by Clee, Adele
“What was that?” Her sudden gasp startled him.
He groaned against her neck. “Loath me to point out the obvious, but I’m aroused to the point of madness.”
“Not that,” she said, pushing gently on his chest. She seemed comfortable touching him now. “That clicking sound.”
Panic forced him to snatch his hand from her thigh as his gaze shot to the door.
“It wasn’t the door, but something on the bookcase behind me.”
He almost said to hell with the damn bookcase, but she forced him to ignore his throbbing erection and examine the shelves. While numerous volumes had fallen to the floor during their amorous encounter, the ones on three shelves were all positioned at the same odd angle.
Sybil placed her finger on the headband of a red leather volume. “Confessions by Rousseau. How apt.” She attempted to push it back into position, but the whole row of books moved. “There it is again, Lucius, that odd clicking sound.”
His curiosity piqued, Lucius ran his hands over the volumes. What looked like a row of books to the naked eye was nothing more than false spines.
Placing his hands flat against them, he pressed hard and heard the click again. A quick tug on the spines resulted in the whole panel swinging forward to reveal a secret cupboard.
They both peered into the hidden compartment containing an odd assortment of objects—silk gloves, powder and rouge, a miniature portrait of a woman in a white gown, a small red box. The only items that might belong to Sir Melrose were official-looking papers and a brown leather pocketbook wallet.
“So, this is where the Cramptons hide their valuables,” Lucius said. He removed the wallet and discovered vowels to the value of five thousand pounds belonging to a Mrs Dunwoody.
“Dunwoody?” Sybil muttered, glancing at the crisp notes in his hand. “I don’t know anyone of that name.”
“No.” Lucius closed the wallet and returned it to the shelf. He took the papers and read the first few pages. “These are the deeds to a property in Dumfriesshire.” Again, it meant nothing. But then it occurred to him that the solemn man hailed from Scotland.
Coincidence perhaps?
Sybil took the portrait and studied it while Lucius fiddled with the lock on the red box. “I must say, the lady in the miniature has a rather masculine jaw.”
Lucius stole a quick look at the portrait. “That’s because it’s a man dressed in women’s clothes.” Indeed, something about the feminine objects told him they didn’t belong to Lady Crampton.
“It’s a rather odd thing to hide in a secret cupboard.”
“It’s an odd thing to own, but exactly the thing one would hide from prying eyes.”
Lucius picked the lock on the box with the thin metal implement he’d taken from his pocket. He raised the lid expecting to find pearl earrings or a diamond brooch, not pencil sketches of naked men.
Shock rendered him speechless.
Sybil gasped and clutched his arm. “Why would Sir Melrose keep sketches of naked men?”
“Why indeed?”
Lucius removed the expert sketches drawn on the back of invitation cards. On the reverse were the words Gorget’s Garrett, but no date or address. He flicked through the drawings until one large anatomical feature caught his attention.
“Devil take it. Look closely at the image.” He handed the sketch to Sybil. “Tell me what you see.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?” A crimson blush stained her cheeks, and he knew she couldn’t resist scanning the entire drawing. “Well, the large chin makes him look somewhat like Mr Warner, your father’s steward, though I’m sure he would be mortified by the similarity.”
“Interesting.” Lucius took the image and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. Then he returned the box to the cupboard and closed the door.
“You think that is Mr Warner, don’t you?”
“The likeness is uncanny.” Too uncanny to be a coincidence. “As such, it might prove useful in our quest to find a killer.”
“Collecting odd items doesn’t make a man a murderer,” she said. “We’ve found nothing to suggest Sir Melrose is guilty of a crime. There’s nothing to prove they belong to him.”
“While you could argue these items belong to Lady Crampton, I doubt it.” Lucius gathered the fallen books and placed them back on the shelves. “We’ll discuss our next course of action when we return to Bronygarth. Can you persuade the Cavanaghs to leave early?”
“Lord Newberry insisted I dance another waltz.”
“Newberry can go to hell.”
“Then I shall tell Cassandra I feel hot, a little faint.”
Lucius arched a brow. “It’s said I have that effect on women.”
With a sudden gasp, she patted her hair. “Do I look like you’ve ravished me in the library?”
He tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, fought the need to kiss her again, to cover her with his naked body. “No one will notice. Your hair is always a little unruly. Come.” He moved to the door and unlocked it with the skeleton key. “We shouldn’t leave together. I shall exit first, distract anyone hovering in the vicinity. When you hear me cough twice, you’ll know it’s safe to leave.”
Though Sybil nodded, he knew nerves formed the basis of her tight smile. Guilt should have gnawed away at his insides, but he was not sorry. He would risk the noose to spend another few minutes locked in her passionate embrace.
Sybil hid in the darkness while he eased the door from the jamb. He might have taken a surreptitious glance along the corridor had the imposing figure of Damian Wycliff not stepped forward to block the doorway.
Chapter Eleven
“Leave now while the corridor is empty.” The deep masculine growl reached Sybil’s ears, yet it was not Lucius Daventry who spoke.
Panic held her rooted to the spot.
She daren’t peer around the jamb.
“Follow me downstairs, Daventry,” the angry gentleman continued, though his voice was almost drowned out by the laughter spilling out of the private drawing room. “My wife will attend to Miss Atwood and escort her back to the ballroom.”
Sybil waited for Lucius’ steadfast denial, his bitter retort, but he simply said, “Very well.” He stepped back from the doorway, looked at her and whispered, “Remain calm. I shall meet you downstairs once I’ve dealt with Wycliff.”
Wycliff?
Oh, Lord!
“Now, Daventry.”
Sybil’s breath quickened upon hearing Mr Wycliff’s murderous whisper. People said he was as skilled in combat as Lucius Daventry, said he bore the scars from numerous battles, said he thought nothing of meeting a gentleman on the common at dawn.
A sickening dread shot to her throat when Lucius left the room. A few seconds later Mrs Wycliff entered, her ebony hair fashioned in the latest style, her sapphire and diamond necklace complementing her midnight blue gown.
“Miss Atwood,” the lady began in the compassionate tone of a woman who had survived many scandalous situations. “I see your obsession with Mr Daventry is still very much your focus.”
Two weeks ago, Sybil had sat with the Wycliffs in Cassandra’s drawing room and told them about spying on Mr Daventry, about her urgent need to attend the auction. Then, she had thought Mr Daventry a heartless devil, too.
“It is not an obsession,” Sybil corrected.
“No, you’re just desperate to purchase your father’s journals from a man who enjoys playing games.”
“Mr Daventry has no intention of selling the journals and has expressed his deep regret over the misunderstanding.”
A smile played at the corners of Mrs Wycliff’s mouth. “Regret so deep he had to lock you in a dark library to make his point.”
“It’s a complicated situation.” One of a secret society, of murder, treachery and a sworn oath. “One you wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs Wycliff’s smile deepened. “I know what it’s like to fall under a rogue’s spell, Miss Atwood.”
“M
r Daventry is not a rogue.”
“And neither is Mr Wycliff.” The lady tugged her long white gloves up past her elbows and then offered her hand. “Now, while the men talk of threats and violence, let us speak calmly and honestly. Walk with me.”
Sybil hesitated. But what choice did she have?
She linked arms with the lady—once known as the Scarlet Widow throughout the ton—and they descended the stairs.
“Mr Daventry will never commit to one woman,” Mrs Wycliff said, leading Sybil through the hall towards the supper room. “The man lacks integrity. His only interest is his latest conquest.”
Sybil stiffened. “Did people not say the same about Mr Wycliff once?”
“They did,” the lady had to admit.
“And yet I have never seen a man as loyal or committed.”
Mrs Wycliff gave a satisfied sigh. “Damian is everything a woman could ask for in a husband.”
“And do you not credit me with your intelligence, Mrs Wycliff? I am capable of discerning Mr Daventry’s character and deciding if he is suitable company.”
If only she could offer examples of his resounding loyalty.
If only she could explain how he strived to keep his vow.
“Are you in love with him?” Mrs Wycliff asked bluntly. “Everyone believes you hardly know one another. I’m not convinced. As Mr Daventry strode towards the stairs with my husband, he said that protecting you was his priority.”
Sybil shrugged. “What can I say? The man you think you know is nothing like the real man behind the façade. Mr Daventry saved my life.”
Mrs Wycliff snatched two glasses of champagne from the footman’s tray and handed one to Sybil. “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Atwood. Are you in love with Mr Daventry?”
The memory of Lucius’ hard body pressing her against the bookcase left her breathless. The memory of him stalking around the dance floor, all dark and devilish, sent delicious shivers to her toes. She trusted him implicitly. Admired his mind. Lusted after his body.
But love?
“I don’t know. Love develops over time,” she answered truthfully before sipping her champagne. “But I have the utmost respect for him, would defend him with my last breath.”
That seemed to satisfy Mrs Wycliff, whose assured smile remained constant even while drinking her champagne. “Love can happen in an instant. For me, it happened over the course of three days. I knew I loved Damian the moment I realised I saw him as no one else did. The road was rather bumpy after that, but one cannot fight against the power of true love.”
Mrs Wycliff’s words struck a chord with Sybil.
“Now,” the lady continued, placing their glasses on the supper table. “Let us find the men before one of them is carted off to Newgate and charged with murder, but not before we have eased Cassandra’s fears.”
A pang of guilt made Sybil sigh. “I shouldn’t have slipped away, not without offering an explanation, but …”
“But you simply had to speak to Mr Daventry, and Benedict would never have let you go alone.”
“Something like that.”
“He sent Damian to search for you. It would have roused suspicion had they been seen scouring the upstairs rooms looking for their charge.”
“After what happened to Cassandra at Lord Craven’s ball, I should have had more consideration for her feelings, but …”
“But when your mind is consumed with thoughts of Mr Daventry, you can think of nothing else.”
Mrs Wycliff was extremely insightful.
“Something like that.”
They found the Cavanaghs waiting near the terrace. Sybil offered a sincere apology, though made no mention of the illicit encounter in the library. Cassandra was simply relieved she had been found safe and well. Mrs Wycliff insisted she would play chaperone, and they left the couple to enjoy a waltz.
“How do you know Mr Wycliff and Mr Daventry are outside?” Sybil said as Mrs Wycliff led her back into the grand hall.
“Neither man wishes to make his grievance known. There is only one place they might conduct a secret conversation at short notice—Damian’s carriage.”
A storm was brewing. The temperature had plummeted, and so they retrieved their cloaks from the liveried attendant and headed down the steps onto Maddox Street. Rows of carriages lined the pavements, but Mrs Wycliff directed Sybil towards the mews.
“With so many people here tonight, I’m surprised Sir Melrose granted your husband use of the mews.”
Mrs Wycliff smiled. “Damian would never be without access to a vehicle. He paid Sir Melrose’s coachman handsomely for the pleasure of keeping it here.”
They headed through the cobbled yard lit by braziers and hanging lanterns. From the shadows of the stables, grooms and coachmen watched them hurrying towards the black unmarked carriage.
Mrs Wycliff glanced up at the box seat. “I presume my husband is inside the vehicle, Alcock?”
“Aye, ma’am.” The sturdy woman sitting atop the box in coachman’s garb doffed her hat and said, “Mr Wycliff’s got another gentleman in there with him.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve not heard the shouts for a few minutes now. Happen one of ’em is dead.”
Mrs Wycliff tutted at her servant. “I can assure you they are both very much alive.” She ushered Sybil to the carriage door. “Forgive my coachwoman. Alcock often expects the worst where my husband is concerned.” The lady rapped on the window. “It’s me, Damian.”
“Enter,” came the terse reply.
Mrs Wycliff opened the door, and her husband dropped the step.
Sybil climbed into the vehicle and settled next to Lucius.
He forced a smile, though his storm-grey eyes looked ready to unleash a violent tempest. “Did anyone see you leave the library?”
“Not that I’m aware.” While she longed to see the flames of desire dancing there, she found the dangerous gleam surprisingly attractive. “People were too busy playing blind man’s bluff in the drawing room to notice.”
Mrs Wycliff closed the carriage door and gripped her husband’s thigh as she moved to sit beside him. “Well, I’m glad to see no one has suffered an injury.”
“No visible injury,” Lucius snapped, his voice barely masking his rage, “yet I find myself reeling at your blatant interference.”
“Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Mr Wycliff protested. “She is merely trying to defuse the tension.”
“And Mr Daventry was merely inferring that we had the situation under control,” Sybil said, feeling an overwhelming need to defend the gentleman.
Mr Wycliff snorted. “When it comes to mastering control, Miss Atwood, I believe you fall dreadfully short.”
“Do not speak to her in that tone,” Mr Daventry countered. “She is merely providing clarity. Say what you will about me, but do not dare make assumptions about Miss Atwood’s character.”
Mr Wycliff’s eyes grew wide, though he appeared more intrigued than offended. He folded his muscular arms across his chest. “Tell me, Miss Atwood. Is everything Daventry said about your father true?”
“Clever bastard,” Lucius muttered beneath his breath as he lounged back and draped his arm across the back of the seat.
Sybil wasn’t sure how to respond. Lucius would have told some semblance of the truth, but he would never mention his work for the Order.
“That would depend on what Mr Daventry told you, sir,” she said to give her time to form an appropriate reply.
Lucius cleared his throat. “I have explained our reason for attending the ball tonight. I have told Wycliff about my suspicions regarding your father’s death. That on occasion, Atticus liked to play Bow Street investigator.”
“I see.” She took a moment to choose her words carefully before turning her attention back to Mr Wycliff. “Everything Mr Daventry said is true. My father fought for reform. He believed the law served the rich, not the poor. Certain cases in the newspaper drew his attention, and he often conducted his own i
nvestigations. It was a hobby of sorts.”
Mr Wycliff stared through coal-black eyes. “While commendable, that’s a rather dangerous hobby, Miss Atwood. Still, I fail to see the connection between a distinguished man of science and a scandalous rogue.”
“Is that really any of your business, sir?”
A glint of admiration flashed in the gentleman’s eyes. “You have gumption, Miss Atwood. I’ll give you that.”
“Enough gumption to decide whether I want to spend time in a locked library with Mr Daventry.” The memory of their illicit encounter brought heat to her cheeks. It didn’t help that Mr Daventry took the opportunity to stroke her nape.
“Cassandra was worried,” Mrs Wycliff said calmly. “You know what happened to her at Lord Craven’s ball. She would never forgive herself if something happened to you while in her care.”
Sybil’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Cassandra. Her poor friend had suffered enough.
“We were desperate,” Lucius interjected. “While I hate to sound dramatic, our lives are in danger. Under normal circumstances, I cannot imagine Miss Atwood would ever neglect her friends.”
Mr Wycliff turned to his wife. “Do you see what’s happening here?”
The lady smiled. “With astonishing clarity, which is why I think we should offer our assistance.”
Lucius lowered his arm and straightened. “We have managed well enough on our own.”
“From what you’ve told me, Daventry, Atticus Atwood passed almost a year ago and you’re still searching for the culprit.”
Lucius sucked in a sharp breath. “Months passed before I could examine Atticus’ notes. Months before I began piecing the information together. Other matters have slowed proceedings, matters I am in no position to discuss.”
He spoke of protecting her, protecting the men who served the Order. Preventing them from suffering the same fate as poor Mr Proctor.
“So, the bastard son of a duke is out to avenge the death of an eminent scientist,” Mr Wycliff mused. “I’m still baffled by your connection.”
“They met when Mr Daventry was at school,” Sybil said. Admiration filled her chest when she glanced at Lucius. “My father was an excellent judge of character. He came to respect Mr Daventry a great deal.”
