Confusion followed.
The widow moved to walk past him but stopped level with his shoulder. “You swore an oath while holding your mother’s cross. An oath to help me, not to threaten me and attempt to exert control. Help me unconditionally, Mr Wycliff, or do not help me at all.”
She had taken two steps towards the glass doors before he clasped her wrist and brought her to a halt. “I made a promise to a downtrodden actress, not a notorious widow.” The pang in his chest returned. The same ache that had forced him to offer his saviour more than bread and firewood. The same need to make his mother proud.
How was it no other woman roused those feelings in him?
The widow swallowed deeply. “You will find the actress still lives beneath my disguise if you take the time to look.”
“My father has a way of rousing the devil in me,” he said by way of an apology. It was the best she would get, more than he ever gave. Indeed, he did not feel at all like himself, which explained why he stroked his thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist.
She inhaled sharply. “Perhaps working together is not such a good idea.”
“I made a vow, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
She glanced at the place where his fingers rested on her wrist. “It seems so.”
“At least until we prove Joshua and Jemima Steele are guilty of attempted murder and you free me from my oath.” He did not want her to think this was a permanent partnership.
“And if they are innocent?”
“That’s highly improbable.” In their grief, the siblings looked to blame someone for their father’s death. And the widow’s obvious disdain for the man made her the prime candidate. “But there is only one way to find out.”
Indeed, they should head to the library, wait for Miss Steele and put an end to the matter. It would not take much for the chit to crack. Based on what Damian had written in the note, the woman would be desperate for his attention.
Chapter Six
The Marquis of Blackbeck’s library carried the same air of grandeur as the rest of his mansion house. An autumn palette of leather-bound books lined the polished oak cases. Sumptuous dark blue curtains trimmed with gold tassels and brocade framed two large windows. Despite the plethora of gilt candelabras and the vibrant red pattern on the Aubusson rug, it was an inherently masculine space. Indeed, Mr Wycliff looked perfectly at home as he lounged in the leather chair, his feet propped on his father’s imposing desk.
Scarlett had climbed the spiral staircase to the upper-level housing rows of rare books and antique tomes. From her elevated position in the shadows, she had a perfect view of the seating area in front of the fire, and of the complicated man who had taken a letter opener to prise the lock on the drawer containing a box of cigars.
Mr Wycliff proceeded to light one from the candle lamp he had lit a few minutes earlier. “Do not let Miss Steele know you’re here,” he instructed before drawing the fumes from the cigar deep into his lungs and blowing them out in his usual devil-may-care manner.
Scarlett gripped the balustrade. “I highly doubt she will come. Jemima is as stiff as a starched cravat. And every woman in Christendom knows you’re a scandalous rogue.”
“Oh, she’ll come,” he said, blowing a ring of smoke in her direction. “Besides, the invitation mentioned nothing about an illicit liaison.”
“Why? Do the prim ones prefer it when you’re less direct?” Damian Wycliff could read from the dinner menu, and it would sound seductive.
Would you care for a sweet cherry jus drizzled over succulent breasts?
He stubbed his cigar out on the red leather inlay covering the desk. “The note merely said that if she wanted to know what really happened to her father, she should come to the library alone on the stroke of the hour.”
“So you would rather pander to her suspicions than trust your seductive skills when it comes to tempting an innocent?” Given enough time, Scarlett had no doubt Mr Wycliff could lure the maiden into bed.
He pushed out of the chair and headed for the drinks tray.
“You more than anyone should know not to listen to gossip.” The crystal stopper chinked as he pulled it from the neck of the decanter. “Contrary to popular belief, I have grown rather selective about the women I bed.”
“But not whose breasts you fondle.” Having witnessed his liaison on the sofa in the billiard room, she would call him out for his hypocrisy.
He chuckled as he sloshed the amber liquid into a glass. “Do you want the truth, Widow?”
Scarlett sighed. She hated him calling her that. “As you’re a man who professes to deal only in the truth, yes.”
Glass in hand, he turned to face her, his gaze fixed on hers as he downed a mouthful of liquor. “The lady’s husband is a dear friend of my father’s. A few more witnesses to the act and I would have found her wholly unsatisfactory. Everyone would think the worst, of course, including the marquis.”
Scarlett did not know whether to feel sad or disgusted. Could he not see that his disreputable actions hurt no one but himself? Was he able to see everyone’s truth but was blind to his own?