Chapter Nine
A challenge? My, the man was incorrigible. Staring down at her hand, clasped within his long, warm fingers, Sophie reined in her rampaging thoughts. She tamped down the impulse to dash her wine across his too-handsome-for-her-own-good face.
If he persisted in pressing his case, she’d have no choice but to extricate herself from this situation. After all, even a woman employed by the likes of Trask would not tolerate such scandalous innuendo. A bit of indignation might add to the authenticity of her role as the charlatan’s assistant. But she couldn’t chance driving Stanwyck away before she’d deduced why he’d come to Trask.
She regarded him beneath her lashes, detecting the amusement in his eyes. She had nothing to fear from him. Of that, she felt reasonably certain. Still, she had to maintain the upper hand. She could not jeopardize her mission for something so trivial as a flirtation.
If only he’d stop looking at her like a fox eyeing a tasty hen. It wasn’t as if he believed her defenseless. The enticing glint in his eyes made it clear he savored a challenge.
“I assure you that will not be necessary,” she managed in a cool tone.
“You are quite sure?” He made no effort to disguise the teasing notes in his tone. “A deeper exploration of the subject might prove enlightening.”
With a curt inclination of her head, she cast a speaking glance to her nearly full crystal glass, if only to warn him he trod on perilous ground. “I am afraid I must disagree.”
“Very well. Our experiment might’ve proven rather interesting. Perhaps another time.” His fingers uncurled, releasing her hand from his hold. “Shall we change the subject?”
“That may be advisable, given your desire to make contact with your sire before the entrée is served.”
“And what of your guide? I take it she believes in making an entrance.”
Reaching for her glass, Sophie brought the vessel to her lips. Keeping her gaze fixed on him, she took another sip. Perhaps it was time for Esme to put in an appearance.
“I sense her presence.” Sophie pulled in a deep breath and, with a theatrical flair, closed her eyes. “Esme is here.”
A discreet throat-clearing behind her back cut through her concentration, and she opened her eyes. Standing to the side, the waiter balanced a soup tureen on a silver tray.
“I could not help but overhear the lady. You are expecting another guest, sir?”
Tiny crinkles formed around Stanwyck’s eyes, but when he replied, his tone was matter-of-fact. “None that are your concern. Thank you.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter went about the task of serving the first course of turtle soup with practiced efficiency. He turned to Stanwyck. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not at this time.”
The waiter briskly turned on his heel and took his leave.
Stanwyck took a spoonful. “Do have some, Miss Devereaux. Is it to your taste?”
Sophie sampled the soup, savoring the subtle flavor. “Delicious.” She set down her spoon. “If the timing does not pose an inconvenience, Esme wishes to proceed.”
“Of course.” He met her eyes. “And my father? Has he accompanied her?”
Sophie shook her head. “He is not here.”
“He always was a contrary old bastard.” The words were spoken without anger. Rather, a peculiar affection tinged each syllable.
“Before Esme attempts to make contact, she has a question for you. You selected two locations frequented not only by your father, but by the woman he was with when he passed from this earth. Why?”
“Each seemed a logical place to start. My father cared for Miss Malone. In her own way, she brought him some measure of happiness. I could not begrudge him that.”
“And your mother? Did she know about Miss Malone…before your father’s death?”
“Yes.” He lightly drummed his fingers against the table. “Not that she gave a damn by that point. Mother stayed at the country house, tending her garden, pouring her grief into those blasted roses of hers.”
“Grief? Over your father’s betrayal?”
“No.” He lifted his glass and took a drink. “She’d grown used to his unfaithfulness. Annabelle Malone was the last in a parade of women. Truth be told, I think my mother fancied it a relief. Theirs had not been a love match by any means. But my brother’s death…now that gutted her spirit.”
The pain in his tone was real. Regret twinged through Sophie. She hadn’t meant to tear open an old wound, much less one so obviously painful. Heaven knew she had experience with scars that would never entirely fade. She’d no desire to inflict such sadness on anyone else. She wanted to reach out to Stanwyck, to place her hand over his and offer comfort, but she stilled the impulse. Though rooted in kindness, even a small intimacy certainly wouldn’t do, much less after he’d seen fit to kiss her.
“A mother’s grief is like no other,” she said. His forehead creased, as if a question had formed in his thoughts, but she went on before he had a chance to utter it. “Your brother’s death had quite an impact on you as well, did it not?”
“In more ways than you might imagine.” Again, his tone bore what seemed a genuine sadness. “Cameron and I were close in age, but not in temperament. He was our father’s heir, in every way. I’d never considered the notion he might die, even in battle. As a lad, he’d seemed invincible.”
“You feel his loss acutely.”
“What man would not?” He motioned to the silver tureen. “Have another taste, Sophie. No sense focusing on the reasons we’ve had to mourn.”
So, he’d picked up on the sorrow in her words, the despair she could not hide when she thought of her mother’s desperate grief for her infant son. Sophie’s heart had broken with the loss of the child. Benjamin had seemed a perfect little doll, beautiful and vigorous and bright-eyed. Until the babe’s precious life had been stolen away by a wretched fever, not quite a year after his birth. Sophie had often wondered if her parents’ despair had played a part in the carriage accident that had claimed their lives weeks later. She’d survived that dismal time, but she’d learned young that sadness etched scars as deep as any blade.
The tempting aroma of the delicate soup wafted to Sophie’s senses, but her nerves protested the thought of food. For now, she’d focus on the task at hand, learning what she might about Stanwyck.
“Esme has posed a question,” she said, shifting the focus back to her supposed powers. “She would like to know when you last saw your father.”
His brows raised. “I trust she means before the funeral.”
“Quite so.”
“I cannot recall the precise date. We sat down to a meal together shortly after I returned from the Nile expedition. My time in London was brief. I departed the next morning. It was a matter of some urgency that I return to Egypt.”
“Why?”
“A team led by Sir Kenneth Boyle was set to embark on a dig.”
“And you intended to reach the tomb first?”
“Precisely. The artifacts needed to be catalogued and preserved, not sold off to the highest bidder.”
So, Stanwyck did possess scruples. Not so much the scoundrel after all.
“You have not profited from your expeditions?”
“Not in monetary terms. But the experience never fails to enrich the spirit. And, of course, there is the matter of my research.”
“Considering the perilous nature of your adventures, it is a bit of a challenge to picture you as an academic.”
He shrugged. “I would not describe my explorations as adventures.”
“The press would dispute your assessment. I have seen the headlines. As I recall, the word used to describe you was ‘swashbuckler.’”
His eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement. “As we have discussed, I would not trust everything I read in the papers.” Taking out his pocket watch, he glanced at the time before replacing the piece in his jacket. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “As for my so-called swashbuckling, there’s been nothing so bold as that in my work. For the most part, my expeditions find me poking about musty old tombs. If there is excitement to be had, it lies in the journey, the competition to reach a find before some blasted blowhard like Boyle stakes his greedy claim. Where that aspect is concerned, the other blokes on my team deserve far more of the credit than I do.”
Sophie took in his words, pondering his sudden show of modesty. Were his humble words another smokescreen? Perhaps she should challenge his uncharacteristic humility, if only to see what it would take to bring his arrogance back to the forefront.
“You were the leader of those explorations. I saw the reports in the papers. Your daring was the toast of London. I must confess, I envy you your adventures.”
Indeed, she had seen the banner headlines when Gavin Stanwyck’s latest expedition uncovered priceless antiquities that had been buried with some long dead advisor to a pharaoh, a fortune in artifacts he’d claimed for benefit of the Empire. Of course, she had no intention of confessing she’d hung on every word that detailed Stanwyck’s triumph over Boyle, a treasure hunter many regarded as little better than a grave robber. And it went without saying she would not reveal she’d viewed the relics at the British Museum on the opening day of their exhibit, nor that she’d prepared a glowing article detailing the display for the Ladies’ Pages.
How thrilling it must have been to enter that ancient tomb. What she wouldn’t give to feel the Egyptian sun beating down on her bonnet while she explored the intrigues of the pyramids.
He removed his spectacles and stowed them in his pocket. “Daring? What rubbish, the lot of it.”
“I must respectfully disagree. You’ve faced a multitude of daunting risks.”
His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head, studying her. The heat in his gaze washed over her. For the briefest of moments, scarcely longer than a heartbeat, she stared at her hands, suddenly self-conscious.
A slight scowl tipped down the corners of his mouth. “The press portrayed me as a bloody privateer in the desert. I am as far removed from a hero as you might hope to find.”
“I find that difficult to believe. You’ve made quite a mark. Why, some might even say you’re a hero.”
Of course, I would be among them. But I’d face a night in the Tower before I admitted that truth.
“There was nothing heroic about any of it. As you said, I am an academic.” He gave a quiet laugh, low and harsh. “Damnable shame my father didn’t last long enough to see those headlines. If he wasn’t already in his grave, they would’ve brought on a blasted apoplexy. As the old man put it, I spent too much damn time with my nose in books. I didn’t devote nearly enough time learning to be a cutthroat, as he was.”
Was that a fresh note of pain in his husky voice? Sophie pulled in a breath. She simply could not afford to distract herself pondering the emotion coloring his words. Her role was clear. She needed to understand why he was playing the part of a man seeking to speak with the dead, and none too convincingly at that. There was no time to consider the nuances of his speech, the traces of raw feeling in his words. She took a sip of wine, savoring the robust flavor, and refocused her thoughts.
“The Queen herself held a reception in your honor,” she said. “Modesty does not suit you. You’re known throughout England for your bold exploits.”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, Sophie experienced the utterly disconcerting sense that he could read her every thought, could feel the quickening of her pulse. He caught her hand in his. His slightly roughened fingers once again clasped hers, infusing her with his warmth. His sensuous mouth curved, and a sudden yearning filled her. She craved his caress, his kiss…and more.
“Believe what you wish, Sophie,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Kissing you tonight was the boldest thing I’ve done in a very long time.”
…
Bloody hell, I am a fool. That was the only explanation Gavin could deduce for his actions. He’d intended to set Sophie off-kilter tonight, to leave her in a stir that might induce her to confide some dark secret about Trask’s dealings. But she hadn’t taken the bait. Rather, she’d maintained her cool, polished demeanor. Stubborn woman, she’d refused to allow her feathers to become ruffled. No, stubborn was not quite the word for her. Steely, perhaps. Strong. And clever.
Hell and damnation, he’d underestimated her.
He lifted a cut-crystal glass and drank in the bouquet of fine port. Damned shame he couldn’t drown out his awareness of the faint, unpretentious citrus scent perfuming Sophie’s lush, honey-gold curls. The clean essence of lemons and woman stirred his senses. Bugger it, what was it about Sophie Devereaux that made him, a man who prided himself on his rational intelligence, question his reactions at every turn?
Bringing her to this place had been a mistake, an utter miscalculation on his part. He’d anticipated breaking her composure, planned to fluster her until she flubbed her lines like an actress with stage fright. He’d been certain he could lead her to abandon the pretense of communing with spirits. But Sophie had gotten the better of him. She’d carried on her performance with an unpolished flair, so cheeky in her approach, she seemed to know he was in on the act and didn’t give a bloody fig about it.
Even in her too-damned-proper wool skirt and jacket, complete with a cameo brooch at her throat and scratchy lace at her cuffs, Sophie was lovely. As they’d made their way to their table, a theater diva had breezed past, her buxom figure sheathed in a gown that left so little to the imagination, it seemed a miracle she could breathe, let alone walk and talk. Renowned for her stage presence and rumored to possess equal talents behind closed doors, Vera Fairchild flaunted the diamond-encrusted gifts she’d received from wealthy admirers. She’d made a point to flash a painted smile his way. After all, he was one of the few in London who hadn’t contributed to her overflowing jewelry chest. But compared to Sophie’s fresh-faced complexion and rosy mouth, the actress seemed a poor imitation of beauty.
Kissing Sophie had been an error of colossal proportions. What in blazes had he been thinking? He had intended to teach her a lesson about trusting rakes like himself. Blast it, he had not succeeded on that count. She’d seemed to enjoy being in his arms, seemed to savor his touch. He had not intimidated her in the least. If anything, she’d regarded him with a hint of amusement, a fact that had not amused him in the least.
And now he sat here, eyeing her as if he were some besotted young buck. He rued the moment he’d uttered an ill-advised confession about that blasted kiss. Damn it all, he’d spoken the truth. For all his bawdy reputation, he’d never felt as if he’d put any part of himself at risk in his rendezvous. Until tonight.
Until he’d taken Sophie in his arms and tasted her sweet, tempting mouth.
The impulsive caress had had nothing to do with desire, with wanting her. Or so he tried to convince himself. Damned shame he wasn’t succeeding. His motives had been nothing if not practical. He’d meant to shock her, if only to convince her how imprudent heading off into the night with a man like him was for a woman—any woman, much less one who possessed Sophie’s unpainted beauty. But somehow, she’d turned the tables on him, leaving him questioning his motives and his instincts and wanting more.
She watched him with wide, thoughtful eyes, seeming to consider his words for the confession they were.
“I should go,” she said, her tone quiet, unusually reserved.
He met her gaze, unwilling to reveal she’d taken him by surprise. Quite perceptive, those golden-flecked brown eyes of hers. So, she’d sensed the undercurrent of need in his words. And that awareness—more than the kiss itself or his brazen talk of hidden passion—had set her off base.
How bloody peculiar. A true charlatan would embrace any display of emotion on his part, would pounce upon any sign the man she wished to fleece was growing enamored of her. After all, the surest way to a man’s fortune was through his desire. If she viewed him as a fool she could lead on, he would appear more malleable, more apt to fall prey to whatever scheme Trask had devised to part a fool from his tin.
Yet, the slight show of emotion on his part had made her want to flee.
Ah, Sophie was an enigma—one he itched to solve.
“Is something wrong?” He knew full well the answer to his question, but with it, he’d bought time to formulate his next move.
She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip. “I will not be able to make contact with your father.”
“By the old man’s standards, the night is still young.”
“I do hate to disappoint you,” she said in a tone that contradicted her words. “Unfortunately, this circumstance does not invite contact. Esme has departed our realm. As such, I see no point in wasting your time.”
He forged a bland expression. “I do not see that any part of this evening has been a waste of time.”
Her lips thinned to a seam. She looked away, rather studiously regarding the lace tablecloth. When she lifted her gaze, she met his eyes without hesitation. “I am afraid I must disagree.”
“Do you care to elaborate?”
“Is it truly necessary to tell you what you already know?” She slipped her chair away from the table and began to rise. “You do not need to trouble yourself with an escort. I am fully capable of hiring a hack.”
How damnably ironic—his honesty had set her rushing for the door, while the rubbish he’d spouted to rattle her had done nothing of the sort. Was her conscience troubling her? Or did she doubt her ability to maintain her charade in the face of genuine emotion?
He couldn’t abandon the pretense that had brought him this far. It was bad enough he’d let his disguise slip away in a moment of damnable honesty. He couldn’t allow Sophie to walk out of this place believing he’d turned from a cynical treasure hunter to a besotted bloke in the course of one evening.
“I’d no idea mediums were so temperamental,” he said, biting back a smile at the breath she’d let out in a little huff. “Our business here is not done, Miss Devereaux.”
She lowered herself back to her chair, smoothing her skirts around her. “Allow me to assure you, you have not yet witnessed a display of my temper.”
“Do tell.” He summoned a contrived nonchalance to his tone. “Somehow, I suspect that would prove an interesting sight.”
She folded her hands primly before her, loosely lacing her fingers. Was that intended to prevent any agitated trembling?
“What is it you want of me?” Her voice had grown stronger, though still quiet and discreet.
His gaze traced over her hands, even as his traitorous thoughts recalled the satin warmth of her skin, the feel of her imprinted in his mind. Ah, he’d been a dolt to touch her, to hold her.
“I believe I’ve already made myself clear.” He infused his tone with ice.
“I know what you’ve said, what you’ve told Trask. But the thing of it is, I don’t believe you. Not one bloody word.”