The Trouble With Seduction

CHAPTER 7

“Lord Strathford’s widow is not cooperating and I need her help,” Damen confessed to Cory the next day as if he would open his eyes, give him a crooked smile, and tell him he was still a ham-fisted bungler when it came to women.

The drapery had been pulled to filter the morning sunlight into the dark-paneled bedchamber. Damen gazed about the purple bruises circling his brother’s closed eyes. “I’m doing everything I can to find the villains who did this to you, but I’ve run into a problem.”

He sank down into the chair next to the bed and placed his hand on Cory’s arm. A slow pulse beat beneath, proof life still existed inside, but could he hear him? Could he understand?

“And the irony is,” Damen continued, “you were far better at gaining a woman’s assistance than me. I could use some pointers if you’d stop being such a laze-about.”

The cuts and swelling across his brother’s face had blossomed into a kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes he jerked a finger or a foot, but he’d still not opened his eyes. The doctor told him, with each day that passed, he was less likely to awake, but Damen refused to give up. Somehow he had to reach him and pull him back from the abyss.

“Your mistress said you were looking for Strathford’s plans before you were attacked. Now Lady Strathford needs to find them and prove she didn’t kill her husband. But she has refused my help. She fears the gossips will call us lovers. Imagine that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know you could have easily talked her round.”

Damen leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in one palm. Now more than ever, he believed finding the plans would lead to his brother’s attackers and probably Lord Strathford’s killer. How could he persuade Lady Strathford to work with him and let him search her mansion? He leaned back, barely seeing the intricate plasterwork marching across the ceiling. “What did you find, Cory, that made someone want to kill you?”

His brother’s slow, almost imperceptible breathing was the only answer.

Damen stood, walked around the end of the bed, and barked his shin on Cory’s sea chest. “Blast! What’s that doing here?” As he rubbed his leg, he noticed the trunk’s open latch and lifted the lid. Inside lay Cory’s navigating equipment, a bundle of letters, several books, two old newspapers written in a foreign language… and a worn, leather-bound journal.

He opened it and read the first entries dated five years before, right after Damen had seen Cory off in Liverpool. His brother’s pencil scrawl recorded the weather, the ship’s speed, other incidentals, and a few surprisingly good likenesses of porpoises.

He thumbed through more dry discourse, and turned the journal on its side to admire landscapes Cory had drawn of ports he’d visited, notes about the geography, maps and charts and a few portraits of the inhabitants. He flipped to the back pages. There he found the date, two weeks before, where Cory had recorded his arrival in London. An entry three days later said:

Grancliffe party. Saw Dante’s acolyte!!

“Two exclamation points,” Damen mumbled.

He turned to the last entry, the day Cory had been attacked. He read the words aloud. “‘Half ten. Meet Dante’s acolyte. Strathford coda.’ What does that mean?” He read it several more times.

Dante. Who was Dante?

Could it refer to Dante’s Inferno? Or the devil? Perhaps hell or fire? What about acolyte – a follower or assistant? And what did ‘coda’ mean? Maybe a dance, or a concluding event of some sort? If he interpreted the words correctly, it appeared his brother knew the ‘acolyte’ of the ‘inferno’ that was ‘Strathford’s end.’

He searched more of the journal for clues to the mystery. On a page dated three years earlier he found another entry:

Bird will sing.

At two years earlier, an entry said:

Strathford coda.

He could only guess at what these pencil scratches meant while his mind spun with darker questions. Damen reached up and rubbed the taut muscle in his neck. Cory was supposed to have been on a merchant ship during that time. Yet his journal made it appear he’d slipped back into England without contacting him or their father.

A cold chill skittered across his shoulders. It appeared his brother was somehow connected to Strathford. And most disturbing of all, it made him wonder if Cory might have been involved with the laboratory explosion and fire that killed the inventor?

A vague recollection surfaced of Sarah saying his brother ignored her at the Grancliffe party. His attention had been pinned to the doorway. That didn’t sound like Cory. Beautiful women always took precedence. This acolyte must have been very important indeed. No doubt a dangerous character as well.

He raked his fingers through his hair. How could he find out who’d been present at the party?

***

Sarah rubbed her temple. “Difficulties, problems and annoyances. That’s all I seem to have these days.” As her carriage rumbled down the street, she jotted down another item on her list of things needing attention. She’d risen early this morning to consult with Mrs Billings before her mission school began for the day. Lately, they’d made a few changes, and she was anxious to know if they’d brought more children into the school.

The carriage finally pulled to a stop. Her driver opened the door and let down the stairs. “Mind your step, my lady.”

She alighted onto the murky sidewalk and glanced about. Her mission sat in St Giles, one of the poorest parts of London, close to those most in need. Wagons and working-class pedestrians bustled along the grimy street. Shops lined the first level of the soot-coated buildings. Small factories, boarding houses and tenements packed the dilapidated neighborhood as well.

Sarah climbed the steps and entered the mission’s front door. The Spartan front entry doubled as a greeting room and Mrs Billings’ office. Her second-hand desk and side chairs showed wear, but all seemed neat and tidy.

Her mission manager bustled out of a classroom. “Oh, good morning, my lady!”

“Good morning, Billings. Might I have a word?”

Sarah followed her into the classroom and shut the door. “Are you happy with the new teacher and cook?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs Billings smiled. “The new teacher is enthusiastic, yet still maintains discipline and the children seem to like her. The new cook is quite proficient as well. She manages to make a balanced and very tasty free dinner for the children.”

“But have we seen any increase in enrollment?”

The mission manager bit her lip. “This may seem somewhat roundabout, but that nice young couple you gave arithmetic lessons to stopped by with a few of their friends. There appears to be great interest in learning how to calculate the cost of their loans. The adults are seeking knowledge. Perhaps if parents see the value of education, they will send their children.”

“Excellent idea, Billings!”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“The adults need education even more desperately than their children. They have to use it every day. Perhaps we can give lessons in the evenings after their work.”

Mrs Billings gave her a worried expression. “Classes at night might not be safe. The tailor down the block was attacked last night in his shop. The gang that’s been terrorizing the neighborhood demanded protection money or they’d do it again.”

“Surely they wouldn’t attack a mission. This is a charity,” Sarah said in disbelief. “We help people.”

“These are despicable villains, my lady. I doubt they have any scruples whatsoever. I told our workers to keep a sharp eye out for anyone who looks suspicious.”

***

The sun had reached its zenith by the time Damen arrived at the dim alley where the coachman said Cory and his footman were found. Today he’d dressed in the shabby shirt, trousers and boots he used to blend into the seedier parts of Liverpool and its dockyards.

He started at one end of the pathway and paced to the other. Both opened out to larger streets. Little more than a dirt-lined drainage gap between buildings, the track hardly seemed wide enough for three men abreast, much less seven knocking each other about.

Damen stretched out his arms, easily touching the long clapboard building to one side and the high brick wall on the other. Apart from children’s laughter and the sounds of a play yard nearby, nothing seemed particularly untoward or out of the ordinary. He dug into his workman’s smock for his pencil and small notebook to make notes.

“Mr Ravenhill? My goodness, I barely recognized you.”

His pulse stuttered in surprise. The dulcet voice flowed over him like warm syrup. Damen whipped round and swept his cap from his head. “Lady Strathford, what are you doing here?”

She stood at the opened gate bisecting the brick wall. Two pink smudges colored her creamy high cheekbones. Sunlight reflected off her crown of tight braids creating something of a halo around her head. Her graceful hands rested on the shoulders of two urchins peering around her skirts.

His heart bounded into a faster beat. Had he ever seen a lovelier, more feminine sight? A Madonna, an angel.

She gently turned the children back inside and closed the gate to approach him. Her high-collared, dingy, dark gown, typical of a St Giles matron, made a wise ensemble for this part of town. But her exquisite countenance was a rarity for any part of town.

Part of him wanted to take her in hand and bustle her back to Mayfair. This was no place for a beautiful woman. Even angels were in jeopardy in St Giles. Plenty of dangers overtook the locals. More befell those who appeared like they had something to steal. “Have you lost your way, my lady?”

“I might ask you the same.” Her sparkling gaze drifted about his face, settling in on his lips, stirring in him a completely inappropriate response.

She pointed to the three-story brick building behind her that looked like a factory. “On the other side of this wall is one of the charities I support – my Mission of Mercy. Several of the teachers have been watching you and wondering what you’re about.” Damen peered around the upper-floor windows. He now realized one or two faces peered back.

“This is where our coachman said he found us. My footman said five ruffians set upon us.” An idea came to him. “Did anyone at your mission see the attack?”

“Oh, dear. What time did it occur?”

“I was told in the wee hours of the morning.”

“The mission is open from seven to seven. I can ask if anyone saw anything suspicious.” She gazed around the path as he’d done. “It must have been a squeeze for seven men. Are you certain you didn’t crawl in here to escape?”

“The thought did cross my mind.” Damen paced to one end of the short passage where it intersected with a larger road. Various buildings and tenements populated the street. Near the entrance stood a second-hand store, a gin shop, a store that sold small animals, and several gambling saloons. As far as he knew, Cory hadn’t been a gambler. If he had entered one of those establishments, it was likely in pursuit of someone.

Sarah approached him at the path’s entrance and looked back toward her mission. “This is a well-known shortcut through the neighborhood.”

Damen turned to follow her gaze. “Yet another confusing piece to the puzzle. What brought me to your mission, and why was I attacked practically on your back doorstep?” Could Cory have known of Lady Strathford’s mission and hoped he might get help?

“Have any of your memories returned?”

He rubbed the side of his head and hoped to sound convincing. “There is something. You said when we danced at the Grancliffe party my gaze had been fixed on the doorway, and afterward I disappeared? I think I might have seen someone at the party, someone who might have been responsible for the attack on me and my footman.”

“What did this person look like?”

“Not sure. I only know I was shocked to see them.” If Damen read the two exclamation points in Cory’s journal correctly, his brother had been surprised.

“You don’t think one of the guests…”

“I don’t know what to think.” Damen slapped his cap against his knee. “Do you remember seeing anyone in the doorway?”

“No.”

“If we could get a list of those in attendance, you and I could review the names and, together, perhaps identify this person.”

Sarah studied him with a raised brow. “Is this your sly way of luring me into working with you?”

Damen gazed about her lovely face, wanting to pull her close and whisper exactly how he’d like to work with her. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly and her subtle gasp raised her chest as her eyes traveled over his neck and shoulders.

The moment stretched.

A heavily laden dray rumbled by, loudly hitting a pit in the street, shattering the cocoon of awareness around them.

Damen realized he’d forgotten to breathe and tried to return his attention to the problem at hand. “The more I discover, the more I’m convinced my attack and your husband’s death are connected.”

“The party seems an odd place to find such a villain.” Her words came out rather breathy with a slight quiver. “It was meant to introduce Miss Collins to a few of Lord and Lady Grancliffes’ acquaintances. A few new arrivals to London were added to the guest list at the last moment, as I assume you were.”

“How can I get a list of everyone there?”

Sarah straightened at his words and her brows went up again.

“Yes, yes, I know…” His voice drifted into his more impatient business tones before he managed to clamp his lips shut. She thought he wanted to use the list as an excuse to get closer. Unlike his servants and employees, she didn’t have to follow his orders. A different approach would be needed.

Contriving his best Cory smile, he leaned down and gazed about her face as if she were the only star in his cosmos. “It would be so very helpful…” Instead of being the in-control charmer, he fell into the infinite blue of Sarah’s eyes, and lost track of everything around him.

His hands were circling her waist when her lips pulled into a thin line. He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back.

Her mouth continued its downward curve as she sniffed. “Perhaps I could send a note to Lady Grancliffe, but I’m not promising anything.”

***

“The man is a scoundrel and too charming by half,” Sarah muttered to herself as she marched back up her mission’s brick walkway. A silly smile kept trying to work its way across her lips.

No man ever affected her like this. Even with his face a mass of bruises, one glance from him made her light-headed. When he bent to her, peered deep into her eyes and gave her that look like he could devour her, she felt a thrill all the way down to her sturdy-soled boots.

For goodness’ sake. The way Mr Ravenhill’s work smock outlined his muscular torso approached indecency. And Heavens! She must be going daft. For a moment she’d almost broken all sense of propriety, reached out and smoothed down his collar.

Clearly he was an inveterate ladies’ man bent on beguiling and manipulating her. It seemed far-fetched that her husband’s death and the attack on Ravenhill could have been perpetrated by the same villain or villains. Edward had been dead over two years and Mr Ravenhill only returned to London several weeks before.

This whole situation put her mind in a muddle. First of all, she could not conceive of why someone would want to hurt dear Edward. While it appeared his elusive plans might somehow be involved in his death, she’d been unable to find any evidence they existed.

The inspector insisted Professor Bodkin filed a complaint that she return them. But why would he kill for something as trivial as drawings? Now Ravenhill thought he’d seen someone suspicious at Amelia’s party. Sarah certainly didn’t remember anyone there by the name of Bodkin or even a professorial type. And then there were those blasting fuses. Where had they come from? No. Things did not fit together at all.

***

Two hours later, Alfred Marbanks, Falgate’s man of business, came out from behind his large mahogany desk and grasped Damen’s hand. “So good to see you again, Mr Ravenhill. What may I do for you?” He gazed briefly at his bruises without comment, motioned for him to be seated in a plush leather side-chair, and settled into the one next to him.

Damen gazed around the tastefully decorated office with its gilt-framed landscapes and brown and gold velvet drapery. “As you might recall, I was here a few days ago…”

Marbanks gave his twin tufts of white hair several vigorous rakes, resettled his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat in a series of what appeared to be ritualistic tics. He finally gripped his hands and pressed them hard to one knee.

“My memory is a bit hazy about the meeting.” Damen pointed to his bruised forehead by way of explanation. “Be so good as to recount our discussion and where I said I was going afterward.”

“Uhmm-Uhmm, I’d be delighted, Mr Ravenhill.” Marbanks scrubbed his hand through his tufts again and coughed. “We went over the ledgers for the Falgate properties in London. As you left, you said you would visit the Painted Lady to talk with one of the property managers.”

“May I see the ledgers?”

“Most certainly.” Marbanks jumped to his feet and scuttled to the oak-paneled door. He and his assistant soon returned with several large ledgers, set them on the desk and opened their heavy bound covers.

At the sight of them, the hairs prickled on Damen’s arms. He was heir to all these London properties, but for some reason, his father kept them secret. After university, he’d sent him to Liverpool to manage and enlarge the family’s holdings.

Damen sat forward, running his finger down the columns of addresses as he flipped through the ledger. He’d known his father owned warehouses but never imagined he had so many lodging houses and tenements.

“Lord Falgate used to take a more active role in his properties. He’d three men who oversaw the building managers and reported directly to him. A few months after your father became ill they disappeared. How is he?”

“About as well as can be expected. Thank you for asking.” Damen turned the page. His eyes flew to the Painted Lady’s address and those above and below. It appeared his father owned nearly every building on the block. He turned more pages to find the addresses of tenements surrounding Lady Strathford’s Mission of Mercy.

Damen squinted at the writing and pointed to several ledger entries. “What do these red marks mean?”

“Those are the buildings that suffered fires.”

“And what is this column in blue?”

“Those are the rent declines compared to a year ago. As you can see, the vast majority of properties have fallen an average of thirty percent.”

Muscles tightened in Damen’s neck and down one arm. Cory had been investigating the fires and this was what he’d found: massive rent declines? While their father had been ill, someone had compromised his properties. “Why have the rents declined?” He kept his voice low and even.

“Some of the buildings are unable to be rented while they’re being restored after the fires. In others, the property managers say they’ve experienced trouble getting the prices we used to ask.”

Damen recently visited to the Painted Lady and saw how packed the neighborhood looked. By all appearances, it wasn’t for a lack of people needing lodgings.

“How many fires have there been?”

Marbanks dug through a folder and handed him a neatly printed record of addresses, dates and damages. “There were twenty-seven total.”

Damen studied the list. “What started the fires?”

“Various things. Some were unexplained. In the domiciles, stoves and fireplaces were the main culprit.”

“How about the warehouses?”

“I have another sheet here somewhere…” Marbanks fished through a file. “Here it is.” He studied it a moment. “Those have been more difficult to define. Two were caused by lanterns, four have yet to be explained and three were explosions.”

“Explosions?” The word conjured more alarm than a fire. Cory had been searching for an arsonist, yet the word ‘explosions’ seemed to attach greater intent to the villainy. Icy talons scraped down Damen’s spine. What caused them?”

Marbanks glanced at his paper. “Two of the blasts were suspicious in that the tenants claimed the exploded articles were not theirs. The other was an inventor who’d been conducting experiments.”

“Who was this inventor?” Damen held his breath.

Marbanks quickly thumbed through the ledger for the corresponding address and pointed to the name of the tenant. “It says Lord Strathford rented the back portion of the Flatiron warehouse.”

Damen’s pulse quickened and he gulped in air. He squinted at the fuzzy numbers, and rubbed an eye. Strathford had rented a warehouse from his father, and there’d been an explosion? Another chill went down his spine. “When did it happen?”

The man of business pointed to the red printing in one of the ledger columns. “Approximately three years ago.”

Cory’s journal entry had been dated three years before as well.

“As I recall” – Marbanks yanked off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief – “there was a confusing story about a young woman’s disappearance after the fire.”

“Did I mention if I intended to investigate her disappearance further?” Damen asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. You seemed to know the woman.”

“Another woman,” Damen muttered to himself. How did Cory keep them all straight? “What was her name?”

“I thought I heard you say Mary Turner.”

CHAPTER 8

“Women convicted of murdering their husbands used to be hung and burned at the stake.” Sarah stared at the thin circle of fire on the end of her cigar and grimaced.

“That hasn’t happened in at least a hundred years,” Amelia, her best friend since childhood, and now the Countess Grancliffe, reassured. She reached across the outdoor table and placed her hand over Sarah’s. “Don’t let the police inspector upset you. He’s obviously an uncivilized bully. Is your brother helping you deal with him?”