The Trouble With Seduction

by Victoria Hanlen

  Was her little upturned nose twitching mischievously or was she deep in contemplation? He couldn’t tell. Tiny freckles scattered across her pronounced cheekbones. From the sides of her bonnet, unruly flaxen curls bounced in the breeze.

  Her eyes sparkled as they traveled over his arms, across his shoulders and up his neck. With determination, he resisted falling into them.

  When he’d put a fair distance between their carriage and others, he took another run at the topic. “Let me put it another way, my lady. It has come to my attention, although I have no memory of it, that the men who attacked me thought I knew the whereabouts of a certain set of plans.”

  Another wayward curl escaped her bonnet. “Do you think they meant the same ones as Lord Strathford’s?”

  “It seems highly possible. I find it too coincidental that I was nearly killed and your husband may have been murdered over a set of plans with a similar description. It’s imperative we quickly find them.”

  “I see.” But her confused expression belied her words. She gave him a tight smile. “I’m not saying I’m agreeing to… an alliance…”

  Anticipating her refusal, he insisted, “What I am proposing is completely above board, I assure you.”

  “Why would I want to do such a thing?”

  “You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he smiled. “Figuratively, of course.”

  At the look of incredulity that flashed across her features he stammered, “Or perhaps more accurately, a favor for a favor.”

  Mrs Ivanova had suggested seduction. Of course he desired Lady Strathford, but had he been that obvious? Perhaps her two previous marriages had taught her the subtle signs. He quickly added, “It appears you might be forced to prove your innocence, which means you must find the true murderer or murderers. I wish to find the men who attacked me. It is possible they are one and the same.”

  ***

  This time, before speaking, Sarah took greater care in measuring her words. “You and I would make very easy targets for tittle-tattle. I am a widow and you are the fancy-free second son of a viscount. Whether or not it is true, we would be considered lovers.”

  “Perhaps,” he acknowledged, “if we were not discreet.”

  She bit her lower lip. Was this how affairs began? She’d made light of her Aunt Eliza’s comment that she should take a lover, yet here was a most desirable man suggesting just that. The flutters that had been tickling her insides now flitted through her veins. Not two hours before she’d despaired of ever seeing Mr Ravenhill again. Now he wished to assist her discreetly?

  Part of her exulted at his suggestion until more pragmatic considerations threw a bucket of ice-cold reality onto it. Her life until now had been staid, isolated and private. Neither of her deceased husbands had ever been underfoot. They’d kept their lives, even their bedrooms, comfortably separate.

  Now, if she agreed, not only would a very attractive man be ‘underfoot,’ she would have to worry about them being discovered. They could easily become the topic of rumors and gossip and… oh, dear, what would her brother say?

  Though her father died nearly a year before, memories of his unrelenting discipline and rants meant that at nearly thirty her first thought was still for her and her family’s reputation. Even beyond the grave, his rigid rules of decorum held sway.

  “The most probable place for the plans would be in my home,” she intoned carefully. “With all the servants and workmen marching about, it would be difficult for you to go unnoticed. Should you become too familiar about my home, it is likely we would be called lovers. I cannot risk my own or my family’s reputation.”

  “You do make remarkably quick leaps of logic, my lady. Quite left me in the dust for a moment.” He pulled at his collar and quirked up one side of his mouth. “I can understand your fear of tittle-tattle, but I must ask you to consider which would be the worse gossip – your arrest for murdering your husband or being the secret lover of Dame… uh, Mr Cornelius Ravenhill?”

  Sarah straightened in her seat. Even though the inspector frightened her, the logical part of her latched on to what Mr Ravenhill had said earlier. The inspector was an incompetent. He’d nearly accused her of hiring someone to set blasts in her husband’s laboratory, a total untruth and fabrication.

  The professor and plans could be another of his groundless allegations. Edward was not shy about discussing his successes. He would have told her if he’d made a unique engine.

  “At the very least,” Mr Ravenhill continued, “I suggest you stop work on your renovation and secure the premises. Hire top blasting specialists of your own to examine the suspicious fuses and where they were found. Inspector Hooker is devious and not to be underestimated. To be on the safe side, I’d even contact friends and acquaintances who have influence with top police and judicial offices. If Hooker makes any more allegations, no matter how outlandish, be sure to have your own experts investigate to counter his claims.”

  Sarah took a moment to consider his recommendations. They certainly seemed logical, if perhaps a little excessive. The commanding way he spoke had a stern authority she’d not expected from such a charming rogue.

  What a puzzling man.

  It could be said she was a little starry-eyed. Mr Ravenhill, more than any gentleman she’d ever met, certainly drew her. There was nothing medium about him. Additionally, he was intelligent, well spoken, mannered, the son of a viscount and he seemed to like her.

  On the other hand, she’d only met him three times. He’d recently returned from abroad, giving minimal accounting of his years away. His story of traveling the world as a merchant of curiosities didn’t jibe with his debonair mien and the occasional shadow of aloofness and command.

  For certain, she needed to find Edward’s plans and prove her innocence. But her ingrained propriety and memories of her father’s tirades about ‘loose women’ made her quail at the prospect of prurient gossip.

  She clasped her hands in her lap, resigned to the only decision she could make. “While it appears we both have need of my husband’s mysterious plans, for the time being, I’m sure I can search my home myself. If and when I find plans that resemble your description, I will be sure to keep you informed.”

  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.”