Dante made no reply. All this talk of death roused unwelcome images, images usually suppressed by a bottle of brandy, a fistfight, or a good f—
“As your partner in this case, it is only prudent we—”
“Morbid talk leaves me restless, Miss Sands. Restlessness leaves me seeking stimulation. I agree to this bargain, agree to reveal yet another secret. But in return, I want something from you.”
She clasped her hands to her chest. “What could you possibly want?”
“Permission to strip you bare.”
Despite being dressed in a deep sensual red, despite the provoking black gloves that conjured erotic dreams of a silk-covered hand stroking his cock, Miss Sands’ virgin lips trembled.
“Strip me bare?” She gulped.
“I speak metaphorically, of course.” Yet he fancied playing games with this innocent, wanted to see her naked and vulnerable, as vulnerable as she made him feel. “I wish to ask questions of an intimate nature. To understand the woman, not the agent.”
“Agreed,” she said with surprising confidence. “A woman without experience can have little to impart.”
“You may surprise yourself.”
Oh, she underestimated the power of flirtation and lewd banter. Not that he had any interest in bedding a virgin—whimpering was not the sound he wished to hear when banishing his demons. But he could rid her of this stiff exterior, help relax those tight muscles, ease her trauma.
Noting they’d passed the Royal Exchange and were about to rattle to a stop outside the goldsmith shop near Birchin Lane, Dante decided it was best he gave Miss Sands fair warning. As she’d rightly said, nothing was more important than catching Babington in the act.
“We’re here. Should you do anything to hinder the case, anything to prevent me from gathering evidence against Babington, I shall terminate our working partnership. Is that clear, Miss Sands?”
Her strained smile failed to reveal the sweet dimples on her cheeks. “Crystal clear, sir. Though you might want to think twice before casting me aside. Particularly when I have something you want.”
Damn. Miss Sands was a master puppeteer. She toyed with him as if he were a marionette, tugging his strings whenever she lost the upper hand, making him dance to her merry tune.
Perhaps he should take command of the controls, speak in the only way he knew would unnerve her. “Something I want? Daventry would likely banish me from the Order for bedding his only female agent.”
A blush as red as her coat crept up her neck. “Must every conversation resort back to your sexual prowess? No. I have information you will find invaluable.”
“Information about Babington?”
“No, sir. Information regarding the murder of your parents.”
Chapter 4
The pained look on Mr D’Angelo’s face tore at Beatrice’s heart, as did the wavering light of hope that lasted mere seconds. Both were replaced by an icy stare capable of freezing one’s blood.
The atmosphere in the carriage turned frigid.
He leant forward, resting his muscular arm on his equally solid thigh. “Do not toy with me in this matter.”
Beatrice swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I would never make light of something so serious. But we will discuss it at length once we’ve questioned the goldsmith.”
“You will tell me what you know now, Miss Sands.”
The hint of breathlessness in his stern voice came from a lifetime spent searching for the truth. Beatrice had known of her father’s murder for months, not years. Still, her lungs constricted whenever she envisioned his final moments, contemplated the injustice.
“Trust I will tell you everything once we’ve dealt with the goldsmith. I doubt you will be of a mind to work otherwise.”
His snort of contempt sent a shiver to her toes. “Your memory fails you, madam. I trust next to no one, and certainly not a woman I have only just met.”
Beatrice took a huge leap of faith and reached for his hand.
Mr D’Angelo flinched but did not pull away from her grasp.