by Clee, Adele
She clasped her hands to her chest. “What could you possibly want?”
“Permission to strip you bare.”
Despite being dressed in a deep sensual red, despite the provoking black gloves that conjured erotic dreams of a silk-covered hand stroking his cock, Miss Sands’ virgin lips trembled.
“Strip me bare?” She gulped.
“I speak metaphorically, of course.” Yet he fancied playing games with this innocent, wanted to see her naked and vulnerable, as vulnerable as she made him feel. “I wish to ask questions of an intimate nature. To understand the woman, not the agent.”
“Agreed,” she said with surprising confidence. “A woman without experience can have little to impart.”
“You may surprise yourself.”
Oh, she underestimated the power of flirtation and lewd banter. Not that he had any interest in bedding a virgin—whimpering was not the sound he wished to hear when banishing his demons. But he could rid her of this stiff exterior, help relax those tight muscles, ease her trauma.
Noting they’d passed the Royal Exchange and were about to rattle to a stop outside the goldsmith shop near Birchin Lane, Dante decided it was best he gave Miss Sands fair warning. As she’d rightly said, nothing was more important than catching Babington in the act.
“We’re here. Should you do anything to hinder the case, anything to prevent me from gathering evidence against Babington, I shall terminate our working partnership. Is that clear, Miss Sands?”
Her strained smile failed to reveal the sweet dimples on her cheeks. “Crystal clear, sir. Though you might want to think twice before casting me aside. Particularly when I have something you want.”
Damn. Miss Sands was a master puppeteer. She toyed with him as if he were a marionette, tugging his strings whenever she lost the upper hand, making him dance to her merry tune.
Perhaps he should take command of the controls, speak in the only way he knew would unnerve her. “Something I want? Daventry would likely banish me from the Order for bedding his only female agent.”
A blush as red as her coat crept up her neck. “Must every conversation resort back to your sexual prowess? No. I have information you will find invaluable.”
“Information about Babington?”
“No, sir. Information regarding the murder of your parents.”
Chapter 4
The pained look on Mr D’Angelo’s face tore at Beatrice’s heart, as did the wavering light of hope that lasted mere seconds. Both were replaced by an icy stare capable of freezing one’s blood.
The atmosphere in the carriage turned frigid.
He leant forward, resting his muscular arm on his equally solid thigh. “Do not toy with me in this matter.”
Beatrice swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I would never make light of something so serious. But we will discuss it at length once we’ve questioned the goldsmith.”
“You will tell me what you know now, Miss Sands.”
The hint of breathlessness in his stern voice came from a lifetime spent searching for the truth. Beatrice had known of her father’s murder for months, not years. Still, her lungs constricted whenever she envisioned his final moments, contemplated the injustice.
“Trust I will tell you everything once we’ve dealt with the goldsmith. I doubt you will be of a mind to work otherwise.”
His snort of contempt sent a shiver to her toes. “Your memory fails you, madam. I trust next to no one, and certainly not a woman I have only just met.”
Beatrice took a huge leap of faith and reached for his hand.
Mr D’Angelo flinched but did not pull away from her grasp.
“Then you must learn to trust me, sir. Rest assured, I shall give you every reason to have confidence in my character. There is nothing I want more than to help you find the devil responsible.”
He stared at their clasped hands before looking her keenly in the eyes. “Then let me caution you on two points, Miss Sands. If you intend to stand on the battlefield with me, there can be no retreat.”
Beatrice’s heart thumped like the pounding of a war drum. “Like you, I am prepared to fight to the death to discover the truth. Like you, I have nothing else to live for.” How could one forge a future when their past was a lie? “And your second point?”
His gaze slid from her eyes to her body with a slow appraisal. “We cannot be alone when you speak about my parents. I have but a few ways of dealing with my demons, and I would hate for lust to ruin what might be the beginning of a working friendship.”
Lust? Good Lord!
Did he even find her attractive, or was that of no consequence?
“And I would hate for my inquisitive mind to take command of my senses, sir.” Having had a bleak, lonely year since her aunt’s death, she would likely submit at the first sign of affection. “I suggest we find a coffeehouse and discuss the matter there.”
“Agreed.” He glanced again at her dainty fingers entwined with his. “You may release me now, Miss Sands, for you have made your point.”
“Yes, of course.” She snatched her hand away. “And how shall we tackle the goldsmith? Gently? Or with a firm grasp of his jugular?”
Mr D’Angelo laughed. “As the lead agent in this case, the choice is yours. Whatever you decide, you must ensure we do not fail.”
Panic flared. Thank heavens she’d learnt something from Alice Crouch. Criminals confessed when backed into a corner. Once trapped, escape was the primary objective.
Beatrice squared her shoulders. “Very well. I trust your acting skills are up to par and you’re able to improvise.”
“I’m accomplished in many things, Miss Sands, as you will soon discover.”
* * *
As luck would have it, they were greeted by the proprietor and directed to the assistant, Mr Craddock, a barrel of a man whose fat fingers sported numerous sovereign rings, and whose name had been scrawled on the back of the trade card found in Mr Babington’s study.
“Welcome!” The officious gentleman hurried around the counter to repeat his greeting. “Welcome.” He smiled at Mr D’Angelo, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “If you’ve come in search of a special gift for the lady, sir, you’ve come to the right place.”
Mr D’Angelo placed his hand on Beatrice’s back and guided her towards the counter. The brief touch sent her thoughts scattering, left her a little breathless.
“A special gift for a special lady,” Mr D’Angelo said in a smooth drawl so opposed to his earlier icy tone. “Perhaps a pair of blue topaz earrings, though I fear you have nothing to match the vibrant sparkle of my beloved’s eyes.”
Mr Craddock took one look at Beatrice and gave a knowing wink. Ah, he believed her to be the mistress, not the wife. “She has the eyes of Venus herself, sir. Such beauty should be rewarded.”
Beatrice leant closer and whispered, “Then I require a necklace to match. The most expensive you have, for it shall keep me fed and clothed when he tires of me.”
Mr Craddock cast Mr D’Angelo a wary glance.
“Fetch a necklace, too, Craddock.”
The assistant’s paunch shook with excitement as he hastened to a display case and fumbled with his keys.
“A man never tires of a woman who stimulates his mind,” Mr D’Angelo informed her. “A man never tires of a woman who holds him hostage and makes him wait to hear her secrets.”
“That is good to know. And if you were to purchase a gift for me, sir, I would prefer something practical to something pretty.”
“Practical?”
“A locket watch. Failing that, a donation to the orphanage.”
Mr D’Angelo found her comment amusing. “You would prefer I feed an orphan than buy you a diamond and topaz necklace?”
“Benevolence is an attractive quality in a man.”
“And yet I’ve never met a woman who said so.”
“Perhaps you need to reconsider your social calendar.”
His gaze dipped to her lips
. “Perhaps I do.”
Mr Craddock’s return brought an end to their banter. “Here we have a diamond and topaz parure, sir.” The stunning necklace and earrings sparkled in the black velvet box. “The necklace can be worn as two bracelets. The pendant removed and worn as a brooch. The rose-cut diamonds are of superb quality and together amount to twelve carats.”
Beatrice gasped. “It’s beautiful, Mr Craddock. But how can we be assured they are real diamonds and not paste imitations?”
Flabbergasted, Mr Craddock made an odd popping sound with his mouth. “Madam, I assure you, everything sold is of the highest quality, appraised by experts in the field. You’ll find nothing finer.”
“That is reassuring, sir, though one wonders why your appraisal of Mrs Emery’s ormolu clock proved unfavourable. Or why you informed Mr Walters that the diamonds in his wife’s ring were poorly cut, shallow, mere slivers.”
Mr Craddock almost choked on his own spittle. “I beg your pardon?”
Beatrice glanced over her shoulder before leaning closer. “You lied, sir. You lied and informed them they should sell the items privately, encouraged them to place an advertisement in a certain periodical. You kept a record of the items, a record you sent to a gentleman whose face is marred by a purple birthmark.”
Shock widened the man’s eyes until they practically bulged from their sockets. “You must have me mistaken with some—”
“Do not test my patience, else I shall call the proprietor and discuss it with him.” Beatrice firmed her jaw, imagining it was her aunt’s odious husband standing behind the oak counter. Filthy scoundrel. “I stole evidence of your involvement from the gentleman’s study last night. You made the mistake of signing your name on a document.”
Mr Craddock’s beady eyes flitted about as he scoured the shop for a means of escape.
“You cannot run. Not when you need funds to settle your debts. Run, and we’re likely to find your bloated corpse bobbing in the Thames. I’m afraid your only option is to persuade us to turn a blind eye to your misdeeds.”
Beatrice faced Mr D’Angelo, seeking his support.
“Should you doubt the lady’s word, let me offer proof.” Mr D’Angelo removed the trade card from his coat pocket. “This was attached to your correspondence. That is your name scribbled on the back?”
The man’s ballooning cheeks flamed. “If it’s money you want, you’re out of luck. I haven’t a penny to—”
“We want to know of your most recent correspondence.” Mr D’Angelo straightened to his full, intimidating height. “I want the name and address of the last person you deceived, the person you advised to sell their heirloom privately.”
Mr Craddock’s bulbous lips quivered.
“Tell us now,” Beatrice pressed, “else we shall be forced to call a constable. Both Mrs Emery and Mr Walker are willing to testify to your treachery.”
After a few seconds deliberation where he scratched his head and mumbled like a madman, Mr Craddock took a pencil and piece of paper from a drawer beneath the counter and with shaky hands scribbled the details. He slipped it to Mr D’Angelo.
“Should the information prove false, I shall return after dark, drag you into an alley,” Mr D’Angelo threatened. He snatched the note and scanned the man’s scribblings before capturing Beatrice’s elbow. “Come, let us leave Mr Craddock to contemplate his future.”
“But what about the d-diamond and topaz parure?” Mr Craddock stammered as they made to leave. “The stones would complement the lady’s eyes perfectly.”
Mr D’Angelo cast Beatrice a sidelong glance. “Some women require men to give a little more thought to their gifts.”
Beatrice smiled, though her stomach lurched when they stepped out onto Cornhill and Mr D’Angelo mentioned a coffeehouse close by. He approached the carriage and informed Mr Bower of their intention before escorting Beatrice to a rowdy establishment further along the street.
Upon entering, he pointed to a particular booth occupied by four gentlemen, then slipped the waiter a few coins and waited while he ushered the men on their way.
“Do you always get what you want, sir?” Beatrice whispered as she settled into the booth. “Do people always do your bidding?”
“Usually,” was all he said before ordering port wine, not coffee.
While a glass of port would calm her nerves, she ordered a cup of chocolate to settle her roiling stomach.
Amid the loud chatter of conversation and the bursts of laughter filling the crowded room, they remained silent. Beatrice thought to discuss what they had learned from Mr Craddock but knew the brooding gentleman opposite had but one topic on his mind.
When their drinks came, he downed his port and ordered another.
“I pray you won’t prove a disappointment, Miss Sands.” Tension radiated from every muscle, though his rich voice warmed her insides as much as the first few sips of chocolate.
“I’m not the sort to play coquette and give a gentleman false hope.”
His coal-black gaze settled on her mouth. “No, I don’t imagine you are, and yet you found yourself in a compromising position with a man who thought he had the right to take your innocence.”
“I assure you, he received no encouragement from me.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Why did he not insist she speak about his parents’ murder? Why was he avoiding the only question he wanted to ask? Fear, perhaps. She glanced at the cut above his brow. Sad that such a perfect specimen of masculinity might be unnerved by his emotions.
“It’s not important,” she said, gripping her cup to warm her hands.
“I wish to learn the identity of the man, so I know who to throttle should our paths ever cross. Someone must defend your honour.”
“Beating him will not erase the nightmare. Besides, it’s unlikely he will venture to town.” John Sands was a gentleman of some standing in Rochester. Had he any intention of finding Beatrice, he would have paid men to hunt her down long ago.
“A beating cannot undo the past, no, but it will prevent a reoccurrence.”
The bout of nausea came on suddenly, a gut-wrenching sickness at the thought of the devil touching her again. She would never forget his rancid breath and ugly grimace. Never forgive the betrayal.
Mr D’Angelo noticed her discomfort. “Tell me his name, and I shall ensure he never hurts you again.”
What harm could it do? She had no family or reputation to protect, and Mr D’Angelo had better things to do than go traipsing to Rochester on a fool’s errand. Indeed, when he discovered what she knew, avenging his parents would come before avenging her mistreatment.
“I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you now.” She had told Alice snippets of the story but never mentioned the devil was a relation. “My mother died when I was two, my father when I was five. My aunt and uncle raised me, and I lived a relatively comfortable life until my aunt died last year.”
Mr D’Angelo shifted on the wooden seat. “You’ve no siblings?”
“No, I am alone in the world, sir.”
He finished his port and summoned the waiter to fetch another. “Please continue, Miss Sands.”
The words got stuck in her throat, and her pulse raced as she mentally prepared for the uncomfortable revelation.
“In his grief, my aunt’s husband began to behave differently towards me. Perhaps it was because I assumed her responsibilities.” Beatrice often made excuses for him in her bid to understand the sudden change in character. “Weeks of improper comments preceded the drunken attack.”
Mr D’Angelo cursed beneath his breath.
“I fled that night and have never returned.” The panic and terror of it all bubbled acid-like in her stomach. “And so here I am today, sir, working as an agent because I happened to meet Miss Trimble at the Servants’ Registry.”
Through suspicious eyes, he stared at her for the longest time, his chest rising rapidly as if he had chased her uncle and already given him a good thra
shing.
“Happened to meet Miss Trimble? Or did you seek her out?”
Even when struggling with emotion, the gentleman proved why he was considered an excellent enquiry agent.
Beatrice lifted her chin. “It was a chance encounter, though an extremely fortuitous one. I needed to meet you and knew you worked for the Order. Imagine my surprise when Miss Trimble told me of Mr Daventry’s new venture.”
“Ah, now we come to the denouement of your tale. The real reason you followed me along the moonlit path. The reason that has nothing to do with the fact we are investigating Mrs Emery’s case.”
She pushed her cup aside. “I wanted you to know me a little better before I told you about my father.”
“Your father? I thought this was about the murder of mine.”
“It is. My father was in the carriage with your parents the day they were all murdered by what most believe was a highway robber.”
Mr D’Angelo frowned and snapped his head back. “I was in that carriage, Miss Sands. Besides my parents, the only other occupant was their steward.”
Ah, her poor Papa!
Beatrice’s throat tightened, almost blocking her airways, but she had to tell him everything while she had his undivided attention. “Yes, that is correct. My father, Mr Henry Watson, was shot first by all accounts.”
With his elbows propped on the table and his bruised hands clasped, Mr D’Angelo studied her intently. “So, your name is not Miss Sands. You lied to me.” Disdain dripped from those last few words.
“I did not lie. I took my aunt’s name, for she wished never to remind anyone of the tragedy. Wished to keep it a secret, even from me, and so we moved to Rochester, and people assumed I was her daughter.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched, and his lip curled into a sneer. “Rumour has it Watson stole from my father, that he arranged the robbery, but his accomplice betrayed him.”
In a panic, Beatrice grabbed his arm. “That is a lie. A wicked lie.”
He shrugged out of her grasp. “Is it? Then why would your aunt seek to relocate and change your name?”