The Trouble With Seduction

by Victoria Hanlen

  “Is Hooker the one they call the ‘Scythe’?”

  “Yes. You and I tutored his potential victims and helped them steer clear of his gangs of thieves and swindlers. He feared losing control of the streets and decided to make an example of you by destroying your mission.”

  “And Miss Eugenia Lambert?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “She was Cory’s rushed attempt to cover father’s loans. With my father’s illness, Hooker saw the opportunity to make even more money robbing my father of the rents on his properties.”

  “Do you think they will eventually marry?”

  “Miss Lambert’s patience appears to be waning.” He took Sarah’s hand and stroked his thumb over the top. “I’m sorry I was not here to help you prove your innocence. But it appears you managed brilliantly on your own. I always knew you were a very capable, intelligent woman.”

  “It appears my husband’s death was an accident as first ruled. My experts proved the fuses had been planted after the explosion in Strathford Hall’s laboratory. They also found traces of chemical residue that might have caused the blast.”

  “Did you ever find the plans?”

  Alarm bells went off in Sarah’s mind. “So you are still after those imaginary plans. There are no plans! I hired detectives and found Professor Bodkin in Scotland. He said he never met my husband or Hooker.”

  “My apologies.” Falgate dipped his head. “The plans are the odd link to Mrs Ivanova. Due to her, I thought they were the reason Cory was attacked. I still haven’t established how she fits in. Cory hasn’t recovered enough to discuss it. I can only surmise she’d been sent by the Russian arms dealers to gain Strathford’s plans.”

  “Could she have been working with Hooker?”

  “He claims he didn’t know her.”

  Falgate gazed at her hand, not meeting her eyes. “In trying to do right by my brother I led you to believe I was someone I was not. I told so many lies to maintain the deception I don’t even know where to begin to make amends,” he sighed. “However…” He locked gazes, his eyes dark with emotion. “I told the truth when I said I did not have a mistress or fiancée. You are the only woman in my life. I fell in love with you, only you, and I despaired of ever telling you who I really was.”

  He toyed with her hand for a moment. “Can we begin again, my love?”

  A lump formed in her throat. She nodded.

  He shook her hand slowly up and down. “I am Damen Aloysius Ravenhill, Viscount Falgate, and very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Sarah moved closer to him on the couch and pressed a hand to his bewhiskered cheek. “Damen Aloysius Ravenhill. So that is your true name? I am very pleased to meet you, my lord.” She leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on his lips.

  “Please call me Damen.” His arms came around her and he pulled her onto his lap.

  “Da-men.” She let the word slide over her tongue. “A-lo-y-sius. Where did you get that name?”

  “My grandfather. He was greatly esteemed even with such a moniker.”

  Damen trailed his lips down her throat. “Only a select few know my middle name.”

  “And am I one of the select few?”

  “Wives generally are.”

  She gasped. “Are you asking?”

  He placed his head against hers and held her close. “Oh, my love, I am asking with all my heart.”

  “I must say, this has been the most bizarre courtship. I could never have dreamed the course it has taken.”

  “Would you believe, I’ve always been the responsible one, the one people count on.”

  “Difficult to imagine when I picture you swaggering in your fawn-colored suit, and flashing me and my friends such roguish smiles.”

  He winced. “Fate could not have played a more distressing joke than putting the love of my life in my path when I was not myself. It begs the question: is it me you love or the character I played?”

  She took off his glasses and gazed a long moment into his beautiful, dark-lashed eyes. No cuts or bruises hinted at his assaults. They were clear and intelligent and so open she could swim in their depths. “Deep down I knew you were a decent, kind man.”

  “I am the brute who trounced five ruffians in the alley behind your mission. Are you not appalled by it?”

  It takes all kinds of people to make the world go round. Evil is always there to carve out its share, to destroy and wreak havoc on others’ achievements. When government authorities are unable to do their job, only the selfless commitment of our strongest can keep evil from ruining everything and sending us back to huts and caves.”

  She placed her hands on either side of his face. “That’s only part of why I love you. I also love the man who helped me tutor the poor, who eased my hurt on discovering Edward’s deception, who saved my life in the rookery.”

  She lightly kissed his lips. “I love the man who advised me how to fight the corrupt inspector, rallied half of St Giles to save my mission, and saved those two little boys from the fire. It doesn’t matter whether or not you wore the height of fashion or could strut the length of Bond Street without breaking a sweat.

  “You are the man I love.”

  EPILOGUE

  London, October 1855

  Damen’s arm curled around Sarah’s shoulder as she gazed out the carriage window, admiring the mansion coming into view. After a two-week honeymoon on the continent, they were finally home.

  The laboratory had been rebuilt into a glassed-in orangery resembling a smaller version of the Crystal Palace. Her home had been remade into a showpiece for the neighborhood, if not London. Her life had been transformed into something splendid as well.

  “The renovation is breathtaking, don’t you think?” Sarah said happily.

  “Yes, my love.” Damen nuzzled her ear. “Are you ready to tell me your surprise?”

  “It’s something I have to show you.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop and they strolled arm in arm up the walk.

  Megpeas pulled open the door, beaming at them, and bowed. “Welcome home.”

  Gracie curtsied at his side. “My lord, my lady. How was your honeymoon?”

  “Brilliant.” Damen’s eyes grew soft as he gazed at Sarah.

  “You shaved off your beard, my lord,” Gracie said merrily as she helped divest them of their coats and hats.

  “I tried to talk him into taking off his glasses as well, but he refused,” Sarah added.

  “The better to see you with, my dear,” he grinned wolfishly.

  Megpeas cleared his throat. “While you were away, your brother, Mr Cornelius Ravenhill, sent his felicitations and said he will be coming to London next week.”

  “Splendid, Megpeas! So he’s finally up and around. That is the best news we could come home to.” Damen slapped the butler on the shoulder.

  Grasping her husband’s hand, Sarah turned to Megpeas and Gracie. “I must steal Falgate away. I promised to show him something.” She quickly pulled him up the stairs, down a long hall, and into a dim corridor.

  After making sure the hallway was empty, she counted to the fifth rectangular molding and placed an ornate key into a hidden lock. Giving it a twist, the secret door creaked open. She tugged her husband through and relocked the door.

  “What is this place?” He glided his fingers down one of the red veils hanging from the ceiling.

  Sarah led him across the furs to the low bed. “It is a wonderland for fantasies.”

  “Is it now?” He coiled his hands around her waist and leaned down to nuzzle her neck. “And what fantasy do you wish for today, my love?”

  Her fingers worked feverishly on the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt.

  He chuckled in her ear and ran his tongue around its edge. A shiver skittered up her spine as she felt his hands work along her back. By now he’d become quite adept at undressing her, his big hands managing the trickiest assemblage of buttons, tapes, and hooks.

  “I’ve been dreaming of y
ou on these furs,” she breathed as she pressed her hips into his.

  He groaned and yanked her bodice down her arms.

  ***

  Afterward, Sarah lay in her husband’s arms as he murmured in her ear, “I’d love to stay here the rest of the night but we probably should say our hellos.”

  “And get something to eat.”

  “Worked up an appetite, have we?” He grinned.

  As Sarah gathered her clothes, Damen knelt down to search for a sock. “What’s this?” He pulled out a silver tray from under the bedside table and set it on top.

  Sarah stifled a gasp. How could Damen always find things that were supposed to stay hidden?

  He pulled back the red-velvet cover and gazed about the tray, his eyes lighting with curiosity. “Mmm, scented oils. I say, are these Strathford’s therapeutic devices? Mary Turner said she consulted with your husband in making them.”

  “I’ll wager that’s not all she did,” Sarah grumbled under her breath.

  “According to her, she tested the first prototypes and advised him on ways to fine-tune their design.”

  Sarah tried not to grimace. And she’d thought Edward had been a genius to know exactly the right design and sensation to maximize enjoyment. Now she knew the truth. He’d consulted a prostitute. Mary had probably given him a point-by-point education on the finer details of female anatomy and excitation.

  “Let’s see, how does this one work?” Damen picked up the spine tickler and ran his big hands over the ball bearings. “Smoooth, respooonsive.” He drew out the vowels.

  Sarah’s face heated. She was too embarrassed to speak.

  “Oh, hallo, haven’t seen you in a while.” He picked up the Buzzy Bee. “Now weren’t you in the invention gallery?” He wound up the key and placed it on the back of his neck to massage. “Ah, yes, it really works out the little kinks in sensitive muscles, doesn’t it?”

  He handed her the still-buzzing toy and picked up the pony rocket. His brows wrinkled as he turned the pointed cylinder around in his fingers. “What does this one do?” He wound up the key. Something inside made the appropriate clicking noise but nothing happened. “It doesn’t seem to work.” He flipped it over and found a little latch at the blunt end, popped it open, and held it up to look inside. “Something’s in here.”

  He pulled out a small roll of papers.

  “What’s this?” He gazed at Sarah questioningly and smoothed them out, reading aloud.

  ‘My Dearest Sarah,

  I leave these copies to you should anything happen to me.

  I believe this little engine is my finest achievement.

  After I discovered Lumsley’s traitorous intention, I

  refused to sell it to him. Unfortunately, all the cockroaches

  found out and are clambering to sell it to Russian munitions

  dealers. As you can see, I’ve hidden the plans where only

  you would know where to look. Please do not let them fall

  into the wrong hands.

  Edward’

  Damen looked up from the letter. “The plans were real, after all?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “Edward really did invent a small engine and made drawings.” She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice.

  “I’d begun to think the device was an elaborate hoax.” Damen looked over the drawings and Strathford’s notes. “Hmmm. He wanted to use pyroglycerin with his engine.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Quite. It’s highly unstable. Your husband hoped to find a way to make it safer. Unfortunately, if I were a betting man, I’d say that’s what caused the explosions.”

  The Buzzy Bee still quivered merrily in Sarah’s hand and reminded her of a different kind of explosion. “My love…” She chewed on the side of her lip. “There is something you should probably know.”

  Damen gazed at her expectantly.

  With a wicked smile, she motioned for him to lie back on the bed. Fitting the key into the Buzzy Bee, she gave it a few more turns. “It’s time I showed you the real use for these little toys.”

  If you loved The Trouble with Seduction, then turn the page for an extract from Victoria Hanlen’s debut novel

  The Trouble with Misbehaving

  Chapter 1

  London, England, 1864

  Captain Beauford Tollier knew the glue-like qualities of trouble. The stuff collected on him like burrs on wool socks. Over the years he’d devised a somewhat reliable rule—trouble avoided was trouble contained.

  Hence, when the first two letters arrived, he prudently tossed them into the fire. With the third, however, he let the note linger in his fingers a moment too long. Long enough for the vanilla and honeysuckle perfume to seep into his senses. Long enough for him to notice the elegant, swirling penmanship. And long enough to read the large purple letters emblazoned across the back:

  “PROMISING THE HIGHEST REWARDS AND BENEFITS.”

  Trouble.

  Yet here he stood at the designated fountain in London’s Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. In front of him, horns trumpeted a polka in the tall Chinese bandstand. Below, hundreds of colorful lamps shimmered over the dance platform where seemingly half of London bobbed and weaved.

  Beau leaned against a flagpole and opened his pocket watch—eleven p.m.—the appointed time. Where was the mysterious letter writer signed only as C.C.?

  Bells suddenly jangled in a nearby arcade. Tension riveted his spine. Spies often set traps with enticing words. But the letter’s mystery and its author’s persistence had tweaked his infernal curiosity.

  Tapping his foot, he peered about the swarms of festive patrons milling around him. He shouldn’t be here. His return to England was to be a new start. He’d made a vow—if he survived the Yankee prison he would reunite with his brothers and change his life. Still, anticipation buzzed through his veins.

  He flicked open his program, scanned it and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Families still left at dusk. Now only roistering men and women remained. Save for a novel act or two, a dozen years hadn’t altered the variety of amusements and death-defying feats. Hot air balloons, operettas, circuses and tightrope walkers still entertained. He yawned—child’s play, really. Little could rival the excitement of blockade-running.

  In the distance, a steam calliope whistled a merry tune. Aromas of coffee and hot grog tugged his attention to the outdoor café where flashy women ringed dainty tables. He brushed his hand over his jacket pocket and felt the note crinkle under his fingertips. Could one of those women be the mysterious letter writer?

  “Dawdling won’t get you tuppence here. If you want one o’ ’em, ask her for a dance. Then negotiate.”

  Beau flinched at the strange voice. With all the noise and commotion surrounding him, he hadn’t noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen step to his side. He narrowed his eyes on them.

  The mustachioed fellow rattled on, “Got to exert yourself. That’s the way of it here at these pleasure gardens.” He motioned toward the crowded dance platform where a sea of hats and bonnets and every kind of suit and gown imaginable bounced about in something resembling more of a bacchanal than a polka.

  “The tarts here do not solicit acquaintance. Got to be asked,” his friend said and adjusted his bowler hat.

  Rockets burst overhead and exploded through the mist into flowering streams of silver. Beau’s sinews seized. Ghostly images of flying shrapnel and live shell fell all around him. “Take cover!” gurgled in his throat. He clutched the flagpole, gasped for air, pulled at his cravat and fought the panic rioting inside.

  The man with the mustache stared, eyes bulging. “N-not that one o’ ’em wouldn’t be thrilled to accommodate a f-fine bloke such as yourself. Not to worry. London’s trollops are a friendly sort. That’s just how it’s done here at Cremorne.”

  Beau dragged in desperate breaths. Even with the cool fall air floating in off the Thames, the boom of fireworks made him break into a sweat. Frustration boiled in his gullet. He’d co
me here to find out what ‘Rewards and Benefits’ meant, not fend off his lingering battle demons.

  After nearly fifty runs through the blockade he’d lost his nerve, quite effectively ending his blockade-running career. Fortunately, he’d saved a tidy sum, but the money wouldn’t last. Even an earl’s third son needed to keep up appearances. With any luck, the letter writer would offer generous pay for legitimate, peaceful work. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

  Heart still pounding, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket. “Blast!” He yanked it out again. The paper cut him! He knew better than to allow an infernal letter to tempt his curiosity. A more superstitious mariner would take it as a sign. He should leave.

  Vacillating, he rubbed his stinging finger and studied the men. They didn’t seem dodgy enough to have sent the letter, but they were too friendly. He didn’t like friendly. And what made them think he didn’t know London? Was it his tan? He needed to get rid of them. “Perhaps you could show me how one procures…a tart.”

  The bowler-hatted man gave him a crooked smile. “All right. It’s not so difficult. Remember, they got to make a living. Pick out one you fancy, be polite and ask.” He tipped his hat toward several women sitting at a nearby table. One smiled back. He soon disappeared with the woman into the mass whirling around the bandstand.

  His friend twiddled his mustache and grinned. “Good on him. See? Easy. That’s how it’s done.”

  Beau checked his pocket watch…six minutes past eleven. The letter writer was late. Patience had never been his virtue, but tardiness nearly gave him fits. The last time someone kept him waiting he’d been forced to confess to a lie to save his crew and was nearly hanged.

  A ticklish skitter climbed his torso. Another grazed his face. He slowly peered around. Union spies had trailed him before. He’d been shocked by the amount of intelligence his nemesis, Union Navy Commander Rives, presented at his trial. Rives promised a bullet to the brain if he ever saw him again. Enough. Time to leave.