The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

She swallowed past her growing need for his company. “I caused him no end of trouble at the auction. He’s tired of my snooping and wished to issue a veiled warning.” There, was that not a reasonable explanation?

Mr Cavanagh pursed his lips and hummed. “There’s something different about him, something I cannot name.”

“I have to agree.” Cassandra seemed determined to add fuel to the fire. “While Mr Daventry was as crude as expected, there was a slight warmth to his tone and manner that I failed to notice at the auction.”

Sybil screwed her nose in protest. “But he was as rude and as obnoxious as ever.”

Benedict Cavanagh shook his head. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe Lucius Daventry is hunting for his next mistress.” His tone sounded grave. “And I cannot help but feel he has you in his sights, Miss Atwood.”

“Me?” The thought roused a nervous excitement. “Don’t be ridiculous. The man likes to taunt me that is all.”

Heavens, her words rang with insincerity. She was an appalling liar and needed to make a quick escape. A few minutes in the retiring room would give her ample opportunity to gather her composure.

The sudden arrival of Mr and Mrs Wycliff, good friends of the Cavanaghs, distracted her chaperones momentarily. Indeed, Sybil slipped away quietly and was soon lost in the crowd. Locating the retiring room should have been a priority. But she caught sight of Mr Daventry sneaking upstairs and had the overwhelming urge to follow.

Chapter Ten

For twenty minutes, Lucius had listened to Sir Melrose Crampton’s constant barrage of questions. Had Lucius received the written statements? Could he not see the logic in selling the journals to the Royal Society? What the devil did Newberry want with scientific theories? When would Lucius make his decision?

He would have enjoyed tormenting Sir Melrose, picking the man’s mind apart, establishing if his reasons for bidding were genuine. But Lucius’ only focus had been the vivacious woman in green silk, dancing the waltz in Newberry’s blasted arms.

Miss Atwood had looked happy and radiant as she twirled about the floor, but the sick feeling in Lucius’ gut said something was wrong. He studied her when she rejoined the Cavanaghs, watched her interaction with Newberry, saw the pain behind her smile.

Despite agreeing to keep his distance, he’d been compelled to approach. And so he had conversed with the Cavanaghs, played the disreputable rogue while Miss Atwood acted the disgruntled nemesis. Through her confident façade, he had noted the throbbing pulse in her neck, the tremor of suppressed fear in her voice.

Damn Newberry to hell!

Lucius mounted the stairs to the first floor, hunting for the lord who had entered the mansion house with an arrogant swagger and who would leave shuffling on his arse with two broken kneecaps.

Locating Newberry wasn’t his only reason for venturing upstairs. After a brief conversation with Mrs Cockborne—a notorious widow who rode her conquests so hard those in the demimonde referred to her as Mrs Cockburn—Lucius discovered that Sir Melrose Crampton had a private office and a library on the first floor.

Both the office and the library were locked, which might have posed a problem had Lucius not designed a skeleton key capable of bypassing warded locks. But the stifling heat in the ballroom had forced a host of guests upstairs, seeking refuge in the family’s private drawing room. Lady Crampton—a woman half her husband’s age—sat in a wingback chair near the window, holding court with an entourage of admirers. Consequently, Lucius only managed to unlock the library door before hearing the pad of footsteps on the stairs.

Returning to the task of finding Lord Newberry, Lucius headed towards the other three rooms on the floor. Those doors were locked, too. Perhaps the fop had ventured up to the maids’ quarters in the attic. Discovering the peer in a compromising position with a servant girl would give Lucius a perfect excuse to throw a punch.

“Lucius.”

He was about to mount the stairs to the upper floor when he heard the feminine voice call out to him. A choking panic rose to his throat. Miss Atwood knew better than to repeat his given name in public. She knew better than to follow a rogue upstairs. Although on reflection, he knew it to be Larissa Sinclair’s sibilant hiss.

“Lucius. Darling.” The widow called him again, and he had no option but to turn around lest Newberry learn of his impending arrival. She glanced at the upper staircase. “Don’t tell me you’ve cast me aside to frolic with the maids.”

Lucius forced a smile and strode towards the woman who looked keen to flex her jaw and swallow him whole. Strands of black hair had escaped her coiffure. Swollen lips suggested she had recently enjoyed a wild romp in a bedchamber.

“Larissa. I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight.” He hoped to avoid her. “As for casting you aside, ours was only ever a temporary arrangement.”

The widow’s dark, sensual eyes devoured every inch of his body. “If it’s a temporary arrangement you want, I’m not doing anything for the next hour.”

Lucius cleared his throat. “I’m otherwise engaged. On a matter of business, not pleasure.”

She glanced at the upper staircase again. “Does your business involve bedding Lady Crampton or one of her maids? As the lady is currently pandering to a host of sycophants in the drawing room, one must suppose the latter is true.”

“I’m not interested in bedding Lady Crampton or her maids.” Truth be told, he had no interest in bedding anyone but Miss Atwood. Perhaps the infamous Lucius Daventry would have to live life as a monk.

“I understand. You want me to wait until you’ve concluded your business.” Larissa stroked her fingers over the swell of her breasts, breasts that were in no way as magnificent as Miss Atwood’s. “Perhaps you might come to me later so I might ease the tension in those muscular shoulders.”

He stood and stared.

His motivation for keeping company with Larissa Sinclair stemmed from a need to find Atticus’ murderer. Having spent the last two days in Miss Atwood’s company—being himself—he found he no longer had the stomach to play games. Indeed, the thought of locking lips with the widow made him nauseous.