The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“A few simple questions can be the difference between life and death,” he said as the conveyance jerked forward and picked up speed. “A thug from the rookeries would not have been so quick to answer.”

“You must spend every waking minute fearing an attack.” She lowered the blanket and patted the copper locks he imagined would slip like silk through his fingers.

“I fear no one, Miss Atwood.” No one but her. She could unsettle him with a single glance. In her company he became forgetful, concentrating only on the sound of her breathing, on the way her lips moved to form words. “But I have a responsibility to guard the truth. And the truth can be dangerous.”

Her beguiling eyes narrowed as she considered him with a level of scrutiny he found unnerving. “Then you must have considered the possibility that while we are journeying across town, someone is breaking into your house to steal my father’s journals.”

“Do you think I would keep my prized possessions at home?”

She released a lengthy hum. “No, I am beginning to see that you’re far too clever to make such a foolish mistake.”

Usually, compliments failed to penetrate his steely reserve. One could not disregard people’s opinions only to coo with delight at the first sign of praise. And yet her good opinion was like a secret weapon to his battle armour.

“Have no fear. Your father’s personal effects have never left the vault.”

“The vault?” She blinked in surprise. “Sir, please tell me you have not placed your trust in a bank. My father often said one should be wary of all institutions.”

A smile touched his lips. Atticus had said the same thing to him, many times. “No, I have not placed my trust in a bank. The vault is in a secret underground location. I could tell you where, but then I would have to find a way to ensure your silence.”

The corners of her mouth curled in amusement. “What would you do, Mr Daventry, sever my tongue with hot pincers?”

“Nothing so Draconian.”

She shuffled in the seat. “Women seem to have no problem doing what you tell them.”

“There you go again, Miss Atwood, concocting a story based on what you suppose is true.”

He should never have mentioned the vault.

He should have known it would feed her curiosity.

“You can trust me with a secret,” she persisted. “After all, we share a common goal.”

“And what goal is that?”

“To keep my father’s work safe. To catch the villains who threaten our lives.” A sudden rush of emotion fractured her confident tone, and he knew what she was about to say. “To find proof to support your theory regarding my father’s murder and to exact a fitting punishment.”

Knots wrung tight in his stomach as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingers. He might have mocked her—as she knew nothing about his confidential activities—but she had made her point with surprising discernment.

It seemed the time for honesty was nigh.

The truth was the only deterrent.

Lucius sat forward. “I swore an oath to your father. An oath to protect the one thing he considered most important. I would rather die than break that vow.”

Miss Atwood sat forward, too. Their knees brushed as the hackney rumbled along the murky street. “I have the utmost respect for my father’s work and would have sworn the same oath.”

“You misunderstand. While I go to great lengths to protect his journals, I promised to protect something far more valuable.”

“What?”

“You, Miss Atwood.”

“Me?” She jerked back as if they had bounced through a rut in the road. During the next few seconds, she shook her head and gave a half-hearted laugh as if it was the most ludicrous thing she had heard all season. “My father died almost a year ago and not once have you made a house call.”

“A scoundrel does not call at the home of an unmarried lady.” No, he hid in her garden and wrestled the thug trying to climb through her kitchen window.

“You could have written a note.”