Page 1 of When a Lady Dares
Chapter One
London, September 1891
Sophie Atherton knew a liar when she saw one. Perhaps because she was so skilled at deception herself. Heaven knew, her undercover investigations for theHeraldhad provided considerable opportunity to hone her technique. Shaping the truth to suit her own purposes came easily now, especially if the male of the species stood on the other end of her lies. A well-timed smile and tilt of the head went a long way toward extinguishing any doubts in the masculine brain.
She’d do well to keep that truth of nature in mind when she dealt with Gavin Stanwyck. If she kept her head about her, defeating the man at his own game shouldn’t pose much of a challenge. What did it matter that he was reputed to be one of the most brilliant minds in London? Or that he was handsome, much more so than the small, blurry image on the newspaper’s front page had let on? His imposing height and broad shoulders made him no less vulnerable to a calculated flirtation. After all, he was only a man, even if the intensity in his gaze conjured a warmth she could not blame on the noonday heat.
Observing Stanwyck from a discreet vantage point, she battled the nearly irresistible urge to move closer, to drink in his enigmatic blue eyes. The smooth cadence of his voice lent his statements an almost-endearing earnestness. Pity she knew the truth—the words uttered by his tempting mouth were lies.
Someone less adept at using words as a disguise might be fooled by his act. Perhaps it was the tense set of his jaw that betrayed him. Or the forced casualness of his stance, and the almost too-even rhythm of his words. The clues were subtle—tells—her mentor had called them. But to Sophie, they seemed a confession.
Devil take it, what had brought an academic to a spiritualist’s doorstep? Gavin Stanwyck was a rational man, a scholar whose expeditions to Egypt had earned accolades and stirred rumors of future knighthood. Whatever his reasons, the professor’s motives had nothing to do with the tales of long-lost jewels he dangled like a lure. Neil Trask’s newest patron was no more a treasure hunter than she was a medium.
Sophie slanted Trask a glance. Her employer-of-the-moment, a charlatan whose séances rivaled a magician’s flare for the dramatic, seemed ready to rub his palms together with greedy glee. Excitement colored Trask’s rich baritone as he regaled their guest with boasts of his occult prowess. Quite ironic. The failed thespian could not see what was right in front of his prominent nose, let alone discern messages passed from one realm to the next.
She bit back a smile. If she wasn’t set on ferreting out the truth behind Stanwyck’s presence at Trask’s studio, she might find the situation amusing.
As if he read her thoughts, Stanwyck cocked his head toward her, seeming to search her out.Time to meet the rogue face-to-face.
She stepped into his line of sight. A corner of his mouth hitched ever so slightly as his gaze settled on her. And then, the half-smile faded. His lips pulled into a rather fierce line. Not quite a scowl. But definitely rather unpleasant, as if she posed a quandary he could not puzzle out.
“Ah, there she is. My lovely associate, Miss Sophie Devereaux. You’ll be most impressed with her…insights.”
Trask swept a hand toward Sophie with practiced flourish, as if introducing a performer. Of course, in essence, that was exactly what the man was doing. Sophie possessed no more insight into the spiritual realm than Trask, but her lack of occult powers was of no significance to his fraudulent schemes. Trask had not hired her because of her talents. Rather, she was another form of bait to lure in the unsuspecting bereaved.
Gavin Stanwyck appeared neither unsuspecting nor bereaved. Calm and detached, with no sign of either the desperate grief or enthusiasm for intrigue typical of most who walked through Trask’s door, he studied her. His gaze roamed the length of her, assessing, yet smooth as a caress. But there was nothing soft or gentle in the man’s expression. If anything, his mouth grew more taut as he took her in, and Sophie’s breath caught as her skin heated beneath her proper, high-collared dress.
He met her gaze. Was that challenge flashing in his eyes?
“Sophie Devereaux?” One dark brow hiked. “Have we met? Perhaps at Lord Chesterton’s country house?”
“Most unlikely.” Sophie met the inquiry with a properly thin smile. He thought her a fraud. Unsurprising. “Although one can never be certain of which souls have crossed our path…perhaps in another life. The ways of the universe are mysterious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed.” Stanwyck’s tone was low and rich, held under the same tightly leashed control as his full mouth. “Perhaps even more intriguing than I’d anticipated.”
Something in his words rippled through Sophie like an electrical current. She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. Though the effort made little impact on the sharp difference between their sizes, facing him with her head high and her chin jauntily angled stoked her resolve. He did not intimidate her. She would not allow it.
She returned his bold perusal, drinking him in from head to toe. Broad-shouldered and lean-hipped in an impeccably tailored suit of charcoal gray superfine, Stanwyck cut a powerful figure. Men who’d come into their fortunes before strands of silver marked their hair were rare commodities. But a man like Stanwyck—tall and strapping, fiercely intelligent, and unencumbered by a wife and the requisite heir and a spare—was rarer still. Was it any wonder London’s prematurely bereaved widows so avidly courted his attentions?
Sophie released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d drawn in. Perhaps intimidation was not the true root of her problem where Mr. Stanwyck was concerned. Gavin Stanwyck was a man in his prime. His chestnut brown hair bore hints of copper, while stubble of a darker hue defined the lines of a strong jaw and betrayed at least a day had passed since a razor had touched his cheeks. Tiny lines around his eyes suggested he actually smiled at times, perhaps even laughed.
This, evidently, was not one of those times.
If only she did not feel as though Stanwyck could see through her deliberately placid mask. Could he possibly suspect the real reason she’d agreed to take part in Trask’s deceitful schemes?
As if on cue, Trask cleared his throat with purposeful emphasis. “You’ve come to the right place, Professor Stanwyck. We are precisely the people to offer assistance on your quest.”
Stanwyck offered a grave nod. “You cannot imagine the heaviness in my heart, knowing my father went to his grave with so many matters festering between us. I won’t rest until I make contact.”
The heaviness in his heart?Good heavens, the man was as dramatic as Trask. This was shaping up to be quite an interesting performance.
Trask acknowledged his words with a carefully crafted look of empathy. “I can well imagine the burden on a man whose esteemed sire has been torn away prematurely, leaving much unsaid.”
Sophie bit back a smile. Premature might not be the best word to describe the elder Stanwyck’s passing. By all accounts, the old gent had been approaching his eighty-seventh birthday when he keeled over in the arms of an East End chorus girl.
“Indeed,” Stanwyck said. His faintly mocking tone rang as clear as Big Ben in Sophie’s ears.
“Your timing is fortunate. We will host a gathering tonight. You are welcome to join us.”
