Page 65 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
“I swear I’m tellin’ the truth. Another fellow took care of that detail.”
“Another fellow? How many are involved in this?”
The hoodlum shrugged. “Can’t say as I know. Tonight, there was three of us. Me and Jack and another gent—quality, like this one.”
“Quality, you say. Do you know this man’s name?”
“The chap’s name is John. That’s all I know.”
John. How bloody convenient.
“Where can we find him?”
Reggie glanced away, as if debating how much to tell.
“I would imagine the river is cold now, especially at night.” With any luck, the cur would believe the menace in her tone was real.
“Ye don’t have t’do that. I’ll tell ye what I know. The blighter was at the gent’s club. The Hound and Fox. That’s where we were told he’d be.”
Sophie dragged in a breath, calming her indignant anger. Had Gavin been betrayed by someone he trusted?
“This man named John…he is a member of the club?”
Another shrug. “He got in and he put something in the gent’s drink. That’s all I know.”
“You have been helpful,” Sophie said. “Now come along. We must see that you obtain medical attention. That is a rather nasty wound you’ve suffered.”
Bertram escorted the handcuffed man to the coach and ordered him inside. Sophie dashed to Gavin’s side and draped his arm over her shoulder. Amazing how right the warmth of his body felt next to hers, even under such dire circumstances.
With Gavin leaning on her for support, she led him to the coach. Bertram emerged from the vehicle, a cloth in hand smelling distinctly of chloroform.
“Much as it troubles me that you should have to share a space with that ruffian, it seems an ugly necessity.” The twinkle had faded from Bertram’s gaze. “I’ve ensured he won’t give you or Mr. Stanwyck any trouble.”
“The usual treatment?” she asked, careful to remain cryptic in case Gavin could digest her words.
“Yes.” Bertram tapped his pocket, indicating his chloroform-treated handkerchief. The devices had become standard issue among the agents. Brilliant, really. The plain white linen square was protectively housed in a twill pouch. Upon removing the cloth, only a few brisk rubs of the fabric were required to activate the chemical.
She motioned to Gavin. “He’s been drugged. I suspect by dawn he won’t recall much, if any, of this night.”
“That would be to our advantage. Remember, discretion at all times.” His gaze flickered to Gavin. “Even among those you might be tempted to trust.”
Chapter Twenty
Sophie ran her fingertips over the back of a Corinthian leather settee, drinking in the smooth texture, the vivid hue of the tasteful piece. Given Gavin Stanwyck’s boasts of being a scoundrel, she’d expected his residence would reflect a certain decadence, a gaudy hedonism. Instead, the man’s London home was charmingly modest, tastefully done in hues of green and tan and gold and an array of gleaming hardwoods. He’d inherited his father’s empire, but chose to live in this understated town house in the heart of Mayfair.
The light of the new day flickered through the windows, streaming through the stained-glass windows. She glimpsed her reflection in a small pane of clear glass. My, she did look a fright. She’d slept little the night before, despite the presence of the trusted guard Matthew Colton had assigned to the residence and the housekeeper’s insistence that Sophie make herself comfortable in the guest quarters. Mrs. Edson, a white-capped matron who remained unruffled by the late-night intrusion into her domain, clucked over her injured employer like an agitated mother hen. For his part, Gavin’s butler, a serious-eyed gent named Farnsworth, saw to Gavin’s and Avery’s care with a no-nonsense demeanor that did not disguise his concern.
If the housekeeper and butler detected any holes in the tale of a robbery gone awry, they kept their doubts quiet. The agency’s chief physician, a brusque man Sophie estimated to be about a decade her senior, made up for his lack of bedside manner with his knowledge and discretion. Despite the atrocious hour at which Matthew Colton had dispatched his messenger with a request for medical assistance, Dr. Franklin had arrived without delay, attending his patients with a no-nonsense competence, while the staff had followed his dictates to the letter.
Sophie patted her cheeks, as if that might bring some color to her face and erase the lines etched by weariness. She had managed to obtain a bit of sleep, finally able to relax after the doctor explained the effects of the unknown drug Gavin had ingested. Thankfully, the substance was not a poison, and he’d likely recover quickly from its effects. Relief settled over her in waves, and she’d taken refuge for a few precious hours in the comfortable guest bedroom.
She’d awakened to find her traveling bag in the room. Bless Bertram and his considerate heart. Rising, she’d prepared herself for the day ahead. Warm water and a clean dress went a long way toward buoying her spirits.
Gavin was up and about. Mrs. Edson had been kind enough to inform her that the master of the house wished to offer his gratitude. After downing a few bites of toast and jam, Sophie settled into the study to await him.
Massive bookshelves lined two of the four walls of the sizeable room, displaying an impressive library and a variety of art reflective of ancient cultures from Africa, Asia, and Europe. She wandered to a barrister bookcase. Her breath caught as she found herself inches from an Egyptian urn displayed in a protective case. She’d never thought to be so close to an antiquity. She quelled the temptation to lift up the glass door and brush her fingers over the vessel. Though the vase stood only as tall as the length of her hand, the piece was striking, its detail magnificent. Someone had crafted that vessel thousands of years before her birth, employing skill and creativity. Could the artisan have imagined it would endure and be preserved many millennia after he’d taken his last breath?
With a reporter’s eye for details, she scanned Gavin’s book collection, mentally noting the eclectic assortment of genres. Nonfiction tomes exploring a variety of subjects, popular fiction, and classics populated the shelves. Volumes of poetry and literature rested on a side table. Not surprising, really. The man was a scholar and an adventurer. His efforts to convince her he was a cad had proven a momentary distraction from his accomplishments, as if by calculation. Why had he been dead set on proving himself to be an arrogant, shallow boor, when the evidence spoke to the contrary?
