Sybil squirmed “Are you always so forward in manner, my lord?”
A sudden shift in the air captured her attention. She was so busy thinking of a way to lure Lord Newberry into her trap that she failed to notice Lucius Daventry enter the ballroom. She glanced around covertly but couldn’t see him in the crowd. Yet every tingling nerve in her body said he was close.
“You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Atwood, not one of the dim-witted ones. I’m sure you know how it works.”
“Of course.” Her father said the truth was one’s greatest friend. She wondered if Lord Newberry would agree. “You want to bed me before you finally settle and marry Lady Margaret. You want to bed me because I am Atticus Atwood’s daughter. You hope, after a night of pleasure, I might reveal his secrets.”
Lord Newberry’s head fell back, and he laughed.
It was then that Sybil saw Mr Daventry amongst the crowd. Dressed in black, he prowled the perimeter of the dance floor like a panther stalking his prey.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Weak knees caused a misstep.
Lord Newberry firmed his grip and must have presumed he had a powerful effect on her senses. “Perhaps a delicate little lamb lurks beneath your wolf’s disguise, Miss Atwood.”
Aware of Mr Daventry’s penetrating gaze, Sybil stuttered, “And … and perhaps a devil lurks beneath your angelic mask, my lord. My father was a keeper of secrets. He liked to observe the actions of immoral men. The study of people is a science, too, is it not?”
The lord’s expression turned serious. The light vanished from his bright blue eyes. “I see nothing remotely fascinating about the study of the human psyche.”
“Do you not?” The n
eed to hurry—for the dance would soon be at an end—and the need to speak secretly to Mr Daventry forced her to say, “Few peers care about science. Which begs the question, what possible interest can you have in my father’s work?”
The question seemed to unsettle the arrogant lord. His mouth opened and closed, but he failed to find the answer.
“No doubt you couldn’t write a statement declaring your intention,” Sybil continued smugly. “My father cared about the poor, about prison reforms, about men in power abusing their positions. As you’re not poor or in prison, I must assume you have an interest in the latter.”
There was nothing angelic about the way the lord’s features contorted and twisted to reveal the ugly truth behind the mask. He gripped her hand so tightly he was liable to break a bone. It took all her strength not to whimper.
Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Be careful, Miss Atwood. A man can only tolerate a snoop for so long before releasing the hounds.” And then he pasted an amiable smile which he shared with those dancers nearby.
Fear should have seized Sybil by the throat and held her in its frigid grip, but Lucius Daventry was seconds away and would soon put this bully in his place. While Mr Daventry took a covert approach when investigating, she preferred reckless and direct. What had she to lose? Her life was already in danger.
“I have read what my father wrote in his journals—detailed evidence of fraud and deception. What interests me is how you know. And you must know. Why else would you make such an extortionate bid for what people believe are nought but scientific theories?”
The lord’s jaw firmed.
The earlier comments about Mrs Crandall crept into Sybil’s mind. There were ways of protecting oneself from devils like Lord Newberry.
“Should anything happen to me, my lord, know that I have made notes on my father’s work. Notes that will pass to the appropriate authorities should I meet my demise.”
The dance ended before the lord could muster a reply.
With a firm hold of Sybil’s upper arm, Lord Newberry led her from the floor. “Your threat changes nothing,” he whispered through gritted teeth as he escorted her back to the Cavanaghs. “No one will believe the scrawled notes of a woman committed to an asylum for the insane. Once I obtain the journals from Daventry, you might find yourself spirited away in the dead of night, never to be seen again.”
“You do not scare me,” she lied as a bleak image of a ragged woman sitting in a dank cell entered her mind. Rich lords had the power to manipulate any situation. Wasn’t that the reason her father had formed the Order?
“Then why are you trembling, my dear?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the breeze blowing in from the terrace,” she countered, forcing yet another smile as she rejoined the Cavanaghs.
Lord Newberry did not give Sybil a moment to gather her wits before saying, “I must insist on another dance, Miss Atwood, and simply won’t take no for an answer.”
No doubt women scrambled to please this gentleman. Sybil was of a mind to refuse, but the need to gather more information convinced her to say, “Of course. But if we are to discuss our mutual interest in my father’s notes, we will have to dance the last waltz.”
The lord gave a spurious smile. “I shall await our conversation with bated breath, Miss Atwood.” And with that, he flicked a golden lock from his brow and strode away.