Page 53 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
“Sophie, precisely what is it that you do for Trask?”
What was the man about? Had he set his mind to proving her—and Trask—a fraud? It wouldn’t do to appear too complacent. Best to show some spirit, even if any gesture she’d make might appear contrived.
“My, what an odd question. You have seen what Ido, as you put it.”
“Why does a man like Trask need your services? After all, he’s crafted a reputation as a superior medium.”
Steadying her breaths, she faced him with a direct gaze. “My talents come into play in certain circumstances, times when my expertise is better suited to the patron.”
“In your interactions with Trask’s clientele, have you seen anything…heard anything…that might make someone fear you’d betray them?”
“Betray them? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With any luck, he wouldn’t detect the tiny hitch in her tone.
“Of course you do, Sophie.”
“Miss Devereaux,” she said crisply.
“I do believe we’ve both crossed the point where speaking each other’s given name is improper. After last night—”
“Last night meant nothing.”
“You’re not so skilled a liar as you’d like to think. But that’s of no consequence. Not now, at least.”
She gave her head a shake, as if that would clear it. “You are indeed a confounding man. If you have brought me here hoping to kindle a passion between us, I can assure you that none exists.”
His mouth thinned, and he regarded her with eyes darkened to the color of a storm-tossed sea. “If I were intent on seduction, I’ll be damned if I’d escort you through a maze of headstones. A plush bed would far better serve that purpose.”
She folded her arms at the waist, as if doing so would shield her from his penetrating gaze.
“In that case, why have you brought us here, to this dismal place? I am not so foolish as to believe you are seeking contact with your sire. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“If my father is hovering about somewhere, he can jolly well wait. It’s not as though he has appointments to keep.” Gavin raked a hand through his hair. “You must tell me the truth. What in blazes happened last night—before I came upon the scene?”
“As I’ve already told you, the vermin demanded that I come with him… His employer wished to arrange a sitting.”
“And you believed him?”
She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth. Blast it, what did Stanwyck suspect?
“I am told that my reputation in London is growing. Perhaps the man’s employer is an eccentric, convinced that I have received some communication from beyond, a matter of great urgency.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
She stared down at her leather-clad toes, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you to believe. I do not have the answers you want.”
“At least that much has the ring of truth.”
“Perhaps they intended to rob me. There’s no way to know, really. It’s pointless to speculate on the motives of ruffians.” She pulled in a slow, calming draught of air. “As I told you last night, this is not your concern.”
“And if I’ve decided it is?” he pressed.
In the distance, threatening clouds loomed over the Thames. Thunder rumbled. Perhaps the weather would grant a reprieve from Stanwyck’s questions.
“I would tell you that you are wasting your time. I am not a maiden who needs to be rescued. I’ve fared quite well on my own, despite your belief to the contrary.”
“Sophie, those hoodlums were not interested in your ability to converse with spirits, nor were they after the contents of your purse.”
The steely conviction in his voice jarred her. She took a step back. Not in retreat, but in an attempt to steady herself. What had Stanwyck learned about her—about the role she was playing? About her mission?
