“The likeness is uncanny.” Too uncanny to be a coincidence. “As such, it might prove useful in our quest to find a killer.”
“Collecting odd items doesn’t make a man a murderer,” she said. “We’ve found nothing to suggest Sir Melrose is guilty of a crime. There’s nothing to prove they belong to him.”
“While you could argue these items belong to Lady Crampton, I doubt it.” Lucius gathered the fallen books and placed them back on the shelves. “We’ll discuss our next course of action when we return to Bronygarth. Can you persuade the Cavanaghs to leave early?”
“Lord Newberry insisted I dance another waltz.”
“Newberry can go to hell.”
“Then I shall tell Cassandra I feel hot, a little faint.”
Lucius arched a brow. “It’s said I have that effect on women.”
With a sudden gasp, she patted her hair. “Do I look like you’ve ravished me in the library?”
He tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, fought the need to kiss her again, to cover her with his naked body. “No one will notice. Your hair is always a little unruly. Come.” He moved to the door and unlocked it with the skeleton key. “We shouldn’t leave together. I shall exit first, distract anyone hovering in the vicinity. When you hear me cough twice, you’ll know it’s safe to leave.”
Though Sybil nodded, he knew nerves formed the basis of her tight smile. Guilt should have gnawed away at his insides, but he was not sorry. He would risk the noose to spend another few minutes locked in her passionate embrace.
Sybil hid in the darkness while he eased the door from the jamb. He might have taken a surreptitious glance along the corridor had the imposing figure of Damian Wycliff not stepped forward to block the doorway.
Chapter Eleven
“Leave now while the corridor is empty.” The deep masculine growl reached Sybil’s ears, yet it was not Lucius Daventry who spoke.
Panic held her rooted to the spot.
She daren’t peer around the jamb.
“Follow me downstairs, Daventry,” the angry gentleman continued, though his voice was almost drowned out by the laughter spilling out of the private drawing room. “My wife will attend to Miss Atwood and escort her back to the ballroom.”
Sybil waited for Lucius’ steadfast denial, his bitter retort, but he simply said, “Very well.” He stepped back from the doorway, looked at her and whispered, “Remain calm. I shall meet you downstairs once I’ve dealt with Wycliff.”
Wycliff?
Oh, Lord!
“Now, Daventry.”
Sybil’s breath quickened upon hearing Mr Wycliff’s murderous whisper. People said he was as skilled in combat as Lucius Daventry, said he bore the scars from numerous battles, said he thought nothing of meeting a gentleman on the common at dawn.
A sickening dread shot to her throat when Lucius left the room. A few seconds later Mrs Wycliff entered, her ebony hair fashioned in the latest style, her sapphire and diamond necklace complementing her midnight blue gown.
“Miss Atwood,” the lady began in the compassionate tone of a woman who had survived many scandalous situations. “I see your obsession with Mr Daventry is still very much your focus.”
Two weeks ago, Sybil had sat with the Wycliffs in Cassandra’s drawing room and told them about spying on Mr Daventry, about her urgent need to attend the auction. Then, she had thought Mr Daventry a heartless devil, too.
“It is not an obsession,” Sybil corrected.
“No, you’re just desperate to purchase your father’s journals from a man who enjoys playing games.”
“Mr Daventry has no intention of selling the journals and has expressed his deep regret over the misunderstanding.”
A smile played at the corners of Mrs Wycliff’s mouth. “Regret so deep he had to lock you in a dark library to make his point.”
“It’s a complicated situation.” One of a secret society, of murder, treachery and a sworn oath. “One you wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs Wycliff’s smile deepened. “I know what it’s like to fall under a rogue’s spell, Miss Atwood.”