Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

Chapter 9

As a man who lived life as if it were worthless, Dante never asked for help. As a man free from the shackles of familial obligation, he did not rely on anyone for support. Distrust thumped in the hole left by his withered heart. Hatred lived there, too, hatred for the fiend who’d stolen more than a pretty brooch, hatred for the grandparents who’d mistreated a grieving boy.

The boy is of inferior stock. What use is he to me?

And yet Dante had chosen to place his faith in a woman who wore ill-fitting trousers and drank brandy that tasted like vinegar.

The reasons why were too complex to fathom, but she’d arrived at his darkest hour, her bright smile and witty banter like a ray of hope—a beacon of light.

“Then as the lead agent I wish to app

roach the matter using the fulcrum technique,” she said, sitting beside him on the floor as if his pain were hers. “But Mr Daventry is right. There must be absolute honesty between us.”

“The fulcrum technique?” Had she invented the term merely to raise a smile to his lips? “As in using a prop?”

“No. It’s a matter of balance. We discuss something that may cause distress, memories you’ve buried and wish to avoid, followed by something unrelated. A topic of your choosing.”

Ah, she referred to her earlier suggestion of bartering for information. “And you will answer honestly when it’s my turn to ask questions?”

“What was it you said? Intimate questions require an intimate setting?” She gazed around the candlelit room. “I have nothing to hide from you, Dante. Ask me anything if it will help you recall what happened the day our lives took a tragic turn.”

She didn’t wait for an answer but stood, set about gathering the strewn paper, recovering the leather case from where he’d flung it across the room in a fit of anger.

He watched every movement, studying her figure, examining the evidence. She’d dressed in a hurry, wore nothing beneath the unshapely white shirt she’d tucked into her trousers. Now and then, he caught the outline of her nipples, a sight that made his mouth water more than rum-soaked marzipan ever could.

“Are we to do it on the floor or shall we move to the sofa?” she asked.

The devil in his ear whispered, Oh, I’d do you anywhere, love.

“I’ve been here so long, I’m not sure I have the will to stand. And you should be careful with your phrasing when speaking to a scoundrel. A man might get the wrong impression.”

Miss Sands glanced heavenward and tutted. “The floor it is, then.” She sat down, clutching the leather case to her chest and ruining the view. “Now, I’m going to start at the beginning and repeat the events that occurred before the fatal shooting.”

Nausea roiled in his stomach, but he nodded.

“Your mother met Alessandro D’Angelo at the opera. They were in adjacent boxes, and it’s said they never took their eyes off each other all night.”

Dante swallowed hard. “I do not recall reading that in the notes.”

“No. While living with Alice, I made enquiries into their background.” Her smile held a hint of pity. “They fell in love, madly in love. Lord Deighton intended his daughter to marry Lord Mooney’s eldest son, but she eloped with her Italian lover, and her father never spoke to her again.”

The evil bastard had disowned her, forbade her from using her title when she married a commoner. Above all, the earl liked donning a periwig, playing judge and delivering damning sentences.

“My grandfather took me in when my parents died and made me pay dearly for her error. You’ll not have heard that while making your enquiries, Miss Sands, but I carry the scars, nonetheless.”

She reached for his hand and gripped it tightly. “Trust me. It is better to expel the devil than bear the weight of his wickedness.”

“Who told you that, the vicar?”

“No, Alice Crouch. When running a tavern in Whitechapel, one prays for salvation.”

Dante laughed. Miss Sands had a way of calming his inner beast. He brought her hand to his lips and brushed his mouth across her knuckles. It was the only way he knew to say thank you.

“Your parents spent a few months in Italy but returned to live in Tidworth, Wiltshire,” she continued but did not pull her hand from his grasp. “When you came of age, you sold the estate and purchased this property.”

“Who wants to live in a house full of ghosts?” The horrific scenes of that fateful night haunted him whenever he ventured along that dark, lonely road.

“I believe the problems started a year before the fatal shooting. The housekeeper remembers a man calling at the house when your father was in Italy on business. Mrs Pickering said she heard your mother shouting and then crying and Daphne threw the fellow out.”