by Clee, Adele
Her heart lurched.
She cut into her poached egg, for he would see pity if she looked into his eyes. “And how did you meet my father?”
“He came to school to give a lecture. It was supposed to be an education in philosophy—few masters see the value of science—but it turned into so much more.”
The urge to ask a hundred questions burned in her veins, but Mr Daventry held a world-weary air, a look that begged her not to press him further.
Sybil gestured to the newspaper on the table. “I see something caught your interest in the broadsheet. Reform is the topic of the day. Peel is determined to grant the judges power to give lesser sentences for some crimes where the death penalty is mandatory.”
Mr Daventry snatched the paper and pushed it across the table. “I only wish your father had lived to witness the fact. But I found this in his journal, a sheet taken from an old newspaper. There was a riot at Smithfield Market two years ago. He’d made some notes at the top in pencil, though they’ve faded.”
Sybil took the paper and read the article while Mr Daventry finished his meal. The riot started over an argument between a customer and a butcher. A crowd gathered to support the customer who complained the meat was rancid. The rioters took umbrage and smashed carts and overturned stalls. Fights ensued. Someone opened the gate to the livestock pens, and the animals stampeded through the market, trampling over people amid the chaos.
“Five people were pronounced dead at the scene,” Mr Daventry said gravely. “One with a stab wound. Two suffered broken necks in the crush. Two from internal injuries. Your father was interested in the man with the knife wound to the chest.”
“Mr Cribb,” she said, finding the name at the bottom of the article.
“They found the butcher guilty of causing and encouraging a riotous assembly. A felony punishable by death. Despite a description and witness reports, the customer complaining of the rancid meat disappeared.”
Sybil absorbed the information, though she wasn’t sure what it had to do with her father. “Was my father championing a repeal of the Riot Act?”
“Your father believed someone murdered Mr Cribb and arranged the riot to cover the crime. He questioned witnesses and recorded evidence in one of his journals.”
A hard lump formed in Sybil’s throat. “And you think whoever killed Mr Cribb killed my father to prevent anyone discovering the truth.”
“Perhaps.” He glanced at his plate for a few seconds before adding, “Another member of the Order worked on the case with your father, though he is also dead.”
Sybil’s cutlery slipped through her fingers and clattered on the china plate. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d hoped Mr Daventry’s suspicions were wrong, that her father’s heart had given out, and he had died from natural causes.
“How did the man die?”
“I found him in the Thames.”
She sensed the scene was probably more gruesome than that.
“Mr Proctor used to work as a runner,” he continued. “He was an expert interrogator. His skill at reading people, at picking apart statements was second to none. Hence the reason your father recruited him to the Order.”
An image of Atticus scribbling away behind his desk sprang into her mind. Her heart ached when she thought of the many secrets he’d kept hidden. The stress of righting injustices must have taken its toll.
She studied the handsome gentleman sitting opposite. He seemed so different from the arrogant rogue who’d had a string of mistresses. Was this the first time he had let anyone see the real man behind the façade?
“Losing a colleague must be difficult. I get the sense Mr Proctor was also a friend.”
“Proctor was an honest man, one who had witnessed firsthand how money and position create their own version of the truth. His stories of corruption are the reason I trust no one at Bow Street.”
The need to reach out to Mr Daventry came upon her from nowhere. It boggled the mind to think that this strong, confident man needed comfort. And yet she couldn’t banish the thought of cradling him in her arms and stroking his hair until he slept without being haunted by memories of the past.
“How many men did my father recruit to the order?”
“Seven. The men are masters of their craft, men who share the same vision. A mathematician, physician and enquiry agent, to name a few. There are two empty places. Places left by the death of two exceptional men.”
“Yes,” she said, speaking of her father. And yet the more time she spent in Mr Daventry’s company, the more she found him rather exceptional, too.
Hunger led her to gather her cutlery, slice the bacon and pop a piece into her mouth. After swallowing her food, she said, “And so our main objective must be to find the person responsible for Mr Cribb’s murder.”
“I visited Cribb’s last known address, spoke to the other tenants. No one recalls anything unusual about the gentleman.”
“And what of the other members of the order? Do you trust them?”
“With my life. Only Proctor knew of your father’s most recent cases.”
“Cases? You mentioned there was more than one.”
Mr Daventry pushed out of his chair and moved to the sideboard. He opened the top drawer, delved under napkins and removed one of her father’s journals. “Read this while you eat your meal, and then we will discuss my plan.”
Something told her Mr Daventry was keen to exclude her from the investigation. Eager to hear his thoughts on the matter, she took the journal and read the neat script while Mr Daventry ate a second helping of bacon and eggs.
Judging by the date recorded, it seemed her father was investigating a case involving a collapsed mine near Wigan that had killed almost thirty people. The company who owned the mine evicted the surviving miners from their cottages and sold the land. From what Sybil could ascertain, there was a suspicion the collapse had been deliberate.
“It states all records relating to the owner of the coal mine and those relating to the sale of the land have either been lost or were destroyed in a fire.”
Mr Daventry exhaled deeply. “Atticus discovered that three men owned the mine. One lives in India, though your father was still waiting for a reply to his correspondence. The second, Lord Talbot, has since died. The third man remains a mystery.”
“And there is no connection between the two cases?”
“None.”
Sybil heaved a weary sigh. With every new piece of information, the plot thickened.
“Someone betrayed your father. For years, we have kept our work secret, dealing only with a handful of professional men we trust. But someone learned of his current investigations. Though I received numerous bids from men who weren’t at the auction, Sir Melrose, Lord Newberry and the solemn stranger dressed in black are at the top of my suspect list.”
“And so what is our next course of action?”
The gentleman cleared his throat and seemed to think carefully before saying, “You will remain here and examine the books. Jonah and Tomas will ensure your safety until I return.”
She was about to object when he raised a hand to stall her.
“My father is sick and has taken a turn for the worse. My intention was to settle you here and then return to London to visit him. Sir Melrose has invited me to attend his ball tonight. I’m sure you will agree it’s not because he craves my company. But it will afford an opportunity to snoop around the man’s home and study. I have it on good authority Lord Newberry will be in attendance.”
While she relished the thought of studying her father’s notes, of hearing his voice burst to life in the words, her need to assist Mr Daventry proved stronger.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father’s ill health.”
“Don’t be. He’s the devil, and I’m his spawn.”
Now wasn’t the time to discuss his father or delve into the whys and wherefores of their strained relationship. If she was to help Mr Daventry banish his demons, she would have to tak
e a leaf out of his book and work covertly.
“Will Mrs Sinclair accompany you to the ball?” From what she had witnessed this morning, the man had a huge appetite, and the dark-haired temptress knew how to satisfy hungry men.
“Mrs Sinclair merely helps me maintain my disguise.”
Sybil snorted. “I’m sure she does a lot more than that.”
Strangely, the thought of him escorting the widow home and slipping beneath her bedsheets made Sybil feel nauseous. Indeed, the sickly sensation mingled with burning jealousy to send her pulse soaring.
“I cannot concentrate on solving this case if I have to worry about your welfare,” he said, steering the subject away from his mistress.
“You mean you’re a man of your word and must keep your oath to my father.”
“I mean I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Then I shall come with you. You can sneak around Sir Melrose’s abode, and I shall entertain Lord Newberry.” She might discover the real reason the lord had asked her to take a drive around the park. “The Cavanaghs will play chaperone. Afterwards, we will return here, to Bronygarth, and discuss our findings.”
“No.”
“No? Sir, I have lived alone for the best part of twelve months. What possible danger—”
“And I have thwarted numerous attacks on your person. How do you think I know about the broken kitchen window?”
The revelation caught her unawares. “I presumed it was a boy looking for bread.”
“That’s what I wanted you to believe. The thief was looking for the journals. The unnamed gentleman who hired him told him to search the drawers in your father’s study. And while we’re on the subject of threats, you were supposed to give me the letters.”
“Letters?”
“The ones you received demanding you find the journals.”
“I—I can’t. I threw them into the fire.”
He frowned and cocked his head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I found them distressing.”
“Now I have no way of comparing the handwriting with the examples I have of Newberry’s and Sir Melrose’s penmanship.” His cheeks ballooned, and he sighed. “Can you recall what the blackguard wrote?”
She shrugged. “Always the same thing. I am to obtain my father’s journals. When I do, I am to take them to a coaching inn called the Black Swan on the Great North Road. I’m to ask to rent room five and wait for the villain to make contact.”
Mr Daventry shot to his feet so quickly the chair almost toppled over. He threw his napkin onto the table. “Devil’s teeth! Did you not think to mention this before?”
Sybil gulped. “I’ve spent the last two weeks doing my best to ignore the threats. My only focus has been obtaining the journals so that I could understand the devil’s motives.”
“Asking to meet at a coaching inn is hardly a threat.”
Sybil shivered as she recalled the terrifying words scrawled at the bottom. “He promises to gut me from neck to navel if I do not comply.”
Mr Daventry’s face turned ashen. He dragged his hand down his face, closed his eyes and shook his head.
“That’s why I was so desperate to attend the auction, why I made such an extortionate bid. Stealing into your home was the only course of action left open to me.”
Mr Daventry muttered a curse. “And you’ve dealt with this worry alone.”
“Since my father’s death, I’ve had no one to turn to for help.” Sybil could feel the tears brimming, feel the ache in her throat as she struggled to keep her emotions at bay.
“Please. Don’t cry.” He strode around the table.
Nerves forced her to stand, too. The tortured look on his face, the guilt flashing in his eyes, left her unsure what he would do.
Mr Daventry took hold of her hands and gripped them far too tightly. “You will come with me to London. The sooner we catch this blackguard, the sooner we can resume our normal lives.”
From what she had witnessed, chasing the truth was part of a normal day’s work for Lucius Daventry. “So you see the sense in me attending Sir Melrose’s ball, in using the opportunity to question Lord Newberry?”
Mr Daventry swallowed deeply. “No, I see the sense in keeping you close when the Black Swan is but a few miles north of here.”
Chapter Eight
A chaotic mind was of no use to anyone. A body plagued with crippling emotions was just as much of a hindrance. Every nerve, every fibre of Lucius’ being wanted to gallop to the Black Swan, race to room five and lie in wait for the cunning bastard.
But the basis of any wisdom was patience.
Atticus had quoted Plato so many times the words were etched into Lucius’ memory. And so he had Miss Atwood write a note. Robert and Jonah accompanied her to the Black Swan, where she rented the room and left a letter saying she was in the process of obtaining the journals and would deliver them soon.
Tomas and Samuel took their positions in the taproom where they were to keep watch for the next few hours and note all who entered the coaching inn. Jonah returned to Bronygarth to guard the vault, while Robert drove Lucius and Miss Atwood to Bideford Park, one of the many residences belonging to the Duke of Melverley.
Melverley’s steward, Mr Warner, an educated ponce who thought himself above the duke’s illegitimate offspring, intercepted them in the hall.
“You will have to wait. It’s simply not convenient. Sir Herbert is examining His Grace and may be some time. Carter will attend you in the drawing room until you’re summoned.”
Lucius considered grabbing the man by his high-collared shirt and driving an upper-cut to his elongated chin. Instead, he patted the steward hard on the chest and said, “I’ll show myself upstairs, Warner. Miss Atwood will take tea in the drawing room.”
Lucius mounted the grand staircase with haste, ignoring the steward’s pitiful pleas. Lingering brought back painful memories of restless nights when his mother’s shouts and sobs disturbed his peaceful slumber.
He met Sir Herbert on the upper gallery, discovered that the duke was suffering from paralysis due to cerebral apoplexy. He had regained consciousness, but the prognosis was grim.
“This could well be the last time you’ll see him.” Sir Herbert’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Best say what’s needed now. He can hear you but will struggle to respond.” With a grave expression, the physician patted Lucius on the shoulder before ambling away with his bulging black medical bag.
What was there to say to the father he despised?
Lucius had come to torment the duke, not spout sentiment.
The duke’s bedchamber was as dark as his heart, the atmosphere as stuffy as his opinions. Thick red curtains kept the daylight at bay. Bowls of dried lavender lay scattered around the room, though they did nothing to disguise the pungent smell—the smell of death and the rotten stench of a liar.
Lucius used the fading candle in the lamp to light the wall sconces, although the noticeable brightness failed to lighten the bitterness in his heart.
“For the first time in my life, I can speak without interruption.” Lucius moved closer to the imposing figure with sallow skin, resting against a mound of pillows. The man whose core was as putrid as a month-old apple. “Sir Herbert tells me you’re not long for this world, though I cannot say I give a damn.”
Glassy, bewildered eyes stared back.
“No doubt this is another one of your devious schemes,” Lucius continued. It felt strange not closing his ears to the constant criticism. “Despite hovering on the brink of death, you had to find a way to shut me out, to keep from revealing the truth about what you did to my mother.”
The duke seemed to squirm at the mere mention of Julia Fontaine.
“What’s the point of taking a secret to the grave?” Lucius moved closer and perched on the edge of the bed. “All you have to do is blink if the answer is yes.” He paused. The thought of asking the question made his stomach wrench. “Did you kill her in a
jealous rage?”
The duke lay still, frozen in stasis.
Lucius repeated the question with more vehemence.
Nothing.
“Blink, damn you. I know you killed her. I heard the piercing cries at night.” He had done everything to banish the sickening sound from his memory. “Is that why you sent me away? Did you fear I would discover your wicked deed? Do I remind you of her? Do you hate me that much, too?”
Still nothing.
Lucius thought to throttle the answer from his father’s lying lips. “Tell me!”
Frustration quickly turned to despair. He scrubbed his hand down his face to ease his inner turmoil. Focusing on one’s breathing was said to bring inner peace. It was easier said than done.
Lucius stood. Hatred and loathing consumed his heart. “I pray you have left me a legacy. For if you have made even the smallest bequest, know that I will look for every lost and lonely boy, every boy left to cry himself to sleep in a dark school dormitory, and I will fund his escape. Your money will educate the next generation of doctors and solicitors. Men who will carve a new world. A world of equal opportunity.”
The duke’s breathing grew raspy and his mouth twisted into an ugly grimace.
“No amount of money will repair the damage.” Money could not atone for those years spent without his mother. Money could not fill the hole left by an absent father. “Before you’re cold in your grave, before your coxcomb of a cousin inherits, I will dig up every inch of this garden, and I’ll not stop until I’ve found her remains. Do you hear?”
Bony, gnarled fingers clutched the coverlet.
Behind Lucius, the bedchamber door clicked open. He’d hoped to see Miss Atwood, driven upstairs by Warner’s pathetic whining, but the sour-faced steward entered as if he had every right to intrude on the last moments between a father and son.
Warner marched over to the bed. He fussed with the coverlet and pressed his hand to the duke’s damp brow. “Your presence here is detrimental to His Grace’s health.”
