Page 26 of When a Lady Dares
“Based on the evidence you’ve presented, one can only reach a logical conclusion.”
“Logic has little to do with it. I’ve known Avery since I was a lad. He’s a kindhearted soul. When his wife died a few years ago, the loss took a sad toll.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
“You could say so.”
“How very touching. He was a fortunate man to have experienced an enduring love.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree, Soph—Miss Devereaux. I question the value of any emotion which renders one so vulnerable to pain.”
Chapter Eight
Sophie strolled through the main dining room of the café, taking in the sights and sounds of the place, smiling at all she encountered. Why, she even returned the flirtatious glance of a mustachioed young man who’d boldly taken her in. Hiding in plain sight generally proved an effective camouflage. Anyone who spotted her with Stanwyck would assume she was his latest conquest. Or perhaps, if they possessed a glimmer of recognition, they might associate her with Trask’s occult gatherings. But they’d be hard-pressed to connect her with the unassuming reporter who’d stood in this very place a year earlier, compiling a not-so-riveting account of the itinerary of some American heiress on the hunt for a husband and a title. Surrounded by society women decked out in their finery and jewels, she’d blended into the background, seemingly unnoticed by those who’d come to see and be seen.
Stanwyck kept a light touch on her elbow as they made their way to a table in a shadowed corner. He’d insisted on a location somewhat removed from the other patrons, a spot that would provide privacy and a bit of quiet.
Candles in elaborate crystal holders lent a soft glow to the table. The golden light cast a sheen over Stanwyck’s warm chestnut hair. He wore his locks a bit longer than was fashionable, brushing his collar. What was it about the man that drew her interest like a moth to a flame? What would those soft strands feel like against her fingertips?
The time he’d spent beneath the Egyptian sun had darkened his complexion, the sun-bronzed shade rugged and, she had to admit, ridiculously appealing. Somehow, it suited him, that look of a man who lived much of his life beyond the confines of four walls. Tiny crinkles etched along his eyes further defined his features, lending character, while a fine coating of stubble, a shade or two darker than his hair, defined the contours of his face. She curled her fingers against the utterly mad urge to touch him, if only to feel the contrast of textures between the prickly new beard and his smooth skin.
He’d dressed the part of a gentleman. A finely tailored jacket in a subtle charcoal tweed emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while his silk waistcoat and four-in-hand necktie posed a striking contrast against the pristine white of his shirt. He might well be a rogue at heart, but this evening he seemed every bit the proper Londoner.
Despite their secluded spot in the café, a tall, beautiful woman sashayed past. Vera Fairchild’s corseted waist had been cinched so tightly, she might well have portrayed a human hourglass. She paused in that dramatic way of hers, making eye contact with Gavin, her smile offering an invitation to more than her table. Unsurprising, really. The actress was known for her theatrics and her conquests, both on and off the stage. Gavin Stanwyck would certainly tempt a woman like her. If not the man, his fortune would prove a potent lure.
For his part, Stanwyck regarded the actress with an expression that bespoke his lack of interest. Sophie couldn’t explain why his disinterested response to the blatant temptress pleased her, not even to herself. What the man did with a woman like Miss Fairchild had no bearing on her mission. Or on her, for that matter. So, why did it give her a little thrill to see the man regard the woman as though she were no more appealing than a day-old bowl of porridge?
A waiter approached the table, his bearing dignified, his expression properly bland. With a well-honed efficiency, he suggested a fine vintage of Bordeaux which Stanwyck approved. He uncorked the bottle and poured the aromatic ruby liquid into two exquisite crystal glasses.
The server turned on his heel with a military-like precision and left them. Sophie raised her glass, taking in the robust bouquet of the wine. She’d have to keep her head about her. This was certainly no time to imbibe beyond a sip or two.
Stanwyck turned his attention to Sophie. A wolf’s smile curved his mouth. “You’ve no worries. I’ve no intention of getting you foxed. I need your senses on full alert for dear old dad.”
“I’ve no worries of the sort. Though I can say I’ve never beenfoxed, as you put it.”
One dark brow hiked ever so slightly. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. Someday, perhaps a time when we’re not waiting on Esme to make her appearance and bring my father along for the ride, we shall have to give that a try. It might loosen you up a bit.”
“I have no need to be loosened up. Now, shall we get down to business?”
He nodded and took a drink of wine, regarding her silently for a moment, as if working out his next move. “Has Esme arrived? She certainly does get around.”
“As a spirit, Esme is not hindered by physical boundaries. Travel is much more fluid for her.”
“Good to know.” He set his glass before him, resting his hand on the table. His fingers were long and lean and tanned, powerful yet gentle when they’d touched her. Would the rest of his body be as sun-dusted as his hands and face?
Mentally shooing away that scandalous question to some remote corner of her mind, Sophie raised her glass and took a sip. She’d no time to entertain such inane wonderings about Stanwyck. If the thought was not pertinent to her investigation, she could not spare even a moment to entertain it. She must remain focused on the case at hand, a mission that had nothing to do with the specific details of Gavin Stanwyck’s body, no matter how tempting those queries might be. Until she knew what had led Stanwyck into her path, she could not allow herself to become distracted, not even with envisioning what lay beneath Stanwyck’s utterly proper attire.
“Esme has not yet made her presence known,” she said, deliberately bland.
“Any chance she’ll pop in before the main course? I was hoping to get this over and done during the soup course and enjoy the rest of my meal.”
“I cannot imagine she gives a fig over your dinner plans. She is beyond earthly cares, and from what I gather, you have not impressed her.”
“Now, that wounds me, Miss Devereaux.”
She gave a little shrug. “That was not my intention.”
His other brow cocked. “Honesty is the best policy and all that rot, eh?”
