“I cannot recall if it was something to do with his friend Lord Talbot, or his association with Mr Cribb.”
“Mr Cribb?” Cassandra looked at her husband. “I have never heard the name.”
Benedict shook his head. “No, I can’t say I have. As for Talbot, they belonged to the same club, but I would hardly call them friends.”
With a nonchalant shrug, Sybil said, “Oh, well. Perhaps I should pay more attention to retiring-room gossip.”
“If it’s gossip you seek, you should visit Mrs Crandall.” Cassandra’s eyes brightened with amusement. “The madam owns many secrets. I’m surprised she sleeps at night. A desperate man might resort to drastic measures to secure her silence.”
Owning secrets was a dangerous game. “Am I correct in thinking Mrs Crandall is a courtesan?”
“Was a courtesan,” Cassandra corrected. “Now she arranges private parties for the demimonde at her address on Theobolds Road. Debauched parties.” Cassandra giggled. “Parties where people forgo numerous items of clothing and frolic in the dark. Mr Daventry often attends.”
Did he indeed?
Mr Daventry failed to mention that during one of his truthful talks. And yet lately Sybil had no problem imagining the gentleman frolicking in the dark without his coat and cravat.
“I wouldn’t say often,” Benedict interjected. “But Daventry frequents the place on occasion. As for Mrs Crandall, she receives anonymous threats weekly, but no one is brave enough to chain a ball to her ankle and throw her into the Thames. She makes it known the secrets are stored safely, that the truth will out should she suddenly meet a grisly end.”
An image of the underwater vault at Bronygarth passed through Sybil’s mind. Keepers of the truth gathered many enemies. Someone murdered her father to ensure their secret remained hidden. Perhaps Atticus should have adopted Mrs Crandall’s attitude and made his suspicions known. But he would never have risked the lives of family and friends.
Cassandra’s sudden gasp drew Sybil from her reverie. “Quick. Straighten your shoulders. Your new gentleman friend is heading this way.”
“Mr Daventry?” Sybil’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the music of the orchestra.
But a quick assessment of her emotions said Cassandra wasn’t speaking of Lucius Daventry. The energy in the room changed when he was near. Nerves mingled with exhilaration whenever she sensed his presence. Now, she felt nothing but a clawing apprehension.
“Not that rogue. I speak of Lord Newberry. Honestly, do you think about anything other than Mr Daventry?”
Benedict Cavanagh studied Sybil through narrowed eyes. Clearly he sensed something was amiss—Sybil knew it the moment he said, “Are you expecting to meet Mr Daventry this evening? You won’t persuade him to your cause. Not when his only interest lies in seeking pleasure.”
Sybil might have challenged Mr Cavanagh’s opinion had Lord Newberry not barged in between them and insisted he lead her in a waltz.
Sybil forced a smile. The moment the lord clasped her hand and drew her close, she knew there was something dark lurking beneath his cherubic façade.
“So, did you take tea with Daventry?” The lord wasted no time coming straight to the point. “I pray Mrs Cavanagh wasn’t your chaperone. When a lady has no option but to marry Tregarth’s son, one can hardly regard her as a paragon of virtue.” He snorted as if in awe of his superb wit.
Every bone in Sybil’s body longed to knock this man off his lofty pedestal. “Do not concern yourself with my reputation, my lord. Besides, Mr Daventry withdrew his invitation after I caused such a terrible ruckus at the auction.”
“Daventry is a master of manipulation. It wouldn’t surprise me to find he invited you to the auction as an excuse to raise the bids. I take it you can’t match my figure of seven thousand.”
The arrogant devil.
He looked so smug she was liable to say something derogatory. “I hope my written statement will be sufficiently persuasive. The journals belonged to my father, and I have a rightful claim. Have you submitted your statement, my lord?”
“Daventry doesn’t care about statements.” His tight smile conveyed a hint of doubt. “He merely enjoys belittling his betters.”
His betters!
Anger brought a boulder-sized lump to her throat. Pompous oaf. She had the urge to stamp on his toe. But if she couldn’t keep a tight rein on her emotions, she would ruin her one chance to question the lord. Besides, mere days ago, she had thought the worst of Mr Daventry’s character, too.
“Ah, you refer to his illegitimacy,” she continued.
“What else?”
“I thought perhaps you were alluding to his immoral pursuits. Then again, most of the peers in the ton keep a mistress. It would be hypocritical to judge Mr Daventry.”
“Madam, are you always this free with your tongue?” The lord drew her a little closer and gave a salacious chuckle. “When I offered a wild ride in my curricle, I meant it.”