The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

They found the Cavanaghs waiting near the terrace. Sybil offered a sincere apology, though made no mention of the illicit encounter in the library. Cassandra was simply relieved she had been found safe and well. Mrs Wycliff insisted she would play chaperone, and they left the couple to enjoy a waltz.

“How do you know Mr Wycliff and Mr Daventry are outside?” Sybil said as Mrs Wycliff led her back into the grand hall.

“Neither man wishes to make his grievance known. There is only one place they might conduct a secret conversation at short notice—Damian’s carriage.”

A storm was brewing. The temperature had plummeted, and so they retrieved their cloaks from the liveried attendant and headed down the steps onto Maddox Street. Rows of carriages lined the pavements, but Mrs Wycliff directed Sybil towards the mews.

“With so many people here tonight, I’m surprised Sir Melrose granted your husband use of the mews.”

Mrs Wycliff smiled. “Damian would never be without access to a vehicle. He paid Sir Melrose’s coachman handsomely for the pleasure of keeping it here.”

They headed through the cobbled yard lit by braziers and hanging lanterns. From the shadows of the stables, grooms and coachmen watched them hurrying towards the black unmarked carriage.

Mrs Wycliff glanced up at the box seat. “I presume my husband is inside the vehicle, Alcock?”

“Aye, ma’am.” The sturdy woman sitting atop the box in coachman’s garb doffed her hat and said, “Mr Wycliff’s got another gentleman in there with him.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve not heard the shouts for a few minutes now. Happen one of ’em is dead.”

Mrs Wycliff tutted at her servant. “I can assure you they are both very much alive.” She ushered Sybil to the carriage door. “Forgive my coachwoman. Alcock often expects the worst where my husband is concerned.” The lady rapped on the window. “It’s me, Damian.”

“Enter,” came the terse reply.

Mrs Wycliff opened the door, and her husband dropped the step.

Sybil climbed into the vehicle and settled next to Lucius.

He forced a smile, though his storm-grey eyes looked ready to unleash a violent tempest. “Did anyone see you leave the library?”

“Not that I’m aware.” While she longed to see the flames of desire dancing there, she found the dangerous gleam surprisingly attractive. “People were too busy playing blind man’s bluff in the drawing room to notice.”

Mrs Wycliff closed the carriage door and gripped her husband’s thigh as she moved to sit beside him. “Well, I’m glad to see no one has suffered an injury.”

“No visible injury,” Lucius snapped, his voice barely masking his rage, “yet I find myself reeling at your blatant interference.”

“Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Mr Wycliff protested. “She is merely trying to defuse the tension.”

“And Mr Daventry was merely inferring that we had the situation under control,” Sybil said, feeling an overwhelming need to defend the gentleman.

Mr Wycliff snorted. “When it comes to mastering control, Miss Atwood, I believe you fall dreadfully short.”

“Do not speak to her in that tone,” Mr Daventry countered. “She is merely providing clarity. Say what you will about me, but do not dare make assumptions about Miss Atwood’s character.”

Mr Wycliff’s eyes grew wide, though he appeared more intrigued than offended. He folded his muscular arms across his chest. “Tell me, Miss Atwood. Is everything Daventry said about your father true?”

“Clever bastard,” Lucius muttered beneath his breath as he lounged back and draped his arm across the back of the seat.

Sybil wasn’t sure how to respond. Lucius would have told some semblance of the truth, but he would never mention his work for the Order.

“That would depend on what Mr Daventry told you, sir,” she said to give her time to form an appropriate reply.

Lucius cleared his throat. “I have explained our reason for attending the ball tonight. I have told Wycliff about my suspicions regarding your father’s death. That on occasion, Atticus liked to play Bow Street investigator.”

“I see.” She took a moment to choose her words carefully before turning her attention back to Mr Wycliff. “Everything Mr Daventry said is true. My father fought for reform. He believed the law served the rich, not the poor. Certain cases in the newspaper drew his attention, and he often conducted his own i

nvestigations. It was a hobby of sorts.”

Mr Wycliff stared through coal-black eyes. “While commendable, that’s a rather dangerous hobby, Miss Atwood. Still, I fail to see the connection between a distinguished man of science and a scandalous rogue.”

“Is that really any of your business, sir?”