The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

He gestured for her to continue along the arched tunnel leading to the next solid iron door some five inches thick.

“You see,” she began, waiting for him to lead the way, “had you used my given name it wouldn’t have sounded like a reprimand.”

“It wasn’t a reprimand, merely a means of providing context. Now, I need to concentrate on the next task. We can discuss my failings later.”

He extracted another key from his fob pocket. The brass implement was cylindrical, and he pushed it into the same shaped hole in the door. To the left was a wooden plaque filled with tiny brass cogs. Each cog had an unusual shape cut into the centre—a star, a hexagon—and he moved them in the specific sequence ingrained in his memory. The correct combination released the pulley system, which allowed him to turn the door handle and enter the underground chamber.

“I assume someone else knows the combination,” she said.

“I am yet to name my successor. Pray I don’t end up a bloated corpse in the Thames.”

“That would be a tragedy on many levels.”

“Why? Would you miss me, Miss Atwood?”

“I believe I might.”

The lady followed him into the chamber, a small room that looked more like a wine cellar than an underwater storage facility. After glancing numerous times at the ceiling, she walked towards the first in a row of wooden chests resting on a two-foot-high plinth. She raised the heavy lid and pulled back the red velvet cloth covering one tome.

“This can’t be my father’s journal.” She scanned the spine, ran her finger over the date embossed into the leather binding. “1756. This one refers to the Seven Years’ War.”

Lucius closed the iron door, and the loud clunk made Miss Atwood jump. “Those are your grandfather’s journals.”

She swung around to face him. “My grandfather’s journals? Did he record his scientific theories, too?”

Lucius braced himself. He had an awful lot of information to impart.

The question was where to begin.

“Follow me.” He closed the lid of the chest and led her to the metal trunk sitting on a plinth at the far end of the chamber. “This is a transcript of a trial.” He delved inside the trunk and removed a black letter case. “The boy was twelve years old when threatened with transportation for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Miss Atwood looked between him and the letter case and frowned. “My father was always interested in law. He fought to abolish the severe punishments handed to children.”

“He did more than that. He was head of a secret organisation called the Order of Themis. A small group of men who share the same ideals.”

“Themis?” She edged closer, so close every nerve in his body sprang to life. “The goddess from Greek mythology.”

“The goddess of fairness and law.”

She glanced at his ring, at the symbol carved into the carnelian stone. “Themis carries the Scales of Justice. My father believed the poor often commit crimes out of necessity.”

“Indeed. And affluent members of society look for scapegoats when committing evil deeds. As members of the Order, we hunt for evidence to cast doubt on the witness statements in some prosecutions.” It was more complicated than that. “Samuel was one such boy, wrongly accused of larceny. Your father secured his release, and now he lives here as my groom.”

“You speak of the cheerful boy in the stables? He looked at me as if I were an angel descending from heaven, not a weary woman clambering out of an unmarked carriage.”

“You’re Atticus Atwood’s daughter.”

“And you have taken my father’s place as leader of the Order.”

“I have.” Relief rushed through him. He’d never thought to confide in anyone, anyone outside the Order. “Your father also uncovered corruption amongst privileged society. These files and journals contain evidence of trials, of bribery, of the underhanded way the rich abuse the poor. They are truthful, accurate records of events.”

She glanced at the leather-bound book in his hand. “And so someone named in one of these books murdered my father to hide his crime.”

“I believe so. And now the felon will use you as leverage.” Guilt bubbled like bile in Lucius’ throat. He had failed to save Atticus but would do everything in his power to save his daughter. “Some men believe they are bidding on important scientific theories. One man is bidding because he knows the truth.” Lord knows how.

“And you held the auction merely to see who would bid?”

“Yes. The auction was a means of gathering information. Had you not arrived, I would have found an excuse not to sell.”