Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“I know very little about my father. My aunt and uncle rarely spoke about my parents. They found it too upsetting.”

Equally, the question of her father’s property raised an important issue, one she had been struggling with for some time. One she hoped to solve with her newly acquired skills as an agent and her contacts within the Order.

Beatrice cleared her throat. “I have reason to believe I inherited my father’s house, though I have never seen the will, never received any communication from his solicitor, and have no proof the property belongs to me.”

Dante frowned. “Where is the house?”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Where did you live before moving to Rochester?”

She shrugged. “I was but five years old and remember next to nothing. Aunt Margaret avoided the topic, said there was no point dredging up old memories. But I believe we moved from Hampshire.”

“Hampshire?” The chair creaked as Dante sat back. He considered her through narrowed eyes, and it seemed like an age before he spoke. “It’s time to switch roles, Beatrice.” The fact he’d uttered her given name with some tenderness caused alarm. “We have one obvious line of enquiry, a matter we must address before we can proceed with our investigation.”

“Which is?” Her heart stopped for a beat or two.

“This is where I ply you with brandy to numb the senses. Where I take your hand and lead you through the darkness.”

The darkness? But the only wickedness she’d encountered was—

Fear took command of her senses as she came to the obvious conclusion. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting we question my uncle?”

“You know it is the only logical course of action.”

Beatrice shot from the chair. She had to grip the desk for balance as blood rushed to her head. “No, Dante.” No! No! Please, no! “I cannot go back there.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Sheer terror gripped her throat.

“No,” she reiterated. “There must be another way to find the information. Perhaps Mrs Pickering knows where my father li

ved.” When one was swept away by a raging torrent, one clung to any blade of grass sprouting from the riverbank.

Dante stood, rounded the desk and took hold of her arms. “I know how hard it is to confront your nightmares, but you must see we have no option.”

“No, no. I need more time.” A lifetime would be insufficient.

“There is never a right time. But you can meet him in a public place, the taproom of the local tavern. I doubt he will speak honestly to me, so you must drag the truth from his lips by any means necessary, lie, make false promises. I shall watch from the next table. We’ll take Ashwood. He can search your uncle’s house while we keep the devil occupied.”

Her whole body shook in response. She had stopped listening when she realised she would have to sit with the scoundrel.

“Dante, what’s logical is me taking your statement, is you recounting every minute of that carriage ride eighteen years ago. But I would not ask it of you. Please don’t ask this of me.”

Without warning, he pressed his lips to her forehead—a reassuring gesture, though her stomach flipped when he kissed her temple and inhaled the scent of her hair.

If she looked up, gazed into his eyes, she sensed there would be a repeat of what happened last night. And while she wanted nothing more than to feel the heat of his lips, to draw in the earthy essence of the man she cared for more than she should, Mrs Gunning was likely to knock on the door at any moment.

Instead, she fell into his arms, pressed her cheek to his chest and listened to his erratic heartbeat.

“Dante, my uncle has a way of manipulating me, of making me pity him. That’s how he lured me into his trap, how he hurt me.” The pain of betrayal went deeper than sore lips and bruised thighs. They’d healed within days. “I’m too weak to—”

“You’re strong, courageous.” He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. “You’ve helped me more than you know, and I believe confronting your uncle will help you, too.”

The more he spoke, the more she thought of slanting her lips over his and exploring the warm, wet depths of his mouth. Now she knew why he used lust as a distraction. Lust had a way of commanding one’s senses, of emptying the mind of anything but the clawing need for pleasure.

The brief clip of footsteps in the hall preceded the study door bursting open. Beatrice shot back, would have stumbled again had Dante not gripped her elbow. Upon hearing a cough too deep to be that of Mrs Gunning, she dared to glance at the door.

Mr Ashwood stood in the doorway, wearing a grin similar to that of Mr Sloane’s the previous evening. Now they just needed Mr Cole to catch them in a clinch, and all the gentlemen of the Order would know of her attraction to their colleague.