“People often see me walking the corridors. Most presume there’s a lady waiting for me somewhere.”
“So Mrs Sinclair knows nothing about the Order?”
“Of course not. The woman would sell her soul for an hour of pleasure. She thinks I’m as morally depraved as she is, that I live to commit sin. Mrs Sinclair is a renowned gossip and was once Lord Talbot’s mistress.”
“Lord Talbot. One of the men who purchased the mine in Wigan and sold off the land after the collapse.” Miss Atwood arched a brow. “I see your logic in pursuing a liaison.”
“Everything I do stems from a need to help the Order.”
“Everything? Are we friends purely because I am a terrible snoop with an insatiable curiosity?”
He smiled. “We are friends because we share a common goal. We have the intellectual capacity to keep each other entertained.” And because he liked her far more than he cared to admit.
“You really are a mystery.” She shook her head, although still seemed amused. “On the day of the auction, you said we would never be friends.”
“Opinions change. Having discovered more about you, I find the opposite is true.” Having her as nothing but a friend would come at a hefty cost to his sanity. Was that not why some men turned to drink, wrote morbid poems or developed an opium addiction?
She smiled—a smile that could make a man forget his troubles. “It comes as a surprise to find I like you, Mr Daventry.”
“It comes as no surprise to find I like you, Miss Atwood.” When she frowned at the apparent discrepancy, he added, “You are Atticus Atwood’s daughter.”
“Yes,” she said and gave a satisfied sigh. “Now, we’ve spent the entire time talking and have not made plans regarding our return to Bronygarth this evening.”
The thought of sleeping in the next room to hers for another night filled him with excitement and dread.
“Furnis will come to Half Moon Street at midnight. This time he will take you to the Wild Hare. Robert will meet you there and ferry you to Bronygarth.”
She nodded. “And you will arrive a few minutes later.”
“Yes, after ensuring no one followed you from town. Now, Blake and Bower will accompany you to the Cavanaghs, and you’re to send word if your friends cannot attend tonight.”
“They will attend. Having given them a clue that helped solve a terrible problem, they are desperate to repay the debt.”
Ah, she spoke of Mrs Cavanagh’s staged ruination. “Make sure you remain with them for the entire evening, that they escort you home before midnight. Trust I shall be there, watching from the shadows.”
She nodded. “And when I dance with Lord Newberry, for he is sure to ask if only to probe me for information about my father’s journals, is there anything specific you wish me to discover?”
Lucius’ heart sank to his stomach. Newberry would take every advantage. A man would need his wits to ensure Miss Atwood’s safety, which was yet another reason he could not be hampered by the insipid widow.
“Limit your time with him to one waltz, nothing more.” God, he was starting to sound like a protective parent. “Say you’ve heard your father’s books may contain information other than scientific theories. Say you wonder if Atticus wrote about his interest in justice, in prison reforms, and judge his reaction.”
Miss Atwood pursed her lips and hummed. “Might I enquire about the note you sent to Lord Newberry at Boodle’s? If he mentions the matter, I would prefer not to gape like a dull-witted dunce.”
“Newberry failed to send the written statement I requested. I merely gave him a two-day extension. My real motive for sending Bower to Boodle’s was to check that Newberry was at his club and had not followed you to Brook Street.”
“Oh.” A flush crept up her cheeks. She exhaled deeply as the carriage turned into Half Moon Street. “I’m sorry. My impetuous nature has caused you no end of trouble.”
“Had I trusted you with the truth, we might have avoided any unpleasantness. After all, who wants to be embroiled in midnight chases? Who wants to sleep in a haunted castle with a rogue plagued by nightmares?”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Who indeed?”
Chapter Nine
Most ladies lived to attend the next ball or rout. They spent days mithering their modistes, scouring fashion plates from Paris, searching for the perfect gown to attract a wealthy husband. Draped in jewels and drenched in perfume, they sauntered through the ballrooms, flicking their fans in the flirtatious way that was sure to gain a gentleman’s attention.
Sybil found it all rather tedious.
A lady living alone should be happy to spend an evening in the company of like-minded people. But she preferred sitting by the fire reading gothic novels, preferred donning widow’s weeds and spying on the elusive Mr Daventry.