“A pretender is not a master of the truth, Mr Wycliff.”
He snorted. “Says the person who has personified her pain by masquerading as the Scarlet Widow.”
The comment proved her point. Her pain lived as a separate entity. It was the only way to preserve her soul. She suspected Mr Wycliff had a similar agenda.
“Then it seems we have something else in common, sir. The difference is I have put a name to mine.”
“I do not need to hide behind a fake name,” he said, his tone bearing a hint of frost. “When I score the winning shot in the game, I prefer to take the glory.”
Winning might soothe his wound.
It would not ease his pain.
“For all our similarities, I imagine your winning prize looks vastly different to mine.” Hers involved a house amid rolling green hills, a sanctuary away from the ton. A place where she could strip away the weight of her burden and move freely again. A place where she did not have to live in constant fear for her life.
Silence ensued.
The rattle of the doorknob gave neither of them time to dwell on their hopes and dreams. Scarlett darted back into the shadows, while Mr Wycliff collapsed onto the sofa, his arms spread wide across the back, his knees bent, legs open in invitation.
Scarlett held her breath as she heard the creak of the door opening, the click of the lock as it closed.
“Miss Steele, what a pleasant surprise.” Mr Wycliff cast a look of cultivated arrogance. “Would you care for a drink? I can recommend the brandy. Fire hits the throat in just the right spot.”
“I have n-not come to drink liquor, sir. You s-said you knew what happened to my father.” Despite her apparent nerves, the lady had no problem coming straight to the point. “Your note suggested foul play.”
“Sit down.” Mr Wycliff gestured to the chair opposite. “I won’t bite. Not unless you drop to your knees and beg.”
“I—I prefer to stand.” She stepped into Scarlett’s view.
While Lord Steele had taken pleasure in beating his wife, he treated his daughter as if she were heaven sent. It was easier to spot controlling behaviour when
it came with a vicious tongue and a sharp hand. Not so easy when packaged as love and tied with a pretty bow.
“My brother is waiting in the hall should you have cause to live up to your reckless reputation.”
Mr Wycliff was no fool. Joshua stood outside because fear kept him from entering.
Mr Wycliff smirked. “What gentleman worth his weight sends his sister into a viper pit whilst lingering safely in the corridor? That said, your brother is welcome to pull up a chair and watch me flex my fangs.”
“I—I know you like to shock.” The lady clasped her hands in front of her body. The gesture made her appear childlike. “Mischief is your middle name.”
“Debaucher is my first, but I draw the line at ruining innocent maidens.” He stared at the waif-like creature trembling before him. The lady did not know that beneath the bravado was a man capable of kindness, great tenderness. “There is nothing more disappointing than a limp hand and a weak stroke.”
Jemima Steele slapped her hand to her mouth.
“Now,” Mr Wycliff continued, “tell me what you know about the threats made to Lady Steele’s person.”
Jemima shook her head. “Lady Steele? But I thought you had information about my father.” She glanced around the room. “Is this another of your ploys to unnerve me?”
A devious grin formed on Mr Wycliff’s lips. “My plan to unnerve you involves telling everyone willing to listen that you were surprisingly free with your affections. You’ll be amazed what people believe when one tells a story with conviction.”
Jemima’s frantic gaze shot to the door.
“Your brother cannot help you,” the wicked rogue continued. “Best keep him on a tight leash. You wouldn’t want to give me a reason to meet him on the common at dawn.”
Wringing her hands, Jemima cried, “Just tell me what you want and let me go.”
Mr Wycliff jumped to his feet, and Jemima gasped. He prowled towards her, and she shuffled backwards. “I want to know what gripe you have with your stepmother.”