by Clee, Adele
Lucius sat quietly, debating the information.
He knew Atticus well enough to know what he would have demanded from Lord Newberry. Justice. Justice for the poor families who had lost loved ones and a means of income. Even with evidence, he doubted a man of Newberry’s standing would ever be committed for trial.
“I think I have a solution,” Lucius said, “but allow me a moment to confer with Miss Atwood.”
“You ask as if I have a choice.” Newberry pushed out of the chair and stomped from the room.
Lucius explained his plan to Sybil, reminded her of their lack of evidence. Sometimes justice meant making compromises.
“Newberry’s an arrogant fop, but instinct says he’s innocent of Atticus’ murder,” he said, his heart heavy with regret, for he was desperate to blame someone. “Cowards threaten women. It takes a devil to suffocate a man in his bed.”
Sybil’s eyes widened. “Heavens, do you think that’s how my father died?”
He captured her hand and stroked it gently. “I believe so.” There had been nothing to rouse the coroner’s suspicions.
She looked to her lap before meeting his gaze. “Do what you think is right.” Tears welled, and she inhaled in an attempt to keep them at bay.
Lucius leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. Love filled his heart. “Trust me. The person responsible will pay. Newberry is guilty of negligence, maybe arson, of being a damn fool, but I’m confident he didn’t kill Atticus.” The lord was hardly the sort to enter a house uninvited, let alone have the skill to pick the lock.
Sybil cupped his cheek with a tenderness that stole his breath. “I trust you with my life, Lucius. I trust your decision regarding Lord Newberry. And let me say that there is nothing insignificant about you.”
He kissed her again, released her before Newberry sauntered back into the room.
“So, what do you intend to do, Daventry?” Newberry took his seat behind the desk. He appeared to have reclaimed his right of entitlement during his brief absence. “Bind my legs and hurl me into the Thames? Nail my tongue to the pillory?”
“You deserve nothing less,” Lucius said. “No, I intend to give you Atticus’ notes relating to the incident at the mine. But only under certain conditions.”
“What conditions? What do you want? Blood?” Newberry mocked. “Nomination to my club?”
“I would rather eat my own eyeballs.” Lucius snorted. “No. Your solicitor will find the families of all those who died in the mining accident. They will all receive the sum of a thousand pounds as compensation. Those evicted from their homes will receive five hundred pounds. I don’t care if the sums are given anonymously. But I want proof before handing over the evidence.”
Newberry gritted his teeth. “You’re talking about sixty families, about forty-five thousand pounds.”
Lucius stood and tugged the sleeves of his coat. “The choice is yours. Now, I’m sure you would like to see the matter concluded quickly, lest I have another change of heart.”
And with that, they left the lord to his business.
Chapter Eighteen
“Miss Trimble is to manage my husband’s home for destitute ladies,” Mrs Wycliff said, keen to explain the presence of an elegant woman who had just passed Sybil in the hall. “The refurbishments have taken a little longer than expected, which means we might have to postpone our trip to Italy.”
“We won’t need to postpone.” Mr Wycliff crossed the drawing room, thrust a glass of brandy into Lucius’ hand, a sherry into Sybil’s. “My father can oversee things for a few months while we’re away.”
“Your father!” Mrs Wycliff couldn’t hide her shock. “Heavens, he does nothing for himself. He hires people to arrange his extravagant parties. Hired a man with the same measurements to visit his tailor. What does he know about ladies down on their luck?”
“It will give him a sense of purpose. And Miss Trimble will keep him in check.” Mr Wycliff swallowed a mouthful of brandy before dropping down onto the sofa to sit next to his wife. “We can discuss this later. Daventry hasn’t come to hear about my father’s faults.”
“No,” Lucius said, “though I doubt the list is as long as my father’s failings.”
“It’s said the duke is a heartless devil.”
Lucius sighed. “That would be an accurate assessment.”
Mrs Wycliff’s gaze softened. “And yet you appear to have a huge heart, Mr Daventry. Your need to protect Miss Atwood is commendable.”
“I swore an oath to her father, and I always keep my word.”
They were seated together on the sofa opposite the Wycliffs. Lucius was but a foot away, yet Sybil longed to reach out to him, to take his hand and hold it tight.
Mr Wycliff cocked his head and smiled. “People are quick to judge, me included. One would think experience would make me wiser, yet cynicism is hard to master.”
“We are all guilty of cynicism.” Sybil had thought the worst of Lucius Daventry in the beginning. “I imagine it would surprise people to learn that the dangerous Damian Wycliff is benevolent.”
Mr Wycliff laughed. “Sometimes life brings unexpected opportunities, does it not?”
“Indeed,” Lucius agreed, glancing at Sybil.
Silence descended.
“Flannery didn’t disappoint,” Lucius said. “I’d heard he excelled in gathering information, but I didn’t expect results so quickly.”
“Men desperate to reclaim their vowels can be extremely forthcoming.” Mr Wycliff swallowed another mouthful of brandy. “When Flannery offered to wipe a debt in exchange for information, one desperate lord revealed all he knew about Gorget’s Garrett.”
Lucius sat forward. “Tell Flannery I shall reimburse him for any expenses incurred while making enquires.”
Mr Wycliff gave a dismissive wave. “It’s been dealt with.”
“Paying my debts is as important as keeping my word.”
“Very well. You owe Flannery two thousand pounds.”
Lucius nodded. “Tell me about Gorget’s Garrett.”
It was an odd name, Sybil thought. Not that of a person or place. It could be an alehouse, tavern or coaching inn. The term garrett suggested an attic and her mind raced back to the quaint loft room at Bronygarth and her night of passion with Lucius Daventry.
“The Garrett is a select club.” Mr Wycliff’s tone suggested something indecent, something illicit. “A club catering to men who prefer to wear gowns and garters. Ribbons and rouge.”
“A molly-house?”
“The cynical me would assume so, but I’m told the men simply like to pretend they’re women. Lust and lechery play no part in their clandestine meetings.”
“I’m not so sure.” Lucius withdrew the lewd sketch found in Sir Melrose’s secret cupboard. He leaned forward and handed it to Mr Wycliff. “We came across this while searching Sir Melrose’s library. There must have been ten or more hidden in a box. The cynical me says Sir Melrose prefers bedding men. Perhaps he justifies his preference by choosing those with a fetish for wearing women’s clothes.”
Sybil found the hypothesis fascinating. So fascinating she had been absently sipping her sherry and had drained the glass.
“Then the drawings are a catalogue of sorts,” she said. “A selection of men one might find at the Garrett. Men willing to dress as women and take a male lover.”
“One might assume so, Miss Atwood.” Mr Wycliff sniggered as he studied the portrait. “Just because a man has a large chin, don’t presume the rest of him is in proportion.”
Sybil waited for Lucius to mention the likeness to the duke’s steward, Mr Warner, but he didn’t. “So we know what Gorget’s Garrett is,” she said. “And we presume Sir Melrose has specific tastes in the bedchamber. But what has any of it got to do with my father’s journals or the death of Mr Cribb?”
Mr Wycliff returned the sketch to Lucius. “Flannery’s men spoke to another tenant living above the china dealer.”
“Mr Davies?�
� Lucius sounded intrigued. “I spoke to him myself, but he told me nothing of interest.”
Mr Wycliff grinned. “I imagine he wouldn’t tell me anything either. But Flannery’s men are known on the streets. Flannery’s men command respect amongst the lower classes.”
“I sensed Davies feared he might incriminate himself were he to reveal anything about Mr Cribb,” Lucius explained.
Mrs Wycliff came to her feet and offered Sybil another glass of sherry. Her husband apologised for neglecting his duties, for not being attentive to her needs. The lady responded with a smile that spoke of a love so deep Sybil couldn’t help but stare. She trailed her fingers over her husband’s shoulder as she moved past—a sensual action brimming with silent promises.
Sybil turned and locked gazes with Lucius. She wondered if he could see the same depth of devotion in her eyes, if her insatiable need for him was evident in her mannerisms, too.
The slight curl of his lips said their thoughts were aligned. Thoughts that would leave them racing from the Wycliffs, keen to indulge in a wild night of pleasure.
“Most of Flannery’s men have a checkered history.” Mr Wycliff watched his wife as she crossed the room to hand Sybil a second glass of sherry. “Most have had some dealings with the criminal fraternity.”
“I assume Davies needed a little gentle persuasion.”
Mr Wycliff gave a wicked smirk. “Something like that. It seems Mr Cribb had a few friends. Men who visited at odd times during the day and night. Men who visited on the same day each week. Mr Cribb had no means of employment though he regularly purchased new clothes and was never in arrears with his rent.”
“It’s obvious how he earned an income,” Lucius said.
“The shopkeeper said Cribb was an educated man who thought himself above his peers. He professed to have a foolproof plan, said he would soon be living in a house in Mayfair, not lodging in Saffron Hill.”
“Logic suggests the plan involved one of two things,” Sybil said, before sipping her sherry. “Mr Cribb was going to blackmail one of his gentleman friends, which means the victim is wealthy, or he was going to become a rich man’s companion.”
The room fell silent while they contemplated the information.
It did not take a genius to put the puzzle pieces together. Sir Melrose liked men. Mr Cribb liked men and was set to blackmail a wealthy gentleman. Her father was investigating the possibility that Mr Cribb was murdered. And Sir Melrose was desperate to purchase the journals.
Sybil repeated her account aloud. “But all we have is gossip. Nothing substantial. Nothing to suggest Sir Melrose killed my father.” Indeed, she could not imagine a man of his status entering a house at night to commit such an evil deed.
“We have various leads now,” Lucius reassured her. “We have the sketch of the man with which to blackmail Sir Melrose. We can visit Gorget’s Garrett. Have Flannery’s men question all the witnesses from Smithfield Market.”
They continued to debate various methods of gaining evidence.
It struck Sybil that while she wanted to punish the person who had caused her father’s death, the longer the investigation took, the longer she could remain at Bronygarth with Lucius Daventry.
How many more nights would she have to indulge her desires?
A thousand would not be enough.
How many more days would she have to converse with him during breakfast? To see him smile? To ease the ache in his heart? To let him know that someone loved him?
A lifetime would not be enough.
They dined with the Wycliffs, talked of the couple’s upcoming trip to Italy. Lucius expressed a desire to travel, too, and Sybil wondered if his work for the Order would always keep him close to home.
When it came time to leave, Mr Wycliff took Lucius to one side, and the gentlemen conversed privately.
Mrs Wycliff stole the opportunity to draw Sybil into an embrace. She insisted they use their given names, surprised Sybil by saying, “I think you should tell Mr Daventry that you’ve fallen in love with him.”
Tell Mr Daventry!
Heavens. She wanted to tell the entire world—such was the depth of her affection—but she wasn’t sure how or when to make the declaration.
“He has too much on his mind at present,” Sybil said, unable to argue with Mrs Wycliff’s assertion.
“To know you’re loved can have a positively profound effect. His concerns for other people are commendable. He’s willing to risk his life to protect you, but who takes care of him? Who nurtures his soul? Who gives his life meaning?”
Sybil’s heart ached at the thought. Lucius Daventry had lost two close friends. His family lacked the capacity to love him. Did his nightmares not stem from childhood fears of abandonment?
My demons appear when I’m at my most vulnerable.
“I know what it’s like to feel unloved,” Mrs Wycliff added. But before she could say anymore, the gentlemen finished their hushed conversation and rejoined them.
Denied the opportunity of explaining the depth of her feelings for Mr Daventry, Sybil embraced Mrs Wycliff again, and said, “Thank you for your hospitality and your insightful comments. I shall certainly bear them in mind.”
With that, they bid the Wycliffs farewell. When Lucius’ hand settled on Sybil’s back, she sensed he was as eager as she to spend time together in his carriage.
“Wycliff said to call on him should we need further assistance.”
“The gentleman has proved most helpful.”
“Indeed. I should recruit him to the Order.”
“Perhaps you should recruit Mr Flannery,” she said with some amusement. “He’s the one with a skill for snooping.”
Lucius opened the carriage door but didn’t usher Sybil inside.
“Did my mother arrive at the appointed time?” Lucius asked his coachman, who had been tasked with returning to Brook Street to gather information while they dined with the Wycliffs.
Oh, please say yes, Sybil silently pleaded.
Furnis nodded. “She asked to use your study to write a note.”
“Good God!” Lucius exclaimed. “Tell me Bower didn’t agree.” Mistrust rang loud.
Furnis squirmed. “The lady started crying. Was upset you weren’t there, sir. Bower stayed with her while she wrote the note.”
“Do you have it?”
“Aye.” Furnis reached into his greatcoat pocket, removed the unsealed note and handed it to Lucius who peeled back the folds and scanned the missive beneath the light of the carriage lamp.
“Robert is waiting at the Plough. Take us there,” Lucius said, thrusting the note into his coat pocket. He gave no sign he found the woman’s words distressing. Yet Sybil feared he would soon sink into a solemn mood. “When you return to Brook Street, inform Bower he’s to watch Sir Melrose Crampton. He’s to keep watch on his mansion house on Maddox Street. I want to know where he goes, what he does, who he speaks to.”
“Aye, sir.” Furnis sounded a little flustered.
Lucius assisted Sybil into the vehicle. Once inside, he rapped on the roof, and they were soon trundling through the streets.
She watched him in the darkness. Frustration and a host of other emotions took turns to distort his facial features. He hung his head and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
Fear took command of her then.
What if his demons consumed him?
What if Julia Fontaine had not come to atone for her mistakes?
Sybil removed her hat while she waited for him to speak. Despite the cold, she unbuttoned her pelisse, for she had a sense he would need to hold her close tonight.
The act of undressing captured his attention. “It’s bitterly cold. You should gather the blanket, not remove layers.”
“Colder than it was in the attic.” The last time his demons were tugging on their leash. “Do you want to talk about what your mother wrote in the letter or would you prefer I pleasure you first?”
He studied her intently as she p
ulled down the blinds. “It takes but twenty minutes to reach the Plough.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to lose.” Doubt crept into her mind. “Unless you would rather sit in silence.”
Fire flashed in his eyes as he scanned her body. “I am but a slave to your wants and desires.” His voice was suddenly thick with lust.
Her mind scrambled over this unfamiliar terrain. This wasn’t about desire, about one being the master, one being the slave. This wasn’t about finding release. This was about two people who needed love in their lives.
The truth was one’s best friend, she reminded herself.
“I want to feel close to you, Lucius.” She swallowed down her nerves. “I want to sheath you, hold you so tight you can hardly breathe. I don’t want to feel empty anymore. I want to feel full, full with you.”
“Come here,” he said, the words a husky growl.
Sybil crossed the carriage. She hoisted her skirts and sat astride him. “Bury yourself in my body, Lucius. Let me love you.”
His warm mouth covered hers in an instant. He didn’t have to tease her lips apart. She opened for him, needed this wanderer to drink deeply. He did. And heaven help her, he was so thirsty, so parched. Their tongues mated, stroking, caressing, loving as their greedy moans filled the small space.
Desire and love fused to make the inner ache unbearable. “Lucius,” she breathed. “Don’t wait. I need you now.”
In desperation, he fiddled with the fall of his breeches, gripped his erection and pushed into her body.
Sybil groaned aloud.
Oh, God. It was so exquisite she almost cried.
His head fell back against the squab as she sank down on his solid length. A deep hum left his lips. “God, love, you always know what I need.”
“Fill me,” she muttered. “Fill me again and again.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist, locking them together. “We’re joined in the most primal way, yet our connection is more than physical.”
