My Kind of Scoundrel, page 5
Eleanor put her hand to her mouth in disgust.
Compared to his father, hers was a saint. Yet she knew how it felt to stare into the eyes of a man who professed to love you, only to discover it was a lie.
“I would close my eyes, screw them so tightly my head hurt,” he added, repeating the action as if he were back in that room. “I would count the seconds until I could extinguish the lamps and banish the sight of my brother’s suffering.” A mocking snort escaped him. “I ask you, Miss Darrow, is that not the sign of a weakling?”
It was the sign of a child with a pure heart.
An innocent soul being corrupted.
“You were a boy forced to face an ugly truth.”
She’d recently had a similar awakening. There was nothing romantic about delivering secret letters. Love affairs were like a poison, infecting those involved and ravaging relationships. She had been no one’s saviour but an instrument of destruction and despair.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I am telling you this.” He placed the offending object in her lap. “How does it relate to me stealing your precious sewing box?”
What made a man reveal something so personal?
To gain her trust?
To explain his lack of empathy?
To mend a broken bond?
“I have no notion, Mr Chance, but I’m sure you’re keen to tell me.”
Again, he gazed at the rug, which in itself was a blessing. His magnetic blue eyes had the power to bend people to his will. She remained steadfast in her decision to leave town.
“Had I shown my father that I was unaffected by his game, that I could cope with whatever villainy came my way, I would not spend my days living with regret.”
Still a little confused, she said, “If you’re asking me to stay and face my problems, know that is not an option.” Her blackmailer had lost patience. Why else would he ransack her home?
Mr Chance cast her a sidelong glance, the look in his eyes conveying the confidence of someone used to dealing with scoundrels. “I am asking you to light the lamps and open your eyes, Miss Darrow.”
She gave a mirthless chuckle. “I assure you, my eyes are wide open to the dangers. Had I used the front entrance and not seen the broken door and shards of glass in the yard, I might be dead.”
Yet she had crept into the shop, desperate to assess the damage. The sight had torn her heart in two. Expensive gloves tossed over the floor like rubbish. Drawers upended. Tortoiseshell combs snapped. A mirror smashed. The banging above stairs made her take to her heels and run.
“Your eyes may be open, madam, yet you see nothing but failure. Allow me to help you. Believe you can overcome your difficulties.”
Silent seconds passed as she stared at him.
She couldn’t ask him to risk his life without offering a reward.
While she envisioned every tragic scenario—her possessions lost when her enemy razed her house to the ground, her being kidnapped and tossed into the Thames—his optimism was like the glimmer of a dawn horizon, the warm rays chasing her doubts away.
“And how can you help me when I am clueless myself?” That was the nature of secrets. She had no idea what was written inside the notes. “I don’t know who raided my home, nor do I have the faintest idea why they targeted me.”
He frowned as he stood and faced her. “You speak in riddles, Miss Darrow. How can you be insensible to the problem? Surely it has something to do with your sewing box.”
Tell him!
For heaven’s sake, she should tell someone.
If she died, the culprit would go unpunished.
“Why should I trust you?” she said with a weary sigh.
“Because I already know half the story,” he was quick to reply. “Because I have people at my disposal capable of solving the crime. Because I mean to make amends for any torment you have suffered on my behalf, even if I die doing so.”
His impassioned entreaty left her speechless.
What lady wouldn’t want such a commanding figure fighting her corner? Perhaps he meant to atone for closing his eyes to his brother’s torment. Perhaps he had another motive for coming to her aid. If he did, he had no intention of confessing.
“If I tell you,” she began, the four simple words sending her pulse soaring, “you must respect my wishes. The problem is mine. If you mean to help me, you will not treat me like a hapless female incapable of mopping up her own mess.”
A smile touched his lips and he nodded. “And you will accept that my experience with crooks and villains gives me an insight you do not possess.”
Not wanting to wrangle over who was wisest, she focused on the one thing lacking in this alliance. “We need to learn to trust each other. I suspect honest communication is the key.”
Mischief shone in his eyes. “How honest would you like me to be?”
“As honest as you have been tonight.”
He put his hand over his heart. “I can do that.”
She dared to let hope blossom in her chest. Upon hearing her story, he may reconsider his position. Even the best enquiry agent would struggle with the lack of clues. Yet instinct said Mr Chance had the brains and brawn needed to help her with this problem.
“I’m not entirely sure where to begin.” Her fingers shook as she ran them over the lid of her sewing box. How strange that one tiny piece of paper could destroy a person’s life? “Perhaps this is the best place to start.”
He observed her closely as she gripped the sides of the box in her hands. She rested the soft pads of her thumbs on the two fleur-de-lis decorations. If one pushed them simultaneously towards the centre, and with the exact same pressure, the hidden drawer clicked open.
Mr Chance inhaled sharply at the sight of the velvet-lined compartment. “You’re right, Miss Darrow. You’re a master of illusion. I suspected a hidden cavity but never found one.”
“I bought it from a man at the Bartholomew Fair. He said it was a lovers’ box, somewhere a lady might hide secret letters.” She removed the three folded notes—all a mere one-inch square and sealed with a different wax or stamp—and placed them on the coverlet. “If only he’d said it was a sewing box, then it would not have sparked the idea that became the cause of all my woes.”
“We need light.” Mr Chance took a friction match to the oil lamp on his chest of drawers and the candles on his nightstand. He returned to the bed, retrieved one note and held it between his long fingers as if it were as innocuous as a sweet biscuit. “Am I to understand you didn’t write these letters?”
“I am paid to be a messenger, sir.”
“Paid? By whom?”
“My clients. It began with Lady Summers complaining about her nosy maid. I offered to deliver a note for her and accept a reply.”
If only it had stopped with one simple transaction. But Lady Summers was a veritable gossip and responsible for an influx of new clients visiting the shop. None cared about the design of their new gowns, only that Eleanor act as a courier for their sordid missives.
“As there are three notes, I assume they’re not all from Lady Summers.” A frown marred Mr Chance’s brow as he examined the tiny paper folds. “Whoever wrote them has very little to say.”
“They had no choice in the matter. If I am to hide a note in the pocket or hem of a garment, it must be small.”
“And the shades of wax and different stamps?”
“Are a means of identifying the sender.”
Mr Chance gave an appreciative hum. “It’s a rather ingenious way of making money, Miss Darrow.”
“Not so ingenious. It has become a troublesome venture made worse by public demand. Many of my clients are harridans posing as respectable ladies. A woman harbouring a secret can be merciless.”
“I cannot disagree,” he said, the words as bitter as bile.
“One client threatened to ruin me when I failed to deliver a note on time. She insisted on telling those who would listen that my designs are outdated.” More than that, she had complained the material was of inferior quality.
“That’s the gamble one takes in the game of deception. I trust you have a valid reason for playing with schemers.”
She explained the rising cost of silk, ruined shipments and the constant pressure to please the rich. “It was my father’s dying wish that I should succeed in this business.” It was a demand, not a wish. “It’s why I accepted a job from an anonymous source.”
The stranger had twisted her arm quite literally.
The fiend—dressed in black and wearing a hooded cloak—had appeared from a darkened corner of the yard. He had grabbed her from behind, plastered his gloved hand to her mouth, a metallic smell overpowering the earthy whiff of leather, and given her an ultimatum.
You’ll deliver my notes where and when I tell you.
If they fail to arrive, you’ll die.
If they arrive open, you’ll die.
If you tell anyone, you’ll die.
“Ah, now we’re getting to the crux of the problem, Miss Darrow.” Mr Chance captured her chin and insisted she look upon his handsome visage. “Your trembling lips tell me all I need to know.”
“And what is that?”
“You’re afraid of this person. You presume they’re responsible for the damage at the shop. Is that why you need the box? Is that why you came to play nursemaid during my recuperation?”
She doubted he’d appreciate the truth, but he needed to hear it.
“If we’re to learn to trust each other,” she began, “I must confess that I fled the shop fearing I was the intended target.”
The crack of pistol fire had preceded his sister’s scream. Remorse had flooded her chest like a relentless tide, yet her first thought was for her own survival.
He released her chin as if he’d scorched his fingers on a brazier. “I knew you’d not nursed me out of loyalty or guilt.”
“I sat at your bedside, made you a healing broth and cleaned your wound because I was genuinely sorry for what happened. Once I learned why you were shot, I knew it was safe for me to return home. Had you not stolen the box, I would have had time to deliver the notes, and we would not be standing here now.”
He had the decency to look ashamed. “I suppose that makes us even in this game of subterfuge.”
“Yes, if you help me as you agreed.”
He glanced at the pathetic pieces of paper, the contents as lethal as a blade. “Put the notes away and leave the box on my nightstand. We will visit Lucius Daventry and explain everything to him.” He arched a knowing brow. “Including the details you have failed to mention. You’re tired. I’ll not press you for an explanation now.”
What could Mr Daventry do?
How did one find a nameless blackguard?
“But it’s almost dawn. Do you not require sleep?”
One look at his black carved bed and the pulse in her throat thumped harder. While she had caught more than a glimpse of his chiselled chest, any woman would give their right arm to see Theodore Chance sprawled naked between the sheets.
“I plan to sleep until ten, Miss Darrow, but we must tend to a personal matter first.”
A personal matter?
Did he mean to offer another trade?
Another kiss in exchange for his assistance?
Heat crept up her neck to warm her cheeks. “In an attempt to strengthen our fragile bond, I must be honest. Nothing you could offer would persuade me to kiss you again.”
His gaze fell to the opening of her cloak, a smile forming on his villainous lips. “Having kissed you once, I know that’s a lie. Rest assured, I have no plans to share my bed with anyone, least of all a woman who cannot abide me.”
Should she admit that kissing him had been nothing short of extraordinary? Should she confess her disdain for him did not rage as fiercely as it ought? If she meant to be true to her word, the answer was yes. But he straightened his coat and took a fortifying breath as if preparing to leave.
“If you plan to sleep until ten, why do you look like a man on a mission? Where is it you need to be, Mr Chance?”
“We have one rather large obstacle to climb if we’re to get any rest tonight. You cannot return to your shop. As Delphine no longer resides here, her room would be perfect for you.”
Live at Fortune’s Den? She supposed there was nothing to fear. Her reputation was already in tatters, and he spoke as if she were a visiting aunt, not a woman he was desperate to bed.
“You’re suggesting we live under the same roof again?” Eleanor managed to sound jovial despite the flare of heat in her belly.
“If I’m to help you, I need to keep you close.” His tone lacked the warmth she felt coursing through her blood. “I assume you have nowhere else to go, no relatives to speak of.”
“No. I have no friends or family in town.” She had no one out of town either. Was that why the blackmailer targeted her?
Mr Chance clapped his hands and rubbed them vigorously. “Let us head to my brother’s study. You’ll need to sway him to your cause.” His gaze dipped to the opening of her cloak. “Your feminine charms will give you no advantage. Aaron has eyes for only one woman, but he will listen to reason.”
Aaron Chance was sitting in the dark when they entered his study. His gaze moved over her with cool indifference. “I’m glad to see you’re still breathing, Miss Darrow. Sigmund informed me you had entered the premises.”
Sigmund was their man-of-all-work, a beast of a fellow who dealt with drunken lords and daring intruders.
“They say Sigmund has the nose of a bloodhound. Truth be told, I was expecting to encounter him before I reached the stairs, sir.”
“Theo asked that I grant you a pass.”
Eleanor cast Theodore Chance a sidelong glance. He had been expecting her tonight. Evidently, he wanted to make amends.
“I need to prey on your kindness and beg one more courtesy,” she said, knowing few people would dare to ask Aaron Chance for a favour. “As you know, I cannot go home.”
“I’m sure Theo has told you to use Delphine’s room, and now you seek my permission.” Aaron snatched the crystal glass off the desk and downed what looked like brandy. “I want a detailed account of your problem, Miss Darrow. I’ll not risk my business by harbouring a criminal.”
“You can trust my brother,” Theodore said.
Knowing she had little choice in the matter, Eleanor explained what she kept in the box. The Chance family rallied together when presented with unknown dangers. Aaron Chance’s support was vital if they hoped to find the blackguard who’d broken into her shop.
“We will seek Mr Daventry’s advice and proceed from there,” she said.
Aaron gave a humourless chuckle. “Daventry will guide you, I’m sure. He has a knack for fixing things that are broken.”
“Then you agree Miss Darrow can stay?”
Aaron shrugged. “Who am I to argue with fate?”
Chapter Five
Hart Street, Covent Garden
Office of the Order
As the master of a group of skilled enquiry agents, Lucius Daventry had witnessed many astonishing sights, yet he seemed most intrigued by Miss Darrow’s unusual box.
“Can you describe the man who sold it to you?” Daventry said from behind his imposing desk. His dark eyes narrowed as he closed the secret drawer and placed his thumbs on the wooden appliqués.
“I’m afraid he was quite nondescript, sir.”
Miss Darrow rose from the chair and showed Daventry how to open the drawer. The old blue pelisse she had found in Delphine’s armoire hung loosely from her narrow waist, and she had spent thirty minutes this morning adjusting the hem and sewing a makeshift belt. The teal boots were too big, and she had stuffed the toes with old stockings. Still, she could wear a grain sack and still look exquisite.
“Think, Miss Darrow,” Daventry said in his usual blunt way. “It may be a crucial piece of evidence. The villain who ransacked your shop may have deliberately targeted you.”
“Targeted me?” The lady frowned. “I don’t see how. It was my idea to deliver Lady Summers’ notes. Had she held her tongue, I would not be in this predicament.”
“Lady Summers knows how to use her title to her advantage. The subtle art of persuasion is her forte. And let’s be frank, you have not been entirely honest, madam.”
Theo suspected the same but had decided against forcing a confession. While he had persuaded Miss Darrow to face her fears, he knew she would rather leave London than tackle the culprit.
Theo leant across the arm of his chair and touched Miss Darrow lightly on the forearm. “We’re here to help you, but you must tell us everything you know. Hearing half-truths will hinder our progress.”
“Half-truths lead to flawed reasoning,” Daventry added, though grinned when he heard a click and saw the velvet-lined compartment pop open. “I’ll not risk an agent’s life. And I’m sure Mr Chance wishes to avoid taking another shot to the shoulder.”
A sad sigh escaped her. She stared at Theo, not Daventry, an almost apologetic look in her mesmerising eyes. “A man attacked me in the yard. It was dark. I did not see his face, but he grabbed me from behind and said if I did not deliver his letters, I would die.”
A knot tightened in Theo’s gut. There was nothing more despicable than a man who used his physical strength to suppress a woman.
His mind drifted to the night his mother died. Did she trip over her nightgown and tumble down the stairs? Had his father pushed her during another heated argument? Was it a coincidence that the devil’s first wife had suffered the same fate? He would never know.
Daventry placed the box on the desk and gave Miss Darrow his full attention. “You said you purchased the box at the fair. I assume that was last summer.”
“Yes, sir. In August.”
“And when did you offer to act as Lady Summers’ messenger?”
Miss Darrow tapped her finger to her lips as she considered her answer. Feminine vulnerability lay beneath her indomitable spirit. The contradiction proved more fascinating than seeing the hidden drawer in her sewing box.
