Chapter Seven
Sophie had thought herself well prepared for this farce of a sitting with Gavin Stanwyck. Miss Beddingham, the Colton Agency’s ever-so-competent researcher, had obtained resources from the Herald’s files that had provided an illuminating picture of both Stanwyck and his sire. Sophie had reviewed as much as time had allowed, poring over news clippings of Stanwyck’s expeditions, the man’s society conquests, and his father’s blatant romps about town with his mistress, a woman not quite a year older than Gavin. Still, he’d managed to set her off base.
Never in her wildest dreams had she anticipated she’d wind up here, in an opulent, if overdone, hotel room, debating with Stanwyck whether or not he truly was a scoundrel. Bloody ridiculous, really. When the man wasn’t off in some foreign land exploring a tomb or translating some ancient text, he gallivanted about London with one merry widow or the next. Yet, here she was, trying to convince him that he wasn’t a true rogue.
Somehow, while playing the cad, he’d revealed hints of a decent heart lurking beneath the arrogance he employed as armor. Perhaps it was the muted pain in his eyes when he spoke of his father’s dalliances. Or perhaps, it was the unexpected compassion he’d shown his father’s paramour. Sophie wasn’t certain why she wanted to believe he was not a skirt-chasing bounder. What did it matter, in truth? She had not come here tonight to deduce what resided in Gavin Stanwyck’s heart.
She had a job to do. She’d best turn this discussion back to Edward Stanwyck. With any luck, she would convince Gavin that his patriarch had gone on to some other reward, far from this place with its marble-topped chests, gleaming crystal fixtures, and that ridiculously large and sturdy bed.
She steeled herself. Drat the man. If only he’d stop looking at her…like that. As if he had seen through her, glimpsing the truth of her charade as readily as she’d seen through him.
Her heartbeat sped, ever so slightly, and she let out a breath, slow and controlled, relaxing the tension. She glanced at the door. Stanwyck cocked a brow. Devil take the man and his all-too-observant eye.
“Surely you are not concerned that the ever-vigilant Miss Cornwall has wandered off. Do you anticipate the need to be rescued?”
She forced a little laugh. “Rescued? How very absurd.”
His eyes narrowed, as if searching for some crack in her carefully crafted armor. “So, what precisely would it take to convince you that I am, in fact, a cold-hearted rogue?”
She held his gaze, determined he would not disconcert her. Or at the least, she would not let on that he had.
“I see no point in carrying on this discussion. Esme informs me that your father is not present. If we are going to attempt to contact him, we must move along to another locale that will prove more favorable.”
He gave a little snort, making it clear he’d seen through her suggestion, to her desire to leave this closed-in, far-too-intimate space. “You’re certain the old goat’s not here?”
“Yes. Now, shall we proceed to the next location? I believe you’d planned to take a meal at Café Susannah.”
Thank heavens this torture is about to end.
“And what of Esme? Is she still flitting about us?”
“Not at the moment. Rest assured, I shall experience no difficulty in summoning her.”
“So, we are alone?”
Sophie fought the urge to gulp a bit of air. She was being a goose. If only Stanwyck was not watching her so intently, a chess master calculating his next move.
“Except for the secretary with her ear to the door, yes, we are alone.” She fashioned a placid smile. “I assume your driver is waiting with the carriage.”
He nodded. “He’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
She held her head high, striving to present the illusion that he had not succeeded in flustering her. This was all quite silly, really. She’d faced a brute in an alley the night before and walked away, unscathed and, for the most part, unshaken. Standing here, face-to-face with a blasted man of books, should not set her nerves on alert.
Cocking her chin, she walked to the door. “I am ready to leave, Professor Stanwyck.”
He didn’t move, other than to cross his arms over his chest and rock back on his heels. “The way I see it, you set forth a challenge. I am debating whether or not to accept it.”
“A challenge?” She frowned. “I don’t follow.”
He unfolded his arms and stalked to where she stood. Gently, his hands draped her shoulders. Strong, but without pressure. Without violence. “You said I would have to try harder for you to be convinced I am a scoundrel. What is that, if not a challenge?”
Words hovered on the tip of her tongue but failed to escape her lips. He shouldn’t be holding her, regardless of how warm his hands were against her body. He shouldn’t be so very near. She drank in subtle notes of sandalwood on his jaw and his throat. He shouldn’t be studying her with those perceptive eyes, a glint of sensual interest darkening his sapphire irises.
She drew in a breath, even as he held her closer still. If she’d detected any hint of danger, she would’ve brought him to the ground with a well-placed knee or a calculated swing of her weighted reticule against the pulse point behind his ear. But this man did not present that nature of a threat.
No, the danger in his touch was more subtle. More insidious. And ultimately, far more powerful. She could not betray the effect he had on her. She could not give him that weapon against her.
“I meant what I said.” A miracle, how steady she held her tone. “When I look at you, I do not see a cad. I see a man in need of answers. The only question is, what are the answers you truly seek?”
“And if I kissed you? Would you think me a rogue?”
The heat in his gaze kindled a spark deep within her, but she steeled herself against the sudden and powerful need. She could not let on how delicious his breath felt against her cheek, how good…how right…it felt to be in his arms.
“No.” She lifted her gaze to lock with his. “I would think you a man, with a man’s desires and needs. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“You are a temptation I could not have anticipated.” A tiny muscle in his jaw tensed. “And I…well, I am a bloody fool.”
His hands slid lower, settling on her leg-of-mutton sleeves, and he dipped his head. She might’ve imagined the sound, but his breath seemed a sigh. And then, his lips claimed hers in a kiss.
Oh, my, such a delicious caress. Shock rippled through Sophie’s veins, coupled with an instinctive alarm. Not fear. Far from it. Rather, this man’s touch should not feel so very tempting, so very tender. So maddeningly right.
His kiss was a leisurely possession. Gentle. Exploring. And, she knew in her heart, a testimony to his restraint. He infused the soft touch of his lips with hunger, stirring her own bone-deep need. Yet, he held back, the passion she glimpsed in his eyes tightly leashed.
His muscles taut, his hands light upon her arms, he held her so loosely she could…and should…break away.
Break away. Her logical mind chanted the words like a litany. If only she did not welcome his touch and his kiss, the heat of his strong, lean body. Closing her eyes, she gave in to temptation, savoring the feel of him, the taste of his kiss, the tautly controlled power in his body. His essence, crisp and clean and so very male, filled her senses, and she drank it in.
His tongue parted her lips, intensifying the flames kindling within her. She should end this madness. Here and now. It wasn’t as if she’d never known temptation. She knew better than to mix pleasure with her duty.
Peculiar, how natural it felt to be held by him, to be kissed by him.
Pity he was a man she knew better than to trust.
Bracing her palms against his shoulders, she broke free. An indignant inner voice urged a sound slap across his smug face for taking such a liberty. Blasted shame she was in character. Sophie Devereaux, charlatan, would never risk putting off a well-monied client.
Facing him directly, she steadied her voice. “Well played, Professor. I did not anticipate you would follow through on your challenge. Your assessment of your own character is correct.”
A sly smile curved his mouth. “So, I have convinced you that I am a scoundrel? I was hoping it would take more than a kiss to prove my point.”
She shook her head. “You stated that you believe yourself to be a fool. At this point, I am inclined to agree.”
To her surprise, his smile intensified, wry and too dratted appealing for her own good. This assignment would be far easier if he were a loathsome troll of a man. How unfortunate the man was as handsome as he was clever. Well, she’d simply have to maintain an alert focus on her mission.
“You are nothing if not surprising.” His eyes flashed with wry humor. “Shall I continue my demonstration?”
Blast the luck, her cheeks heated at his question. She could feel them going pink, if not crimson as a blooming beet. And blast it, he noticed. The gleam in his eyes betrayed that fact as clearly as any smug words he might utter.
She made a show of repuffing the tops of her sleeves, compressed as they’d been by his hands. “I assure you that will not be necessary.”
“You’re quite sure of that? I’d be willing to oblige, if you needed more convincing.”
“Absolutely not.”
Even as she spoke, more heat rushed to her face. She smoothed the lace at her cuffs, avoiding eye contact with Stanwyck. Good heavens, what had come over her? Through the years, she’d developed an immunity to the most persuasive of the male species. This rogue who’d spent most of his life traipsing around in search of hieroglyphics and skirts to lift should not challenge her wherewithal.
“You do know how to wound a man, Miss Devereaux. And just as I was getting started.” If only the humor in his tone could disguise the heat in his gaze.
“Perhaps you will now see fit to focus your efforts on our reason for coming here.” My, how serious she sounded, even to her own ears.
“As my efforts to validate my status as a rake have fallen miserably flat, shall we head to dinner? With any luck, your temperamental spirit guide may convince my beloved sire to put in an appearance.”
Curiosity had always been Sophie’s strongest asset. Or so she liked to think, despite her aunt and uncle’s insistence the quality was the greatest cause of feline death the world had ever known. As a girl, she’d had an insatiable hunger to investigate the most mundane of mysteries, such as what precisely the family’s housekeeper kept secured in a bottle she referred to as her special tonic. One covert taste of the throat-burning potion, and Sophie learned a quite literally bitter lesson regarding the perils of snooping. Not that the experience had dampened the trait that came so readily to her. To the contrary, investigating secrets seemed akin to nourishment, as essential to her nature as taking a breath.
Seated in the sleek brougham Gavin Stanwyck employed as his primary conveyance, Sophie regarded him beneath the veil of her lashes. Perhaps Uncle George and Aunt Mildred had been right after all. The way Stanwyck intrigued her was indeed a dangerous thing. Her need to know what drove the man went well beyond what she deemed necessary. Whether or not the man was a scoundrel had no bearing on the mission.
The nature of his character should be entirely irrelevant to her inquiries. For all she knew, she could be wasting her time. She sensed the man was up to something, felt in her bones he’d come to Trask’s occult salon for some purpose far removed from his stated intent. But she had nothing more than her skills of observation and her intuition to guide her. In truth, Stanwyck might well be a skeptic out to make a fool of Trask and anyone connected with him. Or, he might simply be an arrogant eccentric who took pleasure in leading her on a goose chase.
Studying him as he watched the goings-on outside the coach with a hawklike focus, she brushed aside the latter possibility. This was no brash second son out to amuse himself at her expense. No, something had spurred Gavin Stanwyck to come after Trask. She’d seen how he glared at the man, detected the cool animosity in his gaze.
There was more to Stanwyck’s appearance at Trask’s door than a foolish quest.
Looking away, she ran her fingers over the carriage’s rubbed leather upholstery. Quite luxurious. And yet, the conveyance was not in the least ostentatious.
Growing up in her uncle’s household, Sophie had not been accustomed to fine things. She’d had a good life with Uncle George, far better than most children who’d found themselves orphaned and penniless. But her uncle and aunt had a fondness for saving a pence or two or three, stashing away their tin for a rainy day. What little abundance there’d been in the household had not been hers to claim. Rather, it had been bestowed upon her guardians’ only child. A willowy, sweet-natured girl, Lottie had married a perfectly respectable barrister three days after her twentieth birthday and settled into a comfortable existence. Unlike Sophie, as her aunt was ever so fond of reminding her.
And then of course, there was the incident. To this day, Aunt Mildred could not speak of the occurrence without appearing close to apoplexy. What had happened the night of Sophie’s debut had made laughingstocks of them all, or so her aunt believed. Thank heavens dear Lottie had already found a husband, before Sophie had gone and created a stir that still wagged tongues.
She certainly had a knack for causing a commotion, didn’t she? Her gaze trailed over Stanwyck, as leisurely as his kiss had been earlier that evening. She’d left her good sense behind when she’d agreed to Stanwyck’s scheme, hadn’t she? Heaven knew she shouldn’t have let him kiss her. That had been a tactical error on her part.
A sigh escaped her, whisper soft. What was done was done. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d see to that.
The silence seemed a heavy cloak, stifling her. She fiddled with the lace on her sleeves, forcing herself to look at something other than the angles and planes of Stanwyck’s chiseled face.
A soft clearing of his throat pulled her interest back to him. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he turned to her, his expression unreadable.
“Is something wrong, Miss Devereaux?”
“Why no, whatever would make you ask?”
“I heard a sigh. I presume you were the source of the sound.” The tiny crinkles around his eyes served only to enhance his ruggedly cut features. “Unless, of course, Esme decided a coach ride would be preferable to popping in and out at will. If so, she sounds far too weary to be of much help tonight.”
My, the devil was observant, wasn’t he? She hadn’t realized he’d detected the hushed sound. “If Esme were to sigh, you would not be able to detect the otherworldly frequency.”
“Otherworldly? Is that so?” He cocked a brow in that infuriating way of his. “Well, then, is something troubling you?”
“No. Not at all.”
His expression grew more serious. “If you’ve grown weary tonight, we may pursue the matter of contact with my father at another time.”
Rather surprising, that. Perhaps as likely as if he’d offered to send his driver and carriage on a course to the moon. She certainly hadn’t anticipated he’d show any concern for her comfort with the agenda he’d set. Did he wonder if he’d gone too far in his attempt to prove himself a rogue?
He most certainly had. There was no arguing that, regardless of how delicious the experience had been. But she would not cast aside an opportunity to learn more about his motives over something as fleeting as a kiss.
She infused a light tone into her voice. “The night is young. I see absolutely no need to postpone this sitting.”
He gave a nod, though his expression contradicted the gesture. “You’re quite certain?”
“I am feeling well, thank you.”
He leaned closer, studying her with the same focus he’d devote to deciphering an ancient symbol. The crisp scent of his shaving soap filled her senses. “You do appear a bit flushed. Perhaps you’ve had cause to become…overheated.”
Devil take the knowing gleam in his eyes! Did he observe every nuance of her reaction to his nearness…of her response to him?
“It is a bit warm in here,” she countered. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
He lifted a hand to his jaw, grazing his fingers over the dark stubble of new beard. “Very well, then. But do speak up if you have a change of heart.” His eyes flashed. “Or better yet, have Esme transmit the message.”
So much for his concern. Something in his gaze—his arrogant assurance she’d welcome another attempt to prove himself a scoundrel, most likely—seemed designed to infuriate her. Surely, the man did not believe his blasted kiss had left her too flushed and addled to carry on. The very notion was preposterous. He was toying with her. Well, two could play at this game.
She smoothed her skirts, folded her hands in her lap, and plastered a prim look on her face. “I suppose it is possible your intent to play the rake has induced a delayed onset of the vapors. Pity there is no fainting couch in sight.”
The somberness in his eyes gave way to a look that might well have been respect, even as a hint of amusement touched his lips. “I cannot imagine you are a woman who swoons, much less with such mild provocation.”
“Mild provocation?” she repeated with a lift of her brows.
A wolf’s smile curved his tempting mouth. “Trust me, Sophie. If our circumstances were different, that would have been only the beginning.”
Oh, my. Her blasted cheeks flamed again. She could feel them heating, even as he settled back against the upholstered seat, still watching her, as if to drive home his point.
Again, her fingers went to her cuffs, plucking nonexistent wrinkles from the lace. “I concede this round to you. You have convinced me. You are, indeed, a bit of a scoundrel.”
He frowned, a contrived expression a child might well see through. One could hope Gavin Stanwyck was a more accomplished scholar than he was an actor. “Only a bit? You do know how to wound a man.”
Picturing the sheathed dagger she’d strapped to her thigh, she bit back a smile. “Perhaps better than you know.”
The carriage clattered to a stop. Moments later, the driver opened the door and peered inside. The round lenses of his spectacles and graying muttonchop whiskers lent his plump face an owlish look. With a smile, he announced they’d arrived at their destination and let down the steps.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” he said, flashing Sophie a grin as he tipped his wool cap.
“Not at this time, Avery.” Stanwyck stood and departed the coach, then escorted Sophie from the conveyance.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Avery.” Stanwyck regarded the man with genuine warmth. “I anticipate we will depart in an hour’s time.”
“Good enough, sir.” Avery scrambled onto the bench, cracked the reins, and rambled off over the cobbles.
“Loyal as they come,” Stanwyck remarked, watching the coach barrel along the street. “And generally, a man who approaches life at what one might term a leisurely pace.”
“Which would not seem to be the case tonight.”
Stanwyck nodded. “I suspect a certain matron has caught the man’s eye. She runs a public house she inherited after her husband left this earth. The peculiar thing of it is, Avery does not imbibe. Not a drop.” He offered Sophie his arm. “One can only conclude his interest lies in something other than what’s on tap.”
“Based on the evidence you’ve presented, one can only reach a logical conclusion.”
“Logic has little to do with it. I’ve known Avery since I was a lad. He’s a kindhearted soul. When his wife died a few years ago, the loss took a sad toll.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
“You could say so.”
“How very touching. He was a fortunate man to have experienced an enduring love.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree, Soph—Miss Devereaux. I question the value of any emotion which renders one so vulnerable to pain.”