Much as she’d tried not to think about him, he’d been in her thoughts almost constantly. His injuries appeared to be healing, but what of his head trauma? Odd little hesitations made it seem as if he was in the midst of some inner struggle, at times unable to decide what to say or do.
She’d never had such an urge to mother a man, to take him into her arms and tell him everything would be all right. And then… in her imagination, he’d show her the same care and reassurance.
Re-entering her home, she found him alone in the vestibule, turning this way and that… preening. Was he studying or admiring the fit of his fine continental suit in the long mirror? His posturing made her smile. Had she ever met a vainer man?
When he saw her, a corner of his mouth drew up in an ‘aha, you caught me’ kind of grin. Instead of blanching with embarrassment, he shifted his full attention to her. The weight of his admiration nearly caused her to stumble.
He’d a unique combination of strength, intelligence, and more than a dash of self-deprecating humor. And Mercy! sometimes when he gazed at her, the heat in his eyes threatened to melt everything inside her. In one sultry glance, he could make her feel as if she were the most wondrous being he’d ever seen. And he was gazing at her like that right now.
In four steps, he closed the distance between them. “Are they on their way?” The inflection in those simple words conjured an invitation that made her next breath shaky.
She nodded. “Has Lumsley left?”
Ravenhill’s smile slipped as he gestured with his chin. “He walked down that hallway.”
“Probably went for the parlor. My brother usually takes his nap in there.”
“I’m glad we have a moment to ourselves.” Ravenhill’s voice dipped to a confidential rumble as he raised his hand to brush back a stray hair from Sarah’s forehead. “Did the countess give you the list?”
Sarah caught a glimpse of his large, muscular hand as he dropped it to his side. A few minor scars decorated it, but there were no recent bruises or cuts. Evidence he’d not fought with his attackers. Had they incapacitated him immediately? There’d been a rash of garroting of late. The newspaper explained the technique whereby a wrist bone was used to press against the windpipe. She shuddered at the thought.
Lumsley accused Mr Ravenhill of not being much of a fighter. She’d a hard time believing a man of his size and obvious strength couldn’t defend himself. Still, something seemed off about his injuries. “The countess will see to the list as soon as she arrives home,” she whispered in the echoing vestibule.
I’ve also discovered a few more things that might be important. Are you aware your husband maintained a laboratory in a St Giles warehouse?”
“No!” The information disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. “Are you sure?” Why wouldn’t Edward have told her about it? “I don’t understand. He had an excellent and convenient one right here. How did you find out about this other laboratory?”
“An explosion and fire took place in a portion of one of my father’s warehouses. The tenant was Lord Strathford.”
“I don’t believe it. We never kept secrets from each other.” Sarah clutched her hands so tightly they began to ache.
Ravenhill swallowed. He looked as uncomfortable with being the carrier of such news as she was hearing it.
Pressure inside her chest mounted. “Strathford already survived one explosion? Do you think the two were connected?”
“Perhaps,” he said gently. “While searching for the plans you should also look for any notes on his experiments.”
She bit her lip. All these new revelations threatened to overwhelm her. Edward kept a secret laboratory in St Giles and she’d never suspected.
Underneath Ravenhill’s cuts and bruises, his features tensed into an ominous mask. “There is another question…”
Sarah didn’t like his dark expression. “The quickest way to the point is to it, Mr Ravenhill.” Her words sounded clipped even to her own ears. She braced herself for his next question.
He glanced around the vestibule before speaking in a quiet rumble. “Do you know if he employed any assistants, or perhaps a servant by the name of Mary Turner?”
“Mary Turner?” An icy skitter crawled up her spine. “No, I don’t know the name.” So Edward had a secret laboratory and… a woman? Sorrow and anger swooped in with a vengeance. Her weak leg gave way. She would have fallen had Mr Ravenhill not caught her around the waist.
In his haste to set her back on her feet, her bosom accidently brushed across the muscular contour of his torso. Now her traitorous breast tingled with awareness. Her back and abdomen heated where his warm hands grasped. And when he let go, she felt their loss.
“Curse me for a tactless oaf. I shouldn’t have sprung such disturbing information on you like that. My deepest apologies, my lady.”
She gazed up into his dark eyes, variously surrounded by a parti-colored tinge, and breathed in citrus and sandalwood. The dizzy moment had an aspect of unreality. Other than when they’d danced, she’d never stood so close to a man she found so arousing.
“As of late” – he paused and chewed on the inside of his cheek – “I’ve become even more convinced the most likely place for the plans is in your home. Have you begun your search?”
She nodded. “I’ve found nothing so far.”
Mr Ravenhill glanced around the hallway again and said in a low voice, “This may also be an ill-timed question, but have you given any further thought to collaborating?”
In truth, not an hour had passed without her thinking about it. Part of her yearned to get to know him better, while another part quailed at the possible repercussions.
“Working together might bring quicker results. Two heads are usually better than one...”
Sarah laced and unlaced her fingers as she started to pace in front of him. She finally stopped and gazed up. “May I ask something of you?”
“Anything, my lady.”
“Can I have your word you will use the utmost discretion?”
“I would have it no other way,” he said solemnly. “Shall we seal our pact with a shake?”
She gazed at his extended hand, her own tingling in anticipation of his touch. She’d just asked him to be discreet. Yet she suddenly wondered how it would feel to seal it with a kiss.
Footsteps echoed down the long marble hall from the vicinity of the parlor.
Sarah jolted at the sound and ushered him to the door. Just as she reached for the latch, he stepped close behind her and whispered in her ear, “Oh, and something else.”
She turned. “Yes?”
His gaze burned hot on her lips. Slowly, he leaned in.
Excitement and anticipation shrilled through her. Closing her eyes, her breasts strained against her bodice as she rose up to meet his kiss.
Air shifted around her. The clean smell of soap, sandalwood, citrus and Ravenhill’s own unique scent filled her nostrils. His breath warmed her cheek. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon, my lady.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Y… you’re very welcome and thank you for joining us.”
He lingered, barely an inch from her, his nearness making her heart hammer in her chest like the work crew tearing into her mansion.
Down the hall, Niles turned the corner and called out, “There you are, Sis.”
Ravenhill stepped back and drew in an audible breath while he replaced his hat, readying to leave.
Nearly pushing him out the door, she whispered hurriedly, “Would you please meet me at my mission in St Giles tomorrow at two?”
CHAPTER 10
Damen’s morning had been a puzzling one. Another note arrived from Mrs Ivanova. It contained the address of Professor Bodkin’s previous residence. On visiting it, the boarding house manager gave him Bodkin’s forwarding address. Damen immediately recognized it as the Falgate warehouse where Strathford had his laboratory.
This new information whirled around his mind as he arrived at Sarah’s Mission of M
ercy.
Even so, it did little to dampen his excitement and anticipation when he bounded up the mission stairs at exactly two o’clock. Sarah, it appeared, had finally decided to work with him.
On stepping through the front door, he found a number of adults and children quietly sitting in chairs lining the brick walls of the entry hall.
A woman sat at a desk with a pencil and paper. She looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon. Her ladyship will see you in order of arrival. May I have your name?”
Damen flavored his words with the St Giles inflection. “Dame… uh, jus’ Ravenhill,” he stumbled.
“It will be a few minutes, Mr Ravenhill.” The woman added his name to the list.
He found a place to lean against the wall. Moments later, a nearby door flew open. Sarah bustled out, all afrazzle. She strode to the woman at the desk and picked up the list. After studying it for a few moments, she glanced around the hall and narrowed in on him.
“Mr Ravenhill, would you be so kind as to follow me?” She led him into the room she’d exited and scanned his workman’s clothes, her expression unreadable. Neat rows of child-size desks and chairs lined the room.
A weary huff escaped her lips. “So good of you to visit today. Tell me, how are you at arithmetic?”
He gazed at her, confused. “Arithmetic?” What did numbers and calculations have to do with their working together to find Strathford’s plans? Surely she didn’t need to know he’d got firsts in mathematics at Cambridge. “Adequate, I suppose.”
Frowning, as if she didn’t believe his answer, she asked, “More specifically, how are you at percentages?”
He shrugged.
She fixed him with a serious expression. “I’ve a big favor to ask. Would you be as kind as to show a few of those people out in the hall how to figure some real-life arithmetic problems? I’ll take the others. We can talk afterward.”
This wasn’t what Damen had in mind when she’d asked him here today. But he could tell she intended to help these people before she talked with him.
“Show me where I need to be.”
Sarah settled him at a larger desk in one corner and gave him a box with paper, pencils, chalk and a small chalkboard.
Damen greeted his first student, a burly lantern tradesman, and helped him calculate the profit on his products, account for spoilage and discussed the tricks some raw material vendors tried to hide in their loans.
When the man left, Damen happened to look over at Lady Strathford sitting in the far corner of the room teaching division to two women. Her energy and eager anticipation of their responses had the women brightening to her. She complimented them on their quickness and good memories and then wrote something on each of their papers.
A tendril of her heavy hair escaped its pins and unspooled down the back of her dark gown. Her eyes twinkled as she praised her students for their correct answers. When incorrect, she caught her full lower lip between her teeth until they figured out the problem. Then white teeth shined in approval. She glowed in those moments. He didn’t know when he’d seen a lovelier woman.
His next student was a young man who left school before he mastered multiplication. Damen wrote the multiplication table on a piece of paper.
While he explained how to use it, he cut glances toward the other side of the room where Sarah quietly showed a couple various calculations on paper.
The man and woman suddenly became agitated. “They’ve raised our rent thirty percent?” the man sputtered.
“I can sympathize, Mr O’Flarety.” Sarah’s brows pinched together. “The landlords in this neighborhood are a miserly disgrace. They raise rents beyond affordability, compounding the overcrowding with their greediness and do nothing to maintain their buildings. Hard-working people are forced to live in discomfort and squalor.”
Damen’s ears burned. He’d recently discovered his father owned most of the tenements and lodging houses on this very street. The ledger at their family’s man of business showed that over the past year Falgate rents had declined thirty percent. How could that be?
Much as he’d have liked to ask the couple questions, he could tell that if Sarah discovered his father owned her students’ buildings, she’d hand him his walking papers forthwith.
A young couple was then ushered in with their two small children as his next students. They introduced themselves as John and Meg McCarthy.
“We’re new here,” John began humbly. “When I asked at a nearby tavern for directions to lodgings a man approached me and asked if I knew anything about fruit and vegetables.”
Damen knew where this was going.
“The man said he liked to help newcomers and would give me a loan for a cart to sell produce in the street. Told me how much I’d have to pay back and when. Laid it out nice and thorough. Then he asked if I had a little money to get started. I said, yes, some savings. Before I could tell him the amount, Meg pulled me out of there saying the baby needed something.”
Damen had seen this same scenario repeatedly in his grandfather’s pub. The new ones always stood out, often falling prey to illicit schemes. His mother would boot the slimy thieves out of the pub, but that didn’t stop them from approaching their marks on the street.
“You did right, Meg.” He gave her a smile. “The city is full of thieves intent on parting you from your money. Do you remember the numbers he gave you?”
“I have them right here.” John produced a wrinkled scrap of newspaper.
Damen laid a clean sheet of paper on the desk and jotted down the numbers. Within minutes he demonstrated to John and Meg the loan was a swindle. The interest rate was so high they couldn’t sell enough vegetables to pay back the loan without using their savings. The young family would have been in the poor house by Christmas.
“It’s a hard truth. Usury is rampant in the city, bankrupting people who can ill afford it.” He tried to tell them as gently as possible that their clothes, their speech, their wide-eyed wonder, branded them as outsiders, new and ignorant to the many evils that could befall them here.
“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, but be wary of anyone who approaches you. Don’t make any agreement until you’ve looked at it from all angles. If you have any questions, this mission is here to help.”
***
In the alley across the street, a heavyset man sat on a barrel behind a vegetable wagon chewing on his cheroot. A gap between the turnips provided a good view of the front door and windows of the old factory.
For two decades he’d run a successful operation. He’d done it by standing his ground, crushing rivals and keeping a tight grip on business.
No one. No. One. Got in his way.
He could see Lady Strathford sitting in the front classroom of her mission talking with a man and woman. At the other end of the room sat Ravenhill.
He took his time looking him over. His men had told him they’d not recognized the filthy bastard. He’d chastised them for blind idiots. Now he grudgingly saw their confusion. There sat the high and mighty Viscount Falgate’s second son at a desk dressed in clothes typical of a lice-ridden St Giles second-hand shop. Perhaps that’s why his men were confused. His clothes looked no different than most workmen walking down the street.
A young couple with a babe and toddler sat across from Ravenhill while he wrote on a piece of paper. He turned it around for them to study and pointed with his pencil as he spoke. An expression of alarm soon filled both the man and woman’s faces.
One of his men almost conned this couple. He’d sent two others after them, but they’d managed to slip away. Now they were at the mission talking to Ravenhill, and he’d shown them something they didn’t like.
Spiky tendrils of pain circled his temple giving him a splitting headache. He threw down his cheroot and stomped on it in disgust. Anger seethed in his gullet. He knew in his bones Lady Strathford and Ravenhill were up to something, and his men had better get to the bottom of it.
***
Sarah s
at at the desk across the room with another couple, finishing their lesson in addition and subtraction. While she’d talked with her students, she’d kept an eye and ear on Mr Ravenhill.
Strangely, he fit right in with them.
Except for his size, his tattered clothes and damaged face were a common sight in this part of town. Even more surprising, he spoke the street language and seemed to have a firm grasp of St Giles’ crooked dealings.
When they’d seen the last of the students, Ravenhill packed up the box of writing implements and brought it over to her. “It is admirable your charity extends to championing fair housing for the city’s poor.”
The comment warmed her. “It’s our duty to help one another. If we do not address the problems of the poor, their suffering will eventually find its way to our doorsteps. Our French neighbors learned that lesson.”
He raised a brow. “Ah, and a student of history. I commend you on your social responsibility. You are a far-seeing woman, my lady.”
“Thank you. I do what I can.” She busied herself putting her writing implements into the box to avoid his potent gaze. Oh, dear, were her cheeks glowing red?
“I must thank you, Mr Ravenhill, for tutoring and counseling the mission’s clients on such short notice. Did I hear you speak to one or two students in their own dialect?”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
She recognized his response to discomfort. “How do you do it?”
“Musical ear, my lady.” He tapped the side of his head.
“That is truly a talent.” Although his answer didn’t entirely convince. Not only had he spoken in the St Giles dialect, she thought she’d heard him shift patois to match the speech pattern of several other students. “I must also thank you for so generously sharing your knowledge.”
He turned toward the window and looked out over the street.
She followed his gaze. A man with a bundle of firewood shuffled down the sidewalk. A woman bent under the weight of a large basket of laundry trudged by. Several waifs darted through the pedestrians, probably looking for a pocket to pick. Across the street a costermonger cart sat part way into the alley. Was that what had caught his attention?
The Trouble With Seduction Page 9
