Page 3 of When a Lady Dares
“We will be seated at nine o’clock. I trust the time suits.” Trask answered so quickly, Sophie wondered if he feared Stanwyck would come to his senses and renege.
“Quite suitable, indeed.” He turned to Sophie, his expression as solemn as if he addressed Parliament on some matter of crushing importance. “Wear red tonight. I anticipate a most memorable experience.”
“I scarcely think it’s proper—”
Stanwyck shook his head. “Again, you miss my meaning. The color of your attire does not matter one whit to me. But father was exceedingly drawn to shades of red. So much so, his last bride wore crimson on their wedding day.”
Her nails dug into her palms, but she held her voice low and unwavering. “I shall give your request the utmost consideration.”
His attention fixed on her mouth. Heat, unbidden and unwanted, crept through her core. If only Stanwyck were a gargoyle. If only the look in his deep blue eyes didn’t make her knees wobble.
“Until tonight, Miss Devereaux.”
…
Leaning an elbow against the bar in McKinley’s Pub, Gavin Stanwyck took a tumbler of whiskey from the barkeep’s outstretched hand. At his side, his research assistant downed a gulp of ale. The ruddy-faced second son of a Scottish earl, Henry MacIntyre had proven his mettle on Gavin’s last expedition and now seemed intent on developing a taste for intrigue.
“So, ye’ve met the blighter. What are yer thoughts?” Henry lowered his boisterous tone. “Do ye still believe he’s connected with Peter Garner’s death?”
Gavin nodded. “I’ve no doubt there’s some link, but I’ve damnably little evidence. Certainly not enough to bring the matter to Scotland Yard.” He took another drink. “I’ll know more tonight. There’s a sitting.”
“A sitting?”
“A séance.” Gavin stared into the amber liquid, mulling his disgust. As a man of science, the idea of communing with spirits seemed the worst sort of rubbish. “Trask is all too eager to seek out the legendary Stanwyck jewels. And in the process, empty my coffers for his benefit.”
“Bloody fraudster. I made some inquiries this afternoon. The lass he’d been working with for more than a year ended their association about six weeks ago. She hasna been seen or heard from since.”
“Interesting. What do you know of her?”
“She went by the name Lady Valentina. She claimed to be a distant relative of the Romanovs.”
“Of course. The more intriguing his assistant, the better, as far as Trask is concerned.”
“Her landlord is looking for her. She owed the man,” Henry said.
“He won’t find her. I doubt she left of her own accord. But if she did, she’s in hiding.”
“Ye think Trask killed her?”
“Not necessarily Trask. But someone connected to the bastard. Someone who thought Lady Valentina knew too much.”
Henry downed another swig of ale. “Damn shame. She was a beauty, or so her landlord said.”
Just like Sophie.His mind conjured an image of Trask’s newest assistant. In centuries past, artists would’ve vied to capture her likeness on canvas. Her sweetly rounded face was precisely the thing to lure in an unsuspecting male.
“Trask is no fool. Fleecing a male client is much easier when the sap can’t take his eyes off the man’s assistant. The blighter’sabilitieshave more to do with diversion and misdirection than his skill at communing with the world beyondterra firma.”
Indeed, Sophie’s lovely features and gorgeous body would entice a man like an oasis under the desert sun. Of course, that was to Trask’s advantage. The role she played required her to draw a man’s attention away from the charlatan’s deceptions.
But somehow, despite her tempting lips and luscious curves, Miss Sophie Devereaux was not what Gavin had expected.
The medium’s assistant was clever—which was not surprising in itself, but Sophie had made no effort to conceal the intelligence lighting her dark eyes. He’d detected a bite to her tone, a wry wit that distinguished her from the others of her kind. She met Trask’s attempts at stage direction as so much claptrap, regarding the man as if she couldn’t hide her discontent.
But damned if Sophie wasn’t an effective diversion. God knew he’d had to muster his wherewithal to keep his focus where it belonged. His rebellious gaze had wanted nothing more than to linger on Sophie’s pink-coral mouth. Not that there was time for such indulgence. He’d come to the occult salon seeking answers, clues to a brutal truth. Trask and his lies had led Peter Garner to his death. Gavin wouldn’t rest until he’d brought the charlatan to justice.
A fresh wave of regret plowed into him, brutal as a brawler’s fist. He’d been hundreds of miles away when Peter had lost his beloved wife and newborn son to lung fever and had then plunged into a grief-laden abyss.
“Damnation, if only I’d been in London when he lost Amelia and the babe.”
