The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“Then you should have thanked me for my timely intervention.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is Lord Newberry a suspect? He was desperate to win the auction.”

“His conduct suggests he is hiding something. The same is true of Sir Melrose. Your father was working on various cases before his death. Complicated proceedings involving negligence and fraud.”

Lucius didn’t mention that the runner working on the same cases was found dead in the Thames. Or that it meant he had lost two close friends in the same month.

Her gaze drifted as she became lost in thought. Eventually she looked at him. “You’ve yet to tell me what happened to the thugs who attacked us on Half Moon Street.”

Lucius decided on the short, concise version, not the version involving torture, threats to gut the brutes, or the struggle to hold their heads in a water barrel until they kicked and flailed and fought for breath.

“The solemn man who stole the journal from the auction room hired them to kidnap you. They were to take you to a warehouse near the docks. We waited there, but the devil failed to show. I know he speaks with a Scottish accent. But that is all.”

Miss Atwood put her hand to her throat. “And what happened to the men?”

“I have an associate who owns a shipping company. The men are on their way to Portsmouth having taken work aboard a vessel bound for Calcutta.” He never explained his actions, yet he found the need to say, “I gave them the chance of honest work. I couldn’t leave them to continue their criminal activities on our streets.”

Her green eyes grew vibrant as she studied him. She placed her hand on her abdomen and exhaled. “Sir, you are more complex than I ever imagined. I’m puzzled by your motivation. I’m in awe of your strength and determination. Baffled by your behaviour in the ballroom.”

“I would hate to be predictable.”

She glanced around the chamber and smiled. “Your mind is a source of wonder. You control all of this. You’re responsible for protecting my father’s legacy, for documenting the truth. And yet my innate curiosity is desperate to know if you’re happy.”

“Happy?” He almost choked on the word.

“What brings you contentment? When you’ve sought your revenge, what then? Will you continue to live a life where you have to sneak through your neighbours’ gardens?”

Part of him wanted to confess his worst fears, wanted to explain how the past made it impossible for him to feel truly content. Part of him wanted to get rid of this woman, for she asked questions he could not answer.

“Miss Atwood, I have been raised on a diet of disappointment, a menu of misfortune. Had it not been for your father’s intervention, I would be the scoundrel seeking to numb my pain in dark corners of the ballroom.” He gestured to the wooden chests. “Guarding this gives me the only stability I have ever known.”

Pity filled her eyes. “And what if it is all washed away? What if water floods this chamber to rot the foundation upon which you’ve built your life?”

“It won’t.” Still, the thought sent a bolt of fear straight to his heart. He lived to protect Atticus’ work, had no other purpose. “I have taken every precaution.”

“You cannot thwart every threat. You cannot prevent a natural disaster.”

The urge to steer the emphasis away from him took hold. “What will you do when we’ve brought you

r father’s murderer to justice?” he countered. He wasn’t the only one who clung to Atticus’ memory. “Will you continue to hound and harass me, desperate to know why your father trusted me with his work, not you? Will you still feel so desperately inadequate?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and drew back. Hurt swam in her eyes and left him fighting the urge to pull her into an embrace.

The few seconds’ silence felt like a lifetime.

“It’s late,” she said coldly.

“Yes.” He placed the case in the trunk and closed the lid. “I’ll show you to your room. In the morning, you can return here and examine the journals.”

She nodded but said nothing.

Lucius secured the room and led her back through the old stone tunnel. She took his hand when climbing the worn steps, and despite the frosty atmosphere, he felt the thrumming energy of her life force mingling with his.

Neither spoke on the walk back to the house.

Neither spoke as they mounted the broad staircase.