by Clee, Adele
“Logic suggests your argument has merit.”
“Your housekeeper entered a room occupied by four capable men, yet she addressed you, Mr Ashwood. That tells me you command respect, that she considers you the most responsible.”
Oh, this woman was as sharp as a steel trap. “When four men work closely together, someone must act as overseer.”
“And the men defer to you. That shows strength of character.”
A lesser man might find her comments flattering, but they were delivered as observations, not compliments. “If you mean I have the confidence to speak my mind, am self-assured without being arrogant, that I strive to do what is right, then your assessment is correct.”
“I need an agent with unshakable resolve, sir. Not one who is easily distracted.”
Noah relaxed back in the chair and steepled his fingers. “And you concluded I was that man before the introductions were made?”
Miss Dunn swallowed what remained of her sherry, shivering visibly as the fortified wine slipped down her throat. “When I entered the drawing room, I gave the impression I was preoccupied. It afforded an opportunity to examine your reactions. Mr D’Angelo’s first point of reference was to note my womanly attributes.”
“I can assure you, Miss Dunn, we all noted your womanly attributes.” He was a man, not a damn saint. “Me included.” He decided to test her steely composure. “Pray, is that a faint blush I see?”
She huffed and touched her cheek. “Not at all, merely a mild flush from the sherry.” She placed her empty glass on the desk. “I can assure you, Mr Ashwood, men usually find my unconventional character unattractive.”
“Most men don’t think about a woman’s character while observing her womanly attributes.” And yet he found the entire package rather fascinating. The need to strip back the layers and discover more thrummed in his veins.
“Mr Sloane took one look at my spectacles and lost interest.”
“That’s because they rouse painful childhood memories of his governess. The woman peered at him through tiny spectacles while whipping him with a birch.”
Miss Dunn arched a brow by way of a challenge. “Now you’re teasing me. Had that been the case, his expression would have revealed something of his torment.” Her playful smile added a certain intimacy to the conversation. “I chose you, Mr Ashwood, because your intelligent eyes flashed with intrigue the moment you saw my notebook.”
Noah couldn’t help but smile, too. Yet he wanted to see how easy it would be to unnerve her. “Madam, you’re rather free with your compliments. A man might get the wrong impression. Perhaps the bare truth of the matter is you picked me purely for my handsome looks.”
She pursed her lips, though her eyes danced with amusement. “Well, while on the subject of your manly attributes, your muscular thighs and athletic build played a part in my decision. The scar on your knuckle suggests an injury from a fistfight. I need a man whose physical strength is equal to his mental prowess.”
“You need a man?” he said, pressing her further. “Are you certain you’ve come to the right place, Miss Dunn? But tell me, what if Mr D’Angelo was the only agent available? Your keen observations would have been for nought.”
“On the contrary,” she challenged.
“Are you suggesting you’re capable of dealing with a lothario?” He laughed. Indeed, he could not recall a time when he’d enjoyed bantering with a woman. “Can you manage a man who has contempt for women who wear spectacles?”
“They’re hypothetical questions. You will take my case even if stretched to make the time. You see, Mr Ashwood, the truth of the matter is that you’re desperate to know what brings me here. You’re eager to know what is written in my notebook.”
Chapter 2
Eva might have made a mistake.
Yes, she had used the principles of reasoning when choosing Mr Ashwood to hear her case. Common sense said he was mentally and physically equipped to deal with the complicated situation. He was a man who took work seriously. A man whose commanding presence radiated from every aspect of his being. Yet she had not expected to find a devilish charm beneath his professional exterior.
“Now I know why there are so many simpering misses in the ballroom, Miss Dunn,” the gentleman with exceptional green eyes said. “When distributing honesty and confidence, the Lord gave you the lion’s share.”
It took immense effort not to laugh. It was easy to feign belief in oneself, easy to speak with certitude. Yet every muscle in her body quivered. The hollow feeling in her chest expanded, bringing the persistent wave of nausea that had plagued her since the violent attack.
“Timidity is a useless pursuit, sir,” she said, recalling the strength it took to fight the fiend. “A lady in my position cannot afford to play the meek maid simply because men find submissiveness attractive.”
“That’s a rather sweeping statement. Some men despise the docile types.” His lips curled into a sensual smile that pinned her to the seat. “Some men prefer a challenge, seek a companion with spirit and an intelligent mind.”
“I have yet to meet one.” Such men were a rare breed.
Mr Ashwood brushed his hand through his golden brown hair. “And yet the slight tension in your voice suggests otherwise.”
Good heavens. It was pointless hiding anything from this man. He noted every little movement, every little nuance. He saw beyond the wall she had constructed to hide her pain.
“Then let me rephrase. I have yet to meet one with integrity.” For all Mr Hemming’s protestations of morality, he was as debased as her brother.
“When it comes to seduction, a scoundrel will use any means necessary to achieve his goal.” He scanned her body as if looking for dirty handprints, evidence left by the last devil who backed her into a corner and sought to take advantage. “Tactics you have experienced firsthand. It’s why you chose the agent who commanded Mrs Gunning’s respect.”
“Clearly, I am not the only one with keen observation skills.”
“No,” he mused. “I learn something new every time you open your mouth, Miss Dunn.”
Heavens! His velvet voice made the innocent comment sound highly suggestive.
“Then between us, we should solve this case quickly, sir.”
“One would think so.” He gave a half shrug. “Though I haven’t agreed to help you with your problem.”
“Oh, but you will agree.” He had to agree. She no longer had the strength to face her mounting problems.
“As your confidence knows no bounds, Miss Dunn, perhaps you should begin your distressing tale.” He relaxed back in the chair. His verdant gaze lost its playful sparkle as he stared intently. “All I ask is that you speak plainly. Honestly.”
Eva glanced at the quill pen resting on the inkstand. “Will you not take notes, Mr Ashwood?”
“I have an excellent memory, and paper is expensive.”
“You will need an exceptional memory if you’re to recall the details of my case.” Indeed, there were so many elements to the tale she wasn’t sure where to start.
“Madam, you have no need to doubt my ability in any regard.”
No, he gave the impression he was skilled at most things. And yet she couldn’t wait to see a frown appear on his brow, couldn’t wait to see the puzzled expression as he tried to make sense of the facts.
Eva smiled to hide the sudden flurry of nerves. The incredulous story was like something from one of her novels. Playing the narrator rather than the victim would make it easier to relay the information.
“Let me begin, sir, by explaining my background. While society considers my father a gentleman, he is a rake and a wastrel and has no concept of moral standards. He has lived in Italy since my mother’s death ten years ago and has recently remarried. At four and twenty, I am three years older than my Italian stepmother.”
“I see.” Mr Ashwood arched a knowing brow. “So, you have lived with a relative since the age of fourteen. You must resent your father.”
&
nbsp; “As much as any child abandoned by a parent. And yes, I lived with my godfather, Mr Thomas Becker, until he passed away last year.”
“Thomas Becker? The poet?” Mr Ashwood’s eyes widened. They really were the most magnificent shade of green. “If so, I have his entire collection. The Wanderer is a personal favourite.”
So, this dangerous-looking gentleman loved poetry. That piqued Eva’s interest. “Yes, his love of Norse mythology is evident in many of his works.”
“I find the notion of Odin disguising himself as a wounded vagrant to teach humility rather fascinating.”
Eva’s breath caught in her throat. Mr Ashwood’s intelligent comment enhanced his appeal. “A vagrant may be wiser than a king, but without position and power few take notice.”
“Indeed.” A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Do you pen poems, too, Miss Dunn? The ink stains and the red marks on your fingers suggest you write more than the odd letter. Why else would you have an interest in an acid that can kill a man in seconds?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re remarkably perceptive, Mr Ashwood.” Too perceptive. What else had the gentleman determined during their brief conversation? “Yes, I write, though not poetry. But I shall come to that in a moment.”
“Then I await your explanation with anticipation, Miss Dunn.”
Eva paused while deciding where to restart her tale. “My brother, Mr Howard Dunn, inherited twenty thousand pounds upon our godfather’s death. Though I am sorry to say, he also inherited our father’s outlandish behaviour and has frittered away his good fortune at the gaming tables.”
Mr Ashwood sat forward. Disappointment marred his fine features. “We help those in dire need, Miss Dunn. We save boys from the hangman’s noose. We do not bring wastrel brothers to heel.”
No, that was a task beyond a mere mortal’s capabilities.
“Even if that were my reason for calling, it would prove an impossible feat considering my brother has been missing for a week.” Anticipating Mr Ashwood’s next comment, she added, “And no, Howard is not abed with his mistress, nor is he comatose in an opium den. Not this time, at least.”
“Perhaps he has eloped with an heiress.”
“Howard would never shackle himself to one woman.” A fact he had made abundantly clear.
Mr Ashwood smirked. “Most married men keep a mistress, so your point is mute. Have you considered the possibility that he’s fled the country to escape his creditors?”
She would have drawn that conclusion, too, had it not been for the other strange happenings. “Having broken the lock on his bedside drawer, I discovered Howard owes three thousand pounds to The Silver Serpent. It’s a gaming hell on—”
“Yes, Miss Dunn. I know the proprietor.”
Relief burst through her veins. “Oh, then you might discover if Howard’s debts have something to do with his disappearance. It’s said a man who fails to pay is thrown into the Thames with a sack of bricks strapped to his back.”
Mr Ashwood cast a look of reproach. “An intelligent woman should not lend weight to gossip.”
“Would you have me believe such things never happen?”
“No,” he said with a sigh. “Though you have my assurance Dermot Flannery has not murdered your brother.” Mr Ashwood pushed out of the chair. Clearly, he had heard enough. “Forgive me, Miss Dunn, but we haven’t the time to search for profligates who should know better. However, I will speak to Dermot Flannery about your brother’s debt. If you leave your direction with Mrs—”
“But I’ve yet to explain my reason for calling.”
Mr Ashwood frowned. “You said your brother is missing. I assumed that’s why you’re here.”
“As you say, rogues often go astray.” Eva had already enquired at every high-end brothel, every backstreet whorehouse, every gaming hell. She had even sent her footman to the mortuary looking for a fool with a fatal gunshot wound. “Were it not for a catalogue of other worrying events, I would not waste your time, sir.”
“Forgive me,” he said in the rich drawl that warmed her insides. “I’m used to people so desperate to tell their tale they barely draw breath. Your calm voice belies the distressing nature of your problem.”
When one lived with a devil, unsettling situations were commonplace. And crafting frightening tales gave one the courage to converse about matters some ladies found alarming.
“Perhaps that has something to do with my profession.”
“You write for a living,” he stated, lowering his muscular frame into the chair.
Eva paused. “I presume any discussion remains confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then yes, I write fictional stories of murder and mayhem under the pseudonym of Mr Cain Dunnavan.”
She waited for the deep sigh, the tut, the derisive snort and roll of the eyes. Howard found the idea ludicrous. Women lacked intellect, lacked the worldly experience necessary to construct a convincing tale. Yet the fickle fool sang a different tune when Eva paid his tailor’s bill.
Mr Ashwood shocked her by smiling. “I read The Blood Pendant and admire your courage in casting Sister Magdalene as the villain. That’s when I suspected Cain Dunnavan was a woman.”
Eva didn’t hide her surprise. Gentlemen rarely admitted to reading novels. “Why? Do you find the idea of a nun committing a crime unrealistic?”
“Men tend to cast women as foolish victims, or devious vixens who use seduction to corrupt unsuspecting lovers. Sister Magdalene’s twisted logic shows that men and women are equally cruel. Only a woman would be brave enough to explore that idea, Miss Dunn.”
Eva’s pulse raced. Not since her godfather’s passing had she engaged in such an interesting conversation, and never with a man whose physical appearance stirred her senses. Heavens. It was all too much. Indeed, she considered informing Mr Ashwood that she had picked the wrong agent. She was far more capable of dealing with Mr D’Angelo’s rakish gaze.
“But you didn’t come here to discuss literature,” he continued. “And we seem to deviate from your purpose with shocking ease.”
When one sat opposite a gentleman with such a charismatic character thoughts were bound to stray.
“In summary,” he continued, “your brother has not come home, and you write novels for a living. Neither facts seem particularly distressing.”
“Then I shall explain my reason for coming in a few sentences.”
“I think that’s wise. I have another appointment at three.”
Eva did not need to glance at the mantel clock to appreciate the man’s sarcasm. “Are you sure you do not wish to take notes?”
“You’re stalling, Miss Dunn. Give me the facts and let me worry about my memory.”
Perhaps she was stalling. It all sounded so ludicrous. The gentleman would blame her wild imagination. Novelists were prone to moments of fancy.
After inhaling deeply, she said, “I am being blackmailed, Mr Ashwood. I received a letter threatening to reveal Cain Dunnavan’s true identity. A thousand pounds is the price for the blackmailer’s silence else the story shall appear in the broadsheets. But that is not all. Last night, while walking home from my publisher’s office, I was attacked in the street.”
“Attacked!” Mr Ashwood sat forward. His panicked green gaze scanned her face and body. “Were you hurt?”
“I have a nasty black bruise on my thigh.”
“On your thigh?” Mr Ashwood swallowed deeply.
“Yes. The fiend wrestled me to the ground and stole my boots.” The blighter had shoved her skirts up past her knees and practically ripped the boots off her feet. “I had ten pounds in my reticule, a partial advance from Mr Hemming, yet the blackguard was only interested in my footwear.”
Mr Hemming had given her the advance to ease his conscience. But she would come to that later.
“Hemming?”
“My publisher.”
Mr Ashwood nodded.
“But that is not all. I returned
home to find that someone had broken into my house while my servants were taking supper. The thief took every pair of boots and shoes I possess.”
“Surely not every pair. You walked here today.”
“Every pair.” Eva stood. She placed her gloves and notebook near the inkstand before rounding the desk and raising her hem a fraction. “See. These tatty old boots belong to my maid. The poor girl is going about her duties wearing my mother’s best dancing slippers.”
The gentleman considered the scuffed boots before his gaze climbed slowly over the entire length of her body. “May I ask why the thief failed to take the dancing slippers?”
“They were hidden in a hatbox along with other personal mementoes.”
“I see.” He gestured to the chair. “You may lower your skirts and sit, Miss Dunn, before I make further study of your trim ankles.”
Oh, the man was a terrible tease.
Eva dropped her skirts and brushed the material to hide her mild embarrassment. “But that is not all,” she said, returning to her seat.
“No, I don’t imagine it is. Though I wonder why you’re here when your profession suggests you have the tools necessary to solve complicated mysteries.”
Eva had spent a sleepless night making notes, looking for connections, rummaging through her brother’s possessions to find clues. But she had struggled to remain objective and had other reasons for seeking professional help.
“Because emotions cloud one’s judgement. I find the situation overwhelming.” And due to her brother’s wicked ways, she had no friends she could trust. “I need guidance. I need someone to take my hand and steer me through the fog.” Eva glanced at Mr Ashwood’s strong hands resting on the desk. A woman would never feel afraid when held in his firm grip. “I speak metaphorically, of course.”
“Of course.”
Silence descended, yet an invisible energy thrummed in the air—a palpable attraction she could not suppress.
“I am also a victim of snowing,” she said.