“I pray you won’t prove a disappointment, Miss Sands.” Tension radiated from every muscle, though his rich voice warmed her insides as much as the first few sips of chocolate.
“I’m not the sort to play coquette and give a gentleman false hope.”
His coal-black gaze settled on her mouth. “No, I don’t imagine you are, and yet you found yourself in a compromising position with a man who thought he had the right to take your innocence.”
“I assure you, he received no encouragement from me.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Why did he not insist she speak about his parents’ murder? Why was he avoiding the only question he wanted to ask? Fear, perhaps. She glanced at the cut above his brow. Sad that such a perfect specimen of masculinity might be unnerved by his emotions.
“It’s not important,” she said, gripping her cup to warm her hands.
“I wish to learn the identity of the man, so I know who to throttle should our paths ever cross. Someone must defend your honour.”
“Beating him will not erase the nightmare. Besides, it’s unlikely he will venture to town.” John Sands was a gentleman of some standing in Rochester. Had he any intention of finding Beatrice, he would have paid men to hunt her down long ago.
“A beating cannot undo the past, no, but it will prevent a reoccurrence.”
The bout of nausea came on suddenly, a gut-wrenching sickness at the thought of the devil touching her again. She would never forget his rancid breath and ugly grimace. Never forgive the betrayal.
Mr D’Angelo noticed her discomfort. “Tell me his name, and I shall ensure he never hurts you again.”
What harm could it do? She had no family or reputation to protect, and Mr D’Angelo had better things to do than go traipsing to Rochester on a fool’s errand. Indeed, when he discovered what she knew, avenging his parents would come before avenging her mistreatment.
“I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you now.” She had told Alice snippets of the story but never mentioned the devil was a relation. “My mother died when I was two, my father when I was five. My aunt and uncle raised me, and I lived a relatively comfortable life until my aunt died last year.”
Mr D’Angelo shifted on the wooden seat. “You’ve no siblings?”
“No, I am alone in the world, sir.”
He finished his port and summoned the waiter to fetch another. “Please continue, Miss Sands.”
The words got stuck in her throat, and her pulse raced as she mentally prepared for the uncomfortable revelation.
“In his grief, my aunt’s husband began to behave differently towards me. Perhaps it was because I assumed her responsibilities.” Beatrice often made excuses for him in her bid to understand the sudden change in character. “Weeks of improper comments preceded the drunken attack.”
Mr D’Angelo cursed beneath his breath.
“I fled that night and have never returned.” The panic and terror of it all bubbled acid-like in her stomach. “And so here I am today, sir, working as an agent because I happened to meet Miss Trimble at the Servants’ Registry.”
Through suspicious eyes, he stared at her for the longest time, his chest rising rapidly as if he had chased her uncle and already given him a good thra
shing.
“Happened to meet Miss Trimble? Or did you seek her out?”
Even when struggling with emotion, the gentleman proved why he was considered an excellent enquiry agent.
Beatrice lifted her chin. “It was a chance encounter, though an extremely fortuitous one. I needed to meet you and knew you worked for the Order. Imagine my surprise when Miss Trimble told me of Mr Daventry’s new venture.”
“Ah, now we come to the denouement of your tale. The real reason you followed me along the moonlit path. The reason that has nothing to do with the fact we are investigating Mrs Emery’s case.”
She pushed her cup aside. “I wanted you to know me a little better before I told you about my father.”
“Your father? I thought this was about the murder of mine.”
“It is. My father was in the carriage with your parents the day they were all murdered by what most believe was a highway robber.”