Cole nodded. “We should inform D’Angelo and Sloane that we’re investigating Manning and the Turners.”
“Agreed.”
It paid to be cautious.
And yet Noah couldn’t shake the feeling that the case was about to become even more complicated. Indeed, Miss Dunn had a secret. A terrible secret. Something far worse than admitting her brother was a wasteful degenerate.
* * *
Noah hoped to spend a few minutes alone in the carriage, composing himself and settling into the role of investigator, yet punctuality was another trait of Miss Dunn’s he admired.
“Good morning, Mr Ashwood.” She fixed her gaze upon him and smiled. “I see you’ve shaved.”
“Good morning, Miss Dunn.” He stroked his smooth jaw. “We don’t want your publisher thinking you’ve formed a friendship with a vagrant.”
“I rather liked your beard.”
“I’m certain you’ll see it again.”
She accepted his proffered hand and climbed into the carriage. Today, she wore a dark grey pelisse, the matching bonnet adorned with delicate red rosebuds. Grey, because it was practical. The silk flowers added a hint of sensuality.
He inwardly sighed.
Even a damn fashion accessory managed to raise his pulse.
He wasted no time getting to the point. “I trust you’ve had time to consider what I said the other day. I cannot work on a case without knowing all the facts.”
The lady settled into the seat opposite, her gloved hands clasped in her lap. “I spent hours lounging in the bathtub thinking of nothing else.”
He doubted Miss Dunn meant to tease him with thoughts of her naked body rising Venus-like from the water. And yet he wondered if she’d thought of him when tending to her ablutions.
“And while indulging your whims, did you come to a decision?” Having witnessed her opulent bedchamber, it wasn’t difficult to picture her satisfying her desires—or satisfying his desires for that matter. “There is little point moving off unless I’m certain of your willingness to comply.”
She had the decency to look sheepish. “I had planned to tell you soon, once I mustered the courage.” A stain of shame tainted her cheeks. “But I am so hurt and humiliated I cannot bear to speak of my brother’s betrayal.”
Her choice of words tied Noah’s stomach in knots. By all accounts, his mother had made the same claim upon learning of his father’s duplicity. Noah inhaled a calming breath. Had fate sent Miss Dunn to torment him, torment him in every conceivable way?
Her strength and intelligence roused his admiration. Her underlying sense of vulnerability spoke to the virile male determined to prove his worth. The veil of mystery that shrouded the real woman behind the calm facade left him desperate to learn more.
But she was his client.
“You need my help, and I’m the last person to judge,” he said, hoping that working on the case would command his full attention. “You may be assured of my discretion. You may be assured that every member of the Order will keep your secrets.”
She considered him through curious eyes. “Tell me something about yourself, Mr Ashwood. Something that brings you shame.”
“Me?” Harrowing images flashed into his mind. Images that threatened to steer a man off course. But he was used to battening down the hatches and riding out the storm. “We are not here to delve into my past traumas, Miss Dunn.”
“I have yet to meet a man who proved trustworthy, sir. Confide in me. Give me a reason to trust you.”
Noah snorted. The woman had come to Hart Street of her own volition. He’d not kidnapped her off the street. Did she want his damn help or not?
He was about to refuse when she said, “Please. I must learn to trust someone. Let it be you.”
Hell!
Cole was right. Miss Dunn had a way of getting under a man’s skin. The need to protect her and please her outweighed all rationale.
“Very well.” He sighed to make his frustration known. She wanted to hear of a past trauma. She could bloody well hear them all. “My father was as reckless as yours. He married my mother over an anvil in Gretna Green two days before I was born. My uncle has spent years trying to prove the marriage took place after the birth in order to lay claim to my inheritance. My father died in a duel fought because of an argument over his mistress. My mother died of a broken heart two months later, under tragic circumstances I refuse to discuss.” Too tragic for a son to witness. “Would you care to hear more?”
“Forgive me.” Pity filled the lady’s eyes. “It must have been dreadful. I assume you were a boy when your parents died.”
“A boy of ten.” The painful ache in his throat returned.
“Childhood memories are often the most traumatic.”
“Yes.”
They both fell silent. Yet he was still navigating through the turmoil, the nightmare.
“I cannot help but notice the similarities between us, sir,” she eventually said, and he was grateful for the distraction.
“Similarities?”
“Both our fathers are undeserving wastrels. We strive to shake the ugly stain on our names left by their deplorable actions. We have a family member who serves to test our resolve and remind us of our tainted history.”
“Indeed.” And they both used confidence as a shield. “Thankfully we were saved from a terrible fate by respectable men,” he added, his equilibrium restored. “My paternal grandfather took me in when my parents died. You were fortunate to have Mr Becker.”
He expected her to nod in agreement, to be full of praise for the kind poet, but her expression turned pensive. It took a few seconds for her to recover.
“When one admires a man’s work it is easy to place him on a pedestal,” she said, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, though the carriage was still parked on Brownlow Street. “Being a creative genius does not mean one is principled.”
The comment shouldn’t have shocked him. And yet he was as guilty as the rest for presuming intelligence conveyed a person’s worth.
“Creative frustration is a kind of mental torture,” he said, drawing from experience. It sounded as if
