The Mystery of Mr Daventry: Scandalous Sons - Book 4 Read online

  The Mystery of Mr Daventry

  Scandalous Sons - Book 4

  Adele Clee

  Contents

  Books by Adele Clee

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  Books by Adele Clee

  Books by Adele Clee

  To Save a Sinner

  A Curse of the Heart

  What Every Lord Wants

  The Secret To Your Surrender

  A Simple Case of Seduction

  Anything for Love Series

  What You Desire

  What You Propose

  What You Deserve

  What You Promised

  Lost Ladies of London

  The Mysterious Miss Flint

  The Deceptive Lady Darby

  The Scandalous Lady Sandford

  The Daring Miss Darcy

  Avenging Lords

  At Last the Rogue Returns

  A Wicked Wager

  Valentine’s Vow

  A Gentleman’s Curse

  Scandalous Sons

  And the Widow Wore Scarlet

  The Mark of a Rogue

  When Scandal Came to Town

  The Mystery of Mr Daventry

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.

  The Mystery of Mr Daventry

  Copyright © 2020 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-9162774-1-0

  Cover by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs

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  Chapter One

  Miss Sybil Atwood had seen many depictions of the devil amongst the literature in her father’s library. The master of the underworld was often drawn as a monstrous creature with horns, a forked tail and huge wings capable of scooping up a damsel and carrying her off to the infernal regions of hell.

  And yet Mr Lucius Daventry possessed none of those qualities.

  As their gazes locked across the crowded auction room, Sybil couldn’t help but notice the physical attributes that marked the gentleman as the most dangerous, most sinful man ever to make her acquaintance.

  Like Lucifer, Mr Daventry’s strength came from his muscular physique, from his coal-black hair and penetrating stare. For her to feel the full force of his wrath, he did not need to rant and rave or charge from the dais at the far end of the room—the place where Atticus Atwood’s precious journals and scientific equipment were displayed in such a fashion as to attract the highest bidder. The firming of his sculpted jaw, the reprimanding arch of his brow, the clenched fists hanging at his sides created a volatile energy that he sent hurling her way.

  Sybil swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  Don’t let him know you’re intimidated.

  Mr Daventry shook his head and appeared to mutter an obscenity.

  The men occupying the rows of seats whispered amongst themselves and craned their necks to observe the person foolish enough to rouse the devil’s ire. Some took advantage of the delay to dip into their snuff boxes, and the musty air was suddenly filled with the scent of spice and ground tobacco.

  “It seems you have the measure of Mr Daventry’s character,” her friend, Mrs Cassandra Cavanagh, muttered as they lingered in the doorway of the private room hired by the scoundrel to conduct his devious business. “We’re the only ladies here. Regardless of your connection, Mr Daventry would never sell your father’s possessions to a woman.”

  No one had been more shocked than Sybil to discover her father had bequeathed his life’s work to a man as immoral as Lucius Daventry. No one had been more shocked to discover Atticus Atwood had parted with his treasured journals a week before his sudden demise. Most shocking of all was the fact that a parent with a logical brain had made a terrible miscalculation. Dissolute rogues cared nothing for science. Dissolute rogues were not interested in society’s advancement.

  And Lucius Daventry was the epitome of dissolute.

  “Mr Daventry believes women are incapable of understanding scholarly works.” Why else had he refused to extend her an invitation to the sale? What other reason could he have for being so rude and downright disagreeable?

  Cassandra arched a brow. “Then Mr Daventry needs enlightening.”

  Sybil agreed. “The rogue suggested I take up painting to ease my boredom. Something less taxing. Only those immune to bouts of sentimentality should concern themselves with intellectual matters. Apparently, marriage and children would serve as a better means to occupy my time.”

  Cassandra snorted. “I assume he wasn’t offering his services.”

  “I doubt Mr Daventry knows the first thing about art.”

  “I meant as a husband, not a painting master.”

  Sybil’s stomach flipped at the thought of sharing the infamous man’s bed. “Heavens, no. I imagine the rake quivers at the mere mention of matrimony.” Even so, taming a man like Lucius Daventry was a challenge far beyond the realms of her capabilities. “He made it quite clear I lack the wherewithal required to tempt him.”

  In truth, he had been crude in his delivery, and took pleasure firing offensive remarks in Sybil’s direction.

  “You must be mistaken. Mr Daventry finds you far from lacking in that department. Benedict said he spoke highly of your physical attributes.”

  Sybil’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of the intimate conversation. “Mr Daventry finds it amusing to tease me. He must have known your husband would tell you.” Blood rushed to her cheeks when she stole a glance at the gentleman who roused lust in the breasts of women and fear in the hearts of men.

  When a frail fellow with bony shoulders coughed into his fist and glared at them, it occurred to Sybil that they could not stand conversing in the doorway. She took hold of Cassandra’s arm and guided her towards the row of empty seats at the back.

  “Mr Daventry said you risk losing your virtue if you persist in this foolish endeavour,” Cassandra murmured.

  Risk losing her virtue?

  That was a low blow.

  Indeed, it was an idle threat. Nought but empty words. Once, when Sybil had found the courage to stare into Mr Daventry’s unforgiving grey eyes, she had seen the devil’s façade falter. She had seen a hint of compassion. It was enough to know that his intimidating remarks bore no real danger.

  “Lucius Daventry may be a scoundrel, but he would never force a woman to act against her will. Why would he? He’s not short
of bed partners.” His cruel words and actions were merely a means to discourage her interest in Atticus’ work. The nagging question was why?

  “He means to frighten you,” Cassandra said, as if reading Sybil’s mind. “Deter you from your current course. Nothing else makes sense. Perhaps your father didn’t want you to have his journals. Perhaps Mr Daventry is simply following Atticus’ instructions.”

  “Clearly they were well acquainted. Heaven knows how. They are opposites in every regard.” Atticus had been a warm, loving, generous father. Lucius Daventry was a cold-hearted beast.

  “Mr Daventry said that if you were anyone else, he would have fondled your impressive … well, it’s probably best not to repeat exactly what was said. I speak only to draw attention to the fact that he has some respect for your family name.”

  Sybil clutched her pelisse to her chest as her mind ran amok, filling in the missing words. “If I were anyone else?” she mused as she tried to banish the image of the devilish Mr Daventry stripping her out of her stays.

  It was then that she realised the hushed mutterings in the room had ceased. The thud of booted footsteps on the boards drew her attention to a stern-looking Mr Daventry who prowled towards her like a predator thirsty for blood.

  He came to an abrupt halt beside her, grabbed the crest rail of her chair with his large hand and lowered his head. The spicy scent of his cologne filled her nostrils, and she ground her teeth in annoyance. No other man of her acquaintance had ever smelt so good. He was about to speak—about to say something inappropriate no doubt—when Sybil decided to steal the wind from his sails.

  “Friend or foe?” She offered a beaming smile.

  “I beg your pardon?” he snapped. Oh, he was dreadfully cross.

  “Have you come to make an apology and invite me to bid in the auction, or will you continue to berate me in the brutish manner that is so wholly undeserved?”

  He stared. Power radiated, dark and malevolent. “You expect to be taken seriously in that ridiculous hat?”

  Was that the best he could do? The retort was rather tame compared to their previous exchanges. Perhaps verbally abusing a woman in public was bad for business.

  Sybil drew her fingers along the peacock feather protruding from her short forest-green top hat. “I find it a rather captivating design. Most men say it draws out the emerald hue of my eyes.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Is that why you shroud yourself in black when you stalk me through the streets, Miss Atwood? Do you fear I might recognise those green gems and that vibrant red hair?”

  Hell’s bells!

  Though she suspected he had seen her following him on many occasions, this was the first time he had openly drawn attention to her amateur snooping.

  Sybil raised her chin. “I wish to bid on my father’s belongings.” Lord knows why Atticus had trusted this devil with his valuable possessions. Had Mr Daventry’s parentage been under question, she might have presumed a secret familial connection. But the gentleman had inherited the menacing look of his father, the Duke of Melverley, a man equally harsh and brutish. “You cannot prevent me from claiming that which should have been mine.”

  The rogue snorted. “Had Atticus wished you to have his journals, he would have bequeathed them to you in his will. Now, I suggest you cease with these petty games and accept defeat.” He cast a suspicious glance around the room. Those gentlemen brave enough to watch the exchange averted their gazes and bowed their heads. He turned to her, leaned closer and in a sharp tone said, “Go home, Miss Atwood, before I shame you in front of these men.”

  He was so close she expected to smell brandy on his breath, expected the whites of his eyes to bear the spidery red veins of a night spent indulging in carnal pleasures. Neither proved true. The scent of clean clothes, shaving soap, and his intoxicating cologne marked him as a beguiling contradiction.

  “My father trusted you with his prized possessions. You have betrayed that trust by the crude display on the dais.” Having advanced this far on the battlefield, she refused to retreat. “A man’s work is valued by those with common goals and shared interests. Yet you hawk his objects like a back alley pawnbroker, one ready to strike a deal with the first clueless ignoramus willing to part with his coin.”

  Mr Daventry reeled from the insult.

  As the illegitimate son of a duke, he must be used to people drawing attention to his failings. Her criticism had nothing to do with the nature of his birth and everything to do with his vulgar manners.

  “You think you have the measure of me,” he said. “You don’t. You will never understand my motives. Go home, Miss Atwood. I shall not warn you again.”

  Did she detect a hint of disappointment in his voice?

  Surely not.

  “Not until I have claimed ownership of my father’s journals.” If necessary, it would be a fight to draw first blood. “I’m prepared to pay more than any man here.”

  A wicked smile played at the corners of his mouth. Hard, flint-grey eyes pinned her to the seat as he called at the top of his voice, “Gentlemen, I wish to inform you that I’ve had a change of heart. As Miss Atwood kindly pointed out, it was never her father’s intention to sell his work to the highest bidder.”

  Curse the saints!

  It seems Mr Daventry would go to any lengths to prevent her from owning the journals.

  Grumbles of disapproval grew into whining complaints. Men shot spears of scorn, spears that might have had her shrinking in her seat had she not learned to ignore public opinion. Confusion marred other men’s brows. How had a mere woman manipulated such a merciless monster as Lucius Daventry?

  One man found the courage to stand. Had there been other ladies in attendance, a collective sigh would have echoed through the room, for Lord Newberry was considered quite the catch.

  “For weeks you’ve teased us, boasted of the contents of Atticus Atwood’s private works.” Lord Newberry’s mouth thinned in disgust. “Is this a ruse to increase the bids? What reason can Miss Atwood have for being here other than to assist in your devious plan?”

  “Devious?” Mr Daventry straightened to his full, intimidating height, and the air turned frigid. Indeed, some men drew their coats across their chests and shivered. “May I advise you to observe your tone, Newberry? In light of your disappointment, I shall permit one mistake, never two.”

  Lord Newberry shuffled uncomfortably. “Miss Atwood has no understanding of what is at stake. Sentimentality forms the basis of her opinion.”

  Mr Daventry glanced at her, and wearing a smug grin said, “I happen to agree. The lady is ill-informed. Her logic is severely lacking.”

  Oh, the odious devil!

  Sybil jumped up, outraged that men who professed to respect her father could treat his daughter so abominably.

  “Atticus would be appalled.” She lifted her chin and glared at the aggrieved, whose pouting lips and sulky faces spoke of their displeasure. “His modern views were often condemned. Condemned by men in this room, I might add.” While she failed to identify anyone personally, the odds were favourable. “And so I can only conclude that you want to obtain his work so you can ridicule his claims.”

  “Curiosity is their primary motivation,” Mr Daventry informed as his gaze journeyed from the tip of the feather in her hat slowly down to the hem of her dark green pelisse. The depth of his scrutiny brought heat to her cheeks. “But curiosity is a weakness, a weakness wrought with danger.”

  Sybil swallowed.

  Was that a veiled threat?

  “Please, do not insult me by pretending we share a common goal, sir. You stand with those who would rip my father’s reputation to shreds.”

  Why else was he holding an auction?

  Mr Daventry fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Know that I would never permit anyone to speak ill of Atticus Atwood. I would never give his enemies the means to trample over his memory.”

  “Enemies?” A shiver ran the length of Sybil’s spine. “That’s a strong
word to describe those with differing opinions.” Did men really fight over theories on magnetism and electrical currents?

  Something strange was afoot.

  Did Lucius Daventry know the real reason she had come? The reason that had nothing to do with sentimentality and everything to do with self-preservation?

  “Men often commit evil acts to support their beliefs, Miss Atwood.”

  Sybil feigned a light laugh. “I hardly think books filled with scientific theories and some dusty old artefacts warrant a call for violence.”

  In truth, she knew nothing of the journals’ contents. When at home, her father never discussed his work. But someone was desperate to discover the words written on the pages. So desperate, they had sent threatening letter after threatening letter, demanding she obtain the records of Atticus Atwood’s theories.

  Another peer came to his feet. Sir Melrose Crampton was a lean man of middling years with greasy black hair streaked grey at the temples. The angles of his skeletal features were as severe as his manners.

  “I’ll give you three thousand for the lot, Daventry.” Sir Melrose removed his hat to push his lank hair behind his ears. “Three thousand is more than any man here will pay. Accept the offer and let’s be done with it.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Melrose. Three thousand is not more than any woman might pay.” Sybil pushed her fingers firmly into her kid gloves and with a grin added, “I’m willing to bid four thousand to secure my father’s possessions.”