by Clee, Adele
Lucius swallowed deeply. “Atticus was my friend. The only person who visited me at school during my lengthy and harrowing ordeal in Yorkshire.”
The atmosphere in the carriage shifted.
All tension dissipated.
The Wycliffs looked at each other, understanding and pity swimming in their eyes. The gentleman brought his wife’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Well,” Mrs Wycliff began when her husband finally released his grip. “I know what it is like to sit alone in a seminary and have no one come visit. Your actions stem from loyalty, loyalty to the one person who cared.”
“School can be an unpleasant place for the illegitimate sons of the aristocracy.” Mr Wycliff clearly spoke from experience. “Do you stand by your earlier declaration?”
Lucius cast Sybil a sidelong glance. “I will do whatever it takes to protect Miss Atwood.”
Mr Wycliff seemed to find something amusing when he said, “And if marriage is the only means of saving her reputation?”
Marriage!
“Sir,” Sybil began, laughing at the absurdity of the question. Lucius Daventry was already married, married to the Order. He’d openly admitted that work was his life. “There is no need to—”
“Yes,” came Lucius’ steadfast reply. “Should the need arise, and Miss Atwood is willing.”
Sybil’s mouth dropped open. Yet while she found the notion ludicrous, the possibility of sharing her life with such a passionate, intelligent man roused a strange longing.
“Good,” Mr Wycliff replied. “Let me make you aware of our resources should you need assistance. You’ve heard of a gaming hell called The Silver Serpent.”
“Dermot Flannery’s establishment.”
“Dermot is as close as kin and can be called upon when needed.”
Lucius seemed impressed. “Flannery has the respect of the rogues in the rookeries, and the lords whose vowels he holds.”
“As such, he is extremely resourceful.” Mr Wycliff paused. “As you know, Mrs Crandall is fond of Cavanagh and is willing to negotiate when it comes to trading secrets. Assuming you have a secret worth trading. And you know my father, I’m sure. Blackbeck is a fountain of knowledge when it comes to the history of those in the upper echelons.”
Sybil narrowed her gaze. “And why would you help us, sir?”
Mr Wycliff smirked. “As sons who’ve suffered as a result of our illegitimacy, Daventry and I share a kinship. And I like honest men, Miss Atwood.”
Silence ensued, though Sybil could almost hear the cogs turning in Lucius’ mind. Eventually he said, “A man died during a riot in Smithfield Market, a Mr Cribb who lodged above the china dealer in Saffron Hill. I’ve spoken to his neighbours, but like his death, the man’s life is a mystery. If Flannery could use his connections to discover anything pertinent, it would be an immense help.”
“Consider it done.”
“And I’m curious whether Flannery has ever heard of the term Gorget’s Garrett.”
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “I shall visit Flannery tonight and make enquiries.”
“Can I ask that you escort Miss Atwood home?”
Panic tightened Sybil’s chest.
Surely Lucius still planned for her to stay with him at Bronygarth.
“There’s every chance Cassandra will visit me in Half Moon Street tomorrow,” she said, attempting to remind him of their prearranged plan. “Perhaps you need to offer the Wycliffs more information regarding my whereabouts.”
Lucius grimaced but gave a curt nod. He glanced at the gentleman seated opposite. “Hired thugs tried to kidnap Miss Atwood some nights ago. Consequently, she is staying at a secret location. Should anyone call after midnight this evening, they will not find her in Half Moon Street.” He paused. “I assume I can trust your discretion in this matter.”
“You can,” Mrs Wycliff quickly replied when a disapproving grumble escaped her husband. “And yes, we will see Miss Atwood home.”
“May I ask that you remain with her until my coachman calls?”
The lady smiled. “You may, and we will.”
Sybil silently groaned. Midnight felt like days away. Perhaps Mrs Wycliff was right. Perhaps she was a little obsessed with Lucius Daventry. Surely it wasn’t normal to ache for a man’s company.
“Then you have my utmost gratitude,” Lucius replied. “Miss Atwood’s safety is extremely important to me.”
Mrs Wycliff glanced at her husband. “I think that is plain for all to see.”
Chapter Twelve
Minutes had passed since Damian Wycliff’s burly coachwoman flicked the reins and guided the carriage out of the mews. Yet Lucius stood, staring through the soft glow from the lit braziers, trying to make sense of the internal chaos.
He held his fists clenched so tight it would take effort to unfurl his fingers. His ragged breaths sent puffs of white mist into the night air—the smoke of fury’s flames. Grooms and stable hands working in the cobblestone alley froze when Lucius blurted a vile curse.
No one dared utter a word.
No one dared approach.
Not since his youth had he been forced to account for his actions. What he did with Sybil Atwood in the privacy of a locked library was his own damned affair. And yet fragments of logical thought said he should be grateful, grateful there were people who cared for Sybil’s welfare.
To make matters worse, the Wycliffs had offered their assistance—as if they possessed more skill than those working the murky streets solving crimes. But having access to a man as knowledgeable as Dermot Flannery was worth the trouble of dealing with Damian Wycliff’s arrogance.
Lucius might have spent the next few minutes considering why Sir Melrose had trinkets hidden in a secret cupboard. He might have considered Newberry’s vile threats. Might have spouted another vicious profanity. But the only event that demanded his consideration was the passionate kiss he had shared with Sybil Atwood.
Merciful Lord. It had taken every ounce of strength he had not to settle between her soft thighs and drive long and deep into the only place he belonged. During sleepless nights, when woken by a nightmare, he’d often imagined taking her in his arms and delving into her warm, wet mouth.
Nothing prepared him for the reality.
Even now, her captivating scent clung to his clothes, obliterating the acrid aroma of damp stables, piss and wood smoke. When he moistened his lips, he could still taste the sweet essence that drove him wild.
Upon their return to Bronygarth, he would need to maintain some distance. Their priority was to find the person responsible for Atticus’ death. To ensure Miss Atwood could live life without the constant fear of threats.
Those thoughts proved sobering.
Sobering enough to bring his mind back to the investigation. He still had time to search for Newberry, time to discover why the lord had bedded Larissa, why he was prying into Lucius’ affairs. But since deciding to prove Atticus was murdered, something always happened to hinder his plans.
Now, the whisper of his name from the shadows of a carriage house stole his attention. The sibilant sound brought an image of Larissa Sinclair. No doubt the widow had followed him from the house, keen to discover if Miss Atwood was to be his next mistress.
Anger flared anew.
He straightened and stormed across the yard towards the open wooden doors. “What do you want, Larissa?”
The shuffling of footsteps in the darkness preceded the appearance of a woman shrouded in a thick blue cloak. Beneath the raised hood, it was impossible to distinguish her face. The visible black locks should have confirmed his suspicion. Only when she stepped closer did he notice the vivid streak of grey.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The fact the woman’s soothing tone was so opposed to Larissa’s serpent hiss proved unnerving. She took a hesitant step towards him. “But I could not risk being seen by your friends.”
“Do I know you?” Lucius narrowed his gaze.
Her
light laugh carried a nervous tension. “I should hope you do, though it has been far too long since I took your hand and sang you a lullaby.”
A lullaby?
He stilled. “Is this some wicked devil’s trick to confuse my mind?”
“A devil’s trick? No, Lucius. It is a mother’s way of attempting to greet her son.”
Time crashed to a halt.
Shock rendered him rigid.
The word mother gripped his tongue with desperate fingers, for he lacked the strength and courage to let it fall.
She edged closer, craned her neck and peered out into the mews before lowering her hood. “My, how you’ve grown.”
His heart thumped so hard he couldn’t breathe. How could this be? Julia Fontaine had been murdered in a jealous rage, buried in an unmarked grave in the grounds of Bideford Park.
“I thought you were dead.”
The duke had said as much.
Skilled in prophecy, Lucius had predicted Sybil would sneak into his house at night, predicted someone would attack them on their return to Half Moon Street, predicted that at some point he would fall victim to her charms. But he could never have predicted this.
“Is that what your father told you?” His mother remained in the carriage house, and Lucius was forced to join her there. “You poor boy.”
Disbelief made him study every facial feature, every blemish, every line. Despite trying to keep his mother’s image alive in his mind, the picture had grown hazy over the years. It didn’t help that his father had torn down her portrait and slashed the canvas to shreds.
“I’m no longer a boy.” He hated that she’d called him that—the word his father used as a weapon to belittle him, to strip him of his identity.
“No.” She released a weary sigh. “It’s been twenty years since we last spoke.”
“Almost twenty-one.”
Discomfort clawed at his shoulders. In his fantasy, he had imagined rushing into her embrace, imagined her stroking his hair, saying that she had never meant to leave him. Everything felt right. Perfect. As if the bond had never been broken. The ties never severed. The love never lost.
“I understand your reticence,” she said, and he wondered why her voice was devoid of guilt. “It’s been a long time. You must have many questions.”
It wasn’t the thousand questions that left him fraught with confusion. He had expected to see a young, attractive woman with vibrant eyes and porcelain skin. A perfect image of the woman who’d loved him and left him. Fool. This woman’s gaunt face spoke of hardship. Her wide blue eyes carried a deep, abiding sadness.
“Have you been living in London all this time?”
Surely not. Despite knowing he was the sole beneficiary of his grandmother’s estate, he had searched every workhouse, every brothel, studied every actress in every play. He had stared at every lord’s mistress, hoping, praying that his father’s cruel words amounted to nothing but rotten lies.
“No. When I left, I went north.”
“You were the one who left?” He could not hide his surprise. “The duke didn’t have you removed from the house?” In his distant memory, he’d pictured her clinging to the door jamb, begging to stay.
She kicked at the straw strewn over the cobblestones. “I fled in fear of my life. Your father … he had a terrible temper.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, drawing attention to the small scar across her cheekbone. “I’d thought to come back, but the duke … he made it impossible for me to return.”
As a child, Lucius didn’t care which parent started the fight. He didn’t care who was to blame for their arguments—as long as they were together. A family. Now, he felt the need to punish someone for causing his pain.
But who?
The duke was an invalid on his deathbed.
Julia Fontaine looked to have suffered enough.
“Why seek me now?” he said, shocked at the coldness in his voice. Was this not the woman he had spent years mourning? Was this not the person who could fill the gaping hole in his heart?
“Surely it’s obvious.” Her watery laugh held no amusement. “I heard the duke is confined to his bed. They say he cannot speak. They say he lacks the strength to hold a nib and scrawl his name.”
Perhaps it was Atticus’ influence that made him wary and led him to ask, “Who told you of his illness? To my knowledge, few people are aware of the duke’s condition.”
“Does it matter?” She paused to cough into a handkerchief. “What matters is that after such a lengthy separation, we can be together now. What can he do? He cannot instruct his men to hunt me down. He cannot use devious methods to keep me away.”
“Then why are you hiding in the shadows?”
His mother laughed again, though the sound carried mild annoyance. “Must you question everything? Are you not pleased to see me, Lucius?”
He should have been ecstatic.
Yet for some reason, he felt detached.
Despite knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that this woman was Julia Fontaine—his missing mother—he did not feel the instant connection.
“I thought you were dead,” he repeated. “It’s a shock to find you’re living and breathing and not buried at Bideford Park.”
She closed the gap between them and gently touched his upper arm. Oh, he wanted to feel that rush of unconditional love—a warm burst of happiness—but it didn’t come.
He waited.
Nothing.
He brushed his anxiety aside.
These things took time.
“Perhaps I might come home with you this evening,” she said, hope springing in her doleful eyes. “If we must talk of the past, let us do so before the comfort of a warm fire, in the privacy of your drawing room. Away from your father’s spies.”
He hesitated.
An internal conflict raged. A war between a lonely boy’s hopes and dreams and the responsibility that came with being a man. What was he to do? Trust in a fantasy or something tangible?
“I have a prior engagement that cannot be postponed.” Nothing, not even the untimely arrival of his mother, would force him to leave Sybil alone at Bronygarth. Nothing would prevent him seeking justice for Atticus, the person who had given his friendship and support. “Give me your direction, and perhaps we might meet tomorrow evening.”
Her mouth thinned into a bitter smile. “Don’t you trust me, Lucius? Has your father poisoned your mind against me?”
This was where he might have faltered, might have tried to reassure this stranger who had disappeared so long ago. But over the last few years, he’d learned to look at most situations objectively.
Unless the subject was Sybil Atwood.
Then he lost all sense and reason.
“I have spent twenty years wondering what happened to you.” He had spent most of that time carrying the guilt, taking the blame. “One more day won’t make a difference.”
She muttered incoherently, clearly displeased at his response.
“Forgive me if you find my manner a little cold,” he said, feeling the need to explain, to make her understand just how her absence had affected him. “But when one has spent so long alone, one develops a need for caution.”
His mother touched his arm again. “You don’t need to be alone anymore, Lucius.”
He should have pictured a family scene, laughter around the dining table where Julia Fontaine spoke of her son’s quirky habits as a boy. Instead, he pictured himself in bed with Sybil Atwood, all tangled limbs and clasped hands as they struggled to catch their breath.
Lucius forced a smile. “Are you staying with friends? A lodging house, or hotel?”
“I’m staying out of town. Old habits die hard, and I fear your father will make a sudden recovery and learn of my unexpected arrival.” She paused. “I followed you from Brook Street tonight. A friend told me you live there.”
Strange that he hadn’t noticed her lingering in the shadows. He was usually quite thorough when it came to scanning the street for pot
ential threats.
“I own the house, though have never received an allowance from the duke.” Oddly, he had always hoped his refusal to accept the devil’s charity would make his mother proud. “I might have bought a commission had it not been for my grandmother’s legacy.”
Her dull blue eyes widened. “The duchess despised me. I’m surprised to hear she made provisions for you.”
“I speak of your mother, Katharine Fontaine, not the duchess.”
“My mother?” Her look of surprise turned to disbelief. Perhaps Katharine Fontaine had believed her daughter was dead, too. Perhaps they were estranged. Perhaps Julia knew nothing of his grandmother’s gift. “I had not spoken to her for some years before her death.”
“I should like to learn more about her when we meet tomorrow.” The solicitor had been vague in offering explanations for the bequest. “Come to Brook Street at eight.”
She inclined her head. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Shall I hail a hackney? A woman should not walk the streets alone at night.”
“You’re the gentleman your father never could be,” she said, her smile barely hiding a terrible sadness. “But my friend is waiting in a carriage on Swallow Street.”
“Then I shall walk with you.”
“No.” She seemed flustered. “It’s a short walk. You know how the gossips are. Should anyone see us together, your father will hear of it before the first cockcrow.”
“Then I shall have someone else accompany you.” Lucius’ conscience would not allow her to walk alone. He bid his mother good night, gestured to a groom and paid him to escort the lady to Swallow Street. Upon the groom’s return, Lucius asked, “Was there a carriage waiting?”
“Not a carriage, a hackney, sir.”
“Did you see if there was anyone else inside?”
The scrawny fellow shrugged. “A man called to the jarvey, but I didn’t see him.”
Lucius thanked the groom, who was keen to return to his work.
Again, Lucius found himself standing, staring into the dark, replaying what might have occurred in Julia’s life during those missing decades. The thoughts were as frustrating as not knowing whether she was alive or dead. Painting his father as the wicked villain was easy. His mother’s frightened face and thin frame marked her as the victim. Yet Atticus had advised him not to create stories in his mind to suit his mood or purpose.