“Why the agate and not the one with the silver handle?”
He grinned. “Because the rake in me would prefer you hold something warm in your palm.”
Lord! The man knew how to elicit a reaction. When one was out of their depth, the only option was to keep paddling, and so she drew him to the next window, a shop selling silk fans, feathers and bonnets.
“The red masquerade mask,” he said be
fore she’d paused for breath.
“Why? Are you tired of seeing my face?”
Clearly he had a point to make because all evidence of amusement faded. “You’re adept at hiding your feelings. You say you never give up hope, but the light in your eyes has dimmed. You speak of truths, but your words fail to reflect your inner struggle. You’re terrified, terrified your life will end prematurely, terrified you’ll suffer a similar fate to your parents, and so you pretend life has no value because it’s the only way you can sleep at night. And so you take unnecessary risks, almost willing the gods to prove your theory.”
Beatrice gulped.
Was she so transparent? Or was he simply a skilled enquiry agent?
“You sound so sure of my character, sir.”
“It’s like gazing into a looking glass, Miss Sands.”
“We’re alike in many ways,” she agreed.
“Indeed, if this game has taught me anything, it’s that we’re kindred spirits. Like me, you thrive on passion and danger. Indeed, I fear your recklessness will get you killed.”
Chapter 7
They arrived in Hart Street promptly at two. While awaiting Lucius Daventry, Dante gave Miss Sands a tour of the house, introduced her to the housekeeper, explained why he worked for the Order, discussed anything to distract his mind from the conversation about the masquerade mask.
He had revealed too much. Spoken about the complexities of his own character, something he never did. But Miss Sands had a way of luring him out into the open, exposing every hidden facet.
I see you, Mr D’Angelo, with remarkable clarity.
He’d seen her, too. He’d seen the fire of hatred in her eyes as she aimed her pocket pistol at Babington’s manhood. A burning need to punish all men who took advantage of the helpless. He had seen the woman busy constructing a life filled with intrigue and danger, a life as empty as his own.
“And so your work for the Order is a means of occupying your time,” she’d stated while considering the picture of Themis hanging in the study. “Themis carries the scales of justice. After your experiences, you wish to ensure others do not suffer the same fate.”
“And I hoped to hone my investigative skills.”
“To aid in your bid to avenge the murder of your parents?”
“Indeed.”
He knew what she was thinking—precisely what he’d been thinking when he told her why he’d picked the mask—they shared similar goals, had similar motives. However, he’d had other reasons for making his choice.
The half-mask would draw attention to her mouth, to the pretty pink lips he wished to taste and explore. Red, because it spoke of everything primal—fire and blood, anger and danger. But red was the colour of lust and passion, and he suspected Miss Sands would embrace a romantic liaison with the same fervency she did most things.
The clip of booted footsteps in the hall dragged Dante to the present.
Lucius Daventry marched into the drawing room. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. Sir Malcolm wished to take Craddock in for questioning, and I was keen to hear what the devil had to say.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“The names of two other victims. Babington promised Craddock that Mrs Monroe would be the last and had agreed to return the man’s vowels.”
“Did Craddock give a reason why Babington needed funds?” He wanted to ask if Craddock knew Mr Coulter but decided to avoid the topic of his mother’s brooch.
“No, but Sir Malcolm’s men will continue to probe for answers.”