Chapter Six
Damnation, Sophie was going to make this a challenge. Gavin sensed it and the prospect stirred his interest all the more. What would it take to derail her composure, to induce her to fumble her performance and reveal some hint of the truth behind Trask’s operation?
They stepped inside, and he closed the door behind them. He watched her closely, seeing the way her throat constricted ever so slightly. Was that a gulp? Had the sound of the latch clicking triggered a show of nerves in the seemingly unflappable Miss Devereaux?
She moved to a window and pulled open the curtains. He followed her and glanced down to the bustling Strand. Congested with pedestrians and carriages, the street swarmed with activity. Sophie stood calmly, watching the hurried comings and goings, then turned to him.
“The manager’s concern was a bit unexpected, wouldn’t you say? Rather peculiar, given he’s likely seen his fair share of illicit liaisons.”
He met her gaze. “I have that effect on people. My scandalous reputation, you see.”
She gave a small smile. “I feel confident you’re not preparing to pounce.”
“Do you now?” he said, deliberately teasing her. His hand glided along the length of her arm, over her sleeve. Even if he had intended a randy overture, he’d have his work cut out for him—she’d attired herself in what might as well have been a woolen suit of armor.
“Surely, you would not go to such lengths simply to coax a woman into bed.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“How can one ever be truly confident of another’s intentions?”
She swept her tongue over her lips, presumably to moisten them. If she had any idea of the impact of the small gesture on his male body, she might’ve thought better of her assumption. If the circumstances were different—if she were not tangled in the treacherous web that had led to Peter’s death—he might well scale Ben Nevis to taste her passion.
“I’ve learned to trust my instincts. They’ve seldom failed me.”
“Is that so?” She touched a fingertip to her bottom lip. Was the subtle gesture an attempt to set him off base? “Could it be the treasure you seek has been gifted to your father’s mistress?”
“Not bloody likely,” he said. “He was a randy old goat, but he wasn’t a fool. He would not have squandered an heirloom on a woman who made no secret that the silver in his coffers was the key to her attraction.”
“This woman…you are acquainted with her?”
“Yes.” No need to provide Sophie with any further details she might weave into her performance. He’d given her enough to stir her imagination, if she chose to use it.
“I can picture her.” Sophie lifted her gaze as if envisioning something he could not hope to see. “Quite lovely. But of course, that goes without saying. Your father had a taste for brunettes. And blue eyes…deeply hued, almost violet.”
Her words caught him off guard. Bugger it, the description was meaningless. His father had been far less than discreet where his mistress was concerned. Sophie had likely spotted her image in the gossip sheets. The press had salivated over Annabelle Malone’s relationship with the octogenarian tycoon. Every detail of the actress’s appearance had been described and analyzed. Apparently, Miss Sophie Devereaux kept up with the news.
“He indulged her taste for sapphires,” Sophie went on. “Blue as her eyes. She wanted you to pick up where your father left off, didn’t she?”
Her words knocked him ajar. How did she know? A calculated guess, perhaps. It would not take a seasoned detective to deduce that the theatrical doxy had designs on the Stanwyck fortune. Annabelle had run out of time with his father. In her eyes, she’d had everything to gain and nothing to lose in seeking Gavin’s favor.
“Well done, Miss Devereaux. After my father’s death, his paramour did indeed reach out to me with the most blatant of propositions. I had no taste for the woman. The very idea was abhorrent. Does that surprise you?”
Sophie shook her head, her little hat wobbling precariously atop her golden curls. “You’d never be satisfied with such an empty arrangement, for that is all it would be. You’d much prefer a challenge.”
A challenge. Indeed. How ironic that she’d used that word, the very term he’d chosen to describe her. He centered his thoughts. She was a confounding woman, but he couldn’t allow her to throw him off his mark.
“You do possess a talent for deduction, though, I would not attribute your ability to describe Annabelle Malone to any otherworldly insight. She’s been treading the boards for years, and her portrait has been widely publicized. As for her penchant for wealthy, gullible men, I see nothing remarkable in your conclusion that she sought to exchange her rather questionable affection for an expensive bauble.”
“I regret that I have not impressed you with my abilities, such as they are.” Her gaze was direct, and she pinned him with it. “So, Professor Stanwyck, what is it you hope to achieve by coming here?”
The look in her deep brown eyes made him feel she’d already turned the tables on him. She studied him, seeming to read him with a scientist’s focus. Devil take it, it wasn’t as if she held any genuine interest in him. She’d likely developed the skill over time, the ability to perceive a person’s motives, to discern what had driven a desperate soul to Trask’s doorstep. That observant quality no doubt aided her in defrauding the trusting blokes who attended the fraud’s gatherings. In her line of work, if she could deduce what a person wanted to hear, that would make her all the more convincing.
Still, her intent focus made him question himself. Could it be that she’d spotted a weakness in him, one that perhaps he didn’t even recognize?
“You already know the answer to that question, Sophie. I expect to make contact with my father. Brief and expedient and to-the-point, if at all possible.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head, just enough to accent her skeptical view of him. “You’d like me to believe you care only about the answer to your question, the location of the heirloom?”
Something in her tone caught him off guard, even more so than her words. He’d expected her to play along with the charade, to mutter some rubbish about his father’s final moments and some heartfelt sentiments. He hadn’t anticipated she’d openly confront his motives. For a moment, he was the one who fumbled his role.
“What else is there to care about?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. In his tone, he’d revealed too much.
She turned from him, walking slowly toward the dresser chest. Seemingly deep in thought, she drew a finger along the swirling pattern etched in the marble top. “There is always more to a client’s quest than what lies at the surface. I sense you have another purpose driving your actions.”
“I am not a complicated man. I want only what’s mine.”
Still, she traced over the marble, focusing her gaze on the scroll of black against the pale, cold stone. “What is it that you crave?”
By thunder, this woman was indeed confounding. He drew a breath, settling his thoughts. “You know what I’m after.”
She locked gazes with him. Slowly, she shook her head. “Somehow, I doubt even you know what it is you’re seeking. You speak of jewels, of a treasure. But I know the truth. Another purpose drives you.”
“Another purpose?” He did his best to utter the words flippantly, as if what she’d said was entirely absurd. “I did not bring you to this place to have you speculate on my motives. You are here for one reason and one reason alone—to make contact and obtain the answers I desire.”
“Very well, I shall endeavor to communicate with your father. Perhaps you will even find your blasted treasure.” Her eyes seemed to darken. “Will that truly ease the burden you carry?”
Ease the burden. Was it so obvious, then? Perhaps she did possess insight into his motives.
Ah, he was a blasted fool. Perhaps he truly was his father’s son—ready to toss good sense aside in the face of a tempting mouth and big brown eyes. He’d nearly taken the bait she’d cast.
Sophie was talented, he’d give her that. She was playing a con, nothing more remarkable than that. Tossing out questions to get him wondering if she truly could discern his motives. She knew nothing of the guilt weighting his soul, the regret that would plague him until he found justice for Peter.
Her observations were general. Bloody hell, only someone with a weight on his soul would seek out a spiritualist, whether that pain was borne of guilt or heartbreak. What else would lead a sensible mother or an otherwise rational husband to a dishonest cur like Trask?
Peter Garner had been a logical man—until grief had brought him to his knees.
No, Sophie had not discerned anything about his true cause. She’d been fishing for clues, for hints that would make her performance all the more believable. Nothing more. Perhaps he’d offer her something to give her pause, to reconsider the dishonest game she played with such flare.
“Burden?” he repeated the word slowly. “Ah, you’ve seen through me, haven’t you? Clever, Sophie.”
“I prefer to be addressed as Miss Devereaux.”
Once again, she began to glide her fingertip over the marble. If only his damned traitorous thoughts would stop wondering how those delicate fingers would feel against his skin, clinging to his shoulders, tensing with ecstasy, digging into the muscles of his back.
“Why are you here, Sophie? Why did you agree to come with me tonight? Surely, it’s not to tell me I carry some blasted burden. I defy you to find one man or woman in the Queen’s Empire…in the bloody world, who does not bear such a weight.”
“Well said,” she replied, her voice calm but not gentle. “I believe what you seek has little to do with material gain and everything to do with healing a wound on your spirit.”
He eyed her with deliberate skepticism. “A wound on my spirit? Did you come up with that drivel yourself, or has that ghost who flits around with you decided a look at my psyche is in order?”
“Esme has expressed her doubts about you. But the observation in question was mine alone. It does not take one who has passed on to another realm to see you have not been entirely forthcoming about your motives.”
Her words needled him, tiny pinpricks in the deep-seated scars he’d accumulated over three decades. Damned if he’d let her see it. A flat-out denial would ring hollow. He’d confirm the obvious, then set this dialogue back on a path he controlled.
He kept his tone low and cool. “My father and I were estranged before his death. That is no secret. I have regrets. As would any man in my position.”
“Any man with a heart.” Did a hint of a smile touch her lips?
“I wouldn’t go so far as that. A heart is indeed a necessity. But as you undoubtedly know from the papers, you’d be hard-pressed to find a drop of sentimentality in mine.”
“I know better than to believe everything I read.” She walked soundlessly over the thick Oriental carpet to the bed. “If you’re seeking to make peace with your father, you will not do so here.”
“I don’t give a farthing about making peace with the old goat.”
She curled her fingers around a massive mahogany bedpost, not quite spanning its circumference. “I suspect the man doth protest too much.”
“Balderdash. I’ve had enough of your diversions. I did not come here to discuss my father. I came here to find out where he stashed the blasted jewels.”
“Very well. I must focus my energies.” She moved to the other side of the bed, trailing her fingers along the carvings in the post. “Your father took his last breath in this bed.”
“So I am told.”
“You were out of the country when he passed to the other realm.”
Gavin nodded. “Again, a documented fact. At some point, I suppose you will tell me something I don’t already know.”
“You were in Paris at the time. You boarded a train within hours after receiving the telegram with the news.”
“Again, I am well aware of my own actions following my father’s death.”
Sophie dug her fingers into the dense pile of the black velvet throw at the end of the bed. Was she deliberately attempting to distract him? If so, she was doing a bloody fine job of it. For a breath, he watched her, allowing his debauched imagination to get the better of him.
“After the services for your father, his companion made contact with you.” The coolness of her words tore him back to reality.
He nodded. “I stated the same not more than five minutes ago.”
“Miss Malone wanted you,” Sophie said. “For the security you might offer her. Or perhaps, her desire was real. She’d no reason to believe you’d spurn her advances. After all, the gossips have had a jolly time discussing your rather unconventional inheritance—you share your father’s taste for women who require neither vows nor words of love.”
Something in the way she looked at him chafed like a cravat tied too tightly. He gave a purposeful shrug. “I make no claims at sainthood.”
“I feel her energy here.” Sophie met his gaze. “She gave your father joy. And she cared for him, in her own fashion.”
“You are aware Miss Malone is alive and, I presume, well?”
“Of course. Her present state of being has nothing to do with the unique mark she left on this place.”
Sophie had certainly perfected her act. The way she made a show of running her fingertips over the bedcovers seemed an especially cheeky touch. Any man with blood still running through his veins would keep his focus on her at such a moment. God only knew it took an act of fortitude to pull his attention back to his purposes.
He forced a bland expression. “I’ve no interest in the energy left behind by my father’s mistress. If anything gave her joy, it was flaunting the diamonds the old man doled out.”
“Your energy is negative. I cannot guarantee contact with your father as long as you maintain this pessimistic view.”
Oh, that was bloody rich. Now she’d attempt to turn his justified skepticism into an excuse for failing to contact his father’s no-doubt randy ghost.
“Is it possible your corset has been laced too tightly? Has the blood flow to your head become constricted?”
He’d expected her cheeks to color and her chin to jut out ever so slightly, as tended to happen when he perturbed her. But she only regarded him with a look best described as serene.
“That is simply not possible.” She held his gaze, challenge dancing in her dark eyes. “You see, I do not wear one of those instruments of torture.”
“Very well, then.” A miracle the words made it past his lips in some semblance of a coherent response. “Perhaps we can get down to business. All this talk of Father’s mistress is entirely irrelevant.”
Once again, she ran her tongue over her lips. Her tactics were effective, he had to admit. For a moment, thoughts of his father and the nonexistent treasure faded away, replaced by an image of Miss Devereaux and her uncorseted curves lying on the decadent bed.
“I must respectfully disagree.” Sophie offered a glimmer of a smile. “Many believe you carried on an affair with her. After all, you provided a residence in this very hotel until she found another…protector. Yet you demanded nothing in return.”
How did she know of the arrangement he’d made on Miss Malone’s behalf? Sod it all, the manager must’ve run his mealy mouth all over London. He’d bloody well have a talk with Mr. Bailey. Discretion, indeed.
“I wanted nothing to do with the woman’s favors. But it seemed only decent to provide a roof over her head until she had a chance to move on.”
She regarded him for a long moment, silent and assessing. “Many believe you are a rogue—a reputation, by all accounts, you appear to relish. And yet, you were generous with a woman you had no obligation to assist, while refusing to take advantage of what she offered.”
Her knowing gaze seemed a pebble in his shoe. “You may rest assured that my motives had nothing to do with altruism.”
“Duly noted.” She gave a nod, crisp as a well-trained clerk. “Before I make contact with those who have crossed to the other side, Esme demands clarity of your expectations.”
Amazing, how sincerely she’d voiced the words. It must require a Herculean effort to keep her features in such a humorless mask. He’d break that careful control. And he intended to enjoy the experience.
“Ah, Esme,” he said, meeting her gaze. “That wicked girl. I can only imagine the sly flirt she must’ve been while in this realm.”
“My spirit guide does not appreciate being referred to in such a flippant manner.”
“My apologies.” He schooled his features. “I must remember to strive for propriety while in her presence. Damned shame she is not as spirited as my Esme had been. Quite the vixen.”
“Do make an effort to mind your manners, or Esme will take her leave.” Her mouth thinned, and for a moment, she reminded him of the shrill governess who’d tried in vain to corral him when he’d still been a lad in short pants.
He pushed the notion from his thoughts. The dour-faced harpy could never have compared with Sophie’s sweetly rounded countenance. Despite the way she’d pulled her lush mouth into a stern seam, Sophie was a beauty. Even then, when she regarded him with a too-damned-proper gaze, the prospect of sampling her kiss made his groin hitch.
Bah, he was a fool. Only a blooming chump would entertain the thought of her kiss. Banishing the notion, he pressed on with the task at hand. How bloody absurd, to be conversing about an imaginary entity. “Esme—she is here with us now?”
Sophie nodded. “She has made her presence known. But, she will not speak until the time is right.”
“And when might that be? At this rate, I may be a decrepit old man before I obtain the answers I seek.”
“She wishes to understand you before she offers her assistance. You must admit, you’ve been less than respectful in her presence.” Only the faint glimmer in her eyes betrayed any hint she was engaged in a clever performance. She’d missed her calling treading the boards.
“I shall endeavor to demonstrate the proper respect.” Damn it, but the words sounded mocking, even to himself.
Her eyes narrowed, as if she fully realized they both played a blasted game. What would it take to get her to drop the facade?
“Esme finds you to be a bit of a puzzle,” Sophie said. “You are an academic, a trained scholar.”
“Again, that information is well-known. It hardly merits revelation by a spirit.”
“And yet, you evidently savor a good scandal.”
“So, Esme does keep up with the London rags. Quite enlightening. I’d never imagined a ghost would have a penchant for scurrilous gossip. Tell me, how does she turn the pages? Or is that your role?”
“Esme is aware of much that goes on in our realm.”
“I must say, I feel for the poor chap who’s got to put up with that minx’s cold breath on his neck as she leans over his shoulder to read that rubbish. Esme most likely makes her appearance just as the bloke’s settling in next to a rip-roaring fire, a glass of port in one hand.”
Sophie shook her head. “I assure you she has no need of the papers.”
“Bloody good thing. She might well induce apoplexy in some unsuspecting gent.”
“Indeed,” Sophie said. “Still, you must admit she has a point. You do not conduct yourself like a scholar. And yet, your research has been described as brilliant.”
Had Sophie decided to try another tack? Flattery was an effective tool with most men. Damnable shame he was immune to such rubbish.
“Brilliant? You don’t say. So, Esme keeps up with the latest journals. What are her thoughts on the hunt for Hatshepsut’s tomb?”
Sophie’s delicate brows drew together, but she did not quite frown. “If she has an opinion on the subject, she has not expressed it to me.”
What in blazes was the woman about? He’d brought her to this place, to this chamber—to the blasted bed where his father had expired, no less. He’d thought to fluster her, to jar her into babbling some truth or another about Trask’s enterprise. But she’d deftly turned the tables to keep the focus on him.
She stood by the bed, studying him with those large, doe-brown eyes. Her hand grazed the polished surface of the bedpost. A show of nerves, most likely, rather than an attempt at seduction. Did she sense she’d gotten herself in over her head with this charade?
But blast it all, if she wasn’t as tempting as any siren emerging from the sea. If she thought to take his mind from his purpose in coming here, she hadn’t succeeded, but damned if she hadn’t put his will to the test.
“Esme wishes to fully understand your intentions before she offers her assistance. If all you seek is treasure to enrich your coffers, she has no interest in your quest. In her eyes, you are a rogue. A brilliant rogue, but a rogue nonetheless.”
“And what of it?” he said. “I make a point to be open about my intentions, or lack of them. It’s not as though I’ve left a trail of ruined virgins in my wake.”
“Quite so, Professor. You try to act the scoundrel.” A subtle smile curved her pink-coral mouth. “But Esme…and I…know better.”
He didn’t want her to look at him that way, as if he were a man she should trust—a man who’d insisted she accompany him to a hotel, no less. Sod it all, he’d thought Trask an unscrupulous charlatan before, but the mere fact the bastard sent Sophie to this place under the escort of a known rake was low, even for that guttersnipe.
Of course, she was a clever one. Too clever to blithely put herself at risk. Was this all part of her act, feigning vulnerability until he let his guard down? For all he knew, she might have a bodyguard trailing her every step, an ox of a man who waited in the wings, alert for the slightest indication of distress.
Perhaps he’d teach her a lesson, one that might spur her to cut ties with Trask once and for all. He might well end up with some bastard’s fist plowing into his face, but that would be a small price to pay to turn her against the fraud.
He pinned her with what he intended to be a piercing gaze. She didn’t look away, not so much as offering the first blink. Rather, she held her chin high.
“You can’t fool Esme.” Her voice had gone low and smooth as velvet. “She’s exceedingly well versed in the ways of men like you.”
He leaned against the dresser, propping himself lazily on one arm. “So, am I to understand you concur with the old girl’s opinion—you believe me to be a rogue, but not a scoundrel? A rather fine distinction, I’d say.”
“You fancy yourself to be a rake, unencumbered by commitment or emotional bond. But you can’t truly bring yourself to take advantage of a woman.”
“Is that so? And why, precisely, would you come to that conclusion?”
“Esme knows more than you believe possible.”
“You are not conveying information from some daft spirit with an ear for gossip, Sophie. Do you take me for a fool?”
She gave a little shrug. “Believe what you’d like. The fact remains, you’re not nearly the cad you’d like me to believe. You keep your honor hidden away, perhaps even from yourself. But it’s still there. You can’t escape it—not entirely. If you think to intimidate me or rattle my nerves, you’ll have to try harder.”
Honor. How long had it been since a woman had spoken of such a thing, in connection with him, no less? How remarkable, really. His mistresses didn’t tend to trouble themselves with such concerns as his character. Typically, a tumble between his sheets and a pricey bauble or two comprised the extent of their interest. Did Sophie believe her own words? Surely she didn’t believe he possessed a noble streak. More likely than not, she was lying through her pretty teeth, hoping to set him off guard. In either case, he’d have to disappoint her.
“Will I now?” He studied her, smiling to himself as she fidgeted a little beneath his gaze. Her tongue darted out again, drawing his attention to those plump, tempting lips. Ah, he really should kiss her and find out for himself precisely how delicious that sweet mouth would taste.
You’ll have to try harder.
Sophie should know better than to tempt fate with a man like him. Who was he to let her challenge go unanswered?