Megpeas stopped at the edge of a little garden in front of a mammoth weeping beech tree – one of the lone survivors of the wreckage.
Damen had seen similar specimens, though perhaps not so robust. Its abundant canopy sagged, allowing its branches to sweep gracefully to the ground, no doubt making a leafy grotto inside.
“My lady, Mr Ravenhill is here to see you,” Megpeas announced.
“Please come in.” Sarah’s voice sounded a little breathy as it cut through the tree’s heavy foliage.
He knew Sarah was different, but this definitely topped the list for eccentricities – she was receiving visitors in a tree?
Aware he was out of his element, Damen squared his shoulders as if readying himself for the gladiator’s ring. He was determined to unravel the mystery about the fires. His brother’s journal and subsequent inquiries with Marbanks had given rise to a vile question: could his brother have been connected to Lord Strathford’s death? Above all, he must tread carefully and not throw suspicion onto Cory while he sorted it out.
Megpeas pulled a set of long dangling limbs aside like a curtain and motioned for him to proceed.
Damen stepped through into the tree’s roomy cavern and placed his cane slightly to the side in a pose he’d seen his brother take.
Three stunning women stood in front of him, gazing expectantly, their mouths forming identical “O’s” as if they were struck speechless.
He nearly turned to look behind himself. Beautiful ladies, or should he say a beautiful lady, never gazed at him with such anticipation. Not that he didn’t like it. He did, and quite well, but his limited association with women usually involved exchanging funds for services rendered.
Additionally, it was a rare occurrence that he be the sole male in the company of one attractive female. Now he had three to contend with. A pulse hammered in his temple.
His gaze flew to Sarah’s countenance. Her pert little chin, intelligent, wide-set eyes and creamy high cheekbones drew him like none other – until she opened her well-formed mouth. Then, out flowed melodious, velvet vowels that shocked and confused him. Her unpredictability sowed an excitement in him that bordered on giddy.
She was a confounding jumble of contradictions. Her conservative dress and stiff demeanor presented an upright, respectable woman. Yet her wild blonde tresses threatened to make a mockery of her proper, demure façade.
As he gazed about her, he realized something had changed. Ah, that was it. She’d enhanced her modest black mourning gown with a bit of white lace on her high collar. Would she never change her wardrobe’s somber colors beyond deep bereavement? It had been over two years, hadn’t it?
Still. Lace was a step in the right direction. A good sign, that.
Her gown’s style had changed somewhat as well. The tiered full shirt emphasized a small waist, thereby drawing attention to her other… endowments.
One of her heavy blonde tresses suddenly escaped to fall over one of those… attractions. His attention followed the lock and lingered. He’d an urge to wind that wayward strand around a finger, and perhaps explore the bountiful mound beneath.
A fan twitched over the region under appraisal. He raised his attention to her face to find a delicate shade of peach glowing on her cheeks. She pursed her lips and flicked her fan with more vehemence.
Good Lord, he must get his mind back to the task at hand. He took a deep breath to clear his head. To his surprise, an unexpected scent lingered beneath the leafy fragrance. He sniffed. Cigars? “Mmmm.” He looked between the women. “What is that wonderful aroma?”
They exchanged glances as if he didn’t speak English.
He looked around. Playing cards lay face down on an ornate iron table. Three filled glasses sat beside them. He grinned and took a deep breath. “Ah. Have you noticed how the scent of beech trees often resemble a good Cuban cigar?”
Sarah seemed to sway and caught herself on the back of her chair. She gave him a tight smile and wafted her white ostrich feather fan as if the cavern were hot. “Mr Ravenhill, M… may I present my friends. This is C… Countess Grancliffe and her cousin, recently of New York, Miss Collins.”
So this was the Countess Grancliffe, and not at all as he’d expected. For one thing, she appeared no older than Sarah. For another, she was smiling with a quirked brow. At him.
Why?
Had Sarah already spoken to her about the names of her party attendees? He considered asking the countess himself, and then thought better of it. If Sarah had not revealed the list was for him, it might cause an uncomfortable situation for Sarah who’d made clear her sensitivity to gossip.
And then there was Miss Calista Collins, the heiress his brother also decided against as a potential wife. She was one of the prettiest young women he’d ever seen. Wonder what he didn’t like about her?
Manners first, he heard his tutor at Rugby echo down through the years. He swept his fawn-colored top hat from his head and bowed with a flourish. “A true pleasure Countess Grancliffe, Miss Collins.” He gave each woman a ‘Cory’ devil-may-care grin. At least he hoped it was the rakish smile Gormley had made him practice in front of the mirror.
He could feel the women’s sly perusal. His face was on the mend, though not completely healed. Cory’s continental clothes were a discomfiting, flamboyant departure from Damen’s usual attire – a dark conservative suit, sturdy black boots, black top hat and wool greatcoat. No-nonsense gear that, together with ready fists, commanded respect at his warehouse projects in the crime-ridden dockyards of Liverpool.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to buy a new wardrobe to impersonate his brother. The tailor had passably altered Cory’s fawn summer suit. Its nipped-in waist and flashy vest fit nicely, but the jacket remained snug across his shoulders, an aspect the women seemed fixed upon as well.
Gormley had convinced him females liked his brother’s dandyish wardrobe. Though such clothes made him feel like a peacock, Damen was willing to try anything, even suffer the ogling reserved for prize studs at auction, to get the list and convince Lady Strathford they should work together.
While he felt massively ill at ease, he knew his brother would have loved this situation. He’d have applied his considerable charm and have the women giggling and simpering in no time.
Damen had little experience with ladies’ tea parties, soirees or assemblies. He was a man of action, a man with responsibilities, a man with hundreds under his direction who depended on him for their livelihoods. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to idle away the afternoon… chatting.
Courteous and courtly, Gorm had reminded him. Repeatedly.
Inwardly, Damen sighed. Perhaps he should start with a bit of flattery. Women liked compliments, didn’t they? It shouldn’t be too difficult. All of them were stunning: the countess, with her willowy figure and a countenance fit for a fashion plate; Miss Collins with her perfect features and abundant dark curls; and Lady Strathford with, well, blood-boiling everything. “What a lucky man I am to be in the midst of such beauty.” He grinned.
Miss Collins and the Countess affected friendly smiles. Sarah beetled her brows.
Now what did he say wrong?
The distinctive aroma finally registered – and, if he wasn’t mistaken, an expensive, hard to come by brand. He surreptitiously looked around. No cigars appeared in evidence. Had he walked in on a naughty visit among friends? He couldn’t help smiling. Sarah wasn’t as stiff and prim as she tried to appear.
“Do come in and have a seat.” She wafted her fluffy fan toward a chair.
“I thank you, my lady.” He looked between the women. “I don’t mean to impose, but I’m delighted to be included in such a novel party.” He gave her another smile and embarked on his best Cory swagger to the chair.
“Would you care for lemonade?” Sarah swept her fan toward a cart next to the table.
“Yes. Thank you.”
A glass of lemonade appeared in front of him.
“We were making a list of entertainments
in and around London, Mr Ravenhill,” the countess said in a sweet voice. “Do you have any favorites we may add?”
Was this some sort of test to see if he’d slip up? “I only recently returned after years abroad, and could use some suggestions as well.”
He looked to Sarah for any indication as to whether she remembered his request to find her husband’s plans. He’d hoped to have another go at convincing her that working together would help them both and thence begin searching her mansion today.
She gave no sign of any recollection. Matter of fact, a hazy languor filled her gaze as she waved her fan back and forth across her neck. His mind wandered to places it shouldn’t. Under different circumstances, with a different kind of woman, he might have drawn closer and perhaps devoted more attention to Lady Strathford’s tantalizing… lock.
Damen took a swallow of his lemonade. His lips nearly turned inside out. It tasted exactly like straight lemonade – tart – and a shock to the senses. Had he annoyed her that badly?
His tongue curled to the roof of his mouth. Now Sarah was just the type of female who’d serve him something like that.
He gazed at Miss Collins and the Countess. Their eyes contained a similar haze. Aaah, do tell. Perhaps she’d given him the unadulterated version. If his instincts weren’t escaping him, all three women were showing the signs of lemonade supplemented with a stiff jolt of spirits. He’d be willing to bet a bottle of that enlivening elixir lay stashed somewhere nearby, along with the cigars.
“Would you like to join our game, Mr Ravenhill?” Sarah gestured toward the cards. “We were discussing how we needed a fourth.”
“Lady Strathford, are you in there?” Without warning, a male voice called through the foliage.
CHAPTER 9
Sarah startled at the voice. A moment passed before her lips drew into a tight line. “Lord Lumsley. What brings you to Strathford Hall?”
“Your brother and I popped by to brighten your Sunday.” His words seeped through the leafage in a rather muffled wheeze. “We hoped you’d accompany us to a Mr Maynard Smythe’s edifying lecture regarding his climb up Mt Kilimanjaro. Might you care to join us, my lady?”
Both Sarah’s head and fan shook in opposition, silently voicing the negative. “Thank you for your kind offer, my lord, but at present I’m occupied with dear friends.”
“Oh, how jolly. May I join you, then?”
She sighed and gazed round the table. Miss Collins deferred to the countess who gave her a look of resignation.
Damen ground his teeth and decided it best to study his glass of lemonade. Dash it all. He needed to speak with Sarah privately and couldn’t very well do it with her friends hovering. Plus, somehow he’d already put her into a miff. Now Lumsley was here? This wasn’t working out at all as he’d hoped.
“Very well,” Sarah blew out a breath. “Do mind the roots and uneven ground, my lord.”
Rather than pull the boughs neatly aside as Megpeas had done, Lumsley pushed on through. Limbs caught on his clothes and somehow latched on to his whiskers. In his frenzy to untangle himself, he tripped over a root and nearly went sprawling.
At the last moment, he managed to right himself, straighten his jacket and smoothed back what Damen’s nose identified as bear-greased strands. The sweet-smelling unguent, claimed by barbers to nourish the scalp and regrow hair, now threatened to overwhelm the cigar smoke.
Something about the man’s eyes tweaked a long-ago memory.
Lumsley didn’t seem bothered by his graceless entrance and smiled broadly. “I say. You have a veritable garden party in here?” When his gaze landed on Damen, he guffawed. “And already a fox has snuck into the hen house. Haha, haha. I seem to have arrived in the nick of time.” With a stubby finger, he brushed down each side of his bushy mustache.
Sarah made introductions again and motioned to the empty chair between Miss Collins and the countess. “May I pour you refreshment, my lord? We have a little lemonade left.”
Inwardly, Damen smiled.
“Yes, I could do. And how about sharing one of those cigars, Ravenhill?”
Damen bit the inside of his cheek and cut a quick glance to the ladies who all suddenly found something very intriguing about their manicures. He made a show of patting his pockets. “Terribly sorry, my lord. I seem to be out.”
“A shame. The fragrance is quite appealing.”
Sarah handed Lumsley a lemonade. He took a slurp, smacked his lips and grinned round the table like it was the tastiest thing he’d ever swallowed. “Playing cards, are we? What are we wagering?”
“It is Sunday, my lord.” Miss Collins clutched her collar primly. “We do not bet in observance of the Sabbath. Of course, in some denominations card playing itself is frowned upon and strictly forbidden on Sunday.”
She said this with her brows pulled into a line, but Damen thought he saw one lip twitch.
Lumsley didn’t seem to notice, grinned like a walrus and rubbed his hands together. “Deal me in.”
“We were discussing places of amusement.” The countess took a sip of her lemonade. “Do you have any suggestions, my lord?”
“Well, let me see.” He sank his fingers into the hairs on his cheek and pulled. “There’s always the opera. Perhaps the theater?”
Miss Collins wound one of her curls around her finger. “I was thinking more along the lines of a boxing tournament.”
“Oh,” cough, “that’s not…” – Lumsley gazed between the women – “…suitable for gently bred women.”
“How about a music hall performance, then?” Miss Collins gazed around the table. “I hear those can be very entertaining.”
Lumsley suddenly smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth. “How about the British Museum? It’s full of wondrous curiosities and quite edifying. Or we could all go to the lecture today.”
Damen fingered his lemonade glass. “Planning a trek up Kilimanjaro, are you?”
Lumsley suddenly puffed out his chest. “You don’t believe I could do it?” His unexpected bristling and abrupt show of strength edged toward the comical.
A head taller with twice his wingspan, Damen had, on occasion, seen such tetchiness in other men of his ilk. Cory would have calmed him with a clever retort. Damen rubbed the stiffness in the back of his neck and suppressed the urge to make his usual sardonic remark. “I’m sure you could,” he mumbled. “It just seems like a long trip to wear out a good pair of boots.”
The words hung in the air for several uncomfortable moments before Lumsley finally guffawed.
Sarah didn’t act like she heard the men’s sallies. “I think I should like to see a music hall performance as well,” she said with a slow waft of her fan.
Damen lowered his voice, trying to be as politic as possible. “Apart from being populated by the lower classes and ill-mannered young lords, the rough language and songs might be a rude surprise, my lady.”
“Seen a music hall or two, have you, Ravenhill?” Lumsley snickered.
Sarah disregarded the men again and enunciated slowly, “Miss Collins, if you wish to see a music hall performance, then we shall pick a show.”
Damen leaned back in his chair and smoothed his hand over his vest. “There is a custom in music halls, my lady. When a woman arrives without a male companion, she is presumed to be, shall we say, of a certain occupation. I do not wish to be coarse, but alone you might find yourself propositioned before the curtain goes up.”
Sarah considered him over the top of her ostrich feathers. “Are you volunteering to escort us, Mr Ravenhill?” Her slow movements spoke of tipsiness, but determination shone in her eyes. “Or should I bring extra footmen.”
Damen sighed inwardly. “I’ve heard the Canterbury Hall has reworked their shows in hopes of appealing to a more respectable audience.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting you’ll actually take them to a music hall, Ravenhill?” Lumsley harrumphed.
“If I don’t, it appears they will go anyway.”
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br /> “Then I must go as well. A gentleman escorting one attractive woman may not turn a head, but escorting additional would definitely make a commotion. Without me you’ll spend the whole of the night fighting off drunken scoundrels.” He made a fist and pounded the table. “A horrendous prospect. We can all see you’re not much of a fighter.”
Sarah gazed at Damen’s face for a prolonged moment. Her path of examination tingled along his skin. She finally delved into his eyes and said with silken sincerity, “I abhor violence of any sort, don’t you, Mr Ravenhill?”
Damen’s heart flipped in his chest, sending blood hammering through his veins. He tried to disguise his ragged exhale with a shrug.
“Sometimes it’s necessary to stand your ground.” Lumsley held up one hand. The ring and small finger were badly broken and had healed crooked and lumpy. “Earned these in boxing matches at Oxford. My trophies,” he said proudly.
Damen looked at his mangled fingers and stared at his face. The muttonchops and several extra stone had thrown him. A hazy reflection of the younger man he’d been came into his mind’s eye. Anger, guilt and unease churned in his gullet. Now he remembered why Lumsley looked familiar. Those haunting, bent digits were, in truth, Damen’s trademark.
***
“Goodbye, Sarah.” Amelia gave her a hug. “I’ll make a copy of the guest list as soon as I get home.” She took the footman’s hand and stepped into their carriage.
Calista winked and climbed in after her. “And I’ll look for appropriately diverting entertainment. See you anon.” She gave a dramatic wave out the window.
While she usually enjoyed visiting with her friends, Sarah had spent the last hour searching for an excuse to see them on their way. Mr Ravenhill’s unexpected arrival made her wonder what he’d found. It took every ounce of her self-control to keep her curiosity in check. Once or twice she’d nearly bitten a hole in her cheek to keep from asking something that would reveal their association.
The Trouble With Seduction Page 8
