The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

The last comment raised an important question. “How did you know the auction was being held in Gilbert Street?”

He had been secretive in his arrangements. The process had involved men registering their interest—an important part of the plan in catching Atticus’ murderer. He sent letters informing them where the auction would take place. He had changed the time and place twice. And still, his nemesis had appeared.

An arrogant grin played on her li

ps. “Can you not guess?”

“Do I look like a man who enjoys playing mind games?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You have such a terrible temper I cannot imagine anything rousing your amusement.”

“As always you base your opinion on very little evidence. Thankfully, your sex makes it impossible for you to take the bar. There are enough fools in wigs sending men to the scaffold.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut. “One cannot help but form a judgement on what one sees.”

“And that is the problem with the world, Miss Atwood.” He was desperate to learn how she had known to come to Gilbert Street but would not give her the satisfaction of pressing her further. “For the umpteenth time, I bid you good day. Go home.”

He moved to walk away, but she captured his gloveless hand and held it in a firm grip. The sudden shock, coupled with the intimate tingle of awareness, sent his pulse racing.

“This ring was given as a mark of respect, though I have no notion why.” She stared at the gold band on his middle finger, intrigue forming the basis of her enquiry. “My father must have seen something respectable in you, something that eludes the rest of us. He wore it for years. He could have given it to his cousin, but he gave it to you. Why?”

Every nerve in his body sparked to life, igniting the raging desire he’d thought he had buried beneath a mound of soil and a stone monument engraved with the words rest in peace.

“May I remind you that we are standing in the street.” His cold tone was so opposed to the heat burning in his chest. He moved to pull his hand away, but she gripped it tighter. “Your reckless manner will be your downfall, Miss Atwood.”

“This symbol meant something to my father,” she said, tapping the ring. She spoke of the weighing scales etched into the red carnelian stone. “I noticed the same symbol on various documents, documents I presume you now possess.”

The woman was too inquisitive. Dangerously inquisitive. Such an active mind would bring nothing but trouble. “Allow me to offer you advice, Miss Atwood.” He did not wait for a response. “You should do everything in your power to conquer this inane curiosity. I have already suggested ways to cure your boredom.” He glanced at Mrs Cavanagh, whose expression spoke of the weariness of being ignored for the last ten minutes. “Perhaps you might start with learning to be a better friend.”

Miss Atwood swallowed deeply. She was so engrossed in her search for answers she had given Mrs Cavanagh little consideration.

“You’re right,” she said, releasing his hand and making her apologies to her companion. “Rudeness is a trait I despise, and I shall spend the rest of the day making amends. And what of you, sir? Are you able to take your own advice? Can you not extend the hand of friendship and assist the daughter of your mentor?”

Having sworn an oath to Atticus Atwood, he had spent the last year secretly playing knight errant. He had spent the last year training his mind and body to ignore this clawing attraction. Being cold and callous and downright rude was a means of protecting her. A means of self-preservation, too.

“We are not friends, Miss Atwood.” That would be a stretch too far. He was just a mortal man with a carnal craving. Prone to bouts of recklessness. Prone to bouts of weakness. “We will never be friends. Therefore, the same rules do not apply.”

She swallowed numerous times. “What happened to you?” The words were but a whisper. “Have you no heart?”

Now it was his turn to swallow past the hard lump forming in his throat. “My heart is black.” He refused to give her hope. “My father ripped it from my chest as a child and roasted it on a spit.” Atticus had done everything in his power to repair the damage. “Now, I must return to the auction room before someone attempts to steal your father’s scientific artefacts.” They were worthless objects purchased from various pawnbrokers as part of the ruse.

“Something is dreadfully amiss, Mr Daventry, and I believe it has to do with my father.”

Ignoring the comment, he moved past her, got as far as the door before her haunting last words chilled him to the bone.

“I shall never stop looking for answers. Not as long as blood flows in my veins.”

Chapter Three

Wrapped in her thick green cloak, and shrouded by a thin ghostly mist, Sybil found it remarkably easy to move unnoticed through the streets at midnight. A lady had to be careful where she walked. Thankfully, at this ungodly hour, the wealthy occupants of Brook Street were either tucked in their beds or making merry at a fancy rout or soirée.

With his dwelling situated on the south side of the street, one could access Mr Daventry’s garden via the mews. Privacy when conducting illicit liaisons was not an important factor for a libertine who boasted of his conquests. But for a would-be snoop like Sybil, it gave her a means of entering the house undetected.

As arranged, Mr Daventry’s valet had slipped out into the mews to meet her abigail. All Sybil had to do now was enter through the servants’ quarters, and while the couple discussed their blossoming relationship, she would search the study for her father’s books.

Simple.

And yet Sybil wasn’t prepared for the rush of excitement she experienced upon entering the devil’s lair. The hairs on her nape prickled to attention. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Absurdly, the urge to learn more about the man who was as mysterious as he was rude thrummed in her veins.