m an intelligent woman. A mere week ago, I was a foolish chit with a brain fit for nothing but painting and playing the doting wife.”

  Mr Daventry studied her over the rim of his coffee cup, his intelligent eyes brightening with mild amusement. “The important thing is not what I said bu
t what you believe.”

  “I am aware of my worth.” Yet few men admired ladies with such strong opinions. “What you said speaks more of your failings than mine.”

  “Indeed, it does.” He raised his coffee cup in salute. “But public opinion creates dreams and nightmares. The truth matters not, which is a point your father was eager to address.”

  He seemed keen to steer the conversation towards her father’s work, but the mention of nightmares focused her thoughts in another direction.

  Sybil swallowed her coffee to bolster her courage before asking, “Last night, when thrashing about in your sleep, you cried, ‘don’t leave me’. I cannot help but wonder if your quest for the truth stems from a personal need to lay your demons to rest.”

  Silence ensued.

  A heavy silence.

  A suffocating silence.

  She had heard the gossip about his mother. The Duke of Melverley was known as a cruel man with a wicked temper. No one blamed his mistress for packing a valise and fleeing into the night. There had been other whisperings, too, nasty suspicions that the woman had never left Bideford Park, that her remains might be found in an unmarked grave in the garden.

  Mr Daventry dabbed his mouth with his napkin. His eyes were like granite. Cold and hard. Impenetrable. “We are not here to analyse my mind, Miss Atwood, or to determine my motives for acting as I do.”

  It was as if someone had opened a window and an icy wind had swept in from the north. So, he could admit bad memories plagued his dreams but refused to give any insight as to the root of the problem. Surely it had something to do with his mother.

  “Forgive me,” she said, retreat being the best course of action to prevent him from erecting a wall between them. “Curiosity drives me to pry. I cannot help but find you somewhat of an enigma. And like my father, I cannot walk past a puzzle without examining the pieces.”

  “There is no puzzle to examine, no mystery to solve,” he said bluntly. “My mother left when I was eight, and I have not seen her since. My father sent me to school, made an effort to pay the fees but had time for little else except playing tormentor.”