The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

Talking? How did one begin to unravel the knot of questions plaguing one’s heart and mind?

“Then I shall start by showing you the vault.” No one but Atticus had seen the secret room, and he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake trusting the man’s daughter. “You will need this.” He felt an inner chill when he returned her cloak. “It’s bitterly cold out tonight.”

She slipped the garment around her shoulders, fiddled with the ribbons, struggled to tie a bow. “So cold my fingers are numb.”

“Wind blows over the battlements, sending draughts through the east wing. Here, allow me.”

A nervous smile touched her lips when he stepped forward to attend to the task. “So, you’re skilled at tying ribbons, too?”

“Dressing a woman can be a sensual experience.”

“And you have had no end of practice.”

“Not as much as you might think.” He stood so close her essence threatened to consume him. As soon as the ribbons were secure, he stepped back, keen to maintain some distance. “The entrance to the vault can be found near the lake.”

“Near the lake?” Excitement danced in her eyes. “How intriguing. Lead the way, Mr Daventry, and I shall follow.”

“Lucius,” he said as they descended the front steps. He took the lantern hanging from the metal crook. “I think we have progressed beyond the need for formality.”

“Lucius,” she repeated with a warmth that surprised him. “I presume you’re named after a relative.”

“My mother chose it. That’s all I know.” He hadn’t meant to speak so sharply, but it was the reason his father still called him boy.

“Well, you will probably protest, but I would rather you call me Sybil,” she said, dispelling any awkwardness. “You always sound so cross when you refer to me as Miss Atwood.”

“That’s frustration, not anger.” Still, he wasn’t quite ready to use her given name. “You’re as stubborn as you are curious.”

“And as reckless as I am stubborn,” she teased. “How do you tolerate my company?”

“I have a hardy constitution.”

Navigating the garden at night proved hazardous. Miss Atwood tripped over the protruding root of an oak tree and had no option but to hold his arm. Every touch brought a profound sense of familiarity.

The storm clouds hung thick and low, the blackness creating a suffocating tension that mirrored his internal

dilemma. Had they walked beneath a sky of twinkling stars—their path lit by the silvery light of the moon—he might have felt more optimistic about revealing the life he kept secret.

Lucius brought Miss Atwood to a halt before the lake that glistened like shiny black glass in the dark. Beneath the still water lay the truth that might one day change opinion. But those keen to possess the journals wouldn’t rest until the books were burning on a bonfire.

“Are we to swim to that island?” She laughed as she pointed to the grassy mound in the middle of the lake.

“Not in these temperatures. But you will need to take my hand. The stairs are steep. Moss makes them slippery underfoot.” He held the lantern aloft and motioned to the low stone wall hiding the narrow flight of steps. “This used to be an escape route for the tunnels running beneath the house.”

Again she looked at him—not in the salacious way women usually did—in the way that said she found him fascinating, found more to like than a handsome face and a tongue that could bring untold pleasure.

She accepted his outstretched hand without hesitation, clutched his fingers tightly as they descended the worn steps. With some reluctance, he released her to draw a key from his coat pocket. Lucius unlocked the iron door at the bottom, locked it behind them once they had stepped into the old stone tunnel.

“Is the vault located beneath the lake?” she said as they climbed down another set of old steps. The sound of dripping water must have unnerved her, as she asked, “Is it safe?”

“Your father assured me it is.”

Lucius explained briefly about the design and what he knew of the castle’s history. The story of a priest who hid in the tunnels for months, of a recluse who believed the end of the world was nigh and spent most of his time underground, too.

She listened with interest. “Remarkable. What is even more remarkable is the breadth of your knowledge. As your conquests are well noted, I assumed you cared about nothing other than satisfying your cravings.”

That was his intention.

“Miss Atwood, my work has led me to associate with certain people I would ordinarily avoid. I’m no saint. And you’re right. I have used my conquests to satisfy fleeting cravings. Equally, gaining information has always been my primary goal, as you will soon discover.”