Page 42 of No One's Bride
The lady’s gaze softened. “Men have a way of dealing with pain that women rarely understand. But from what I’ve seen of my father, I know inaction breeds self-contempt.”
Sebastian stared at her. Somehow, she had managed to see into his soul and identify the crux of his problem. He wasn’t angry with the world. He was angry with himself.
“Here, let me give you this before Aaron Chance returns.” Daventry reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed Sebastian two keys on a brass ring. “They’re for Chadwick’s Auction House. One is for the front door, the other for Hibbet’s apartment. Delay your visit to the Old Crown until tomorrow. This matter is a priority.”
Glad of the distraction, Sebastian dropped the keys into his coat pocket. “I thought we were forbidden from entering the apartment.”
“You are. I need the keys back tonight. Bring them to the Hart Street office before midnight. I’m dining with the magistrate Sir Oswald and need to slip them into his coat before he leaves.”
“What are we looking for?” Miss MacTavish said.
“If I knew that, madam, I wouldn’t need to give you the key. Use your intuition. But you cannot remove evidence from the scene.” Mr Daventry hardened his gaze. “And whatever happens, do not get caught on the premises.”
* * *
Leaving Fortune’s Den under cover of darkness should have been a simple affair. But with a host of rowdy gentlemen queuing to gain admission, it was a feat of military precision.
“What kept you?” Lord Denton said from the dark confines of Mr Daventry’s unmarked carriage. “It’s almost nine, which doesn’t leave much time to search Hibbet’s apartment.”
Ailsa considered him sitting amid the gloom, all broad shoulders and solid thighs. “Delphine insisted I wear her clothes, and I had to wait until gameplay began before Sigmund could usher me safely outside.”
Delphine, who dressed in the height of fashion and adored blue, had literally emptied her armoire to find something suitable.
Lord Denton gave a hum of approval as his gaze slipped over the midnight-blue dress and matching cloak. “The dress fits you like a glove. And it’s good to see you in something other than that brown monstrosity.”
“Ye mean the dress ye said resembled a sack?”
“The dress you use to disguise your womanly attributes.”
Panic fluttered in her throat. She knew the next question before it left his lips but pretended she hadn’t heard him ask why. “Must we keep the blinds closed? ’Tis so dark in here it feels like Satan’s boudoir.”
Something about the lack of light lent itself to the illicit. Being alone with Lord Denton made this feel like a clandestine affair.
“We must do everything possible to prevent being seen. And you’re avoiding my question.”
Her tongue grew thick, her throat tightening.
Dare she admit to being a naive fool?
“Why do you persist in drawing attention away from yourself?” He spoke so bluntly she knew he would not rest until he had an answer.
“For the same reasons ye avoid dancing with debutantes. So, I cannae be drawn into a compromising situation.” The memory of Mr Ashbury’s assault flashed into her mind. A fiend grabbing her in the blackness. “So a reprobate cannae use me for his own gain.”
He must have heard the thread of anger in her voice. “You’ve encountered such a fellow before?”
“Aye, at my come-out ball.” She kept her tone even, determined to disguise the cracks in her voice. She breathed through the painful stab to her heart. “Thankfully, he didnae take my virtue.” He’d stolen a young woman’s hopes and dreams instead. Shown her the world was a wicked place where romantic fantasies were for fools. “He tore silk from my gown and kept it to bribe my father, though the matter was resolved quickly.”
The lord’s breathing deepened like that of a beast hunting prey. “You will give me his name, madam.”
“His name? Why?”
“So I might ensure he never lays a damn finger on you again.”
“’Tis nae yer concern.”
“I am making it my concern.” He spoke like a champion of justice. “Tell me his name, else I shall hound your friends and family until I discover the truth.”
Despite the hardness of his voice, the frostiness clinging to every word, heat warmed Ailsa’s chest. Perhaps one needed Scottish blood to find a warrior’s ruthlessness attractive.
