The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

Heat flooded Sybil’s cheeks. “Not all men have your voracious appetite for sin. I’m surprised you bother fastening the buttons on your breeches.”

“Passion is a potent drug, Miss Atwood.” The teasing words drifted from the darkness to play havoc with her insides. “The clawing need keeps a man awake at night. Makes him restless. In desperation, he fantasises about all the eroti

c things he might do with the object of his desire, but that only intensifies the ache.”

Heavens!

“Shouldn’t you be berating me for stealing into your home, not educating me on the power of unsated lust?” Sybil preferred arguing with him than acknowledging the odd sensations thrumming through her body. “And I take umbrage at talking to a shadow.”

The shadow rose to his full, imposing height and prowled out of the gloomy depths. Dressed impeccably, as usual, she couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like in relaxed attire. Were his arms really that muscular? Or was his tailor an expert in exaggerating elements of a man’s physique?

“People rarely surprise me, Miss Atwood. You do not strike me as a woman who would resort to manipulating the hired help. Yet you risked your maid’s reputation merely to steal a glance at your father’s books. One cannot help but be a little disappointed in your character.”

“Disappointed in my character?” Sybil gave an unladylike grunt. Still, the need to defend her position took hold. “One cannot fight a burning attraction.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I’m flattered you find me remotely appealing. Every indication leads me to believe you despise me.”

“You despise me just as much.” Oh, he loved provoking her. “Besides, you know very well that I am speaking about Miriam and Ashby. They met a month ago when he was collecting your shaving soap from Floris.”

Mr Daventry folded his arms across his broad chest. “You mean they met when you were following Ashby in order to satisfy your obsession with me.”

Obsession?

Ha!

But Sybil caught herself. Perhaps the gentleman did dominate her thoughts too often.

She forced herself to look him in the eye. “At that point, I was trying to determine how a man like you gained my father’s favour.” At that point, she hadn’t received the threatening notes or learned of his intention to sell the journals to the highest bidder. “I have witnessed your antics in the ballroom. The way you sneak away to dark corners with your mistress of the month. My father would never have approved.”

“Nor would he approve of you gallivanting around town on a fool’s errand. Your father’s books hold a certain value, and men are willing to go to great lengths to obtain them.”

Sybil knew firsthand how depraved these men were. The letters demanding she claim the books were meant to frighten and intimidate. Reading the theories might help her discover the villain’s motive. Why else would she risk entering Mr Daventry’s home in the dead of night?

“Yes, and you’re desperate to be rid of the burden.”

“The books are not the burden, Miss Atwood.”

She ignored the sarcastic remark. “Will you let these men win? Will you bow down to these brutes? You don’t strike me as the cowardly sort.”

Something she said struck a nerve. Mr Daventry gritted his teeth and practically growled. He stepped forward, forcing her to shuffle back until her bottom came to rest on the edge of his desk.

“I bow to no one, Miss Atwood. Not to my father, not to those men who believe themselves superior, and certainly not to men who make idle threats.”

“Which is why you should sell your books to a woman. Sell them to me. You must admit it is only fair—”

“For the love of—” Mr Daventry pushed his hand through his ebony hair. “I’m not selling the damn books. It is all a ruse to catch a murderer.”

His sudden pained expression spoke of instant regret.

“To catch a murderer?” she repeated, aghast. Confusion reigned. “But I don’t understand.”

“You’re not meant to understand. It was your father’s wish you remain ignorant.” Mr Daventry rubbed his forehead and looked to be in a dreadful quandary. “Please, Miss Atwood, go home. Invest your time mastering the usual ladies’ pursuits.”

Go home?

How could she rest when her mind was consumed with murder?

“Did someone close to you die? Is this an old case? Did my father write about it in his journals?” Sybil spoke so quickly she struggled to catch her breath. Her life depended upon discovering the answer. “Might there be a prosecution? Is that why so many people are seeking to obtain them?”