A wicked grin replaced his elated smile. “First, we shall call on Newberry and drag a confession from his devious lips. Then we shall visit Wycliff before returning home to Bronygarth where you will make good on your promise to make my toes curl.”
Heavens, she could hardly wait.
“You omitted one minor detail.”
“Oh? And I’m usually so thorough.”
Sybil arched a coy brow. “On the way to town, you might like to examine my stockings.”
Chapter Seventeen
“There is no evidence to suggest Lord Newberry is the mystery third owner of the mine. No evidence to prove he conspired to bring about its collapse. Or that he killed my father because he was getting close to the truth.”
“No evidence at all,” Lucius agreed as he watched Sybil brush her skirts and straighten her jaunty hat. “Only conjecture. But I can be rather persuasive when I want something.”
“Very persuasive. Still, you cannot barge into a peer’s home and accuse him of murder.” She fastened the buttons on her dark green pelisse and relaxed back in the carriage seat. “There. How do I look?”
“Composed. Confident. Like a woman ready to tear the truth from the devil’s lips.”
She smiled. “Not like a woman whose lover has examined her stockings?”
Her lover? Oh, he wanted to be so much more than that. “The pleasure gained from your release has left an indelible glow I find utterly captivating.”
A light laugh left her. “I admire your honesty.”
And yet he had not been totally honest. Navigating unfamiliar territory left him nervous, unsteady on his feet. How did a man tell a woman he had fallen in love with her? How did he explain what she meant to him?
“I’m glad,” he said, shifting his thoughts back to easing his physical ache. “In the name of honesty and equality, you won’t mind pleasuring me on the journey home.”
Her eyes widened. “A lady with a hunger for knowledge welcomes new experiences.”
They might have continued their salacious banter had the carriage not stopped outside Lord Newberry’s house in Cavendish Square.
“Lucius, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” She peered through the window at the façade that bore the same air of grandeur as its master.
“Don’t be afraid. Newberry won’t dare threaten you in my company.” Indeed, Lucius was more concerned with how he might keep calm when he wanted to rip the lord’s head off his shoulders.
Despite not having an appointment, the liveried footman hurried down the steps to open the carriage door. It would be a battle getting past the butler. Lucius thought about ditching his measly arrows and loading the trebuchet, but he had the perfect weapon with which to enter.
Indeed, he handed his card to Newberry’s pompous servant, said he had come to discuss terms relating to the sale of Atticus Atwood’s journals. A brief conversation with the lord resulted in the sprightly butler ushering them into the study.
After a tepid greeting and an exchange of the usual glib phrases, the smug lord positioned himself behind his desk, relaxed back in the chair and grinned with gleaming satisfaction.
“Well, Daventry, I’m glad you’ve seen sense at last.” The lord looked down his nose at Sybil. “Let me start by saying I forgive your pitiful attempt to slander my good name, Miss Atwood. Fanciful notions and fairy tales scream of desperation, do they not?”
Lucius was forced to interject. “Moderate your tone when speaking to Miss Atwood.” Else he was likely to fly over the desk and drive his fist down the arrogant lord’s throat.
“I think you’ll find most fairy tales are based on reality,” Sybil countered. “Every story has a villain. A wicked devil who professes loyalty and kindness but in truth is a vain creature obsessed with his own self-importance.”
Lucius cast her a sidelong glance. He couldn’t be prouder.
Newberry’s jaw firmed. “Then this is a subverted tale, my dear. Greed wins over morality. Daventry is no fool. Money can help insignificant men rise in the ranks.”
“And the truth can bring haughty, overweening prigs to their knees,” Lucius countered. “Make no mistake, Newberry, I’m here to see justice prevails.”
Newberry straightened. His blue eyes shifted suspiciously. “Why do I get the impression you’re not here to sell the books? You have no intention of accepting my offer.” He frowned. “If this is about what happened with Larissa—”
“I don’t give a damn about Larissa.”