by Clee, Adele
“Get out!” Lucius growled through gritted teeth. “You will give me a moment’s privacy, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Warner straightened and brushed his sleek red hair from his brow. “I answer only to His Grace, and he is not in any fit state for lengthy visits.”
Lucius squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “I answer to no one and will decide how long I want to remain at my father’s bedside.”
“His Grace finds your hostile manner distressing.”
“Hostile? You expect to see warmth and generosity from the son of that cold-hearted bastard?” Lucius pointed at the helpless figure in the bed. “Now, get the hell out before I rip those ruffles from your shirt sleeves and stuff them down your throat.”
“Mr Daventry,” a soft feminine voice called from the doorway.
Lucius remained rigid and glared at the pompous steward, begging him to issue another lofty command.
The patter of footsteps preceded the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Let your father rest,” Miss Atwood said softly. “We have other matters that require our attention and can return on the morrow.”
Miss Atwood’s calm tone had the power to temper anger’s flames, until Warner muttered, “It seems your strumpet is the only one with any sense.”
An unholy rage surged through Lucius’ veins. He flew forward and threw a punch that knocked the arrogant toad on his arse.
“Call me what you will.” He was so livid he struggled to speak coherently. “But slander Miss Atwood’s good name and I shall beat you until your chin is the size of a normal man’s.”
Warner lay sprawled on the floor, clutching his jaw in shock.
“Mr Warner has a right to his opinion.” Miss Atwood tugged Lucius’ arm. “Just as we have the right to tell him he’s an obnoxious weasel.”
Lucius let Miss Atwood pull him back towards the door. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking my father gives a damn about you, Warner. You’re the hired help, nothing more. When I return, I suggest you make yourself scarce. Trim your nibs, for soon you’ll be hunting for a new position.”
Warner scrambled to his feet but remained silent as he brushed dust off his black coat and breeches and continued fussing with the bedsheets.
The need to escape the stifling memories saw Lucius grip Miss Atwood’s hand and practically pull her down the broad oak staircase. He couldn’t bundle her into the carriage quick enough. He couldn’t rap the roof hard enough.
“Well, that was a rather unexpected encounter.” Miss Atwood panted as she flopped into the seat. The vehicle jerked forward and crunched along the gravel drive. “I thought you kept your demons on a tight leash. The beasts were snapping and snarling at your heels the moment we stepped over the threshold.”
Lucius took a few measured breaths. “I cannot abide self-righteous prigs.”
“Are you referring to your father or Mr Warner?”
“Both.”
“I see.” She clasped her hands in her lap and watched him as he jiggled his leg and fidgeted in the seat. “So, restraint is something you’re still trying to master.”
“I never professed to be a saint.” God, he was desperate to rip Warner’s head from his shoulders. “Discipline requires patience. Some emotions are difficult to control.”
Like his sudden urge to calm his temper by claiming Miss Atwood’s delectable mouth. He would coax her warm lips apart, delve inside and sate his raging hunger. In anticipation, hot blood pooled heavy in his loins. He knew beyond any doubt, he could lose himself forever in her embrace.
“You admire Plato,” she said. “Does the philosopher not say that a man’s greatest victory is conquering himself? Some things are meant to be a struggle.”
Bloody hell!
Why couldn’t this be a time of recklessness, not reason? Could she not have beckoned him to the opposite side of the carriage, flashed the tops of her stockings and said to hell with oaths and vows? Could she not have told him to take whatever he needed to relieve the infernal ache?
“Trust me, Miss Atwood, a man has his limits.”
“Then we should replay the events of the morning to distract your mind. Devise a plan for this evening. We cannot be seen whispering together in a secluded corner of Sir Melrose’s ballroom.”
It was not his mind that needed distracting.
Still, he had to do something to rein in his rampant thoughts. “Perhaps you should tell me again what happened when you gave the innkeeper your name and said you wanted to rent room five.”
Miss Atwood straightened. “Well, it was as if he was expecting me. He nodded and simply gave me the key.”
Lucius fired his logical brain into action, a task that soon dampened his ardour. He couldn’t fantasise about bedding Miss Atwood while exploring critical aspects of the case. “The inn sits on the busiest stretch of road heading north out of London. Is it not odd that the room was available?”
It was odd that the blackguard’s chosen inn was so close to Bronygarth. Worrying, when one considered few people knew Lucius owned the house. Somewhere in the process of being discreet, he had made a mistake.
“The villain must have paid for the room in advance,” Miss Atwood said.
“And so you left the letter on the bed,” he said, recapping what she had told him not two hours earlier. “No one approached you or made contact, not even a maid.”
“I was there but ten minutes. Numerous people passed me on the stairs, but no one spoke other than to bid me good morning.”
“Only good morning?”
She gave a half shrug. “The lady in the room opposite was entering as I was leaving. She said if I was taking supper to avoid the stew and dumplings. I thanked her for the warning, and we parted ways.”
Lucius mulled over the snippets of useless information. A conversation about dumplings was hardly a veiled threat. “The innkeeper must be in contact with our quarry. How else would the devil know to come to the inn? But if I interrogate him, it will only arouse his suspicions.”
“Unless our quarry is a resident. When on his travels, my father often stayed at the same inn for a month or more.”
A fond memory filled Lucius’ mind. “Yes, Atticus once bought me dinner at the Duck and Partridge near Wetherby. I shouldn’t have left the dormitory, but your father was quite persuasive, and I was going through a difficult phase.”
A disobedient and destructive phase was a better description.
“Wetherby?” Miss Atwood frowned. “You went to school in Yorkshire? One would think you’d have gone to Harrow or maybe Charterhouse, what with your father’s seat being in Surrey.”
“One would think so,” was all he could bear to say on the matter.
Since the day Lucius’ mother disappeared, the duke had deliberately kept his distance. He rarely ventured to Surrey, rarely left Bideford Park. Perhaps he feared someone might stumble upon Julia Fontaine’s grave.
Silence descended, and they stared out of the window. There was no urge to speak, no urge to converse idly about the weather or the excessive tolls. Though nothing more was said about the duke, Lucius suspected Miss Atwood had the measure of the situation.
As the bustling streets of London came into view, and the carriage swayed to avoid carts and reckless riders, the lady turned her attention to their appointment at the home of Sir Melrose, and of their late-night rendezvous.
“So, you will arrive with Mrs Sinclair,” she began, though there was a thread of tension in her voice, “and I shall—”
“I’m not attending with Mrs Sinclair.”
“Oh. Is the widow out of town?”
Having spent time alone with Miss Atwood, he couldn’t bear the widow’s company. And he had the sudden need to appear as more than a scoundrel hellbent on pleasure. Yes, society would be all agog. The worst of rogues rarely reformed. But they could all go to Hades.
“Mrs Sinclair and I have parted ways.” He had broken the news to the widow on his way home from the docks, once he had d
ecided there was no other course of action but to take Miss Atwood to Bronygarth. “Your father disapproved of my methods of gaining information, as you were wont to remind me.”
She shuffled in the seat and lifted her chin. “A man with your intelligence can surely find other ways to gain the knowledge you seek. Mrs Sinclair’s wisdom extends to the purchasing of fripperies, and you’re worth so much more than that.”
“Am I?” The compliment touched him so deeply he had to smile to hide the rush of emotion. “And I thought you despised me.”
Her gaze drifted to the ebony lock he brushed from his brow. “Opinions change. Indeed, having discovered more about you, I find the opposite is true.” Her eyes softened. “I have the utmost respect for your kindness and loyalty.”
Good Lord!
Lucius was prone to bouts of fancy where Miss Atwood was concerned, but he knew the glint of desire in a woman’s eyes. He knew the radiant glow, the faint hunger.
The muscles in his abdomen clenched. His stomach grew warm as the intense longing he had only recently put to bed stirred from its slumber.
“But how will you slip into dark rooms without a mistress in tow?” said the lady whose mouth was a constant torment. “Won’t it look odd if you’re seen sneaking about alone?”
“People often see me walking the corridors. Most presume there’s a lady waiting for me somewhere.”
“So Mrs Sinclair knows nothing about the Order?”
“Of course not. The woman would sell her soul for an hour of pleasure. She thinks I’m as morally depraved as she is, that I live to commit sin. Mrs Sinclair is a renowned gossip and was once Lord Talbot’s mistress.”
“Lord Talbot. One of the men who purchased the mine in Wigan and sold off the land after the collapse.” Miss Atwood arched a brow. “I see your logic in pursuing a liaison.”
“Everything I do stems from a need to help the Order.”
“Everything? Are we friends purely because I am a terrible snoop with an insatiable curiosity?”
He smiled. “We are friends because we share a common goal. We have the intellectual capacity to keep each other entertained.” And because he liked her far more than he cared to admit.
“You really are a mystery.” She shook her head, although still seemed amused. “On the day of the auction, you said we would never be friends.”
“Opinions change. Having discovered more about you, I find the opposite is true.” Having her as nothing but a friend would come at a hefty cost to his sanity. Was that not why some men turned to drink, wrote morbid poems or developed an opium addiction?
She smiled—a smile that could make a man forget his troubles. “It comes as a surprise to find I like you, Mr Daventry.”
“It comes as no surprise to find I like you, Miss Atwood.” When she frowned at the apparent discrepancy, he added, “You are Atticus Atwood’s daughter.”
“Yes,” she said and gave a satisfied sigh. “Now, we’ve spent the entire time talking and have not made plans regarding our return to Bronygarth this evening.”
The thought of sleeping in the next room to hers for another night filled him with excitement and dread.
“Furnis will come to Half Moon Street at midnight. This time he will take you to the Wild Hare. Robert will meet you there and ferry you to Bronygarth.”
She nodded. “And you will arrive a few minutes later.”
“Yes, after ensuring no one followed you from town. Now, Blake and Bower will accompany you to the Cavanaghs, and you’re to send word if your friends cannot attend tonight.”
“They will attend. Having given them a clue that helped solve a terrible problem, they are desperate to repay the debt.”
Ah, she spoke of Mrs Cavanagh’s staged ruination. “Make sure you remain with them for the entire evening, that they escort you home before midnight. Trust I shall be there, watching from the shadows.”
She nodded. “And when I dance with Lord Newberry, for he is sure to ask if only to probe me for information about my father’s journals, is there anything specific you wish me to discover?”
Lucius’ heart sank to his stomach. Newberry would take every advantage. A man would need his wits to ensure Miss Atwood’s safety, which was yet another reason he could not be hampered by the insipid widow.
“Limit your time with him to one waltz, nothing more.” God, he was starting to sound like a protective parent. “Say you’ve heard your father’s books may contain information other than scientific theories. Say you wonder if Atticus wrote about his interest in justice, in prison reforms, and judge his reaction.”
Miss Atwood pursed her lips and hummed. “Might I enquire about the note you sent to Lord Newberry at Boodle’s? If he mentions the matter, I would prefer not to gape like a dull-witted dunce.”
“Newberry failed to send the written statement I requested. I merely gave him a two-day extension. My real motive for sending Bower to Boodle’s was to check that Newberry was at his club and had not followed you to Brook Street.”
“Oh.” A flush crept up her cheeks. She exhaled deeply as the carriage turned into Half Moon Street. “I’m sorry. My impetuous nature has caused you no end of trouble.”
“Had I trusted you with the truth, we might have avoided any unpleasantness. After all, who wants to be embroiled in midnight chases? Who wants to sleep in a haunted castle with a rogue plagued by nightmares?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Who indeed?”
Chapter Nine
Most ladies lived to attend the next ball or rout. They spent days mithering their modistes, scouring fashion plates from Paris, searching for the perfect gown to attract a wealthy husband. Draped in jewels and drenched in perfume, they sauntered through the ballrooms, flicking their fans in the flirtatious way that was sure to gain a gentleman’s attention.
Sybil found it all rather tedious.
A lady living alone should be happy to spend an evening in the company of like-minded people. But she preferred sitting by the fire reading gothic novels, preferred donning widow’s weeds and spying on the elusive Mr Daventry.
So why had she spent an age picking the right gown to flatter her figure? Why did it feel as if grasshoppers were leaping about in her chest? Why did her heart dance in her throat when she entered Sir Melrose’s crowded ballroom? Indeed, her hands shook, and her cheeks flamed as she scanned the throng looking for the enigmatic owner of a haunted castle.
“Come,” Cassandra said, gesturing to the far side of the ballroom, “let’s find a quiet place by the alcove, and we can discuss your intentions.”
“My intentions?” Sybil craned her neck and searched the room once more before following the Cavanaghs through the crowd.
“What do you intend to do about Mr Daventry?” Cassandra spoke as if Sybil had a problem hearing above the din. “Might you come to an understanding?”
What was she to do about Mr Daventry?
The question brought to mind numerous answers. None of which ought to enter the head of an unmarried lady. While curious about her father’s work—astounded at the lengths a man would go to in order to save the innocent—she found herself more intrigued by the new master of the Order.
Perhaps she had inherited her father’s need to help the tormented. Perhaps she just wanted to know what it would be like to be captured in the scoundrel’s arms and have her mouth pillaged and plundered.
“Let me deal with Daventry,” Benedict Cavanagh said, directing them to a secluded spot near the terrace doors. The Earl of Tregarth’s illegitimate son was just as handsome as Lord Newberry—hence the permanent grin on Cassandra’s face. Both men had golden hair, though unlike Lord Newberry, Benedict possessed a natural charm that gave one confidence his manner was equally pleasing. “I shall negotiate terms on your behalf.”
“Terms?” While the idea of being any man’s mistress was abhorrent, she liked the thought of late-night walks through the garden of Bronygarth. She liked the thought of bidding Mr Daventry goo
d night, conversing over breakfast. She liked the confusing roiling in her stomach whenever those stormy-grey eyes met hers.
“Lord knows why your father left Daventry such an important legacy,” Benedict said. “Surely it’s only right the books belong to you.”
“Oh, by terms you mean negotiate a price for my father’s work.” Heavens, for a lady who professed to have a logical mind, her brain had turned to mulch.
Cassandra frowned. “Are you unwell? You seem distracted. Perhaps that dreadful argument at the auction has affected your nerves.”
Sybil reminded herself that Cassandra knew nothing about her stealing into Mr Daventry’s home, about the abduction attempt, or about her staying at Bronygarth. And while she wasn’t ready to confess her sins, the need to defend Mr Daventry pulsed in her veins.
“Mr Daventry will do the right thing,” Sybil said, daring to take another glance around the ballroom. “My father had the utmost respect for him. And so I shall have faith in Mr Daventry’s character, too.”
Cassandra’s frown deepened. “Are you sure you’re all right? I understand the need to nurture positive thoughts, but we are talking about the man you despise to the core of your being.”
Oh, she did not despise Lucius Daventry—not anymore.
“Being angry hasn’t helped. So I have decided to take a different stance.”
Benedict arched a brow. “I advise you err on the side of caution. Annoy Daventry at your peril. He will think nothing of ruining your reputation.”
Goodness, her stomach was tied in knots with the need to correct their misconceptions. She wanted to grab them by the shoulders, wanted to shake them and explain how Mr Daventry had risked his life to protect her. She wanted to sing his praises from the rooftops, tell them how remarkably logical he was, how his loyalty knew no bounds.
“Have no fear. I have the measure of Mr Daventry’s character.”
“Thank heavens.” Cassandra released a weary sigh. “Who would want to find themselves in a compromising position with a man like that?”
“Who indeed?”
