The Trouble With Seduction (18 page)

The shopkeeper parted the back curtain and grinned at him through his handlebar mustache. “What may I do for you today, sir?”

“I’d like to buy a box of candles. Mind, nothing fancy.”

“Tallows are the cheapest.”

“May I see them?”

When the chandler brought out a box, Damen opened the lid, gave the candles a sniff and mopped his nose on his sleeve.

“I can show you beeswax and others with a nice fragrance.”

“No, I’ll take these. Say, I’m new to the neighborhood. As you can see, I was set upon.” Damen pointed to the bruises around his face.

“I’m sorry for your troubles.” The shopkeeper gazed off to one side.

“I didn’t get a good look at them. It happened a little over two weeks ago, around the corner from here. Did you possibly see or hear anything?”

The chandler frowned and shook his head.

“There’s a picture scratched on the walls of several buildings. It looks like some sort of farm tool.”

The man’s eyes shifted. “Would you like the candles wrapped, sir?”

“Yes, thank you. What does the drawing on the buildings mean?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes twitched around the shop before he leaned closer to whisper, “It’s a gang symbol for the ‘Scythe’.”

“Is he a fellow with a black top hat and a red ribbon tied around its brim?”

The chandler tore off a sheet of paper from under the counter. As he wrapped the candles he cut glances out the small front window. “I couldn’t say. The gang is said to be quite big, with branches into everything. They commit all manner of villainies.”

Damen sighed. The man looked scared and was, no doubt, on his guard against ears listening through walls. “Could you recommend a place to live? I can’t continue to pay lodging house prices.”

“I’m sorry for your troubles and for not being much help. Rents have climbed recently. You might want to check in the public houses. Some have posting boards. You unmarried?”

Damen nodded.

“You could share a place with a family. Check with more shops. They might know of something.”

Damen found three more proprietors who’d talk to him. The story remained the same. No one had seen or heard anything, the gang was faceless, and rents had recently skyrocketed.

He turned off the main sidewalk down a passage leading to another shop. Something knocked his hat off and thumped him hard above an ear. Whirling, he blocked a cudgel aimed at his head. Damen grabbed the tough’s arm, swung him in a circle and rammed him into two more thugs who’d materialized out of a dark alcove.

One of them managed to rap him hard in the jaw.

Damen caught the ruffian’s next punch and gave his arm a sharp twist. The man wheezed out a groan. He gave the hooligans a few more quick clouts and kicks before they ran off.

“Spineless vermin,” Damen muttered, almost disappointed by their lack of pluck and determination. As he returned to the main street, a window clock sent his pulse up a few notches. He needed to get back to Falgate Hall and clean up for Sarah’s dinner.

CHAPTER 16

Damen arrived at Strathford Hall on time and on edge, his heart hammering out an unsteady beat.

Gormley had done his best to clean him up and turn him out dapper in Cory’s thigh-hugging gray striped trousers; a cutaway black tailcoat with a pinched-in waist; an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat; a red cravat – knotted perfectly; a high-collared white striped shirt; burnished boots; a silver-handled walking stick; gray kid gloves; and a matching top hat.

Parts of Damen now twitched like a stallion at a starting gate.

After taking his hat and cane, Megpeas showed him into Lord Strathford’s small invention gallery. “Would you please wait in here, Mr Ravenhill? Her ladyship will be with you shortly.”

Damen’s excitement ramped up another notch. Apart from his hunger for Sarah, he’d wanted another go at examining the room’s contents. As quietly as he could, he stepped to a cabinet holding several small devices, opened the glass door, and took one out for closer study.

Perhaps his lordship had secreted a prototype of the tiny engine in with his other contraptions?

“Mr Ravenhill?” Sarah’s dulcet voice startled him.

In a clumsy attempt at misdirection, he raked one hand through his hair as if completing a quick grooming, while returning the device to the cabinet with the other. He spun round and gave her a devil-may-care Cory grin. “My lady.”

She smiled, her lashes fluttering as her gaze flitted about his attire.

Her wild blonde hair had been plated into submission in a crown of tight braids. From the bottom of her chin to the tips of her toes, shiny black satin accentuated her lovely form.

Like a second skin, the gown’s fine tailoring fit her voluptuous shape to precision, flaring at her hips with an alluring train trailing behind. Having memorized her hills and valleys while squeezing through the rookery’s tight spaces, Damen tried not to stare at her delectable bosom and tiny waist.

Her only concession to color, her rouged red lips, made a sensuous focal point to her otherwise dark attire. He already thought her beautiful, but her effort to look nice for him was a very positive sign.

Still, he couldn’t understand why she cloaked herself in such austerity. Contrary to current styles, her gown remained unencumbered by layers of petticoats, lace, flounces or jewelry. Nor did it reveal any flesh below her chin. The modesty of her gown’s high-necked, long-sleeved style seemed more appropriate for a convent than her lavish aristocratic home.

And then he noticed the long line of buttons down the front – from her chin to her waist. He made a quick count: twenty-four tiny black buttons.

His breath took a ragged turn. Were they intended to convey the sartorial equivalent of a strong box, or test his dexterity and ingenuity?

“I hope you’re more than a bit peckish, Mr Ravenhill. Cook has been on a tear and fixed a feast to sate Caesar. Let me show you to the dining room.” She took his elbow and led him down the hall to stop at a set of gilt-encrusted double doors.

“Should I have worn my toga?” he grinned.

She blinked and let her gaze slide down his form and back up again. He rather liked the way her eyes darkened. Was she imagining him in a toga? Or perhaps something less?

The footman opened the doors for them. “Shall we find our seats and tuck in, Mr Ravenhill?”

Like the rest of the mansion, the dining room was a veritable jewel box with crystal chandeliers, intricate plasterwork, frescos adorning the high ceiling, beveled, gilt-framed mirrors and hand-painted wallpaper. A grand flower arrangement sat in the middle of a long mahogany dining table. Two tall, multi-branched gold candelabra and two chairs sat at one end.

Cozy.

In a rather lavish sort of way.

He caught their reflection in one of the mirrors. Quite the opposites, he and her ladyship, with him in Cory’s best peacock feathers and her in her conservative, funereal black. Until now, he hadn’t put it together. He was playing the flashy escort to a wealthy, reclusive lady.

On occasion, he’d played Sarah’s part, enjoying the company of a flashy woman.

So this is how it felt to wear the slipper… er, boot on the other foot.
He supposed he could play along with the fantasy. Was ravishing him on the menu for…
after
?

As Damen helped Sarah into her chair, a light eddy of her peaches and lavender perfume wafted by. The tantalizing fragrance put his body on alert.

Yet another lure to toy with his impulses.

Candlelight twinkled off the gilt, the crystal, the mirrors, and in Lady Strathford’s eyes. Mrs Ivanova would be pleased. The ambience certainly suggested seduction.

The footman poured the wine.

After Sarah tasted hers, Damen let a sip roll over his tongue. “It is very good, my lady.”

She dipped her head with a whisper of a smile.

He had to remind himself the point of this visit was to find the small engine’s plans, and hopefully exonerate Cory and Sarah from any wrongdoing. When he’d first asked Sarah to help him find the drawings, the aim had been to search her house. The reasons remained the same, but his admiration for her had grown to an almost palpable need.

He took another sip to fortify himself. “When in Lord Strathford’s invention gallery, I couldn’t help wonder if perhaps he made a prototype. Where might he store such an item?”

She carefully set down her glass of wine. “Perhaps you may not have noticed, but my husband was very proud of displaying his inventions. They inhabit nearly every cupboard and bookcase in this house.”

The footman brought out a tureen of savory green turtle soup and buns so light and flaky they almost melted in Damen’s mouth. In between bites he took generous sips of wine. It wouldn’t do to woof down such delicious fare like Cory’s dog, Rufus.

As Damen began to relax, he found himself recounting the buttons down the front of Sarah’s gown.

Twenty-four.

Tiny buttons.

He took another gulp of wine. “What rooms did Strathford most often frequent?”

Sarah kept her eyes on her plate. “His laboratory and his bedchamber.”

“After we eat, we should probably start where he slept.”

Her hand trembled and she dropped her spoon.

Clearly something about her husband’s room upset her. He wanted to comfort her. Perhaps they could find a small closet where he could hold her against him until the brave woman he saw yesterday reappeared.

The footman carried in a tray of kickshaws: shrimp, stewed hare, veal trimmed in sorrel, and a plate of celery, pickles and olives. Silence filled the dining room as the footman served the food, followed by a refreshing sorbet.

“Have you already searched his room?” Damen asked between mouthfuls.

Sarah dabbed at her lips with her napkin and took another sip of wine. “I haven’t been in it since he died.”

The footman brought out a handsome presentation of baked woodcock in a creamy thyme sauce, tiny dilled carrots and dishes of lobster and French salad.

Damen placed a small piece of the tender fowl in his mouth. His taste buds sang with delight.

“Mmuumm,” Sarah volunteered between slow chews and occasional sighs. Were he not enjoying the food with as much pleasure, the sounds she made might have conjured other activities.

Next came frozen creams, chocolates, little sweet-cakes and pastries all garnished in flowers and ribbons and sprinkled with powdered sugar.

When Damen finally finished, he realized the total words spoken over the last course had been zero, save for the murmurs of enjoyment. He knew only one other activity that evoked such wordless moans of pleasure.

“You do indeed have a wonderful cook, my lady. In fact, the food is so good it quite subdues conversation.”

Her lips quirked into a secret smile. “Cook is a blessing from my first marriage. I must confess, when I married Hardington, I quite plumped up on her cooking. I had to learn to pace myself.” Sarah’s even, sensual voice became thready. “I was barely sixteen and he’d turned forty-nine. We’d next to nothing in common. The wonderful food filled the silence. So I ate.”

Inwardly, Damen winced. Hardington could practically have been her grandfather. “And what were your and Lord Strathford’s ages when you married?”

“A bit closer. I was nearly twenty and he was forty-one. The spread of years didn’t matter as much. His mind was so active, you see. He lived a vibrant intellectual life. Every day held excitement and new discoveries for him.”

Damen had met Strathford at a lecture five years before. He was a wiry fellow, not much taller than Sarah. He’d a thin face, thinner hair, and an air of distraction, but pleasant for all that. He remembered watching him pinch his goatee in thought, then scribble in a small notebook that he frequently slid in and out of his frock coat pocket.

Before he knew it, the footman had cleared away the dishes and left a tray of sweet-cakes.

Damen felt a little foxed and excited and, dare he say, a delicious bit of fear for what might happen next. “Truly, this has been a feast fit for a king, or Caesar. I don’t know when I’ve been sated with a more delicious meal.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sarah said in a velvety voice as she gazed about his face.

And neck.

And shoulders.

Was that a speculative glint in her eyes? His blood started to simmer. He’d never imagined playing the scarlet laddie could be so exciting. The image of a toga sprang to mind again. This time, Sarah was wearing it, with one shoulder bare. On its own, the skirt slowly rose above her knees while he fed her grapes.

***

All through the meal, Sarah’s pulse couldn’t seem to find a steady rhythm. She’d not used this dining room since Edward’s soiree a month before his death. The party had included a table full of Scientific Society members and his colleagues. Twenty-five men and herself.

The group had been erudite, most with patents to their names. They’d arrived in unkempt, wrinkled suits, tea-stained cravats, some had missing teeth, and most were in need of a good scrub and a barber. What limited conversation she’d coaxed from her dinner guests centered around their latest papers and inventions. Other than a few cordial comments, she’d been ignored in favor of her husband’s attention.

By contrast, now one very masculine, very charming, perhaps the finest specimen of a man she’d ever seen, sat at her table – his whole attention concentrated on her.

Sarah clutched at her collar. Mr Ravenhill looked good enough to eat. In his natty clothes, he could have been a magazine fashion plate. Except for his face.

He’d said nothing of it over dinner, but it appeared he’d gained another couple of abrasions. On removing his gloves to eat, his knuckles looked skinned.

“Did those villains find you, Mr Ravenhill?” She made a speaking glance at his hands.

“Cutpurses.”

“Oh, dear.” She leaned over to place a hand under his chin and gently turned his head. “They beat you!”

“Naw, a nick or two. Had a little fun with them.”

“Them? How many ‘thems’ were there?”

“Not enough.” White teeth flashed in a smile that made her next breath a little uneven.