Page 16 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
“I am a gentleman at heart,” Stanwyck went on, his eyes flashing in contradiction. “I shall demonstrate that fact, if you will accompany me.”
Trask gave a sharp nod, his gaze penetrating Sophie’s calm veneer. She’d best get on with this.
“Very well, Mr. Stanwyck.” She met his direct gaze. “But you have not revealed where we will venture.”
A grin tugged at his full mouth. Drat the luck, why did that gleam in his eyes beckon her so?
“Honestly, Miss Devereaux, I am disappointed. I’d thought you would’ve deduced that by now,” he said. “Father relished three things in his life. The finest Scotch. His blasted enterprises. And the company of his mistress. I’ve made arrangements to attempt contact in the hotel where he died. We will access the room…and the very bed in which the old bounder drew his last breath.”
…
The Barrington Hotel had played host to kings and queens, to robber barons and renowned authors. American heiresses looking to marry into a title gravitated to the hotel’s grand ballroom with its gleaming marble and sparkling crystal chandeliers. And, of course, the lushly appointed rooms had provided a luxurious sanctuary for Edward Stanwyck and his mistress-of-the-moment while Gavin’s mother went on with her life, well aware of her husband’s actions but certainly beyond caring.
Keeping a tight rein on his thoughts, Gavin escorted Sophie through the lobby. Peculiar, how stepping foot into the Barrington caused invisible fingers to clench around his gut. Rather foolish, really. He was a man now, not some naive lad whose heart constricted with pain every time his mother let down her guard and displayed the hurt she’d valiantly tried to hide. His father’s infidelities had been no secret. If anything, the old man had flaunted his conquests, as if his companions were blasted trophies attesting to his prowess as a male of the species. Even now, the memory gripped him and reopened the wounds inflicted so very long ago.
Bollocks, he was a fool. What did it matter now? He’d selected this place quite deliberately with the intention of inflicting cracks in Miss Sophie Devereaux’s carefully crafted veneer. In such an unconventional and likely disconcerting setting, she might shed her composure long enough to reveal the truth about her role in Trask’s crooked dealings.
Damnable shame his plan had backfired. For her part, Sophie seemed utterly unfazed by the prospect of visiting the chamber where her client’s father had died, presumably while he enjoyed one final shag.
The hotel’s manager met them before they’d made it to the middle of the lobby. He rubbed his hands together nervously, his head bobbing like some blasted oversized bird.
“Good evening, Professor Stanwyck.” He cast Sophie a lingering glance, trailing from her hem to the feather on her hat. Her eyes narrowed in response, and for a moment, she looked as if she might rebuke him for his bold regard.
“Good evening, Mr. Bailey.”
“Please, follow me to my office. A spot of privacy is in order.”
“Indeed. We wouldn’t want the other guests to be shocked now, would we?”
The manager led them to a small, surprisingly cramped space and closed the door behind them. The taut set of his shoulders eased. “Will you be expecting additional guests?”
“We are anticipating another arrival,” Sophie spoke up, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes.
Mr. Bailey’s attention once again flickered to Sophie. “Might I have the party’s name so that I might alert the staff?”
“Of course,” Gavin said. “That would be none other than Edward Stanwyck.”
The manager’s brow furrowed. “You are expecting a relative…a brother or cousin?”
Gavin shook his head. “I am referring to my father.”
Mr. Bailey’s pinched features went tighter still. “I must say, this business is highly irregular. I trust you will be discreet. The other guests—”
“The other guests know full well the man my father was. God only knows his proclivities set tongues wagging from here to the Continent. Having said that, I can assure you that if the old lout does choose to make his appearance, he won’t waste his time bursting through the walls to cry, ‘Boo!’” Gavin flashed a cultivated smile. “He’ll be far too entranced by Miss Devereaux to create a stir.”
A tint somewhat paler than a strawberry’s hue crept over Sophie’s rounded cheeks, even as her mouth thinned. She looked as if she longed to utter a scathing retort, or, better still, bludgeon him with whatever it was she carried in the black velvet reticule tethered to her wrist, but she only met his eyes as her lips relaxed into a coy smile.
Mr. Bailey nodded. “Very well. If you are certain you wish to pursue this…I am trusting you to keep it…quiet. It would not do for word to get out.”
“Of course. It might cast a pall on the reputation of this establishment, if it were known that the specters of randy old goats lurked about the place.”
“I am counting on your discretion, sir.” Mr. Bailey lowered his voice. The man was nothing if not persistent.
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
The manager’s brows shot up, then sagged, as if he’d consciously forced them back into place. Of course he detected the irony in Gavin’s choice of words. To his credit, the man held his tongue, but his skepticism showed in his eyes.
“Very good, sir.”
