by Clee, Adele
“Besides, since your meeting at the auction, Lord Newberry seems to have you in his sights.” Cassandra nodded discreetly to a point beyond Sybil’s shoulder. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he noticed you walking through the crowd.”
Sybil didn’t want to look at Lord Newberry. She didn’t want to catch any man’s eye other than Lucius Daventry’s, but she had not come to the ball to sip ratafia and gossip in the retiring room.
“Lord Newberry strikes me as a man with many secrets.” Sybil stole a quick glance at the handsome lord who was watching her intently. “I’m not sure he is entirely trustworthy.”
Benedict snorted. “Newberry is equally renowned for his conquests. It’s said that when he’s done sowing his oats, he will marry Lady Margaret, daughter of the Earl of Langley.”
Benedict Cavanagh seemed to know a lot about those in the ton. Perhaps he might know something relating to the incidents her father was investigating. But how to broach the subject without arousing suspicion.
Sybil smiled. “Regardless of his intentions, I could never love a man like Lord Newberry. Something tells me a devil lurks beneath that angelic smile.” She stepped closer and whispered, “I heard tell he hides a terrible secret.”
Cassandra frowned for the umpteenth time. “What sort of secret?”
“I cannot recall if it was something to do with his friend Lord Talbot, or his association with Mr Cribb.”
“Mr Cribb?” Cassandra looked at her husband. “I have never heard the name.”
Benedict shook his head. “No, I can’t say I have. As for Talbot, they belonged to the same club, but I would hardly call them friends.”
With a nonchalant shrug, Sybil said, “Oh, well. Perhaps I should pay more attention to retiring-room gossip.”
“If it’s gossip you seek, you should visit Mrs Crandall.” Cassandra’s eyes brightened with amusement. “The madam owns many secrets. I’m surprised she sleeps at night. A desperate man might resort to drastic measures to secure her silence.”
Owning secrets was a dangerous game. “Am I correct in thinking Mrs Crandall is a courtesan?”
“Was a courtesan,” Cassandra corrected. “Now she arranges private parties for the demimonde at her address on Theobolds Road. Debauched parties.” Cassandra giggled. “Parties where people forgo numerous items of clothing and frolic in the dark. Mr Daventry often attends.”
Did he indeed?
Mr Daventry failed to mention that during one of his truthful talks. And yet lately Sybil had no problem imagining the gentleman frolicking in the dark without his coat and cravat.
“I wouldn’t say often,” Benedict interjected. “But Daventry frequents the place on occasion. As for Mrs Crandall, she receives anonymous threats weekly, but no one is brave enough to chain a ball to her ankle and throw her into the Thames. She makes it known the secrets are stored safely, that the truth will out should she suddenly meet a grisly end.”
An image of the underwater vault at Bronygarth passed through Sybil’s mind. Keepers of the truth gathered many enemies. Someone murdered her father to ensure their secret remained hidden. Perhaps Atticus should have adopted Mrs Crandall’s attitude and made his suspicions known. But he would never have risked the lives of family and friends.
Cassandra’s sudden gasp drew Sybil from her reverie. “Quick. Straighten your shoulders. Your new gentleman friend is heading this way.”
“Mr Daventry?” Sybil’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the music of the orchestra.
But a quick assessment of her emotions said Cassandra wasn’t speaking of Lucius Daventry. The energy in the room changed when he was near. Nerves mingled with exhilaration whenever she sensed his presence. Now, she felt nothing but a clawing apprehension.
“Not that rogue. I speak of Lord Newberry. Honestly, do you think about anything other than Mr Daventry?”
Benedict Cavanagh studied Sybil through narrowed eyes. Clearly he sensed something was amiss—Sybil knew it the moment he said, “Are you expecting to meet Mr Daventry this evening? You won’t persuade him to your cause. Not when his only interest lies in seeking pleasure.”
Sybil might have challenged Mr Cavanagh’s opinion had Lord Newberry not barged in between them and insisted he lead her in a waltz.
Sybil forced a smile. The moment the lord clasped her hand and drew her close, she knew there was something dark lurking beneath his cherubic façade.
“So, did you take tea with Daventry?” The lord wasted no time coming straight to the point. “I pray Mrs Cavanagh wasn’t your chaperone. When a lady has no option but to marry Tregarth’s son, one can hardly regard her as a paragon of virtue.” He snorted as if in awe of his superb wit.
Every bone in Sybil’s body longed to knock this man off his lofty pedestal. “Do not concern yourself with my reputation, my lord. Besides, Mr Daventry withdrew his invitation after I caused such a terrible ruckus at the auction.”
“Daventry is a master of manipulation. It wouldn’t surprise me to find he invited you to the auction as an excuse to raise the bids. I take it you can’t match my figure of seven thousand.”
The arrogant devil.
He looked so smug she was liable to say something derogatory. “I hope my written statement will be sufficiently persuasive. The journals belonged to my father, and I have a rightful claim. Have you submitted your statement, my lord?”
“Daventry doesn’t care about statements.” His tight smile conveyed a hint of doubt. “He merely enjoys belittling his betters.”
His betters!
Anger brought a boulder-sized lump to her throat. Pompous oaf. She had the urge to stamp on his toe. But if she couldn’t keep a tight rein on her emotions, she would ruin her one chance to question the lord. Besides, mere days ago, she had thought the worst of Mr Daventry’s character, too.
“Ah, you refer to his illegitimacy,” she continued.
“What else?”
“I thought perhaps you were alluding to his immoral pursuits. Then again, most of the peers in the ton keep a mistress. It would be hypocritical to judge Mr Daventry.”
“Madam, are you always this free with your tongue?” The lord drew her a little closer and gave a salacious chuckle. “When I offered a wild ride in my curricle, I meant it.”
Sybil squirmed “Are you always so forward in manner, my lord?”
A sudden shift in the air captured her attention. She was so busy thinking of a way to lure Lord Newberry into her trap that she failed to notice Lucius Daventry enter the ballroom. She glanced around covertly but couldn’t see him in the crowd. Yet every tingling nerve in her body said he was close.
“You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Atwood, not one of the dim-witted ones. I’m sure you know how it works.”
“Of course.” Her father said the truth was one’s greatest friend. She wondered if Lord Newberry would agree. “You want to bed me before you finally settle and marry Lady Margaret. You want to bed me because I am Atticus Atwood’s daughter. You hope, after a night of pleasure, I might reveal his secrets.”
Lord Newberry’s head fell back, and he laughed.
It was then that Sybil saw Mr Daventry amongst the crowd. Dressed in black, he prowled the perimeter of the dance floor like a panther stalking his prey.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Weak knees caused a misstep.
Lord Newberry firmed his grip and must have presumed he had a powerful effect on her senses. “Perhaps a delicate little lamb lurks beneath your wolf’s disguise, Miss Atwood.”
Aware of Mr Daventry’s penetrating gaze, Sybil stuttered, “And … and perhaps a devil lurks beneath your angelic mask, my lord. My father was a keeper of secrets. He liked to observe the actions of immoral men. The study of people is a science, too, is it not?”
The lord’s expression turned serious. The light vanished from his bright blue eyes. “I see nothing remotely fascinating about the study of the human psyche.”
“Do you not?” The n
eed to hurry—for the dance would soon be at an end—and the need to speak secretly to Mr Daventry forced her to say, “Few peers care about science. Which begs the question, what possible interest can you have in my father’s work?”
The question seemed to unsettle the arrogant lord. His mouth opened and closed, but he failed to find the answer.
“No doubt you couldn’t write a statement declaring your intention,” Sybil continued smugly. “My father cared about the poor, about prison reforms, about men in power abusing their positions. As you’re not poor or in prison, I must assume you have an interest in the latter.”
There was nothing angelic about the way the lord’s features contorted and twisted to reveal the ugly truth behind the mask. He gripped her hand so tightly he was liable to break a bone. It took all her strength not to whimper.
Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Be careful, Miss Atwood. A man can only tolerate a snoop for so long before releasing the hounds.” And then he pasted an amiable smile which he shared with those dancers nearby.
Fear should have seized Sybil by the throat and held her in its frigid grip, but Lucius Daventry was seconds away and would soon put this bully in his place. While Mr Daventry took a covert approach when investigating, she preferred reckless and direct. What had she to lose? Her life was already in danger.
“I have read what my father wrote in his journals—detailed evidence of fraud and deception. What interests me is how you know. And you must know. Why else would you make such an extortionate bid for what people believe are nought but scientific theories?”
The lord’s jaw firmed.
The earlier comments about Mrs Crandall crept into Sybil’s mind. There were ways of protecting oneself from devils like Lord Newberry.
“Should anything happen to me, my lord, know that I have made notes on my father’s work. Notes that will pass to the appropriate authorities should I meet my demise.”
The dance ended before the lord could muster a reply.
With a firm hold of Sybil’s upper arm, Lord Newberry led her from the floor. “Your threat changes nothing,” he whispered through gritted teeth as he escorted her back to the Cavanaghs. “No one will believe the scrawled notes of a woman committed to an asylum for the insane. Once I obtain the journals from Daventry, you might find yourself spirited away in the dead of night, never to be seen again.”
“You do not scare me,” she lied as a bleak image of a ragged woman sitting in a dank cell entered her mind. Rich lords had the power to manipulate any situation. Wasn’t that the reason her father had formed the Order?
“Then why are you trembling, my dear?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the breeze blowing in from the terrace,” she countered, forcing yet another smile as she rejoined the Cavanaghs.
Lord Newberry did not give Sybil a moment to gather her wits before saying, “I must insist on another dance, Miss Atwood, and simply won’t take no for an answer.”
No doubt women scrambled to please this gentleman. Sybil was of a mind to refuse, but the need to gather more information convinced her to say, “Of course. But if we are to discuss our mutual interest in my father’s notes, we will have to dance the last waltz.”
The lord gave a spurious smile. “I shall await our conversation with bated breath, Miss Atwood.” And with that, he flicked a golden lock from his brow and strode away.
“Well, you certainly have a lot in common with Lord Newberry.” Cassandra’s gaze burned with curiosity. “I took a quick peek, and you never stopped talking the whole time you were dancing.”
“Conversation is an excellent way to gauge a person’s character.”
Cassandra laughed. “That all depends on whether one’s partner is spinning a yarn.”
“As you can imagine, Lord Newberry is rather frank when giving his opinion.” His warning rang of desperation. Only frightened men threatened women. Lord Newberry was guilty of something. She just had to discover what.
A sudden shiver ran the length of Sybil’s spine, though it had nothing to do with her fear of Lord Newberry. This was a different sensation. And it came as no surprise when Mr Daventry appeared and bid the Cavanaghs good evening.
“Mr Daventry?” Sybil feigned surprise. He looked splendid in his black evening coat, though his trousers didn’t grip his thighs the way breeches did. “Have you reconsidered your position, sir? Have you come to say you’ll accept my offer of six thousand pounds?”
“Six thousand?” Benedict Cavanagh sucked in a sharp breath upon hearing the extortionate sum. “I’m sure Daventry understands that the books belong with their rightful owner. Morally, money shouldn’t matter.”
“I came merely to tell Miss Atwood that I have decided to keep her father’s books.” Mr Daventry’s confident stance and arrogant grin made him look just like the disreputable rogue whose list of mistresses could fill a journal. “The last thing I need is her stalking me in the dark while I am otherwise engaged.”
“I am standing here, sir.” Sybil rather liked this game. Yes, she hated being dishonest, but the truth could endanger the lives of her friends. “Can you not address me directly?”
Mr Daventry’s jaw firmed as he met her gaze. “Wearing that gown, Miss Atwood, you risk me making good on my earlier threats to steal your virtue. For your safety, I believe it is better if I direct all conversation to your friends.”
She had made a deliberate effort tonight and was glad he’d noticed. Yes, the scooped neckline was a little low, and the pearl choker added an air of decadence. Not to mention her gown was the perfect shade of green to complement her unruly copper curls.
Cassandra inhaled deeply. “Sir, if it’s a deterrent you seek, it will take more than a threat to Miss Atwood’s virtue. I’m afraid she doesn’t frighten easily.”
Lucius Daventry’s intense grey gaze drifted from Sybil’s hair slowly down to the valley of her breasts. “Perhaps Miss Atwood wishes to court my attention for some reason other than an interest in scientific theories.”
“You approached me, sir. Perhaps you wish to court my attention for some reason other than to tell me you won’t sell.” While she tried to sound amused, her tone held a flirtatious note that was sure to rouse the Cavanaghs’ suspicions.
Heat swirled in her stomach when Mr Daventry moistened his lips and said, “I’m a man who takes what he wants, Miss Atwood. Cavanagh will tell you. I could offer a crude retort, but it would only incite you to retaliate. And I like a good fight as much as I like a good—”
“Did you catch the thief?” Cassandra said in a panic. “Did you find the man who stole the fake book?”
Mr Daventry turned his attention to Cassandra, though the air continued to thrum with excitable energy. “No, madam, though I believe he is of Scottish descent.”
“Scottish? I imagine quite a few people would want to steal important scientific theories and take praise for their discovery.”
“Who can say what motivates the criminal fraternity.”
Silence ensued.
Sybil found it difficult not to stare at Lucius Daventry’s broad shoulders or the errant ebony lock falling over his brow, though a glance at Benedict Cavanagh caused a pang of alarm. The tilt of his head and the odd shooting glances said he was mentally assessing their interactions.
“Well, don’t let us keep you,” Sybil said, quick to avert suspicion. “I’m sure Mrs Sinclair is pining for your company.”
Mr Daventry arched a brow. “A man must have some means of relieving his frustrations.” He inclined his head. “I wish you all an enjoyable evening.”
Mr Daventry turned on his heel and stalked through the crowd, who quickly parted to create a wide walkway. Some men shuffled nervously as he passed. Some gave a curt nod, while various ladies stroked the necklines of their gowns in open invitation.
Sadness touched Sybil’s heart.
People thought they had the measure of his character.
People were wrong.
“Daventr
y is up to something.” Benedict Cavanagh’s comment captured Sybil’s attention. “I’ve known the man for years, and that’s the first time he has ever approached a lady in a ballroom.”
Heat flooded Sybil’s cheeks. She tried to appear indifferent, but she was equally intrigued. Why had he felt the need to approach her in public? Was there any truth in his heated gaze?
She swallowed past her growing need for his company. “I caused him no end of trouble at the auction. He’s tired of my snooping and wished to issue a veiled warning.” There, was that not a reasonable explanation?
Mr Cavanagh pursed his lips and hummed. “There’s something different about him, something I cannot name.”
“I have to agree.” Cassandra seemed determined to add fuel to the fire. “While Mr Daventry was as crude as expected, there was a slight warmth to his tone and manner that I failed to notice at the auction.”
Sybil screwed her nose in protest. “But he was as rude and as obnoxious as ever.”
Benedict Cavanagh shook his head. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe Lucius Daventry is hunting for his next mistress.” His tone sounded grave. “And I cannot help but feel he has you in his sights, Miss Atwood.”
“Me?” The thought roused a nervous excitement. “Don’t be ridiculous. The man likes to taunt me that is all.”
Heavens, her words rang with insincerity. She was an appalling liar and needed to make a quick escape. A few minutes in the retiring room would give her ample opportunity to gather her composure.
The sudden arrival of Mr and Mrs Wycliff, good friends of the Cavanaghs, distracted her chaperones momentarily. Indeed, Sybil slipped away quietly and was soon lost in the crowd. Locating the retiring room should have been a priority. But she caught sight of Mr Daventry sneaking upstairs and had the overwhelming urge to follow.
Chapter Ten
For twenty minutes, Lucius had listened to Sir Melrose Crampton’s constant barrage of questions. Had Lucius received the written statements? Could he not see the logic in selling the journals to the Royal Society? What the devil did Newberry want with scientific theories? When would Lucius make his decision?
