When alone again, Sybil said, “Shall we move to the drawing room so you can tell me about this woman?” There wasn’t a shred of jealousy in her tone.
“I’m not sure that’s wise. Talking to you in relaxed surroundings stirs the devil in me.”
“If you’re the devil, then I was born for sin.”
He managed a smile, resisted the urge to round the table, kiss her and slip his hand under her skirts. “While the need to stroke your stockings burns in my veins, I fear this is a time for the pragmatic thinker. You must learn to like the judicious gentleman as much as the reckless lover.”
Her eyes brightened with amusement. “Make no mistake, Mr Daventry, I admire the whole package.”
Merciful Mary. This woman would be the death of him. He could barely raise a coherent thought when in her company. “Must you persist in being such a tempting distraction, Miss Atwood?”
“I would rather be a tempting distraction than an annoying one,” she said, reminding him of his comment at the auction. “Is it always like this?”
“What?”
“Desire. I’m curious. Does it grip you at every inopportune moment? Does it consume every ounce of your being?”
“Are you saying you want me, Sybil?”
“I wanted you the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I can’t seem to calm the energetic thrum.”
This lady had no problem speaking the truth. It was a rare quality. A quality he admired.
“Lust can be all-consuming.” But he was in love with her, and that meant he had to focus on saving her life not devouring her body. “Let us return to the task at hand.” Indeed, he had almost forgotten about Julia Fontaine. “Tonight, I shall worship you in the way that makes your toes curl.”
A delectable hum left her lips, and her eyes turned soft and dreamy.
“Where were we?” he said.
“Attempting to focus. You were going to tell me about the woman you hardly know who’s staying at the Black Swan.”
“You mean Julia Fontaine.”
“Your mother?”
“Indeed.” It had to be her.
Sybil frowned. “I fear it might not be a coincidence.”
“No.”
“Does she know you own this house?”
Julia had made no mention of Bronygarth, only the house in Brook Street. “I cannot see how she could know. The duke makes it his business to know everything, but he hasn’t seen Julia Fontaine for twenty years.”
Silence ensued.
“Well, she’s not the person who sent the threatening letters demanding I bring the journals to room five.”
“No.”
“Then she must know you live close by.” She paused and glanced at the open journal. “In terms of finding the villain, we’re back to where we started.”
“Yes,” he mused, but Atticus had urged him to look for connections where there weren’t any. When one started piecing together parts of a puzzle, an obscure picture soon became clearer. “Or maybe not.”
The lady arched a curious brow. “You have other suspicions?”
“I just find it hard to accept that these random pieces of information aren’t connected.”