Damen couldn’t mention Cory’s mistress and he didn’t want to lie. So he shrugged. “There are lots of hidden eyes in this part of town.”
“It is odd that five villains awaited us,” she mused. “Were they the same five who attacked you?”
“I don’t know.” Would Cory? Damen suspected the answers lay right in front of them. Yet the mystery of the plans and Cory’s attack continued to become more complex.
Additionally, it seemed the more desirable and intriguing Sarah became, the more things lined up to keep them apart.
Damen began life at the edge of London’s rough-and-tumble slums. A quirk of fate made him heir to a viscount. He learned well at school that society would never see him as anything but an interloper.
And he wasn’t so sure they were wrong. He’d too many rough edges, too much of the common people in him. Yet his romp about the rookery confirmed he no longer belonged to that world, either.
Early on, he acquired a talent for fighting and realized rescuing victims from their assailants brought a measure of gratification. Still, he was a brute trouncing other brutes. It was all a matter of degree.
Lady Strathford was a refined, wealthy lady who’d led a sedate life of propriety and respectability. If she witnessed his barbaric abilities, she’d probably be appalled. And it hadn’t escaped him that Sarah held a certain resemblance to his first disastrous love – a mistake he’d sworn not to repeat.
He’d been fifteen when Lady Penelope came into his life. She was the same age as him, pretty, lively, and he’d thought himself in love. The sister of one of his teammates, she came with her parents to watch their rugby games.
But Damen didn’t realize the depth of her brother’s bias. He considered him a low-class upstart who would never be good enough for his sister.
A classmate had been sent to bring him to a nearby garden. There he found the ragged strips of his mother’s shawl dangling from the tree branches.
Damen closed in on himself, sick at heart that Penelope’s brother and friends had destroyed his only remembrance of his mother. They circled, jeered and pushed him about. Lady Penelope’s brother slammed him in the jaw. “Stay away from my sister, you guttersnipe!”
Confusion, heartache and the old feelings of helplessness welled up, filling his fists with rage. Damen fought back, at first in a gentlemanly fashion as he’d been taught at school. As more boys came at him, he slid into the dirty, bare-knuckle street fighting he’d learned in St Giles.
Four boys lay on the ground when he suddenly realized Penelope had arrived. “My lady?” He dropped his fists and the rest of the boys melted into the bushes.
She rushed to her brother where he lay on the ground groaning and bleeding. “How could you do this to him?” she wailed. “You monster! You animal!” Her pretty face wrinkled into a frightful grimace of revulsion. She glared up at Damen. “You are nothing but a filthy brute.”
Lady Penelope was right. He may be heir to a viscount, but deep down he was a savage brute... a side of himself he was loath to let Sarah see.
And he knew he would never be good enough for her.
***
Sarah glanced over at Mr Ravenhill. Apart from pushing her down to hide from Red Ribbon, he’d kept his distance since they’d entered the hackney. Had his kisses truly only been part of the disguise? She already missed the way they’d clung to one another and the delicious way his mouth moved over hers.
Niles’s words whispered in her mind like the ghostly moan of a fogbound ship. What did she really know about Mr Ravenhill? In truth, his past seemed as murky as his faulty memory. But his actions quite set her heart aflutter. Bit by bit, he was stealing her heart.
He was so different from any man she’d known. She enjoyed his charming company, his courtesy, clever humor, and even the fleeting moments of commanding authority.
Then there was his heartwarming selflessness and altruism. Aristocratic men weren’t known for their empathy toward the poor or their willingness to dirty their hands in trade, and even less for their intimate knowledge of street commerce.
When danger threatened, yet another man emerged, full of grit and courage and decisiveness. A pack of villains had chased them, yet not once had she felt herself in jeopardy. Well, perhaps when the roof plank gave way, but he’d saved her from that as well.
They’d charged into one of the most dangerous parts of the city and escaped unscathed. Save for a few moments of uncertainty, Ravenhill managed to negotiate the rookery with remarkable ease.
But how did the second son of a lord of the realm know his way around the myriad twists and turns of one of the city’s darkest dens of vice and villainy?
“What a day!” She turned to Ravenhill, trying to make conversation.
He seemed miles away. His brows furrowed as if he were vexed.
Her heart sank further. His reticence only confirmed his caresses in the foggy doorway truly were part of an act.
His kiss was only the second she’d experienced with such passion. Her first came with similar anticipation, though largely fueled by rebellion.
After her mother’s death, when Sarah was thirteen, her father isolated her on one of their family’s country estates. From then on, he discouraged her from thinking for herself. Only her brother and father possessed activities and opinions worth consideration.
She became an embellishment, to be seen and not heard. Fighting her father’s rigid control only made things worse for her. Eventually, she retreated behind a façade of vacuousness.
The summer she turned sixteen they visited another of his estates where she met Cyril, the handsome miller’s son.
Her father praised her for volunteering at the vicarage, and touted how a godly woman would bring glory to herself and her family. In truth, the vicarage was a cover for her and Cyril’s clandestine meetings.
After a picnic, a kiss, discovery and a whipping, their brief flirtation tore apart both their lives. Two weeks later, her father marched her down the aisle to marry Lord Hardington. Cyril departed for Manchester to find a new life.
The carriage swayed round a corner heading back toward Mayfair, bringing her out of her reverie. Mr Ravenhill continued to gaze out the window, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
“I’m not sure we found anything of consequence at my husband’s former laboratory. I find it interesting he chose a ‘fortification able to withstand a bombardment of artillery’. Isn’t that what the farrier said?”
Ravenhill gazed at her from under lowered brows. “Perhaps your husband rented such a place as a precaution. His projects may have been prone to explosions or fires. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence to confirm that Mary Turner or anyone else was injured, however.”
“While my husband’s first laboratory didn’t hold many clues, perhaps we can discover something more in his office. Would you be amenable to meeting me tomorrow morning at Strathford Hall?”
CHAPTER 13
A spitting rain drenched the dark neighborhood by the time his no-count gang finally arrived at their meeting place in back of an old cork factory. The Scythe sat at the front of the room working his cheroot from side to side while he watched some of his con men fidget in the few available seats. The rest – his tricksters, sharks, cutpurses, petty thieves and housebreakers – stood around the walls, their shoulders hunched, eyes averted.
Now what did that idiot say? They’d let Ravenhill and Lady Strathford slip through their fingers this afternoon. He wanted to carve out all five of their livers.
“…and we talked to snitches.” The idiot twisted the red ribbon on his hat. “No one saw anyone give them directions. Either they had a map, or they already knew their way.”
The Scythe scraped a hand over his jaw. The rookery was an intricate maze with too many dead ends, traps and hidden byways. Even rats had to learn their way.
He knew the labyrinth like he knew his own two feet, and he knew for a fact he couldn’t fit through some of those closets and passageways. O
ne wrong turn and a man Ravenhill’s size would be stuck.
Only those who knew the place well could find their way with such speed. Outsiders easily got lost and caught.
And they didn’t.
He carefully rubbed his temple with one finger. The infernal throbbing made his head feel like it would explode. Something about Ravenhill wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?
“Did all of you suddenly become sluggards and simpletons? Twice you’ve failed me.” The Scythe lowered his voice dangerously. “Ravenhill is still waltzing around my St Giles like he owns the place. His father may have title to the property…” – he pounded the raw plank table in front of him and pointed his meaty finger at the men for emphasis – “…but I own everyone!”
“Uh, boss?” A fellow turned his stovepipe hat between twitching fingers. “We looked into the mission lady like you asked. Turns out she’s teachin’ figures to some of the new ‘uns. She’s not only teachin’ the wee ones, she’s teachin’ adults… our pigeons. One of ’em told me we’re charging too much for our vegetable wagon loans. The pigeon and the mission lady had it all worked out.”
The Scythe pointed his cheroot at the imbecile. “Did you remind him I control the cost and variety of vegetables he can buy at the produce mart?”
“He wouldn’t take the loan. Says our price is three times the farmer’s. He doubts he can make enough on the street to pay back the loan. Said in four months his savings would be gone and he’d be in the poor house.”
“She’s also teaching them how to figure rent increases,” another volunteered.
“Everyone in St Giles pays me!” He pounded his fist on the table again. “If they start arguing, you know what to do. Make examples. Relieve those bumpkins of their savings. NOW!”
“How far should we go? Making examples, I mean,” a swarthy fellow with a deep scar on his chin rasped.
“Be creative. Threaten what they cherish. That’ll make them sing to your tune. Make sure you don’t leave evidence, though, or you might swing from a rope.” He cracked the knuckles on one hand. “Plenty of money to be made. People are crowding in here like rats. If the new ‘uns don’t like my prices, they can go back where they came from and starve to death! Has anyone else had a rustic try to lower my rates?”
Three of the gang members slowly raised their hands.
The Scythe smirked. “I’ve let the charity lady indulge herself long enough. It’s time I showed widow goody-two-shoes who owns this town!”
CHAPTER 14
Sarah shivered in dawn’s half-light while squinting through the knothole in the fence. A thick mist swirled in the alley beyond. Normally she didn’t rise this early, but she needed a few uninterrupted hours with Mr Ravenhill before her staff, her brother or Lumsley intruded.
Standing, waiting like this, had the air of a tryst.
She made a furtive glance about the mansion’s windows and quickly gazed about the wreckage that was Edward’s invention garden. Self-reproach ate at her for its careless destruction.
After the fuses had been found, she’d been all too happy to halt the renovation. The workmen had destroyed more than they’d fixed. Now, not only was a portion of her mansion half demolished and boarded up, but rubble, piles of brick, rock and timber made her once-thriving flowerbeds and downy lawn resemble a battleground. She couldn’t help compare the sight to the recent havoc in her life.
Tearing her attention from the shambles, she turned back to the hole in the fence. Beyond, the fog-bound alley remained empty.
Had she truly expected Ravenhill, the second son of a lord, to meet her at dawn? Dawn? Men such as him weren’t known to rise before noon. Until a few days ago, spending countless hours in the company of a charming rake would have been unthinkable. Her strict, controlling father was probably rolling in his grave.
She fisted her hands in her cloak to keep them from trembling. Additionally, not long ago, she would have refused to bring a man such as Ravenhill into the sanctity of her home. The possibility of jeopardizing her good name and reputation held too great a risk.
Yesterday’s experience reordered her priorities. Their rookery adventure gave her a new perspective. Discovering the villains’ tenacity and her near fall provoked her will to survive. She needed to prove she didn’t murder Edward. Gossip and position in society counted for little if one was dead.
Minutes crawled by as her nerves continued to fray. In truth, Mr Ravenhill was the most puzzling, complex man she’d ever met. What she’d thought hauteur at their first meeting, she now knew to be studied reserve due to unusual circumstances. In fact, he possessed a delightful wit, an abundance of charm, and a sharp mind.
How different the waltz at the Grancliffe party had been from their romantic dance through the streets of St Giles. She thrilled at how Ravenhill had changed before her eyes. Underneath his suave charm was a brave, dark knight – shrewd, wily, protective, and strong enough to pull her up with one arm to save her from certain death.
She pressed a finger to her lips. Thinking about the sensations he’d brought to life still filled her with excitement. But in the quiet hours since yesterday’s adventure, doubts and misgivings could not be silenced.
What of Mr Ravenhill’s past?
All she knew was he’d returned a few weeks ago after years abroad. Coincidentally, about the same time her troubles began. But why had he been out of the country, and what kept him occupied? Where had he lived? Who were his friends? For all she knew she was bringing into her home a very handsome, very charming assassin. Once the elusive plans were found, would he disappear again?
Hooves and carriage wheels clattered down the fog-choked alley. An unmarked carriage pulled up, and a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in workman’s clothes stepped out. He pulled his cap low, hiding his face, and approached with a powerful stride. Only one man she knew moved with such swagger.
As he reached for the bell pull, Sarah opened the gate and grabbed his sleeve. “Quick, Mr Ravenhill.” She led him down the garden path to the side of the mansion, lifted a vine-covered trellis, and opened the heavy wooden door.
“Good morning, my lady?” His playful rumble resounded around the garden.
Her finger flew to his lips. Even though she’d decided to choose proving her innocence over possible gossip, caution had been too well ingrained for her not to heed its call.
She towed him through the door and locked it behind them. The lantern she’d left to light their way glowed weakly in the narrow, rock-lined tunnel.
“Is this a secret entrance, my lady?”
She exhaled in exasperation, and whispered, “My staff’s ears could win prizes.”
Ravenhill removed his cap and hunched under the low, curved, rock ceiling. His muscular physique filled the confined space reminding her of the tight spaces they’d encountered in the rookery. How easy it would be for her to accidentally brush against him. “I prefer we not be discovered.”
Lantern light caught the glint in his eyes. A moment passed before his gaze moved beyond hers and into the tunnel.
He gestured with his cap. “I confess, I’m all aquiver to begin our search.” His drawled words sounded like veiled intimacies. He seemed in a mischievous mood… and so early in the morning.
“Mr Ravenhill, please talk quietly. I fear our voices may carry.”
He dipped his head further. His warm breath tickled her ear. “Should I consider myself special… to be shown your secret entrance?”
Innuendo, coated with a healthy dose of charm, wove through the smile in his voice. Her insides started to flutter. Men had never flirted with her, and she didn’t know how to respond. Instead, she grasped the chain around her neck, grabbed the lantern and tripped down the passage. A door appeared on the right. Unlocking it, she lifted a tapestry and led him into a small chapel where she stepped to the altar and knelt.
“Do you pray for your past sins or your future ones, my lady?”
She gripped her hands under her chin.
“Today I’m begging for divine help.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Be sure and mention my name, would you?”
“Without a doubt, Mr Ravenhill.”
***
Damen was in a celebratory mood. Sarah had finally invited him to help her search her home. He’d awakened early, as was his custom, with a giddy sense of well-being. Yesterday, he and Sarah cheated death.
The experience brought his own life into sharper focus. The grooming process to prepare him to become viscount unfolded so gradually, he’d not realized how responsibility and command had so taken over his life. While impersonating Cory presented challenges, it had been freeing.
He gazed around the lovely little chapel while Sarah said her prayers.
Discovering the mansion had a hidden entrance shed an interesting light on things. He didn’t want to mention it to Sarah just yet, but such access was usually installed for secrecy and freedom of movement without observation.
When Sarah finished, she peered out the chapel’s doorway and grabbed his sleeve. “This way, Mr Ravenhill.” Her gray mourning gown gave her the look of a nervous little mouse readying to scamper along the baseboards of a surprisingly elegant marble hallway.
As they tiptoed apace, Damen took in his surroundings. Strathford Hall was exquisite.
Sunrise lit the stained-glass windows at the end of the hall shedding a kaleidoscope of colors around the walls. In the next corridor, arched doorways led to high-ceilinged rooms full of exquisite frescos, floors covered with deep carpets and dainty-legged furniture.
Now, further into the mansion, Damen heard quiet, chaotic rhythms, almost like tiny heartbeats. It gave the place a cheerful, lively hum like a busy workshop of elves. “Did Lord Strathford collect timepieces?”
“Most definitely,” Sarah whispered, breathless. “Watches, metronomes, chronometers, cuckoo clocks, sun dials, water clocks, anything and everything that parsed time.”
Windows abounded everywhere, as did statues, carved wood and gilt. In fact, had he not seen the profusion of Strathford’s inventions everywhere he looked, he wouldn’t have expected an inventor to live in such artistic grandeur.
The Trouble With Seduction Page 12
