by Clee, Adele
He laughed, a sound deep and heart-warming. “I fight in dank cellars to suppress morbid thoughts, Miss Sands. You think you have what it takes to keep a scoundrel entertained for an hour?”
Beatrice grinned, though feared she’d soon be floundering. “Have I ever disappointed you, sir?” Heavens, it would take more than picking the right colour ribbon to keep this man expiring from boredom.
They began their journey into uncharted territory at the confectioners. An assortment of candied fruit, lemon drops, sugared almonds and liquorice squares filled the glass jars displayed behind the handsome window.
Beatrice brought Mr D’Angelo to a halt in front of the mouth-watering selection. “Well, sir, pick what you think suits my character best, and I shall choose something for you.”
Mr D’Angelo looked highly amused as he rubbed his jaw and surveyed the delicious offerings. He studied the fancy labels, looked at her numerous times before saying, “For you, Miss Sands, I choose candied pineapple.”
She arched a brow. “I have never tried pineapple.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I believe your aunt was rather frugal. You’ve spent months in the rookeries, and I doubt Miss Trimble lives life to excess.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but grin. “But what is it about pineapple that reminds you of me? Other than the fact they look prickly.”
“There’s nothing prickly about you, Miss Sands.” He moistened his lips as if anticipating the flavour of the fruit. “Pineapples are rare. Highly coveted. The flesh tastes deliciously sweet, utterly divine. So divine, a man might gorge himself for hours.”
Lord! He took flirtatious banter to new heights, was a master at lascivious discourse.
“Wait here, and I shall purchase our selection.” A moment alone in the shop would help to cool her heated blood. “Then we shall see if I’ve chosen correctly.”
He touched her arm. “Allow me to purchase our confectionary, Miss Sands.”
“You may buy something from the next shop,” she teased. “It’s the silversmith’s, and I cannot afford their extortionate prices.”
He laughed again, but acquiesced.
She returned a minute later with a paper bag. “Now, who will go first?”
“Allow me.” He reached inside the bag and retrieved a piece of candied pineapple. “Close your eyes, Miss Sands.”
“What? Here on the street?”
“No one is paying us the slightest attention.” His rich, sensual drawl stirred the hairs at her nape. “Open your mouth.”
She shivered in anticipation, but closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Merciful heaven! The moment he ran the candied fruit over her bottom lip, her knees almost buckled.
“Bite down,” he instructed. “Hard.”
She did, tugging a small morsel with her teeth while he held the rest between his fingers. An intense fruitiness filled her mouth. Sweetness saturated her tongue.
She opened her eyes and met his amused gaze. “Hmm, you definitely made the right choice.”
“I would suggest using your handkerchief to wipe the sugar from your lips, but you strike me as a woman who hates to waste anything.”
“You’re right.” She swept her tongue over her lips without thought.
A hum resonated in his throat. “Perhaps an hour spent feeding you candied fruit might prove an entertaining pastime.”
“But it’s my turn to feed you, sir. Are you not curious to know what I picked?” She had chosen chocolate-covered marzipan for reasons she was about to explain.
“Chocolate?” He sounded disappointed when she removed the treat from the bag. “Why? Because my eyes are as black as my heart?”
“No, because the outside is hard and somewhat bitter, while the inside is softer and not at all displeasing.”
“An interesting observation.”
“Well, I am an enquiry agent and must look beyond what most people see. And I see you, Mr D’Angelo, with remarkable clarity.”
He stared at her before closing his eyes and opening his mouth.
Mother Mary! She could have spent the entire hour gazing at his face, wondering if she might taste pain on his lips, if he was as skilled with his tongue as most ladies claimed.
“Bite down,” she said, pushing the marzipan square into his mouth.
Mr D’Angelo bit through the chocolate, his pleasure evident in his groan of satisfaction. He opened his eyes and licked his lips while she gawped like a besotted fool.
“Rum-infused marzipan,” he mused. “Why the rum?”
Because there was something intoxicating about him. Something that simulated her senses. “Because you often say or do things that surprise me.” Lord, now he would likely ask her to explain. “Like today, when you changed your mind about walking with me.”
And earlier this morning, when he’d called at Howland Street in an effort to make amends.
“Then, I hope you gain as much pleasure from my unpredictable nature as I did the rum.” Before she could reply, he captured her elbow and guided her towards the silversmith shop.
Sun glinted off the array of silver plates, teapots and serving tureens, making it almost impossible to concentrate. Shielding their eyes from the glare, they spent a few minutes scouring the items in the bay window.
“Can you find anything suitable here, or shall we move on?” he said.
“No. I know what I would choose for you.” She wasn’t sure he would like her reasoning. “The silver tea tray.”
“The tea tray?” His grin shifted from surprised to sinful. “Why, because you want me to play maid and service all your needs, Miss Sands?”
You may have to join him in the darkness, dearie. Catch him by surprise. Ease him slowly back towards the light.
“While I would like to see how well you stoke my fire—”
“Or how skilled I am at removing stays.”
“Or how good you are at washing those hard to reach places, sir, that is not the reason for choosing the tray.”
His gaze caressed the golden lock of hair grazing her cheek. “I could think of other duties I might perform when it’s time for bed, but no doubt you wish to explain why I remind you of a cold metal tray.”
“You don’t remind me of a tray.” She had to banish the image of him washing her back while she sat in the tub, of him pressing his lips to her damp nape. Oh, she had been lonely for far too long. “I would forge the tray into chest armour and insist you wear it whenever you went out. I worry you might take a lead ball to the heart and wish to alleviate my fears.”
“Do not worry about my heart, Miss Sands. It perished a long time ago.”
“The human body has a great propensity to heal. If there’s one thing you should know about me, sir, it’s that I never give up hope.”
“I imagine you see the good in everyone.”
“Not everyone. Just those worthy of redemption.”
He did not reply, but turned to the window and scanned the items for sale. “For you, I choose the silver and agate letter opener. I would insist you keep it under your pillow at night, for once you start uncovering answers, the man who killed your father will most certainly hunt you down.”
Fear threatened to steal her voice. If the veiled warning was supposed to act as a deterrent, then he had misjudged the strength of her conviction. She thought to remind him of the pact they’d made to stand firm on the battlefield, to work together to right a past injustice. But their meeting with Mr Daventry would stir his demons from their slumber, and so she decided to steer away from morbid topics.
“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.”
“Tea, Mr Daventry?” Miss Sands gestured to the silver pot and the plate of macaroons resting on the low table between the sofas. “I suggest you take one before Mr D’Angelo devours them all. He has a fondness for sweet biscuits.”
“Thank you, but no. Mrs Gunning will bring coffee when the others arrive.”
“The others?” she said.
Unable to hide his annoyance, Dante snapped, “He means Cole, Ashwood and Sloane. This is to be a family affair by all accounts.”
Miss Sands cast him a mild look of reproach. “I’m sure Mr Daventry has his reasons for including them. It’s unhealthy to jump to conclusions.”
Too late. Dante’s blood simmered. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for an argument. Perhaps Daventry wanted the men to investigate Babington, discover what drove a wealthy man to commit crimes. But gut instinct said the meeting was to discuss Dante’s personal need for vengeance.
The sudden slam of the front door and the burst of lively chatter in the hall heralded the arrival of Dante’s friends and colleagues—the gentlemen of the Order.
“Hmm, I smell macaroons.” Noah Ashwood shot Dante a teasing glance. “Mrs Gunning has been spoiling you again, D’Angelo.” He turned to Evan Sloane. “You know he squirrels them away in his pocket to nibble at his leisure.”
Daventry noted the bruises marring Dante’s knuckles. “Perhaps he saves them for when he’s expended his energy at the fighting den in the cellar of the White Boar.”
Hellfire!
Either Sharp had spilt his guts or Dante had a stalker.
Dante considered Miss Sands through narrowed eyes. Had she made notes on every conversation, informed Daventry in the hope of keeping her position?
“Do not think I betrayed your trust,” she said, reading his mind. “Our private conversations are just that, sir, private.”
“I followed you there.” Daventry gestured for their colleagues to sit, though he remained standing. “I hid amongst the crowd and watched you brawl bare-chested. You fight as if you relish pain.”
Miss Sands’ gaze darted in Dante’s direction, concern marring those pretty blue irises. “You fight bare-chested?”
A man didn’t want his fine clothes stained with sweat and spittle and blood. “Clothes are cumbersome. They restrict movement.”
Mrs Gunning entered carrying a coffee pot, the maid following behind, her tray laden with china. The housekeeper smiled when noticing there were but a few macaroons left on the plate.
“We will serve ourselves, Mrs Gunning,” Daventry said.
The housekeeper knew from Daventry’s tone that she should leave them to their business and so ushered the maid out into the hall and closed the drawing room door.
A heavy silence descended.
“Perhaps I should begin by introducing Miss Sands.” Daventry smiled at the woman who’d slipped behind Dante’s defences, then spent a few minutes justifying his reasons for hiring a female agent.
A blush stained Miss Sands’ cheeks when Daventry mentioned women down on their luck, women needing to escape their tormentors, and Dante had a sudden urge to throttle the last breath from her uncle’s lungs.
“Welcome to the Order, Miss Sands,” Ashwood said in his suave voice.
“Thank you, Mr Ashwood. I hope to be an asset, not a liability.”
Cole watched her through dark, intelligent eyes. “I think we can all attest to the fact that a woman’s opinion has proven invaluable when solving our most recent cases.”
Damn. Something foreign slithered to life in Dante’s chest. Thank the Lord these handsome men loved their wives, for he did not want Miss Sands to find them intelligent or appealing.
“Miss Sands possesses remarkable insight,” Dante said. Insight she’d used to delve deep into his psyche. “It was her idea to search the books in Babington’s study, which resulted in us visiting the goldsmith and locating Babington’s next victim.”
Miss Sands’ smile reached her eyes. “We worked together, Mr D’Angelo. Had you not given a helping hand, I might not have gained access to the study.”
The memory of her white trousers raised a smile he couldn’t suppress.
The other four men in the room stared.
“I’m sure we’ll all get the chance to work with you, Miss Sands.” Sloane had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but the man sought every opportunity to torment and tease.
Dante wondered how he would fare working with someon
e who knew so much about him. Someone who could elicit a host of odd reactions. “Indeed, one wonders why we’ve all been called here today.”
Dante had been summoned to explain his actions.
Were the others summoned to bear witness?
Lucius Daventry moved to stand near the fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back. He faced Dante. “You may be an agent of the Order, but you’re my friend. For that reason, I hope you understand what I’m about to do.”
What the devil?
Dante’s throat constricted. Was Daventry about to banish him from the Order? The rules were clear. No lies. No secrets. No personal vendettas.
Evidently fearing the worst, Ashwood sat forward. “We’ve all used vices to banish the demons. We’ve all seen things that make it hard to sleep at night. Fighting at the White Boar is merely D’Angelo’s way of ridding his mind of harrowing images.”
“I’m sure he’ll agree to find other methods of dealing with his trauma,” Cole added, making his plea to the judge.
Dante could not recall when he’d last felt a warm glow of affection. He couldn’t think about his mother without a sudden pang of grief, and he’d spent his formative years with a grandmother who often grew tired of seeing his face. But these men were like brothers, as close as kin. Being expelled from the Order would be the second greatest tragedy of his life.
“I should have come to you,” Dante said, knowing he only had himself to blame for his situation. “But I live to catch the devil who killed my parents. Vengeance is all-consuming.”
He would die for his cause.
Nothing would deter him from his plan.
But for the first time, the thought of not being part of the Order, not seeing these men, never knowing the taste of Miss Sands’ lips, made him question his reasoning.
Daventry nodded. “I understand. Nothing I say or do will stop you in your pursuit of justice.” He turned his attention to those seated in the room. “Which is why I am assigning you all to the case of finding the fiend who murdered D’Angelo’s parents.”
Cursed saints!
Shock rendered Dante speechless.
A mix of emotions warred in his chest. Relief and anger battled like deadly enemies. What right did Daventry have to assume control? Dante would find the killer, would deliver the punishment. He’d witnessed the crime, suffered the loss, had his life torn apart. But it was a mammoth task for a man on his own. And if Dante died, who would play the avenger then? Miss Sands?