The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“Lucius?” The woman huffed in frustration. “You should be alert now.”

Twice, since first stirring from his drug-induced slumber, she had made him drink an opium tincture. Enough to keep him subdued. Twice, he’d held the liquid in his mouth. Had spat it into the pad of the seat when he’d slumped forward. He might have easily escaped, but he was getting too close to the truth.

“Lucius. I need you to walk.” She grabbed him and slapped his face. The attack was the culmination of years of neglect, spoke of genuine disdain for the duke and her son. “Wake up.”

If she wanted him more alert, he would oblige.

“Walk?” he said, swaying in the seat like a maudlin drunk. “Walk where?”

“We’re to meet Miss Atwood near Stangate Street.”

Sybil!

His heart lurched. She must be worried sick. Terrified.

It took strength not to jump up from the seat, howl and thrash about like a madman. But his hands were bound at the wrists. The devil woman had taken the blade from his boot. And only a fool charged into a fight without assessing the scene.

Patience. Patience.

“If you harm a hair on her head, you’ll rue the day you came back into my life.” He let her feel the full force of his wrath.

“So, you are more alert than you would have me believe.”

A sudden coughing fit had her dragging a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak. She covered her mouth, spat blood into the white linen for the second time in the space of an hour.

“And you’re frailer than I thought.” Mixed emotions clashed swords in his chest. He had every reason to hate her. Yet the lonely boy didn’t want to lose his mother to a dreaded illness. “Your husband should be in here, taking care of you, not sitting atop the damn box.”

“My husband?” Confusion marred her brow.

“Angus. The Scot with the miserable face. You have a habit of attracting wretched men.”

“Angus isn’t my husband.” She wiped spittle from her mouth. “He’s my cousin. I told you, my mother sent me to live in Scotland with an uncle when I was but five years old. Angus is like a brother.”

So she had the capacity to love someone.

“Angus often took the beatings meant for me,” she added. The comment roused disturbing images, conveyed a painful history.

“And where is Mr Dunwoody?” he mocked.

“In Scotland. I left the day he moved his mistress into my home. The day I was relegated to the role of housekeeper.”

“You’ve had more than your share of hardship.” There it was again—the child in him grasping at any reason to account for her deplorable actions. “That doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. Let me reiterate my earlier point. I would die to protect Miss Atwood. No one is more important to me than her. Now, would you care to explain what the hell is going on?”

“Miss Atwood is bringing the evidence her father gathered about the riot at Smithfield Market. She is going to exchange it for your safe return.”

“And that’s all? That’s the reason for this whole damn charade? You want the journals so you can claim your vowels back from Sir Melrose?”

“If Miss Atwood values you over her father’s work—” She stopped abruptly and coughed into her handkerchief. The wracking sound filled the small space. “Then … then everything should go to plan.”

“You didn’t just arrive,” he said, for she presumed too much about his relationship with Sybil. “You’ve been in London for weeks. You sent Miss Atwood threatening letters in the hope she would bring the journals to the Black Swan. You’ve followed her home on many occasions. You’ve watched us closely.”

She gave a curt nod. “You visit her in Half Moon Street almost every night. You’ve been lovers for some time.”

“Not quite.”

And he visited the butler, not the love of his life. He scouted the area, checked the premises, conversed with Blake. He kept his oath to Atticus in the only way he knew how.

“Are you so desperate to reclaim your vowels that you must resort to frightening a young woman, to kidnapping your son?”