The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  “My gut says both men are guilty of a crime.”

  She had to agree, particularly in the case of Lord Newberry.

  Silence ensued, and they continued studying the journals.

  While musing over the text, a low hum left his lips. Heavens. It brought to mind the sweet sound of satisfaction when he found his release. Oh, he had looked magnificent then, so relaxed and untroubled.

  “My father never spoke to you of his suspicions?” A pooling of heat between her thighs made it hard to sit still. Lust was the devil’s distraction. “I find that strange considering you were so close.”

  His sigh, and the way he brushed his hand through his hair, told her he thought the same. “Atticus insisted on working with Proctor. In the interest of safety, those working on a case are sworn to secrecy.”

  “I would have thought it safer if all members had access to the information. It is more difficult to murder eight men than two.”

  “Even the most trustworthy men are open to temptation. Open to acts of betrayal.” His gaze roamed over her face. “It was a rule your father made. A rule that was supposed to protect lives.”

  And yet both men working on the case were dead.

  “May I ask how you came to find Mr Proctor’s body?”

  Lucius sat back in the chair. “I received a note to meet him on Bishop’s Walk, Lambeth, near the church. A wall and an avenue of trees block the view of the path. I arrived at midnight as requested, found him slumped on the bank with a knife protruding from his chest.”

  “Someone stabbed him?” Shock made her state the obvious. She winced, not wanting to imagine the harrowing scene. “Was he already dead?”

  Lucius nodded. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep sorrowful breath. “I pushed him into the river. What else could I do? Then I fled, fearing someone sought to frame me for his murder. It was the night your father died. I visited Proctor’s lodgings, looking for his notes on the case, but found nothing. Then I returned home and drank myself into oblivion.”

  Despite the burning need to offer comfort, touching him would only rouse lustful thoughts. Lucius needed her help, needed her to focus.

  “In his note, did Mr Proctor say why he wanted to meet you?”

  “No. Only that he had discovered something important, something he thought I should know.”

  “And you have no idea what?”

  “No.”

  “And why there?”

  “He lived but a stone’s throw away on Stangate Street.” The perfect lines of his face twisted into a grimace. “Had I woken your father and informed him of what had occurred, had guilt not consumed me, had I not drowned my sorrows with brandy, I might have saved your father’s life.”

  Shock, that there might be some truth to his words, that he could have prevented the tragedy, was swept away by logic and her growing love for this man.

  “You don’t know that’s true, Lucius. Did you not heed my father’s advice? Did he not say that you can torture your mind with stories that have no basis in fact?”

  He stared at her with grateful eyes, stared for the longest time.

  The clatter of china preceded the arrival of Tomas carrying the tea tray. He set the tray down on the table, explained that Robert and Samuel had freed the carriage. He placed the plate of Shrewsbury biscuits next to Sybil, gave a nudge and a wink and urged her to try one.

  “And Furnis delivered these to the Wild Hare this morning, sir.” Tomas handed Lucius a pile of letters. “Robert collected them a half hour ago.”

  The man left them to their tea, and Sybil poured while Lucius broke the first seal and read the missive.

  “An invitation to attend Mrs Crandall’s masquerade.” He screwed up the card, reached behind him and threw it into the fire. The next was a letter from Mr Warner, and Lucius blurted, “Damn fop. I’ve been instructed to make an appointment should I wish to visit the duke in future. We shall see about that.”

  “I fear Mr Warner has suffered from a terrible lapse in judgement.”

  Lucius grinned. It was good to see excitement dance in his eyes. “I shall relish the prospect of informing him of his blunder.” He threw that letter into the fire, too. “Damn,” he said upon scanning the next note. “It’s from Wycliff. I don’t know whether to curse or jump for joy.”

  Whatever the reaction, Sybil was impressed by Mr Wycliff’s prompt response. “Does he have news from Mr Flannery?”

  Lucius shook his head and laughed. “Wycliff knows how to make a man feel inadequate.”

  “Trust me,” she said, smiling over the rim of her teacup. “There is nothing inadequate about you, Mr Daventry.” She spent a few seconds remembering just how competent he was. “What does Mr Wycliff say?”

  “Only that Flannery gave him the address of a private club called Gorget’s Garrett. He said he’s meeting Flannery this afternoon and will have other information to impart. He invites us both to his house on Bruton Street tonight.”

  “Then we shall attend.”

  He pursed his lips and exhaled deeply. “I agreed to meet my mother in Brook Street at eight. It’s supposed to be a night of explanations. And I have a burning desire to know why she’s taken a room at the Black Swan.”

  Perhaps his mother knew he owned the castle and merely wished to stay close while attempting a reunion. “Maybe I could call on the Wycliffs while you return to Brook Street. Then we will achieve both—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “After Newberry’s threat to have you carted off to an asylum in the dead of night, I don’t want you venturing to town. Put the idea from your mind. It’s safer here. Safer if we remain together.”

  “You forget, sir, that I do not respond well to orders.” She knew his assertiveness stemmed from fear—fear for her wellbeing. But if their relationship was to flourish, they had to work together.

  He arched a brow. “Was it an order?”

  “You might have phrased it differently. Not been so blunt.”

  “Forgive me.” A smile played on his lips. The blue flecks in his eyes glistened. “I ask, I beg, that you remain by my side. I cannot lose you, Sybil. Not because of a promise made, but because I need you in my life.”

  The words touched her heart. She couldn’t imagine a life without him, either. “Then we shall visit the Wycliffs together. You can leave a note with Bower asking your mother to meet you tomorrow.”

  His smile broadened. “That’s settled then.”

  “Yes.” As they stared at each other across the table, she knew his thoughts mirrored her own. Knew one kiss would lead to an afternoon spent in bed. “Let us return to the task at hand,” she said, repeating his earlier statement. “Tonight, I shall worship you in the way that makes your toes curl.”

  “Minx,” he said, still watching her while he broke the seal on the last letter. “How is a man to concentrate when his mind is imagining all the delightful things you might do?”

  His gaze dropped to the missive. He read a few lines, then his amused expression faded. Wearing a heavy frown, he studied the letter with a look of confusion, surprise, then elation.

  Sybil fought the urge to ask a host of questions while she waited patiently for him to finish reading.

  “It’s regarding the letters Atticus sent to India,” he eventually said. “This is addressed to your father from a Messrs. James & Sons solicitors in Guilford Street. Blake must have delivered it to Brook Street.”

  “From a solicitor? Not from the man my father believed owned a share in the mine?”

  “It simply says that Mr Dobson is deceased, that he died of a tropical fever eighteen months ago, and that any questions regarding his estate should be addressed to his cousin.” Lucius shook his head, laughed and uttered, “The conniving devil.”

  “Who?” Sybil was almost out of her chair in anticipation.

  “Newberry. Mr Dobson is cousin to Lord Newberry.”

  They both sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the important revelation. She
had known Newberry was guilty of something. Why else would he offer such an extortionate sum when he lacked the mental capacity to understand scientific theories?

  “Come. We’re going to town.” Lucius slapped the table and pushed out of the chair, but then hesitated. “Would you care to accompany me to town, Miss Atwood?”

  “I would be delighted, Mr Daventry. What are your intentions?”

  A wicked grin replaced his elated smile. “First, we shall call on Newberry and drag a confession from his devious lips. Then we shall visit Wycliff before returning home to Bronygarth where you will make good on your promise to make my toes curl.”

  Heavens, she could hardly wait.

  “You omitted one minor detail.”

  “Oh? And I’m usually so thorough.”

  Sybil arched a coy brow. “On the way to town, you might like to examine my stockings.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “There is no evidence to suggest Lord Newberry is the mystery third owner of the mine. No evidence to prove he conspired to bring about its collapse. Or that he killed my father because he was getting close to the truth.”

  “No evidence at all,” Lucius agreed as he watched Sybil brush her skirts and straighten her jaunty hat. “Only conjecture. But I can be rather persuasive when I want something.”

  “Very persuasive. Still, you cannot barge into a peer’s home and accuse him of murder.” She fastened the buttons on her dark green pelisse and relaxed back in the carriage seat. “There. How do I look?”

  “Composed. Confident. Like a woman ready to tear the truth from the devil’s lips.”

  She smiled. “Not like a woman whose lover has examined her stockings?”

  Her lover? Oh, he wanted to be so much more than that. “The pleasure gained from your release has left an indelible glow I find utterly captivating.”

  A light laugh left her. “I admire your honesty.”

  And yet he had not been totally honest. Navigating unfamiliar territory left him nervous, unsteady on his feet. How did a man tell a woman he had fallen in love with her? How did he explain what she meant to him?

  “I’m glad,” he said, shifting his thoughts back to easing his physical ache. “In the name of honesty and equality, you won’t mind pleasuring me on the journey home.”

  Her eyes widened. “A lady with a hunger for knowledge welcomes new experiences.”

  They might have continued their salacious banter had the carriage not stopped outside Lord Newberry’s house in Cavendish Square.

  “Lucius, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” She peered through the window at the façade that bore the same air of grandeur as its master.

  “Don’t be afraid. Newberry won’t dare threaten you in my company.” Indeed, Lucius was more concerned with how he might keep calm when he wanted to rip the lord’s head off his shoulders.

  Despite not having an appointment, the liveried footman hurried down the steps to open the carriage door. It would be a battle getting past the butler. Lucius thought about ditching his measly arrows and loading the trebuchet, but he had the perfect weapon with which to enter.

  Indeed, he handed his card to Newberry’s pompous servant, said he had come to discuss terms relating to the sale of Atticus Atwood’s journals. A brief conversation with the lord resulted in the sprightly butler ushering them into the study.

  After a tepid greeting and an exchange of the usual glib phrases, the smug lord positioned himself behind his desk, relaxed back in the chair and grinned with gleaming satisfaction.

  “Well, Daventry, I’m glad you’ve seen sense at last.” The lord looked down his nose at Sybil. “Let me start by saying I forgive your pitiful attempt to slander my good name, Miss Atwood. Fanciful notions and fairy tales scream of desperation, do they not?”

  Lucius was forced to interject. “Moderate your tone when speaking to Miss Atwood.” Else he was likely to fly over the desk and drive his fist down the arrogant lord’s throat.

  “I think you’ll find most fairy tales are based on reality,” Sybil countered. “Every story has a villain. A wicked devil who professes loyalty and kindness but in truth is a vain creature obsessed with his own self-importance.”

  Lucius cast her a sidelong glance. He couldn’t be prouder.

  Newberry’s jaw firmed. “Then this is a subverted tale, my dear. Greed wins over morality. Daventry is no fool. Money can help insignificant men rise in the ranks.”

  “And the truth can bring haughty, overweening prigs to their knees,” Lucius countered. “Make no mistake, Newberry, I’m here to see justice prevails.”

  Newberry straightened. His blue eyes shifted suspiciously. “Why do I get the impression you’re not here to sell the books? You have no intention of accepting my offer.” He frowned. “If this is about what happened with Larissa—”

  “I don’t give a damn about Larissa.”

  “What then?” Newberry’s gaze darted back and forth between them. “Have you come to warn me over the way I spoke to Miss Atwood?”

  “Warn you?” Lucius snorted. “I want to kill you for frightening her with threats of kidnapping and asylums.”

  Newberry gave a derisive snort. “So, you’ve taken Miss Atwood as your mistress. You say this isn’t about money, yet you had her appear at the auction to force men to up their bids.”

  Lucius was losing patience. “Miss Atwood is not my mistress.” It was not a lie. She was the woman he loved. The woman he would marry once this dreadful business was over. Assuming she’d have him. “Her father was my friend. A man who trusted me with information he’d discovered about certain men in the ton.”

  Newberry seemed to consider his reply carefully before saying, “So, you’ve come to blackmail me over an imagined misdemeanour. Is that it?”

  Lucius sighed and decided to fire the trebuchet. “I received a letter this morning from the solicitor dealing with Mr Dobson’s estate.” He grinned. “You know Mr Dobson, of course. He’s your cousin and was one of the owners of a mine near Wigan. Along with Lord Talbot, you were a partner in the venture.”

  Guilt turned Newberry’s face chalk-white. He drew his handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his brow. “What the devil are you talking about, Daventry?” He gulped nervously in spite of his belligerent tone. “Wigan? Don’t be absurd. Do I look like a man who frequents northern towns?”

  Lucius noted the lord’s visible anxiety. But how was he to extract the information without evidence? Most crimes stemmed from greed or family loyalty. Why would a man living in India invest in a mine thousands of miles from home? Unless he’d fled to India, having arranged the collapse.

  “If you’re not here to sell the damn journals, I suggest you leave.” Newberry stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “Don’t be so hasty. You can have the journals for our agreed sum of seven thousand pounds.” Lucius was aware of Sybil’s frantic gaze shooting in his direction. “There’s nothing in them but theories on magnetism, on electric circuits and isolating metals. You said you can settle today. Excellent. I can wait while you gather the funds and sign the notes.”

  Newberry appeared confused.

  The tension in the air was palpable.

  The silence proved deafening.

  “It baffles me why so many men are interested in mathematical equations and quantitative reasoning,” Lucius added. “I fail to appreciate their value myself.”

  Newberry sat forward and gripped the desk. “What about my written statement of intention?” Unease coated every syllable.

  “As you said, insignificant men need money.” He paused, let the silence stretch until the atmosphere proved suffocating. “And it’s Atticus Atwood’s notebooks that interest me, not his journals.”

  “Notebooks?” Newberry developed an odd facial tic. “More theories?”

  “Precisely. Theories on the devious deeds committed by privileged men. You might wish to bid for them, too, considering they make mention of your cousin Mr Dobson causing the col
lapse of a mine near Wigan. It’s said that’s the reason he fled to India.”

  “Theories are not fact,” the lord countered.

  “No, but there are fascinating accounts from witnesses. And Messrs. James & Sons were accommodating when I called at their office this morning. It seems poor Mr Dobson had a mountain of debts,” Lucius lied. “Desperate men do desperate things, Newberry.”

  Sybil cleared her throat. “As I said, I have read my father’s books and know of the damning statements.”

  After another clawing silence, Newberry said, “There is nothing to prove I had a share in the mine. Nothing to prove I had anything to do with the tragic accident.”

  No, because all records had been mysteriously destroyed.

  “I think we all know it wasn’t an accident,” Sybil said gravely.

  Lucius tempered his anger. “That’s a matter for the authorities to decide. As well as the deaths of those who perished in the mine, there’s the question of Atticus Atwood’s murder to address.” Proving any of it would be an impossible feat. “The magistrate is interested to hear of anyone with a motive.”

  “Murder!” Newberry shot out of the chair as if the pad were on fire. “Good God, Daventry. I swear, I knew nothing about Dobson’s plans in Wigan. The man was a bloody idiot. I packed him off as soon as he confessed to evicting the tenants and having a buyer for the land.”

  “You were his partner in the venture.”

  “I just lent him the damn money in exchange for a thirty percent share.” The lord dragged his hand through his hair, then reached into the desk drawer. He removed a silver flask and gulped the contents. “As for Atticus,” he said, throwing the flask back into the drawer, “yes, he asked me about Dobson owning the mine, but as God is my witness, I didn’t kill the man.”

  “His death must have brought some relief,” Sybil countered, the pain of losing her father hiding in her voice. “Admit it was convenient timing.”

  “Damn it, no! Atwood was willing to negotiate, to drop the matter if I agreed to abide by certain conditions. Then he died, and I discovered Daventry had inherited his damn books.” Newberry flopped into the chair, released a weary sigh and turned to Lucius. “I’ve been waiting for months for your blackmail note. When you said you were selling Atwood’s work, I seized the opportunity, would have paid anything to obtain them.”