So why had she spent an age picking the right gown to flatter her figure? Why did it feel as if grasshoppers were leaping about in her chest? Why did her heart dance in her throat when she entered Sir Melrose’s crowded ballroom? Indeed, her hands shook, and her cheeks flamed as she scanned the throng looking for the enigmatic owner of a haunted castle.
“Come,” Cassandra said, gesturing to the far side of the ballroom, “let’s find a quiet place by the alcove, and we can discuss your intentions.”
“My intentions?” Sybil craned her neck and searched the room once more before following the Cavanaghs through the crowd.
“What do you intend to do about Mr Daventry?” Cassandra spoke as if Sybil had a problem hearing above the din. “Might you come to an understanding?”
What was she to do about Mr Daventry?
The question brought to mind numerous answers. None of which ought to enter the head of an unmarried lady. While curious about her father’s work—astounded at the lengths a man would go to in order to save the innocent—she found herself more intrigued by the new master of the Order.
Perhaps she had inherited her father’s need to help the tormented. Perhaps she just wanted to know what it would be like to be captured in the scoundrel’s arms and have her mouth pillaged and plundered.
“Let me deal with Daventry,” Benedict Cavanagh said, directing them to a secluded spot near the terrace doors. The Earl of Tregarth’s illegitimate son was just as handsome as Lord Newberry—hence the permanent grin on Cassandra’s face. Both men had golden hair, though unlike Lord Newberry, Benedict possessed a natural charm that gave one confidence his manner was equally pleasing. “I shall negotiate terms on your behalf.”
“Terms?” While the idea of being any man’s mistress was abhorrent, she liked the thought of late-night walks through the garden of Bronygarth. She liked the thought of bidding Mr Daventry goo
d night, conversing over breakfast. She liked the confusing roiling in her stomach whenever those stormy-grey eyes met hers.
“Lord knows why your father left Daventry such an important legacy,” Benedict said. “Surely it’s only right the books belong to you.”
“Oh, by terms you mean negotiate a price for my father’s work.” Heavens, for a lady who professed to have a logical mind, her brain had turned to mulch.
Cassandra frowned. “Are you unwell? You seem distracted. Perhaps that dreadful argument at the auction has affected your nerves.”
Sybil reminded herself that Cassandra knew nothing about her stealing into Mr Daventry’s home, about the abduction attempt, or about her staying at Bronygarth. And while she wasn’t ready to confess her sins, the need to defend Mr Daventry pulsed in her veins.
“Mr Daventry will do the right thing,” Sybil said, daring to take another glance around the ballroom. “My father had the utmost respect for him. And so I shall have faith in Mr Daventry’s character, too.”
Cassandra’s frown deepened. “Are you sure you’re all right? I understand the need to nurture positive thoughts, but we are talking about the man you despise to the core of your being.”
Oh, she did not despise Lucius Daventry—not anymore.
“Being angry hasn’t helped. So I have decided to take a different stance.”
Benedict arched a brow. “I advise you err on the side of caution. Annoy Daventry at your peril. He will think nothing of ruining your reputation.”
Goodness, her stomach was tied in knots with the need to correct their misconceptions. She wanted to grab them by the shoulders, wanted to shake them and explain how Mr Daventry had risked his life to protect her. She wanted to sing his praises from the rooftops, tell them how remarkably logical he was, how his loyalty knew no bounds.
“Have no fear. I have the measure of Mr Daventry’s character.”
“Thank heavens.” Cassandra released a weary sigh. “Who would want to find themselves in a compromising position with a man like that?”
“Who indeed?”
“Besides, since your meeting at the auction, Lord Newberry seems to have you in his sights.” Cassandra nodded discreetly to a point beyond Sybil’s shoulder. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he noticed you walking through the crowd.”
Sybil didn’t want to look at Lord Newberry. She didn’t want to catch any man’s eye other than Lucius Daventry’s, but she had not come to the ball to sip ratafia and gossip in the retiring room.
“Lord Newberry strikes me as a man with many secrets.” Sybil stole a quick glance at the handsome lord who was watching her intently. “I’m not sure he is entirely trustworthy.”
Benedict snorted. “Newberry is equally renowned for his conquests. It’s said that when he’s done sowing his oats, he will marry Lady Margaret, daughter of the Earl of Langley.”
Benedict Cavanagh seemed to know a lot about those in the ton. Perhaps he might know something relating to the incidents her father was investigating. But how to broach the subject without arousing suspicion.
Sybil smiled. “Regardless of his intentions, I could never love a man like Lord Newberry. Something tells me a devil lurks beneath that angelic smile.” She stepped closer and whispered, “I heard tell he hides a terrible secret.”
Cassandra frowned for the umpteenth time. “What sort of secret?”