Sybil darted to the front door where Harris stood on sentry duty.
“Quickly, Harris, open the door.”
“But, ma’am, Mr Daventry—”
“Mr Daventry is not your employer.” Sybil opened the door herself and hurried out. Miriam was already at the servants’ door with the butler following behind. “Bower!”
The burly servant looked up. “Just returning your maid home safely, ma’am.”
“I need to take command of Mr Daventry’s coach.” Mr Daventry wasn’t the only one who could break a promise.
Sybil informed Bower of the attack in the street, of his master’s sudden and swift departure. The servant seemed far from shocked by the dramatic turn of events and simply nodded.
“Then I’d best be on my way, ma’am.” Bower climbed the stone stairs, and with hands the size of mallets closed the gate. The loud clang reverberated through the street. “I have my instructions.”
Instructions?
But it had been a surprise attack.
Sybil was about to protest, but Bower was already climbing into the carriage. He glanced out from the conveyance and said, “Mr Daventry always keeps his word, ma’am,” and then slammed the door shut.
“Well!” was all she could say as the coachman gave a quick flick of the reins and the carriage charged off in pursuit.
Tonight she had learned more about Mr Daventry and his relationship with her father. Yet the man still proved somewhat of a
mystery. Indeed, it was as if Sybil had been whipped into a whirlwind and was still spinning.
Returning to the house in somewhat of a daze, she considered going to bed. But how could she sleep knowing Mr Daventry might be fighting his way through another vicious battle?
A battle of her creation.
A battle brought about by her desire to discover the secrets of her father’s journals.
Besides, Bower’s comment replayed over her mind. Mr Daventry had promised to return—and Mr Daventry always keeps his word—and so she would sit and wait patiently in the drawing room, indulge in a large glass of sherry to mend her tattered nerves.
Sybil sensed Mr Daventry’s presence before she opened her eyes. She could feel his powerful energy thrumming in the air, could smell the alluring scent of his cologne.
So seductive.
So potent.
As her mind regained focus, she realised she was curled on the sofa and must have fallen asleep. Nerves forced her to keep her eyes closed a little longer. Had she kicked off her shoes? Had she removed the pins from her hair? Was she lying there in a state of dishabille?
The sound of his relaxed breathing suggested he had been in the drawing room for some time. How long had he stood quietly watching her?
Sybil opened her eyes slowly, only to meet Mr Daventry’s intense stare. He was seated in the chair opposite, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled, his muscular thighs straining against his buckskin breeches.
“Mr Daventry. You’re back.” She sat up and drew her loose hair over one shoulder. “What time is it?” The thick green curtains were drawn. The candle flickered in the lamp, and the fire still burned, yet she felt like she’d slept for hours.
“Almost dawn.” His voice was a low, husky hum. Against the fire’s amber glow, he looked more sinful than ever. “Forgive the delay. I called at Brook Street to wash and change.”
Sybil noted his clean shirt and pristine cravat, noted he had taken the time to shave. “You should have woken me.”
Heavens, how long had he been sitting there gaping?
“I needed a moment to gather my thoughts. And you were sleeping so peacefully it seemed a shame to disturb you.”
“It’s been an exhausting evening.”