Chapter Two
Superstition proclaimed that bad luck came in threes.
The scandalous nature of Lucius’ birth had been the first unfortunate event. He imagined a bitterly cold January day, a rather bleak period that served as a foundation for his childhood. Eight years later came his mother’s disappearance—more an inevitability than bad luck when one considered the shouts and sobs echoing through the house at night.
Meeting Atticus Atwood had been his salvation, until the man pronounced Lucius head of their secret organisation, the Order of Themis, made him promise to protect his daughter and then promptly died under suspicious circumstances.
“I hardly think that’s fair, Daventry,” Newberry said in response to Miss Atwood’s comment about inspecting her father’s journals. “All potential purchasers should be allowed to examine the goods.”
Lucius glanced at the lady in the jaunty green hat that marked her as the most original woman of his acquaintance. The lady who saw fit to turn his life upside down with her snooping and witless comments.
“Miss Atwood is mistaken if she thinks one bat of her lashes will bring me to my knees.” He had held his desire in check for so long, she could flaunt her impressive breasts and he would still be immune.
As if hearing his thoughts, Newberry stole a glance at Miss Atwood’s generous bosom, and Lucius imagined ripping the lord’s eyeballs from their sockets and feeding them to the crows.
“Persuasion comes in various forms, Mr Daventry,” said the lady who haunted his dreams.
His mind might have concocted a lascivious scenario, but he had conditioned himself to suppress dangerous thoughts of Sybil Atwood.
“Clearly you’re accustomed to women using their attributes as common currency,” she continued. “Heaven forbid a lady might employ logical reasoning to sway your decision.”
“Nothing you could say or do would sway my decision, Miss Atwood.” He hoped his razor-sharp tone conveyed his point. The lady’s life was at stake, a life worth more than a selfish moment of pleasure.
Newberry snorted. “Then you’re a stronger man than I, Daventry.”
Lucius ignored the half-hearted compliment. “Should you still have an interest in the items, Newberry, I shall expect your letter this afternoon.” He flicked his gaze towards the door as he had no desire to discuss the matter further.
Newberry did not incline his head but departed with a mocking snort and a comment informing them that he always got what he wanted.
Though still in the company of her friend, Mr
s Cavanagh, the urge to tear into Miss Atwood burned in Lucius’ veins. “Do you have the remotest idea what you’ve done?” he muttered through gritted teeth.
The lady cast him a beaming smile, which went some way to calm his temper. Once, from the shadows of Atticus’ dark hallway, he had secretly witnessed her soulful cries, witnessed her crumple to her knees, grief-stricken. The harrowing sight had wrenched at his heart, and he would give anything not to see it again.
“I loved my father dearly and merely wish to reclaim his possessions,” she said in the sincere way that confirmed she knew nothing about Atticus Atwood’s real work.
The truth carried no shame.
But the truth would get one killed.
Indeed, he had to get rid of her. He had to send her home, had to hurt her enough that she would never dare approach him again.
“Frankly, your father didn’t want you to have his journals. He told me so himself.” It was not a lie. Atticus loved his daughter. Her safety had always been his primary concern. A concern Lucius had inherited, along with the written texts that people would commit murder to obtain. “Atticus may have been forward-thinking, but he wanted a man who understood his motives and principles to take possession of his life’s work. In that regard, he found you lacking.”
Fool! Lucius silently cursed. It would take more than that to hurt a woman with a backbone of steel.
“And clearly that man is not you, Mr Daventry,” she countered. “You speak of principles, yet you have the morals of a sewer rat.”
The harsh comment roused admiration rather than anger. He had never met a woman willing to call him out for his scandalous behaviour. Perhaps she would have a different view if she knew the truth.
“And your father would be ashamed to see you sneaking around town like an incompetent constable from Bow Street. Disguising yourself as a widow will not save your reputation.” She always wore black when she spied on him. “He left you financially secure so you might do something worthwhile with your time.” He twisted his mouth in a feigned look of disdain. “And yet here you are with your petty arguments about that which you know nothing.”
The lady jerked her head back, affronted.
If he saw so much as a tear in her eye, he would falter. Lucius tore his gaze away, pretending to survey those men still sitting in the auction room.
Everyone had left.