Page 19 of When a Lady Dares
Still, her intent focus made him question himself. Could it be that she’d spotted a weakness in him, one that perhaps he didn’t even recognize?
“You already know the answer to that question, Sophie. I expect to make contact with my father. Brief and expedient and to-the-point, if at all possible.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head, just enough to accent her skeptical view of him. “You’d like me to believe you care only about the answer to your question, the location of the heirloom?”
Something in her tone caught him off guard, even more so than her words. He’d expected her to play along with the charade, to mutter some rubbish about his father’s final moments and some heartfelt sentiments. He hadn’t anticipated she’d openly confront his motives. For a moment, he was the one who fumbled his role.
“What else is there to care about?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. In his tone, he’d revealed too much.
She turned from him, walking slowly toward the dresser chest. Seemingly deep in thought, she drew a finger along the swirling pattern etched in the marble top. “There is always more to a client’s quest than what lies at the surface. I sense you have another purpose driving your actions.”
“I am not a complicated man. I want only what’s mine.”
Still, she traced over the marble, focusing her gaze on the scroll of black against the pale, cold stone. “What is it that you crave?”
By thunder, this woman was indeed confounding. He drew a breath, settling his thoughts. “You know what I’m after.”
She locked gazes with him. Slowly, she shook her head. “Somehow, I doubt even you know what it is you’re seeking. You speak of jewels, of a treasure. But I know the truth. Another purpose drives you.”
“Another purpose?” He did his best to utter the words flippantly, as if what she’d said was entirely absurd. “I did not bring you to this place to have you speculate on my motives. You are here for one reason and one reason alone—to make contact and obtain the answers I desire.”
“Very well, I shall endeavor to communicate with your father. Perhaps you will even find your blasted treasure.” Her eyes seemed to darken. “Will that truly ease the burden you carry?”
Ease the burden. Was it so obvious, then? Perhaps she did possess insight into his motives.
Ah, he was a blasted fool. Perhaps he truly was his father’s son—ready to toss good sense aside in the face of a tempting mouth and big brown eyes. He’d nearly taken the bait she’d cast.
Sophie was talented, he’d give her that. She was playing a con, nothing more remarkable than that. Tossing out questions to get him wondering if she truly could discern his motives. She knew nothing of the guilt weighting his soul, the regret that would plague him until he found justice for Peter.
Her observations were general. Bloody hell, only someone with a weight on his soul would seek out a spiritualist, whether that pain was borne of guilt or heartbreak. What else would lead a sensible mother or an otherwise rational husband to a dishonest cur like Trask?
Peter Garner had been a logical man—until grief had brought him to his knees.
No, Sophie had not discerned anything about his true cause. She’d been fishing for clues, for hints that would make her performance all the more believable. Nothing more. Perhaps he’d offer her something to give her pause, to reconsider the dishonest game she played with such flare.
“Burden?” he repeated the word slowly. “Ah, you’ve seen through me, haven’t you? Clever, Sophie.”
“I prefer to be addressed as Miss Devereaux.”
Once again, she began to glide her fingertip over the marble. If only his damned traitorous thoughts would stop wondering how those delicate fingers would feel against his skin, clinging to his shoulders, tensing with ecstasy, digging into the muscles of his back.
“Why are you here, Sophie? Why did you agree to come with me tonight? Surely, it’s not to tell me I carry some blasted burden. I defy you to find one man or woman in the Queen’s Empire…in the bloody world, who does not bear such a weight.”
“Well said,” she replied, her voice calm but not gentle. “I believe what you seek has little to do with material gain and everything to do with healing a wound on your spirit.”
He eyed her with deliberate skepticism. “A wound on my spirit? Did you come up with that drivel yourself, or has that ghost who flits around with you decided a look at my psyche is in order?”
“Esme has expressed her doubts about you. But the observation in question was mine alone. It does not take one who has passed on to another realm to see you have not been entirely forthcoming about your motives.”
Her words needled him, tiny pinpricks in the deep-seated scars he’d accumulated over three decades. Damned if he’d let her see it. A flat-out denial would ring hollow. He’d confirm the obvious, then set this dialogue back on a path he controlled.
He kept his tone low and cool. “My father and I were estranged before his death. That is no secret. I have regrets. As would any man in my position.”
“Any man with a heart.” Did a hint of a smile touch her lips?
“I wouldn’t go so far as that. A heart is indeed a necessity. But as you undoubtedly know from the papers, you’d be hard-pressed to find a drop of sentimentality in mine.”
