Chapter Ten
Since girlhood, Sophie had demonstrated a talent for games of skill. Her uncle deserved much of the credit for her strategic acumen, but she’d instinctively understood the art of interpreting the small, scarcely noticeable signs that betrayed another player’s secrets. Even before her parents had been killed and she became Uncle George’s ward, her mother’s genial brother had delighted in teaching her to handle a deck of cards. While her peers were stitching samplers to hone their embroidery prowess, Sophie much preferred dealing a hand of whist to jabbing herself with a needle. Now, sitting so near Gavin Stanwyck she could smell the hint of sandalwood on his skin, her skill at reading tells proved exceedingly useful.
She made a point to hold his gaze. Any sign of reluctance would weaken her position. The man was up to something. At this point, admitting her doubts as to his purposes would set him back on his heels. He wouldn’t expect her to confront him. Not about his motives, at least.
His forehead furrowed for the briefest of moments. No, he had not anticipated that she would question his purposes. If anything, he’d expected that she’d react in a huff to his sensual advances. But she had not allowed his kiss, no matter how delicious, to interfere with her subtle inquiries. And now, her words had caught him by surprise. If she pressed the issue, perhaps he would let down his guard. That might well be the key to uncovering the truth.
“You don’t believe me. Is that so?” His voice was icy, but the expression in his eyes was anything but cool.
“I believe I spoke clearly. Not. One. Bloody. Word.”
He cocked a brow. “Come now, Sophie. Such language…from a lady.”
Did he think to goad her? Well, he’d find she was made of sterner stuff than that. She set her chin at an arrogant tilt. “So, you disparage me for the use of an epithet? I am not surprised that a man like you would hold a woman to a higher standard than himself.”
A thin smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “A man like me? So, you do admit I’m a cad. I have convinced you.”
“I would not give you the satisfaction.”
“Well, that is disappointing.” He lifted his glass and took a drink, then set it down before him. “Now, what’s all this about? What has spurred this sudden distrust?”
“Everything about this night.” She indulged in another draught of wine, then dabbed her mouth with her serviette.
“You believe I’ve something in mind other than recovering my father’s treasure?”
“Absolutely.”
“And yet, you’ve offered no rationale that led you to this conclusion.”
“Is that truly necessary?” She held his piercing gaze. “You have made a mockery of this process.”
“Am I to understand I’ve wounded your spirit guide’s tender feelings? In that case, please be good enough to offer Esme my apologies so we might get on with the evening’s agenda.”
Despite his earnest tone, an almost boyish amusement brightened his sapphire eyes. By Minerva’s garter, the man was impossible.
“Esme has certainly indicated her displeasure with your attitude, but I am speaking for myself.”
“So, you do not believe I was truthful about my intentions. In that case, what do you think I wished to accomplish in bringing you to this place?” He leaned closer, those clever blue eyes of his narrowing as if in scrutiny. “Do you believe this was an attempt at seduction?”
Seduction. On his lips, the word seemed an undeniable temptation. Something in his tightly controlled voice unleashed a tendril of heat through her core.
“No,” she said truthfully. “I’d considered that possibility, but a man—much less a man who possesses your wealth and vigor—would not need to go to such lengths to persuade a woman to warm his bed.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. There’s no telling what a man would do to coax a beauty like you between his sheets.”
Sophie resisted the urge to look away, to focus her attention on something far less enticing than Stanwyck’s sly smile. No, she would not let him rattle her composure. At least, she would not let him see how well he’d succeeded.
She pulled in a breath, regarding him with the same dispassionate expression she’d perfected while interviewing high-browed socialites about their latest Parisian finery for the Ladies’ Pages.
“I’ve little use for flattery. As for tempting a woman into a passionate encounter, I presume you’ve had ample experience in the matter. Judging from the talk about town, it seems reasonable to conclude that you are somewhat of an expert on the subject.”
He shrugged. “Ah, the gossips do love to speculate now, don’t they?”
“I am a modern woman, Professor Stanwyck. I know when a man is intent on sensual persuasion. Your actions at the hotel seemed a spontaneous gesture, not a calculated strategy, much less the tactics of a man well versed in seduction.”
“Well, then, you’ve figured me out. I won’t deny it. Kissing you was an act of impulse rather than deliberation. Should I regret taking that small liberty?”
“I am no worse for the experience. If you’ve convinced yourself my uneasiness is the result of some perceived threat to my virtue, you’re mistaken.”
“Good to know,” he said with a lightness that failed to reach his eyes. “Now, shall we get on with our chat with Esme? I presume the old gal is still hanging about.”
Did the man truly believe she’d be so easy to manipulate? She’d set him off base, just a bit. The tense set of his jaw betrayed that she’d gotten under his skin. She’d stay the course. For now, at least.
“Seeking contact with your father is no longer an option. Not tonight. Esme demands implicit, mutual trust.”
He leaned back against his chair and regarded her over steepled fingers. “So, do you care to inform me what has stirred this unexpected distrust? I do not tolerate false accusations, even from someone who’s been dead for a century or two.”
She straightened her spine. If he thought to intimidate her, he would find out he was mistaken. “No accusations have been leveled against you, neither by Esme nor myself.”
“Then what is the blasted problem? I’ve no patience for games.” His voice was low and even, but a hint of exasperation colored his tone. Good. Perhaps she was close to breaking through his cool facade, to uncovering some hint of his true purpose in seeking out Trask. She’d press him a bit more. She’d speak the truth, though crafted to suit her own purposes. And then, she’d put this charade to rest before he sabotaged her disguise and her mission.
“You’ve offered no reason for trust. I have tried to reconcile your remarks with your intent to lay claim to some lost family treasure—an heirloom that may or may not exist. I will not be drawn into a maddening goose chase. What is it you truly seek?”
Stanwyck went silent, appearing to mull her question.
“Goose chase, is it?”
She pulled in a breath. “Would you prefer fool’s errand?”
“But which of us is the fool? Multiple attempts at contact, and with no result? Conspicuous silence from my father. If he is hovering about this place, he’s likely laughing his bloody arse off.” He flashed a scowl. “And what of that moody ghost of yours? How blasted convenient for you that she’s chosen to make herself scarce. An ideal ruse for a medium who possesses no more ability to converse with spirits than I do, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say nothing of the sort.” Sophie held her voice steady. “I do not pretend to know what it is you’re truly seeking, but your motives have nothing to do with any blasted heirloom. I feel it in my bones.”
“Woman’s intuition, eh?” he scoffed. “And what of your flighty spirit? I assume she shares your conviction?”
“Call it what you will. As for Esme, your comments have been blatantly offensive. Is it any wonder she has chosen to withhold her assistance?”
“If the old gal has been traipsing around this planet for centuries, I’d think she’d be accustomed to dealing with skeptics.”
“There, you’ve said it.” Sophie pinned him with her gaze. “You are a skeptic.”
“You’ll get no denial from me on that account. What rational man would not harbor doubt when a woman claims she can communicate with the dead—but only when some cheeky ghost is hovering about and in the proper mood to commune with the other spirits?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You must admit the notion boggles the mind.”
She let out a long breath, not caring whether or not he noticed. Given the circumstances, she had good cause to display a bit of nerves. Appearing unflappable might actually raise more suspicion on his end. Evidently, he had not seen through her disguise. But if he’d set his mind to unmask her as a fraud, the damage to her cover identity might well prove catastrophic.
She needed to employ a different tactic. Perhaps, she should play along with his game. Participating in the man’s absurd quest would leave a bitter taste in her mouth, foul as quinine. But at the moment, she could think of no better strategy.
“So, you’ve set out to prove a point…to debunk my abilities?” Keeping her tone low and gentle, she wove notes of worry through the words.
He shook his head. “It may surprise you, but I have far better uses for my time than roaming about London in an attempt to disprove your purported talent.”
Something in his tone seared her, burning through her intention to placate the infuriating professor.
“Oh, you must forgive me. I’d forgotten that you are such an important man. A scholar with an empire to manage when he’s not trotting off to some desert or other—far too busy to waste his time trying to destroy a woman like me.”
“Destroy you?” His brows hiked. “I hadn’t taken you for the dramatic type. My interest has nothing to do with ruining you. If anything, I believe you need to protect yourself from men like Trask.”
“And from men like you?”
“Especially from men like me.” Regarding her beneath hooded lids, he kneaded the back of his neck as if it ached. “My conduct has been boorish. Perhaps inexcusably so.”
If Stanwyck had sprouted wings and flapped about the room like a dragon who’d run out of fire to spew, she might have been less surprised. His eyes revealed no clue to his sincerity or lack of it. The man was indeed confounding.
A nagging inner voice murmured its warning. Leave. Now. She should walk away from this mercurial man without so much as a parting glance.
But that was not an option. As much as she’d love to tell Stanwyck precisely where he might stow his non-apology, doing so might cost her access to Trask’s clients and files. The greedy fraud would expect her to do whatever it took to obtain a slice of Stanwyck’s fortune. If she refused to go along with the man’s requests, Trask would likely find another assistant by the next sunset.
She released a sigh, dramatic and pensive. “As I see it, there’s been no harm done.”
“Very good, Miss Devereaux.”
At least he’d chosen to address her in a proper fashion this time. Not that she disliked the sound of her name on his lips. If anything, the way his voice caressed her name was a temptation she needed to avoid. Just as she needed to avoid the lure of his touch.
“So, shall we continue our endeavor?”
Before Sophie could answer, the waiter approached and placed a domed silver platter on the table. As he moved to unveil the dish the chef had prepared, Stanwyck stopped him with a curt shake of his head.
“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
His drawn features making it plain he’d sensed the tension in the air, the waiter responded with a crisp nod. “Very well, sir.” Without a backward glance, he strode briskly away.
Sophie massaged her temples, easing the dull, tension-filled throb against her skull. It was high time she concluded this unfortunate farce of an evening and looked ahead to her next move.
“I’m afraid I have developed a bit of a megrim,” she said.
He frowned, but his eyes did not reflect a sense of surprise. Had he anticipated she’d call off their supper?
“You’ve taken ill?”
She came to her feet. “I’ve little appetite. As Esme has taken her leave for the evening, I think it best if I follow suit.”
“And if I wish to continue our efforts tomorrow?”
“That should prove suitable.”
He rose. Placing a light hand on her arm, he escorted her from the restaurant.
“Avery must be paying court to his lady.” Good humor flavored Stanwyck’s voice.
“As I recall, he’d been instructed to return in an hour’s time.”
“True. I shall arrange a coach and see you home.”
The steady clop of hooves against the cobbles reached Sophie’s ears. As the carriage neared, a shrill whistling cut through the street noises.
Stanwyck cocked his head. “That’s him. I’d recognize that infernal sound anywhere.”
Sophie smiled despite the slight aching in her head. “Your driver must have had a pleasant time with his friend.”
“Knowing the man as I do, he’s had more than a pleasant evening.”
“Far better than yours, I would presume,” Sophie quipped in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Without a doubt.” Was that a flash of humor in his eyes?
The carriage stopped feet from where they stood. The pulsing pressure an inch or so below her hairline intensified. She’d no desire to spend time in close quarters with Stanwyck. Especially not tonight, while her senses still drank in his clean scent and the all-too-recent memory of his kiss stirred an entirely irrational longing.
“If you would be so kind as to instruct your driver to transport me to Trask’s studio, I would be most appreciative.”
“I’d planned to see you home,” he countered. “After all, I do need to redeem myself as a gentleman in your eyes.”
“Please, do not put yourself to the trouble. Truth be told, my opinion doesn’t matter one whit. It’s Esme you must impress.”
“Sadly, the prospect of impressing a ghost does not move me in the least. I shall focus my efforts on you and hope the old gal takes notice.”
“Good enough. Still, there’s no need to accompany me. I assume you trust your driver to provide safe transport.”
“Of course,” he said. “You do realize you’ve put me in a scandalous position.”
“How so?”
“Your abrupt departure from the café is a gossip’s delight. If you listen carefully, you can already hear the tongues wagging.”
“More fodder for your reputation as a cad. Truth be told, you should thank me.”
“You delight in thwarting my attempts at redemption, don’t you?”
She bit back a smile. How decidedly unsporting, wielding his charm like a weapon. She could not allow it to sway her. Cultivating a hearty dislike of the man would prove a far more prudent strategy.
“I would advise you to devote your energy to more promising endeavors.”
He shrugged. “In any case, I will not press the issue. Avery is as trustworthy as they come. He will see you safely home.”
“Actually, I would prefer he transport me to the salon. Mr. Trask expects to be informed of the evening’s success.”
Stanwyck’s mouth pulled into a wry smile. “That should prove interesting.”
“Indeed.”
“I shall instruct Avery to wait and see you to your residence.”
“Following our meeting, I anticipate Trask will escort me home. Waiting would be an utter waste of your driver’s time.”
“Very well. I shall inform Avery.”
“Thank you.”
He gave a nod. “Good night, Sophie. I had not taken you for a hard-hearted woman, leaving a man to dine alone.”
“I’ve no doubt you will survive the experience. Good night.”
She moved to the conveyance. The driver had left his bench and let down the steps. He greeted her with a smile and a tip of his hat. Gaslight gleamed against his balding pate. Following an exchange of pleasantries, he helped her maneuver her skirts into the carriage. Stanwyck issued a few instructions, and the coach departed the café.
She glanced from the window, indulging in one parting glimpse of Gavin Stanwyck. He’d turned to reenter the café, but as if he’d sensed her gaze, he pivoted toward the coach, watching as the wheels rattled over the cobbles.
Pressing back against the plush upholstery, Sophie closed her eyes. She didn’t want to like the man. Heaven knew she didn’t trust him. What was it about Stanwyck that made her want to throttle him one moment and taste his kiss the next?
She allowed herself a few moments of restful solitude as the driver navigated the coach through the darkened streets. Arriving at Trask’s studio, Sophie thanked Avery and slipped inside the dimly lit space.
Trask sat in a leather wing chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a small side table, reading the evening edition of the Herald. Beneath the banner, another headline in smaller print caught her eye. The Thames had claimed another life, or so the lurid text declared. Had the unlucky bloke drowned? Or had yet another murder been made to appear a dreadful accident, as seemed to be the fashion where the deaths along the river were concerned?
Trask peered over the paper. His forehead furrowed as his mouth pulled into a slash. “I had not expected you so soon.”
Her skirts swishing around her ankles, she sauntered to the shadowed corner. Plopping exhaustedly into a chair, she sighed. “The evening did not go as planned.”
“That much is evident.” Trask folded the paper and placed it on his desk. His eyes had gone hard. “What the bloody hell happened?”
“Nothing to be concerned about.”
“I will be the judge of that.”
Sophie ignored the ice in his tone. “Professor Stanwyck is a skeptic. It’s in his nature. He was testing me tonight, but I was on to the bloke.”
“I don’t care about that rubbish. You need to make the man feel as though you are indispensable to him.”
“I’ve had to take steps to gain his trust. I’m confident I passed his blasted test.” She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair, emphasizing her words. “He has requested another sitting during the daylight hours.”
“I expect you to do whatever it takes to keep the bastard happy. There’s no telling how much he’ll pay for the information he wants.” Trask’s stare bore through her. “If you are not capable of giving the man what he wants, I will find an assistant who is up to the task.”
…
Gavin downed a few bites of fish, enough to appease his hunger. Odd, how unappetizing the expertly prepared Dover sole had become since Sophie’s abrupt departure. The waiter eyed him with concern, no doubt anticipating that he’d found fault with the chef’s fare. No, Gavin corrected himself. That was not the case. The waiter was a man, after all. Despite his discreet demeanor, the server had certainly seen enough of Sophie to understand Gavin’s change in mood after she’d fled his company.
After presenting the waiter with a generous gratuity, Gavin left the café for the second time that night. An hour or so in the comfortable smoke-and-whiskey-filled ambiance of his club was in order. A round of billiards would be just the thing to quell his nervous energy.
He spotted his coach ambling toward the café. For a moment, he considered sending Avery on his way and covering the distance to his club on foot, but a clap of thunder in the distance led him to reconsider. Being drenched in a downpour would certainly cap off what had already been a remarkably unsatisfactory night.
“To the Hound and Fox, sir?” Avery asked.
“Yes.”
Settled within the coach, he peered into the gaslit night. Bloody hell, he’d never before allowed himself to be so drawn in by a woman. Even the prim beauty he’d once asked to become his bride had not captivated him as Sophie had. Like a fool, he’d allowed his attraction to Trask’s assistant to cloud his thinking. Instead of using his time with Sophie to glean intelligence he could use to prove Trask’s involvement in Peter’s death, he’d wasted the hours engaging in what seemed an increasingly personal contest of wits and wills. He’d been determined to shake her confidence, as if that would cause her to admit that her performance was nothing more than a charade. But she’d clung with a tongue-in-cheek flair to the persona she’d affected, employing a cantankerous spirit as her excuse for her utter lack of occult skill. If she’d truly wanted to put on a display of her abilities, she simply should have put those deep brown eyes of hers to use. God knew they could mesmerize a man.
In his thirty-one years of life, Gavin had never seen eyes quite like Sophie’s. As dark as mahogany, yet, brightened with tiny flecks of amber and gold, her irises gleamed with a keen intelligence and wit. At times, it seemed she could read his secrets. A man could lose himself in a gaze like hers.
If a man was naive enough to be drawn in by such a transient thing as beauty, that is. If a man allowed himself to be duped by a lovely face and a honeyed voice. He was attracted to Sophie, but he knew better than to trust her. She had allied herself with an unscrupulous cur like Trask. There could be little doubt as to her capacity for deception.
He could not allow himself to be distracted by the woman. Sophie possessed a unique ability to confound him at every turn, even if she was not linked with Trask’s deceitful dealings. One moment she smiled slyly, as if well aware that he was as much a fraud as she was, and the next, she regarded him with a look of admiration that seemed only too real. Blast it, he knew better than to fall into that trap. He’d have to be a dolt to believe anything that came out of her rosy mouth. Her time with him tonight did not have a damned thing to do with his wit or his intellect or his bold exploits, as she’d so sweetly phrased it. Rather, his fortune was the lure, and nothing—not even the maddening appeal of her slightly throaty voice as she sang his praises—would make him forget that truth.
He’d keep Sophie at arm’s length. There was no choice in the matter. She might well be a cheat, a skilled fraud who’d allied herself with a charlatan. But even so, she was not a woman he could bed and walk away from without a second thought.
In his bones, he sensed Sophie’s response to him had not been part of her charade. When he’d kissed her, it seemed the only time during the evening when she’d truly forgotten she was a performer playing a role. If she did harbor an attraction to him, that was all the more reason to put a distance between them. Beneath the thin veneer of her act, she was a lady. Regardless of the circumstances that had led her to throw her lot in with Trask, in his gut, he knew that truth. And he would treat her as such.
In the long run, any liaison with Sophie would only hurt her. A woman like her would expect to lay claim to a piece of his heart.
But one could not surrender what one no longer possessed.