“Tea, Mr Daventry?” Miss Sands gestured to the silver pot and the plate of macaroons resting on the low table between the sofas. “I suggest you take one before Mr D’Angelo devours them all. He has a fondness for sweet biscuits.”
“Thank you, but no. Mrs Gunning will bring coffee when the others arrive.”
“The others?” she said.
Unable to hide his annoyance, Dante snapped, “He means Cole, Ashwood and Sloane. This is to be a family affair by all accounts.”
Miss Sands cast him a mild look of reproach. “I’m sure Mr Daventry has his reasons for including them. It’s unhealthy to jump to conclusions.”
Too late. Dante’s blood simmered. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for an argument. Perhaps Daventry wanted the men to investigate Babington, discover what drove a wealthy man to commit crimes. But gut instinct said the meeting was to discuss Dante’s personal need for vengeance.
The sudden slam of the front door and the burst of lively chatter in the hall heralded the arrival of Dante’s friends and colleagues—the gentlemen of the Order.
“Hmm, I smell macaroons.” Noah Ashwood shot Dante a teasing glance. “Mrs Gunning has been spoiling you again, D’Angelo.” He turned to Evan Sloane. “You know he squirrels them away in his pocket to nibble at his leisure.”
Daventry noted the bruises marring Dante’s knuckles. “Perhaps he saves them for when he’s expended his energy at the fighting den in the cellar of the White Boar.”
Hellfire!
Either Sharp had spilt his guts or Dante had a stalker.
Dante considered Miss Sands through narrowed eyes. Had she made notes on every conversation, informed Daventry in the hope of keeping her position?
“Do not think I betrayed your trust,” she said, reading his mind. “Our private conversations are just that, sir, private.”
“I followed you there.” Daventry gestured for their colleagues to sit, though he remained standing. “I hid amongst the crowd and watched you brawl bare-chested. You fight as if you relish pain.”
Miss Sands’ gaze darted in Dante’s direction, concern marring those pretty blue irises. “You fight bare-chested?”
A man didn’t want his fine clothes stained with sweat and spittle and blood. “Clothes are cumbersome. They restrict movement.”
Mrs Gunning entered carrying a coffee pot, the maid following behind, her tray laden with china. The housekeeper smiled when noticing there were but a few macaroons left on the plate.
“We will serve ourselves, Mrs Gunning,” Daventry said.
The housekeeper knew from Daventry’s tone that she should leave them to their business and so ushered the maid out into the hall and closed the drawing room door.
A heavy silence descended.
“Perhaps I should begin by introducing Miss Sands.” Daventry smiled at the woman who’d slipped behind Dante’s defences, then spent a few minutes justifying his reasons for hiring a female agent.
A blush stained Miss Sands’ cheeks when Daventry mentioned women down on their luck, women needing to escape their tormentors, and Dante had a sudden urge to throttle the last breath from her uncle’s lungs.
“Welcome to the Order, Miss Sands,” Ashwood said in his suave voice.
“Thank you, Mr Ashwood. I hope to be an asset, not a liability.”
Cole watched her through dark, intelligent eyes. “I think we can all attest to the fact that a woman’s opinion has proven invaluable when solving our most recent cases.”
Damn. Something foreign slithered to life in Dante’s chest. Thank the Lord these handsome men loved their wives, for he did not want Miss Sands to find them intelligent or appealing.
“Miss Sands possesses remarkable insight,” Dante said. Insight she’d used to delve deep into his psyche. “It was her idea to search the books in Babington’s study, which resulted in us visiting the goldsmith and locating Babington’s next victim.”
Miss Sands’ smile reached her eyes. “We worked together, Mr D’Angelo. Had you not given a helping hand, I might not have gained access to the study.”
The memory of her white trousers raised a smile he couldn’t suppress.
The other four men in the room stared.