Bracing her palms against his shoulders, she broke free. An indignant inner voice urged a sound slap across his smug face for taking such a liberty. Blasted shame she was in character. Sophie Devereaux, charlatan, would never risk putting off a well-monied client.
Facing him directly, she steadied her voice. “Well played, Professor. I did not anticipate you would follow through on your challenge. Your assessment of your own character is correct.”
A sly smile curved his mouth. “So, I have convinced you that I am a scoundrel? I was hoping it would take more than a kiss to prove my point.”
She shook her head. “You stated that you believe yourself to be a fool. At this point, I am inclined to agree.”
To her surprise, his smile intensified, wry and too dratted appealing for her own good. This assignment would be far easier if he were a loathsome troll of a man. How unfortunate the man was as handsome as he was clever. Well, she’d simply have to maintain an alert focus on her mission.
“You are nothing if not surprising.” His eyes flashed with wry humor. “Shall I continue my demonstration?”
Blast the luck, her cheeks heated at his question. She could feel them going pink, if not crimson as a blooming beet. And blast it, he noticed. The gleam in his eyes betrayed that fact as clearly as any smug words he might utter.
She made a show of repuffing the tops of her sleeves, compressed as they’d been by his hands. “I assure you that will not be necessary.”
“You’re quite sure of that? I’d be willing to oblige, if you needed more convincing.”
“Absolutely not.”
Even as she spoke, more heat rushed to her face. She smoothed the lace at her cuffs, avoiding eye contact with Stanwyck. Good heavens, what had come over her? Through the years, she’d developed an immunity to the most persuasive of the male species. This rogue who’d spent most of his life traipsing around in search of hieroglyphics and skirts to lift should not challenge her wherewithal.
“You do know how to wound a man, Miss Devereaux. And just as I was getting started.” If only the humor in his tone could disguise the heat in his gaze.
“Perhaps you will now see fit to focus your efforts on our reason for coming here.” My, how serious she sounded, even to her own ears.
“As my efforts to validate my status as a rake have fallen miserably flat, shall we head to dinner? With any luck, your temperamental spirit guide may convince mybeloved sireto put in an appearance.”
Curiosity had always been Sophie’s strongest asset. Or so she liked to think, despite her aunt and uncle’s insistence the quality was the greatest cause of feline death the world had ever known. As a girl, she’d had an insatiable hunger to investigate the most mundane of mysteries, such as what precisely the family’s housekeeper kept secured in a bottle she referred to as her special tonic. One covert taste of the throat-burning potion, and Sophie learned a quite literally bitter lesson regarding the perils of snooping. Not that the experience had dampened the trait that came so readily to her. To the contrary, investigating secrets seemed akin to nourishment, as essential to her nature as taking a breath.
Seated in the sleek brougham Gavin Stanwyck employed as his primary conveyance, Sophie regarded him beneath the veil of her lashes. Perhaps Uncle George and Aunt Mildred had been right after all. The way Stanwyck intrigued her was indeed a dangerous thing. Her need to know what drove the man went well beyond what she deemed necessary. Whether or not the man was a scoundrel had no bearing on the mission.
The nature of his character should be entirely irrelevant to her inquiries. For all she knew, she could be wasting her time. She sensed the man was up to something, felt in her bones he’d come to Trask’s occult salon for some purpose far removed from his stated intent. But she had nothing more than her skills of observation and her intuition to guide her. In truth, Stanwyck might well be a skeptic out to make a fool of Trask and anyone connected with him. Or, he might simply be an arrogant eccentric who took pleasure in leading her on a goose chase.
Studying him as he watched the goings-on outside the coach with a hawklike focus, she brushed aside the latter possibility. This was no brash second son out to amuse himself at her expense. No, something had spurred Gavin Stanwyck to come after Trask. She’d seen how he glared at the man, detected the cool animosity in his gaze.
There was more to Stanwyck’s appearance at Trask’s door than a foolish quest.
Looking away, she ran her fingers over the carriage’s rubbed leather upholstery. Quite luxurious. And yet, the conveyance was not in the least ostentatious.
Growing up in her uncle’s household, Sophie had not been accustomed to fine things. She’d had a good life with Uncle George, far better than most children who’d found themselves orphaned and penniless. But her uncle and aunt had a fondness for saving a pence or two or three, stashing away their tin for a rainy day. What little abundance there’d been in the household had not been hers to claim. Rather, it had been bestowed upon her guardians’ only child. A willowy, sweet-natured girl, Lottie had married a perfectly respectable barrister three days after her twentieth birthday and settled into a comfortable existence. Unlike Sophie, as her aunt was ever so fond of reminding her.
And then of course, there wasthe incident. To this day, Aunt Mildred could not speak of the occurrence without appearing close to apoplexy. What had happened the night of Sophie’s debut had made laughingstocks of them all, or so her aunt believed. Thank heavens dear Lottie had already found a husband, before Sophie had gone and created a stir that still wagged tongues.
She certainly had a knack for causing a commotion, didn’t she? Her gaze trailed over Stanwyck, as leisurely as his kiss had been earlier that evening. She’d left her good sense behind when she’d agreed to Stanwyck’s scheme, hadn’t she? Heaven knew she shouldn’t have let him kiss her. That had been a tactical error on her part.
A sigh escaped her, whisper soft. What was done was done. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d see to that.
The silence seemed a heavy cloak, stifling her. She fiddled with the lace on her sleeves, forcing herself to look at something other than the angles and planes of Stanwyck’s chiseled face.
A soft clearing of his throat pulled her interest back to him. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he turned to her, his expression unreadable.
“Is something wrong, Miss Devereaux?”
“Why no, whatever would make you ask?”
“I heard a sigh. I presume you were the source of the sound.” The tiny crinkles around his eyes served only to enhance his ruggedly cut features. “Unless, of course, Esme decided a coach ride would be preferable to popping in and out at will. If so, she sounds far too weary to be of much help tonight.”
My, the devil was observant, wasn’t he? She hadn’t realized he’d detected the hushed sound. “If Esme were to sigh, you would not be able to detect the otherworldly frequency.”
