Chapter Thirteen
Damn and blast, I am a fool. The words echoed in Gavin’s mind. He’d put his plan to uncover Trask’s role in Peter’s death at risk, and all to play the hero to a woman—a woman who’d clasped a sophisticated weapon between her slender fingers. She’d attempted to conceal the implement from his sight, but he’d recognized it for what it was—a knife disguised as a fountain pen. Her thumb had grazed the small latch near the nib, but she had not put the blade to use. Where in blazes had Sophie come across such an ingenious means of defense?
He kept a close tether on his thoughts, even as the question taunted him. Any inquiry about the weapon would likely serve to put her on guard. Seated within the carriage, her skirts brushing the fabric of his trousers, she regarded him with a seasoned wariness. With any luck, she might warm to him, might develop trust in him that would prove useful in the long run.
He reached for her, then held back. Best to leave her to her own thoughts, at least for the moment. Even now, after he’d kissed her, after he’d tasted the passion she tried to conceal beneath an icy armor, she regarded him with a practiced disinterest. He knew better than to believe she’d been unaffected by his touch. God knew the heat of her response posed a powerful contradiction to her cool demeanor.
Damnable shame he hadn’t recognized the thugs who’d tried to snatch her off the street. Hired brutes, without a donkey’s ration of intellect between the pair of them. Who had paid them to do the deed?
Stretching out his legs, Gavin reclined against the padded bench and centered his attention on Sophie. Not that she welcomed his interest. Could she hold herself any more rigid? Did she want to deceive him into thinking her response to his touch had been an act? No trace of the warm, receptive woman he’d held in his arms remained. Instead, she met his interest with an assessing gaze of her own, holding her shoulders squared and her hands knotted in her lap, off-limits to his touch.
Amazing, really, how bloody stubborn she was. Did Sophie think he had not noticed the slight quivering of her mouth, had not caught the spark of recognition in her eyes when he’d brought up the carriage’s distinctive crest?
Odd how the defiant lift of her chin appealed to him. It seemed a lifetime since a woman had regarded him with something other than a false smile and batted lashes. How refreshing to see that honesty in Sophie’s expression, even when anger darkened her gaze. Once, when he’d been his father’s spare, content to pursue his academic interests, women had seen him as a man with a man’s passions and flaws—not as the means to a fortune.
He’d even been fool enough to fall in love. Only once. Not that that particular liaison had gone smashingly well. The blue-eyed daughter of his Latin professor had murmured words of adoration in his arms, but when the time came to make her choice, she’d opted for a duke’s heir with a title and blunt to spare.
Truth be told, Gavin had understood her choice. As a second son, he’d hardly been a catch. What woman aspired to become the wife of an academic, much less a man whose research sent him to climates where even the camels begged for a water flask? After Melinda had called off their engagement, he’d made a point to bed only those women who sought to while away pleasurable hours in his arms—willing widows and flamboyant actresses with no designs on him beyond a brief interlude between silky sheets.
In one moment, quick as a blink, his comfortable life had changed. His older brother, Cameron, had fallen prey to an enemy bullet while defending Victoria’s empire on the Gold Coast. He’d succumbed instantly, or so they’d been told. Gavin had become the heir to his father’s hard-won fortune and had suddenly become the target of husband-hunters out to land a wealthy man. Women who’d once desired a spirited tumble suddenly longed for the peal of wedding bells. Proper ladies who’d aspired to a suitable match—supposed virgins who wouldn’t have wasted that most valuable commodity on Edward Stanwyck’s spare—now sought to warm his bed in exchange for a band of gold and spoken vows.
Blast it all, he wanted no part of their schemes. He had no intention of falling prey to their lures. Better some wet-behind-the-ears duke than him.
When she had kissed him, Sophie hadn’t seemed to give a fig about his fortune. Surely, she had some inkling of who he was. His father’s enterprises had made the Stanwyck name known throughout all of Britain. Trask certainly knew who he was dealing with, embracing the preposterous long-lost treasure story as an eccentric quest to be financed by the substantial Stanwyck coffers.
But his wealth hadn’t seemed to faze Sophie. She seemed unconcerned about his position as the Stanwyck heir. And she certainly hadn’t attempted to seduce him. If anything, she’d presented herself with a cultivated indifference.
Until he’d kissed her.
She’d seemed entirely caught off guard by her passionate response to his caress, just as he’d been blindsided by the hunger that recklessly urged him to kiss her senseless.
Was she truly so skilled an actress? Bloody hell, she intrigued him. Neil Trask certainly knew how to pick the perfect lure, a spirited beauty who took a man’s interest off his chicanery and focused it on the words uttered by her perfect bow of a mouth. God only knew the lovely medium had drawn Gavin’s interest.
What a damn shame he’d have to extinguish those sparks before they kindled a blaze, an inferno he couldn’t control.
As the carriage entered Charing Cross, Sophie peered from the window. “We’re at my building,” she said, breaking the oddly comfortable silence. “Thank you. You were most kind to see me home.”
Home. The drab boardinghouse did not fit Sophie in the least. He would have expected a woman like her to be ensconced in a fashionable flat on the Strand, not a nondescript brick structure, several stories tall, its windows illuminated by scatterings of light around drawn shades. Bloody odd. Evidently, she hadn’t capitalized upon her beauty and her charm. She’d certainly have had no trouble snaring a well-to-do protector. A smile tried to sneak onto his lips, but he quashed it. By thunder, why did it please him so that Sophie had not traded her attentions for a rich man’s favor?
Two raps on the carriage roof signaled the driver to stop. Gavin didn’t wait for the man to leave his perch and assist them from the coach. Exiting the carriage as soon as it came to a halt, he unlatched the door and stepped onto the pavement, then extended his hand to Sophie.
She wrinkled her nose as though he’d suddenly developed an abhorrent odor. So, she’d been wounded by his abrupt change of manner after the kiss. She’d pretended to be unaffected by his ungentlemanly conduct, but now, she let the truth show on her features. Good for her. He much preferred her spirit to coolly controlled emotion.
With a slight sniff of her pert nose, she took his proffered hand. Lightly grasping his fingers, she maneuvered her long, full skirt over the pair of steps that led to the pavement. The heavy fabric obscured even the slightest glimpse of her legs. Blast the luck. He’d wager they were as luscious as the rest of her.
Releasing his hand as her feet touched the pavement, she looked up at him. “I feel confident I can venture to my residence without further escort.”
“Of course. Until tomorrow. I’ll plan to meet you at the salon at one o’clock.”
Her delectable mouth pulled taut as a violinist’s bow. “That should prove acceptable.”
“I look forward to continuing our…discussion.” He deliberately punctuated his statement with a mischievous half-smile.
Her lips thinned. Much more, and they’d all but disappear. “We shall keep our focus on making contact with the spirit you seek.”
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” he teased as the creak of a door signaled they were not alone. The entry door at the top of the building’s front stairs opened. A gray-streaked head emerged, a slight scowl marking the woman’s careworn features.
“You’re a bit later than usual,” the matron commented in a tone that seemed by parts both motherly and hungry for scandal. Squinting, she raked over him. “I suppose it’s no wonder, girl, what with a fellow like that one lookin’ out for you.”
Sophie spared him a glance over her shoulder. “He has seen me home out of gentlemanly duty. Nothing more.”
Bracing her hands on her bony hips, the older woman stepped onto the landing. Gavin met her assessing gaze with a smile. “Good evening, Mrs.—”
“O’Brien.” She gestured to the sign on the door beneath the gaslight. Mrs. O’Brien’s Home for Quality Women. “And who might you be?”
He approached the steps. “Gavin Stanwyck at your service, madam.” He offered his most insincere smile. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine.”
“Stanwyck?” Mrs. O’Brien’s eyes glimmered with recognition, and she patted her hair as if she might smooth its disarray. She failed to succeed.
“Professor Stanwyck was about to be on his way.” Sophie said, her eyes narrowing at him with unmistakable meaning.
Mrs. O’Brien kept her focus on Gavin. A cagey smile pulled at her mouth. “My, my, it’s a rare thing to find a man of your caliber gracing my humble doorstep.” The matron shifted her gaze to Sophie. “We must have a talk, my dear. A long talk.”
“I assure you I am far too tired tonight, Mrs. O’Brien. If you’ll excuse me, I will be on my way to my room.” Sophie started up the stairs to the entrance. Her expression didn’t change as she peered down at him. “Good night, Professor Stanwyck. Thank you for your trouble.”
“It was my pleasure. Until I see you again.”
“Good evenin’ to ye, sir.” Mrs. O’Brien’s words drifted to the street. Her voice went lower as she turned to Sophie. “A Stanwyck, girlie. A bloomin’ gentleman with tin t’spare. For goodness’ sake, would it kill ye to at least offer the fellow a smile?”
Whether the matron didn’t realize he could hear her or didn’t care that the admonishment had made its way to his ears, Gavin couldn’t be sure. The door swung shut behind Mrs. O’Brien’s skirts. He didn’t hear Sophie’s reply, but he chuckled to himself, picturing the rosy flush on Sophie’s cheeks as she likely considered how much more they’d shared than a blasted smile.
…
Dashing up the stairs to her third-floor room, Sophie pushed aside the curtain and slipped between the window and the worn fabric. Peering down to the street below, her gaze trailed Stanwyck’s carriage as it rattled over the pavement.
Dratted man. So very arrogant.
She turned away, settling onto a small chair in the corner of the room. A long, calming breath escaped her as she picked at a loose thread on the frayed upholstery. Allowing her attention to linger on the long-faded cloth for another few breaths, she stared idly at what remained of the fabric’s tapestry print. She pulled another stray thread from the arm of the chair. Odd, how the childish action seemed soothing.
Of all the people in London who might come to my rescue, it had to be him.
The circumstances of Stanwyck’s unexpected appearance did seem a bit suspect, especially now that she’d had a chance to ponder his arrival without a brute’s arm cutting off her air. Had his presence at the scene been more than a coincidence?
Devil take it, could Stanwyck have arranged the entire episode? A few shillings in the hands of the men who’d accosted her would have bought their vile services for the night. Perhaps he’d even added an extra coin or two to induce the blighters to show fear after Stanwyck charged to her rescue.
But why? Why would he go to such lengths to play the hero?
And the coach that had sped into the night—surely that wasn’t mere chance. The elegant carriage had been in the vicinity with a purpose, possibly quite a sinister one. Surely, Stanwyck had not engineered its sudden appearance. The incident would have served no purpose. And instinct told her Gavin Stanwyck was not a man who acted without reason.
Her shoulders sagged. By Athena’s spear, had her attackers been genuinely intent on abduction?
But why? The question taunted her. Who would go to such lengths? Had the truth of her identity become known?
Of course, if those men had wanted her dead, they would not have bothered with an abduction. She would not have been the first unfortunate woman to meet her end on the London streets, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The ruffian who’d held her could have broken her neck before she’d had a chance to make a sound, much less fight back.
She raised her fingers to her cheek, gritting her teeth against a wince. No, that ogre of a man had not intended to kill her. At least, not at that moment. He’d said he’d been sent to collect her. The thought provided only scant comfort. Did the person who’d gone to such lengths for an audience believe her to be a true medium? How very odd.
Rubbing her temples, her lids drifted shut. A vision of Stanwyck fluttered through her thoughts, shattering the momentary calm she’d enjoyed. She really should be grateful he’d come to her assistance. Not that she’d needed him to rescue her. She would have found a way to put her knife to use and take the hulk by surprise. It wasn’t as if she’d never found herself in a muddle. She’d have found her way out of it.
Nonsense. Logic contradicted her pride. The man who’d accosted her had the benefit of a wiry strength as well as nearly a foot of height. She could’ve defended herself. Perhaps she could have escaped. But the cost would’ve been far greater than the superficial bruises the man had inflicted.
Opening her eyes, she spotted another thread sticking out from the overworn chair. She plucked the fiber from the upholstery. How it rankled her that Stanwyck had been the one to play the white knight. If only some dutiful constable had stumbled upon the scene. She’d be safe and sound and warm in her room, and she wouldn’t have to face the no-doubt-smug expression on the professor’s dangerously handsome face.
Rising from her comfortable corner, Sophie paced the length of the room. She had no reason for regret. It wasn’t as though she’d kissed him. No, he’d taken that bold initiative. She’d had no reason to anticipate he’d do such a thing, no way to take evasive action until it had been too late, until his sensuous mouth had claimed hers.
Pity she hadn’t thought to prepare herself for such a scenario. If she’d steeled herself, she might’ve resisted the improper caress.
If only his touch hadn’t swept away all reason. And that scent of his—crisp, and clean, and spicy, a blend of shaving soap and an essence she couldn’t quite place—she could have lingered in his arms, drinking in the subtle masculine aroma.
Even now, tingles raced along her spine at the thought of his possessive caress. She’d gone utterly shameless. Of that, she had no doubt.
Thank heavens her sanity had been restored, and by his own words, no less. A proper reward, I’d say. Her teeth gritted at the echo of his words in her thoughts. His brittle commentary had ensured she’d have no further lapses of reason. He’d been compensated for his gallantry. Gavin Stanwyck could rest assured no other recompense would be forthcoming.