The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

When a frail fellow with bony shoulders coughed into his fist and glared at them, it occurred to Sybil that they could not stand conversing in the doorway. She took hold of Cassandra’s arm and guided her towards the row of empty seats at the back.

“Mr Daventry said you risk losing your virtue if you persist in this foolish endeavour,” Cassandra murmured.

Risk losing her virtue?

That was a low blow.

Indeed, it was an idle threat. Nought but empty words. Once, when Sybil had found the courage to stare into Mr Daventry’s unforgiving grey eyes, she had seen the devil’s façade falter. She had seen a hint of compassion. It was enough to know that his intimidating remarks bore no real danger.

“Lucius Daventry may be a scoundrel, but he would never force a woman to act against her will. Why would he? He’s not short

of bed partners.” His cruel words and actions were merely a means to discourage her interest in Atticus’ work. The nagging question was why?

“He means to frighten you,” Cassandra said, as if reading Sybil’s mind. “Deter you from your current course. Nothing else makes sense. Perhaps your father didn’t want you to have his journals. Perhaps Mr Daventry is simply following Atticus’ instructions.”

“Clearly they were well acquainted. Heaven knows how. They are opposites in every regard.” Atticus had been a warm, loving, generous father. Lucius Daventry was a cold-hearted beast.

“Mr Daventry said that if you were anyone else, he would have fondled your impressive … well, it’s probably best not to repeat exactly what was said. I speak only to draw attention to the fact that he has some respect for your family name.”

Sybil clutched her pelisse to her chest as her mind ran amok, filling in the missing words. “If I were anyone else?” she mused as she tried to banish the image of the devilish Mr Daventry stripping her out of her stays.

It was then that she realised the hushed mutterings in the room had ceased. The thud of booted footsteps on the boards drew her attention to a stern-looking Mr Daventry who prowled towards her like a predator thirsty for blood.

He came to an abrupt halt beside her, grabbed the crest rail of her chair with his large hand and lowered his head. The spicy scent of his cologne filled her nostrils, and she ground her teeth in annoyance. No other man of her acquaintance had ever smelt so good. He was about to speak—about to say something inappropriate no doubt—when Sybil decided to steal the wind from his sails.

“Friend or foe?” She offered a beaming smile.

“I beg your pardon?” he snapped. Oh, he was dreadfully cross.

“Have you come to make an apology and invite me to bid in the auction, or will you continue to berate me in the brutish manner that is so wholly undeserved?”

He stared. Power radiated, dark and malevolent. “You expect to be taken seriously in that ridiculous hat?”

Was that the best he could do? The retort was rather tame compared to their previous exchanges. Perhaps verbally abusing a woman in public was bad for business.

Sybil drew her fingers along the peacock feather protruding from her short forest-green top hat. “I find it a rather captivating design. Most men say it draws out the emerald hue of my eyes.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Is that why you shroud yourself in black when you stalk me through the streets, Miss Atwood? Do you fear I might recognise those green gems and that vibrant red hair?”

Hell’s bells!

Though she suspected he had seen her following him on many occasions, this was the first time he had openly drawn attention to her amateur snooping.

Sybil raised her chin. “I wish to bid on my father’s belongings.” Lord knows why Atticus had trusted this devil with his valuable possessions. Had Mr Daventry’s parentage been under question, she might have presumed a secret familial connection. But the gentleman had inherited the menacing look of his father, the Duke of Melverley, a man equally harsh and brutish. “You cannot prevent me from claiming that which should have been mine.”

The rogue snorted. “Had Atticus wished you to have his journals, he would have bequeathed them to you in his will. Now, I suggest you cease with these petty games and accept defeat.” He cast a suspicious glance around the room. Those gentlemen brave enough to watch the exchange averted their gazes and bowed their heads. He turned to her, leaned closer and in a sharp tone said, “Go home, Miss Atwood, before I shame you in front of these men.”

He was so close she expected to smell brandy on his breath, expected the whites of his eyes to bear the spidery red veins of a night spent indulging in carnal pleasures. Neither proved true. The scent of clean clothes, shaving soap, and his intoxicating cologne marked him as a beguiling contradiction.

“My father trusted you with his prized possessions. You have betrayed that trust by the crude display on the dais.” Having advanced this far on the battlefield, she refused to retreat. “A man’s work is valued by those with common goals and shared interests. Yet you hawk his objects like a back alley pawnbroker, one ready to strike a deal with the first clueless ignoramus willing to part with his coin.”

Mr Daventry reeled from the insult.

As the illegitimate son of a duke, he must be used to people drawing attention to his failings. Her criticism had nothing to do with the nature of his birth and everything to do with his vulgar manners.

“You think you have the measure of me,” he said. “You don’t. You will never understand my motives. Go home, Miss Atwood. I shall not warn you again.”

Did she detect a hint of disappointment in his voice?