Damen turned the book upside down, then studied it right side up. He flipped to the next page, feeling his pulse skip faster. His eyes bored into the picture. He turned to the next page. His mouth went dry as he tried to imagine exactly how it should be done, then referred back to the page before for clarification.
He blew out a shaky lungful, snapped the book shut and gazed at the title. The Sacred Kama Sutra: A Pictorial Journey. “Trust you, dear brother, to study such arts until the manual is nearly falling apart. Perhaps I should give it a thorough inspection. Hope you don’t mind if I borrow it.” He pocketed the book and set out to find their father.
***
Damen entered the orangery, a large glassed-in room containing rare flora. For a powerful lord whose physical stature had only been exceeded by his force of will, he found it odd his father enjoyed whiling away the hours growing and pruning rare flowers and miniature trees. His toils had made a surprisingly lovely indoor garden.
Next to a screen in the corner, his father sat in his wheelchair carefully studying a plant on the table before him. There, a jade-colored pot held a dwarf pine clinging to the side of a rock, twisting precariously as if held there by high winds.
His father’s hand trembled slightly as he snipped off one tiny leaf.
“How are your miniature azaleas doing, father?”
He blinked and set down his sheers as if he’d just realized Damen had joined him. “There may be some good blooms next year.” He gestured toward a crude wooden chair on the other side of the table. “Sit.”
Damen turned the chair around backwards and straddled it. “What news does the doctor have about Cory?”
His father curled a lip sourly. “Very little.”
“Perhaps we should call in someone else with expertise in head trauma.”
“I have. He gave even less hope than Doctor Neeley. He says to keep him comfortable. It’s now in the Lord’s hands.”
Damen frowned. “So you’re done? You’re going to do nothing more?”
His father gave him a bright, almost militant stare. “You know I’m not a ‘turn-loose-let-God’ kind of man. Spent very few moments darkening the door of any religious institution. I would give anything for you and Cory to live long, happy, healthy lives. But I now pray for both of you.”
The catch in his father’s voice laced another knot around Damen’s chest. “Then we’ll find someone else! Another head specialist, a shaman, a witch doctor. There’s got to be someone out there who can help!”
His father’s face sagged in great tired wrinkles as he gazed off into the distance. When had he grown so old? It seemed only a year before that health and vigor fairly radiated off him. He’d resembled men decades his junior.
Fear crawled up Damen’s spine. They couldn’t give up now. Not yet. The doctor had told him the longer Cory remained in a coma, the bleaker his chances were for a full recovery.
“Dare I ask if you’ve made any progress finding his attackers?”
Seeing his father’s fragileness and knowing he hadn’t initially wanted him pursuing Cory’s assailants, Damen didn’t want to tell him he’d been chased through the rookery by five ruffians and assaulted in an alley by three more.
“Some,” was all he’d say. “I’d like to take my findings and seek help with the local police.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” his father croaked. “I’ve suspected for some time that those, at least in St Giles, are either monumentally incompetent or corrupt to the core. In the past, I had to hire my own investigators and former military men to clean up problems.”
“Speaking of corrupt incompetence, I saw Hooker in Mayfair. Did you know they’ve promoted him to inspector?”
His father’s lips wrinkled in distaste. “Of course.”
Damen hoped he could get him to reveal more. “As a boy I hated Hooker. He was everything vile and malicious. My opinion has since worsened.”
“You would do well to stay as far away from him as possible,” his father muttered.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Over the years I’ve suspected him of a multitude of evils. But I’ve never been able to prove one of them. He is the worst kind of devil: smart and slippery.”
“I’ve made some progress regarding the fires and unraveling the decline in rents,” Damen volunteered. “But how should I proceed if Cory…?”
What if Cory doesn’t wake up? The unvoiced words hung ominously in the air.
“Earlier today, I had the unfortunate experience of running into Miss Eugenia Lambert. She now knows Cory is out of bed and going about town. It’s time we discussed his marriage.”
His father hung his head. “Your brother moved his little finger on his left hand today. He hasn’t opened his eyes, but I’m heartened he will soon.”
Damen felt a surge of joy. “What did Doctor Neeley say?”
A sad scowl was his answer.
The momentary jubilation only made him more discouraged. “Miss Lambert made it clear I was to call on her to discuss the wedding. I have vowed to find Cory’s attackers, but once they’re brought to justice I’m through. I have no intention of dealing with his fiancée.”
His father gazed out from under the thick brows that now dominated his skeletal face. “You carry a heavy burden. I know it is not easy. But for the time being you may need to play along.”
“I thought you spoke with her father about putting the wedding on hold.”
“Yes, until Cory recovered.” He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. “I spoke with her father the day after your brother was attacked. I was so sure he would wake up quickly. Now?” He let out a tired breath.
The sight of his father so ill and clearly mourning his brother’s lack of recovery worried Damen even more. His family was teetering on the brink. “How did Cory get himself shackled so quickly?”
“I know Gordon Lambert well. I also had knowledge of the other two young women.”
“You mentioned Lady Strathford as one of the choices. How were you acquainted with her?” Damen hoped he could get his father to reveal how Lord Strathford ended up renting one of the Falgate warehouses for his laboratory. That coincidence still puzzled him.
“I knew her mother years ago.” A sheen brightened his eyes. He gazed off into the distance as if he saw something clearly before him. “Lovely, lovely woman. We were… friends. She admired my fast carriage and cattle. I shouldn’t have let her—” He clamped his jaws shut and his features tightened to something approximating rage. “The police ruled it an accident. I’ve always suspected otherwise.”
Good lord, his father knew her mother? A chill crawled his spine. “When did you know her?”
“Several years after your mother died.” His father’s face hardened into a stiff mask. Damen knew that expression meant asking more questions on the subject would be fruitless. He made a mental note to try again later.
“I don’t understand why a marriage needed to be arranged for Cory in the first place. He has no trouble attracting women.”
“Ah, but few have real money. Eugenia’s father has bags full of the stuff, and she needed a husband.”
“Listen, Father, I feel very close to finding the villains, but what if it takes a little extra time? Miss Lambert reminded me the wedding is set for two weeks from now. I will not play the doting fiancé. If Cory hasn’t woken to take his place at the altar, what then?”
His father rubbed his temple and gave him a pointed look. “You should know, Cory has taken it one step further. He took an advance on her dowry.”
“An advance!” Damen thought he’d be ill. “So even if Cory had the bad manners to cry off, both societal and legal mandates say he can’t?”
His father brushed a spec of dirt off the table. “We needed money to cover loans coming due.”
“Why didn’t you contact me? I could have arranged something.”
“You were already stretched too thin with your warehouses. But perhaps you could…”
Damen jumped to his feet and almost knocked over the chair. “Oh, no. Don’t even say it. I have no intention of marrying Miss Lambert, not even as Cory’s proxy.”
“Ooor…” his father wrinkled one side of his lips. “Should she cry off...”
Understanding slowly sank in and he nearly choked on a laugh. His father had frequently been secretive, rarely giving explanations for what he did. But had he always been this devious?
Was it that simple? Get Miss Lambert to cry off? Damen arched a brow. “Then Cory would be released from the marriage contract. I’ll find a way to pay back the advance, and have an extra week or two to capture the villains.”
***
As Damen was getting ready for Astley’s that evening, he thought to get his valet’s thoughts on the matter. “I’ve some questions for you, Gorm.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr Ravenhill.” The valet helped him out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair.
“When I first decided to step in for Cory, you related a little about his intended.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Lambert.” He expertly removed Damen’s waistcoat, braces and shirt.
“You told me they only met the one time and she’d found one of Rufus’s hairs on his sleeve. He came home and banished the hound to the barn. Do you recall Cory discussing anything more about the woman?”
Gormley laid the garments on the chair seat and applied a brush to the jacket as if another hair had appeared. “Not that I remember.”
Damen tugged off his shoes, unbuttoned his trousers, and divested himself of the rest of his clothes, placing them on the bed. “Did you know I met her today?”
The valet paused momentarily. “Did you?”
“Not the most pleasant of experiences. I can’t fathom what Cory was thinking.”
“A mystery, that,” the valet muttered.
Damen stepped into the oversized tub and sank down into the hot water. “To put it bluntly, Gorm, I must find a way to get Cory’s fiancée to cry off.”
Gormley walked at an even pace with jacket in hand to disappear into the closet. Then returned and methodically brushed the trousers. “Perhaps a dog.”
“I don’t want to endear her to me.” Damen soaped up a cloth and scrubbed it across his chest.
“You misunderstand. She made your brother send his favorite friend to the stables. It would seem she doesn’t like dogs. Or maybe it’s something more fundamental. Some people have an intolerance to them.”
Damen slid down against the back of the tub to gaze at the ceiling and enjoy the hot water. “Yes. Perhaps that’s the problem with her voice. Rather nasal and whiny.” A plan suddenly took form in his mind. “Gorm, I think you’re on to something.”
CHAPTER 20
Sarah sat on the edge of her seat in their box at Astley’s applauding enthusiastically. She didn’t know when she’d so enjoyed herself. The variety of entertainments, the exuberant crowd, and the energy flowing through the theater quite kept her agog.
To her right sat Calista and Lumsley. To her left sat Mr Ravenhill. While the orchestra played a spritely tune in the pit, the red velvet curtains closed in front of the line of bowing actors on the main stage.
Sarah pressed her hand to the collar of her dark, chin-to-toe pelisse and gave Calista a grin. “You chose well.”
Horns suddenly blared, followed by a drum roll. The announcer shouted, “And nooow the spectacle you’ve all been waiting for!”
Hundreds of thousands of gas flares whooshed around the theater.
Flames rose, blazing golden white in the colossal chandelier hanging from the center of the theater’s high ceiling. Smaller chandeliers on the walls and box fronts came to life. Gas lights danced, rising and falling in brilliant configurations, filling the theater with glittering splendor.
Sarah watched agape, unable to take it all in. Never had she seen such a spectacle. More lights flared, delighting her with their designs and glistening fountains of flame.
Another row of gas jets whistled to her left. She glanced at Mr Ravenhill to find his gaze fixed on her, rather than the light show. The potency of it registered almost as a physical jolt.
His abrupt departure last night and his lack of conversation this evening had made her wonder if he’d decided she was not his cup of tea.
Even though the theater was full of flashing light, his eyes had become exceedingly dark. He held her gaze as if he’d discovered something rare and fascinating and couldn’t resist its allure. Heat flared in his eyes and drew her into their depths.
The flashing, glorious light show receded. A vision took form with them twined in each other’s arms – touching, caressing, moving as one. The moment might have lasted a second, possibly minutes, before she realized she needed to breathe and found her heart thumping wildly.
“And nooow,” the ringmaster shouted into his speaking trumpet, “give a warm welcome to the Leaping Amazonians and their War Steeds!”
The announcement finally broke through their shared longing. Neither had moved so much as a hair. Yet, for a few moments, their intoxicating connection held her enthralled.
Sarah found herself warm and wet in delicate places, and without much thinking she moved her slippered foot under her skirts and placed it on Mr Ravenhill’s boot.
He captured her gaze again, his chest still rising and falling as if he were out of breath. Slowly, he leaned his leg into hers as he directed his attention toward the show.
From their front-row, second-floor box seat, Sarah had a perfect view of the ring. A clown ran in yelling as if he were being chased, cartwheeling and tumbling around the ring in a furious approximation of seeking escape, to the enthusiastic laughter and applause of the audience.
Three magnificent horses cantered in from the sidelines followed by four colorful acrobats. The men wore jester costumes while the woman wore a revealing dress with a form-fitting bodice and layers of fluttering, gauzy material ending at her knees. All bounded into the ring and up the sides of the horses like they wore springs in their feet.
To her left, Mr Ravenhill slowly tucked a broad shoulder behind her chair. “As a lad I tried to stand on my mount’s back like them.” His warm breath tickled her ear.
She inclined her head toward his. “And could you do it?”
“Briefly, until my horse decided to change directions. He was a mulish hack, full of orneriness, and didn’t have the constitution or the patience for such maneuvers.”
A memory of Sarah’s gray mare intruded. She’d also attempted standing on the back of her sweet-tempered horse. “Did he learn any tricks?”
“Yes, he got good at brushing me off on a fence post and racing home for his oats.”
Below, makeshift jumps were being set up in the ring. The sight filled her with regret.
Guilt seeped in, subduing her good spirits. When she was twelve, Niles brought home a handsome friend to visit over one of his school holidays. They’d all gone riding. The boy teased her for being scared to take her horse over a tiny jump.
Of course, she was scared. Her father had forbade jumping her horse and she rode side-saddle while the boys rode astride. In the throes of her first infatuation, she finally gave in to his goading.
Soon she was following them over fences and hedgerows. On the last one, something happened. All she remembered was seeing the ground rush toward her and felt her horse fall across her leg. She spent months bedridden with a bad break. Her efforts to impress a handsome boy had left her with a weak leg.
And the worst of it was her sweet-tempered mare, whom she loved dearly, hadn’t been hurt. But her father shot her horse anyway, for disobeying him.
Applause brought her back as the jumps were removed from the ring. The male acrobats bounded on to the horses again and tumbled over one another. They hung upside down, made pyramids, and bounced across each others’ shoulders.
The woman joined the group, scrambling up the side of a horse. Her skirts ruffled and flew, showing a good amount of leg
. She climbed around the other acrobats like they were a ladder and finally stood atop their shoulders, raising her leg and arms in a series of arabesques.
Long ribbons flowed from her hands, whipping in circles behind her like kites’ tails, to the applause of the crowd. Unconcerned, the well-trained horses cantered at an even pace around the ring.
The woman then raised her hand and blew a kiss at – could Sarah have seen correctly? – their box. When she came round the ring again, she tossed her garter at them. Lumsley dove for it and stuffed it into his pocket, grinning with satisfaction.
When the acts changed, an usher tiptoed up behind them. “Is there a Mr Cornelius Ravenhill in this box?”
He raised a finger and the man placed a slip of paper in his hand.
Having never visited a venue such as Astley’s, the delivery of notes filled Sarah with questions. She tried not to be obvious in her furtive glances. All she could see was Ravenhill’s name clearly printed on the outside and the initials M.T. at the bottom of the note.
Revealing nothing in his expression, he scanned the paper and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
He and Lumsley had insisted they escort her and Calista to prevent any rogues from making advances. Did the note pertain to such a proposition? Yet it was delivered to Mr Ravenhill by name. Odd, that.
And then there was the acrobat’s kiss blown toward their box and the garter thrown at Lumsley.
The image of the veiled woman in black placing the note into Ravenhill’s hand and Eugenia Lambert stopping him on Bond Street came to mind. It appeared their aristocratic protectors were in more danger of advances than themselves.
As her first foray into entertainment for the masses, she wasn’t sure of the customs. She’d seen women fight like alley cats over men in St Giles. In reality, would she and Calista need to protect their escorts?
***
At intermission, Damen found his way backstage. Four burly stagehands were moving set pieces around. Several women stood in their colorful costumes talking and laughing with one another.
“I’m looking for someone with the initials M.T.,” he said, holding the note out to one of the women. Her friends turned and gave him speculative smiles.
The Trouble With Seduction Page 17
