The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“I’m sorry, Lucius. I must have fallen asleep.” Sybil’s gentle voice reached out to him in the darkness. “I promised to stay awake until it was time for you to leave.”

He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. “I’m going soon.”

She came up on her elbow and looked at him. “Won’t you let me come with you? I can sit quietly in the corner and read beneath the candlelight while you speak to your mother.”

“I want you to stay here. I need you to stay here.” He planned to delve deep into his mother’s history, planned to pick apart her account of the tale until he found the truth. He couldn’t do that while worrying about Sybil. “Tomas and Jonah will keep guard during my absence. There’s a pistol in the nightstand drawer. I can load it before I leave.”

“A pistol? There’s no need.” She stroked his chest, the soothing caress making it harder to leave. “I shall be fine here.”

Lucius nodded, confident there was no place safer than Bronygarth.

Reluctantly, he slipped his arm free from her warm body, drew back the coverlet and climbed out of bed. He could feel the heat of Sybil’s gaze as he dressed. Indeed, it took immense effort not to shout to hell with his mother and jump back into bed to satisfy the woman he wanted for his wife.

The cautious part of his nature made him load the pistol. Despite Sybil’s reassurances, he tasted the nervous tension in her kiss. Dismissing a strange unease, he promised to return in an hour before insisting she lock the door.

He gave his men specific instructions. Made them swear to protect Sybil with the same unwavering loyalty they did their master. Then he mounted Phaedrus and rode through the merciless east wind until he reached the coaching inn.

The Black Swan.

The metal sign creaked as it swayed wildly. The image of the black bird was there to aid the illiterate, yet the creature stared at Lucius with its evil eye, marking him the enemy. Some said a black swan was a symbol of suffering, or a metaphor for shocking surprises. Some said it spoke of Machiavellian schemes.

Lucius feared all explanations were true.

Dismissing his unease, he rode Phaedrus under the wide archway and into the yard. A lit lantern and a roaring brazier confirmed the inn was open for business. The wind played havoc with the brazier’s flames, threatening extinction before giving a sudden reprieve. He, too, felt whipped into uncertainty, tormented by a higher power.

A young groom approached, said he was waiting for the mail coach from Edinburgh, that the driver always stopped for his supper before continuing to town. Lucius flicked the lad a coin and left Phaedrus in his care before marching to the main door of the inn.

Tucking the sheathed blade into his boot, he straightened his shoulders and entered.

The taproom was empty but for an Irish wolfhound curled by the fire. Lucius approached the oak counter, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. He waited. The creak of hinges forced him to turn towards the rear of the room. His mother stood in the doorway. Her red dress hung off bony shoulders, looked to have been made for a much larger woman. Indeed, her frame was more skeletal than trim.

“Lucius. You came.” Her welcoming smile barely masked her apprehension. “Forgive the rather crude surroundings, but I prefer it here to town.”

His mind struggled with the sudden onslaught of questions.

Had his overtly suspicious nature led him to misjudge her?

Was her arrival nothing more than a coincidence?

“Such things matter not to me.” He preferred a shabby castle in the woods to an elegant townhouse. “Forgive my absence earlier. A matter of great importance prevented me from keeping our appointment.”

“I understand,” she said evenly, and yet Furnis had said she’d sobbed upon finding him away from home. Evidently, she had overcome her distress. “Come through to the private parlour. No one will disturb us there.”

Lucius crossed the room and ducked his head to clear the low lintel. His mother directed him to the long table positioned near the open fire. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, waited for her to sit before dropping into the crude wooden chair opposite.

Should a reunion be this difficult?

Should it be so fraught with tension?

“You must have many questions.” She snatched the stoneware pitcher and filled two matching mugs with ale. “Ask me anything.”

Twenty years’ worth of whys and wherefores surfaced. The need to interrogate, to challenge, to attribute blame, left him wondering where to start. He swigged his ale. An old ale. A pale, well-hopped brew too good to be served in a roadside i

nn.

“I was in love with your father in the beginning,” she said to break the long, drawn-out silence. “But the pressure for him to marry and sire heirs caused a terrible rift between us.”

“And yet he never married.”