When one lived with a devil, unsettling situations were commonplace. And crafting frightening tales gave one the courage to converse about matters some ladies found alarming.
“Perhaps that has something to do with my profession.”
“You write for a living,” he stated, lowering his muscular frame into the chair.
Eva paused. “I presume any discussion remains confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then yes, I write fictional stories of murder and mayhem under the pseudonym of Mr Cain Dunnavan.”
She waited for the deep sigh, the tut, the derisive snort and roll of the eyes. Howard found the idea ludicrous. Women lacked intellect, lacked the worldly experience necessary to construct a convincing tale. Yet the fickle fool sang a different tune when Eva paid his tailor’s bill.
Mr Ashwood shocked her by smiling. “I read The Blood Pendant and admire your courage in casting Sister Magdalene as the villain. That’s when I suspected Cain Dunnavan was a woman.”
Eva didn’t hide her surprise. Gentlemen rarely admitted to reading novels. “Why? Do you find the idea of a nun committing a crime unrealistic?”
“Men tend to cast women as foolish victims, or devious vixens who use seduction to corrupt unsuspecting lovers. Sister Magdalene’s twisted logic shows that men and women are equally cruel. Only a woman would be brave enough to explore that idea, Miss Dunn.”
Eva’s pulse raced. Not since her godfather’s passing had she engaged in such an interesting conversation, and never with a man whose physical appearance stirred her senses. Heavens. It was all too much. Indeed, she considered informing Mr Ashwood that she had picked the wrong agent. She was far more capable of dealing with Mr D’Angelo’s rakish gaze.
“But you didn’t come here to discuss literature,” he continued. “And we seem to deviate from your purpose with shocking ease.”
When one sat opposite a gentleman with such a charismatic character thoughts were bound to stray.
“In summary,” he continued, “your brother has not come home, and you write novels for a living. Neither facts seem particularly distressing.”
“Then I shall explain my reason for coming in a few sentences.”
“I think that’s wise. I have another appointment at three.”
Eva did not need to glance at the mantel clock to appreciate the man’s sarcasm. “Are you sure you do not wish to take notes?”
“You’re stalling, Miss Dunn. Give me the facts and let me worry about my memory.”
Perhaps she was stalling. It all sounded so ludicrous. The gentleman would blame her wild imagination. Novelists were prone to moments of fancy.
After inhaling deeply, she said, “I am being blackmailed, Mr Ashwood. I received a letter threatening to reveal Cain Dunnavan’s true identity. A thousand pounds is the price for the blackmailer’s silence else the story shall appear in the broadsheets. But that is not all. Last night, while walking home from my publisher’s office, I was attacked in the street.”
“Attacked!” Mr Ashwood sat forward. His panicked green gaze scanned her face and body. “Were you hurt?”
“I have a nasty black bruise on my thigh.”
“On your thigh?” Mr Ashwood swallowed deeply.
“Yes. The fiend wrestled me to the ground and stole my boots.” The blighter had shoved her skirts up past her knees and practically ripped the boots off her feet. “I had ten pounds in my reticule, a partial advance from Mr Hemming, yet the blackguard was only interested in my footwear.”
Mr Hemming had given her the advance to ease his conscience. But she would come to that later.
“Hemming?”
“My publisher.”
Mr Ashwood nodded.
“But that is not all. I returned
home to find that someone had broken into my house while my servants were taking supper. The thief took every pair of boots and shoes I possess.”