The Trouble With Seduction (33 page)

The man opened the door and gave it a push inward. Farnsworth pulled Damen into a posh room filled with red-velvet furniture, thick turkey carpets, and comely, scantily clad women. In one corner sat a harpist, her lashes fluttering, forehead pinched, as if she were in paroxysms of ecstasy, stroking her strings like a lover’s body.

A buxom woman strolled over to them, hips swaying seductively. She ran her hands down her corseted sides and did a slow shimmy, causing her ample bosoms to rise and fall hypnotically. “Mr Farnsworth, lovely to see you again.” She held out her hand, and he kissed her gloved knuckles.

“This is my friend, Ravenhill,” Farnsworth said, not taking his eyes off the woman’s cleavage. “I warn you, he’s a very dull fellow. He’s been working non-stop, and I’m close to disowning him. I’ve diagnosed his problem. He’s in desperate need of a good time.”

The woman lowered her lashes and let her gaze drift over Damen’s face, across his shoulders, down his torso, hips, legs, and finally his feet. With a slow smile, she said, “I like challenges, don’t you, Mr Ravenhill?” And held out her hand for him to take.

While Farnsworth joined the women on a sofa, Annette led Damen up to her suite. As soon as she closed the door behind them, she turned. “How did you find me, Cory?”

Damen almost stumbled. Another of Cory’s women? How far did the trail go? The oddest sensation came over him. Had he fallen back through a hole into his strange adventure in London? “It wasn’t easy,” was all he could say. Who was this woman?

“I nearly didn’t recognize you with those dowdy clothes, that beard, and those glasses hiding your eyes. How long has it been? Two, three years?”

Damen pushed out his lower lip noncommittally. “There-a-bouts.” His mind whirled. Cory had known a brothel madam in London.

Could this be Mary Turner under a new name?

People thought she’d perished in Strathford’s first laboratory explosion. Something drastic must have happened for her to make it appear she’d died and then flee to Liverpool to start all over.

Damen regarded her ample cleavage, pressed together under a burgundy silk gown. She’d dressed her henna plaits with several glass-studded pins. A heavy helping of powder and rouge covered a reasonably attractive face, though tiny lines had begun to form at the sides of her charcoal-outlined eyes.

“What name do you use now?”

“Annette Norton.” She removed her gloves and led him to the plush lounge. When they’d settled against its soft pillows she removed his glasses and set them on the table in front. “Do you really need these things or are you in some sort of disguise?”

“I tend to miss a lot without them.”

“And why the beard and stuffy clothes?” She slid her hands underneath the lapels of his frock coat, smoothly easing it off. In the process, she ran her fingers across his chest and shoulders, dragging her nails lightly across his nipples.

He sucked in a breath. She certainly got down to business quick.

Setting his jacket on the other side of her, she scooted closer. Reaching up, she slowly ran her fingers into his beard and placed several caresses about his lips. She gazed intently about his face, gently stroking his beard before she kissed him again. Mid-caress, she pulled back. A brow arched and a wry smile curled her plump lips. “You aren’t Cory. Would you care to start over and tell me who you really are?”

Did he want to play the imposter again?

He picked up his glasses from off the table, settled them on his nose, and curled them around his ears. “I never said I was Cory.” He grinned.

She shook her finger at him. “Oh, but you like to play games like he does. Are you his twin?” She gave him a suggestive smile. “I like… twins.”

“I’m sure you do,” he mumbled. “I’m his brother. Cory suffered an assault that put him into a coma. He’s now on the mend.”

Annette gasped, jumped to her feet, and paced. “I’m sorry to hear that. I always suspected he was in some sort of dangerous business. How did you find me?”

“In truth, I wasn’t looking for you. Everyone thought you died in Strathford’s laboratory explosion. Farnsworth wanted to show me a good time, so here I am.”

“And Lord Strathford?” Her expression turned to concern.

This woman had to be Mary Turner. “He was not injured in the St Giles explosion but was killed when his home laboratory exploded.”

“I knew he was in trouble,” she snarled through clenched teeth.

“How did you know?”

“On occasion, I visited his St Giles laboratory to… consult. One day, as I approached the door, I heard Strathford arguing with someone. He shouted the word ‘traitor’.

“The day before the laboratory explosion, as I walked down the hall, I heard Strathford arguing with someone else. The voice sounded familiar. I didn’t see his face, but I suspected he was the one they call the ‘Scythe’. He has eyes everywhere in St Giles. He made some horrible threats against Strathford. If there’s money changing hands, he always wants his cut.”

She returned to pacing. “The next day when I visited the laboratory, I saw his gang’s symbol painted on the front wall. I figured if the building had been marked, so had both Strathford and I. There was no time to prepare. I needed to disappear or end up in the Thames.”

“Everyone thought you were dead. You left a thriving brothel without a word.”

“And who do you think now controls it?” Her rouged lips curled in disgust. “While the Scythe rules the streets, I can never go back. It will take an army to get rid of him and his gang.”

“Were you Strathford’s mistress?”

“We were long-time… friends. He had me come to his laboratory in St Giles to help him design some specialized contraptions for… therapeutic uses.”

The small yellow device Damen had picked up in Strathford’s little invention gallery came to mind. He kept it to himself, however, not wanting to divulge too much about his relationship with Sarah. “How did you know Cory?”

“He wanted me to find out what I could about a small engine Strathford was supposed to be designing. But I’m no scientist. His laboratory looked like glass and rubbish strung together with noxious-smelling liquids bubbling about.”

“Chemicals?” Damen took out his money purse.

She held up her hand. “No need, Mr Ravenhill. I’m truly sorry about Cory. If you return to London, please don’t tell anyone you saw me. Except, well, there’s one person I’d like to know that I’m all right.”

“Tell me their name and I’ll—”

He goes by whatever name suits him at the time. People know him in St Giles. He’s a rather big fellow with a number six tattooed into his palm.”

The hairs on Damen’s neck stood on end. “Is he a relation of yours?”

“When we were children, he was the only thing that stood between me and starvation. If you see him, please don’t use my former name, Mary Turner, or reveal my new name. Just tell him I send my love, and will always cherish Ergatroit.”

CHAPTER 29

The next day, Damen stood at the safety rail three floors up, gazing down at the workmen constructing his warehouse. Hammers and chisels resounded off the newly bricked-in walls, raising a deafening din.

Enough problems awaited him when he finally returned from London; he’d barely time to eat or sleep. After more than two months, the construction was finally back on schedule. Tenants were already lined up, eager to rent his warehouses. Sometimes success could be both a curse and a blessing.

Farnsworth called up to him from the warehouse floor. “You’ve a visitor from London waiting in the office, Mr Ravenhill.”

Damen’s spirits momentarily soared until logic brought them back to earth. How could Sarah have found him? She believed he was Cory. No doubt she’d seen the newspaper. His father sent him a clipping announcing Miss Lambert and Cory’s wedding had been postponed indefinitely due to another assault on his brother.

“Man or woman,” he barked.

“An official-looking bloke,” Farns responded.

“Take a message or tell him to come back later. I’m busy.” Damen jotted down more notes on his clipboard.

“He says he has important information and needs to speak with you directly.”

Damen ground his teeth. Everyone thought their information important and needed to speak with him directly. “All right. I’ll be there in a minute.” He climbed down the ladder and strode toward the offices, muttering “…waste of my time.”

When he entered the outer office, he immediately saw Farnsworth had given him an accurate description. The man was indeed official-looking.

Horatio Kirkland, his father’s solicitor, wore a bespoke fine-wool suit and held a splendid, tooled-leather case. He stood peering about the framed drawings hanging on the wall – the architect’s renderings of the new warehouses.

He bowed and smiled with such warmth, Damen thought he must have good news. The man had never greeted him so cordially.

“May I talk with you in private? Perhaps you have a room where we may close the door and speak freely?” Kirkland said in an apologetic tone.

Damen showed him into his office, moved a box of tiles off a chair, and bade him sit. “Now what can I do for you?” He closed the door and walked around the desk to sit in his high-backed chair.

While the solicitor dug into his case, Damen mentally scrolled through topics that might cause his father’s solicitor to travel all the way from London to Liverpool, without notice.

Perhaps they’d located Cory’s attackers? Was Kirkland going to tell him he’d discovered who’d been skimming rents or setting fires in his father’s properties?

With a folder of papers now retrieved, the man’s bushy gray brows bunched over his eyes. “So good of you to see me on such short notice. I took the first train available to get here.”

Kirkland set the leather-bound folder on the desk and swallowed. “I’m very sorry to inform you…” His voice shook. He coughed and began again. “It is with great sadness that I must tell you…” – he exhaled raggedly and took a deep breath – “… that your father died suddenly, early this morning.”

The news hit Damen like a freight train. Crushing pressure gripped his chest.

His father died early this morning? It couldn’t be true. He’d been ailing of late, but only a year ago he’d been hale and hardy.

Shock and confusion blurred the rest of what the solicitor said.

“… title passes to you… now new Viscount Falgate…”

Memories flooded back. His father was a rock. The foundation of the family and, until recently, a strong mountain of a man.

“… will assume all his titles and properties…”

He remembered idolizing him when he and Cory were little. He used to roughhouse with them, carry them, one under each arm, and tickle their necks with his beard stubbles. After their mother died, he changed overnight. He sent them off to school and disappeared. They only saw him at holidays.

“… must return to London… funeral…”

As the years passed, his father became increasingly secretive. So much had been left unsaid. Now there would be no chance to talk to him. Shock and disbelief overwhelmed him.

“What about Cory?”

For the first time since Damen had known Kirkland, the expression in his eyes softened. “He continues to improve. I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”

Damen compressed his lips. “I’ve done all right. Our… my properties in Liverpool are back on track.”

“Please read what’s in this folder. There is much to the title of which you may not be aware.” The solicitor slid the leather-bound folder toward him. “I vow to help you all I can. With your approval, we can make all the arrangements for your father’s funeral three days from now.”

“Fine.”

“I look forward to seeing you when you arrive in London, then.” He buckled the leather straps on his case, stood, and bowed. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Know that I am at your disposal, day or night.”

As he left, Damen brushed a hand over the folder. Did the papers inside contain answers to any of the secrets his father had always dodged? He didn’t hold out much hope. Why would he be any more forthcoming in death? The man made a clam look like a barker at Haymarket.

The thought of returning to London curdled his stomach. The place held heartbreak, failure, and a festering kind of evil. There he’d lost the love of his life and his self-respect. His brother’s attackers, the arsonists, and the men skimming their rents still ran free.

Worst of all, he’d not helped Sarah clear her name of her husband’s murder.

How he craved to look upon her lovely face. To hear her velvety voice. To hold and kiss her. She was everything he’d ever wanted – gentle, caring, intelligent, generous, and brave. He shook his head at his folly. She’d once claimed she loved him, too. But whom did she think she loved? The only time he approached being himself was when they made love, giving all, sharing his true heart.

Stepping to the cloudy mirror over the grate, he pushed his glasses up his nose and raked his fingers across the scraggly hair covering his jaws.

What would he say if, perchance, they met? What could he say? I love you, forgive me? I’m not usually such a compulsive liar. Only when I come to London. And every other Thursday.

He slowly made his way to the door. His feet felt like they were slogging through a vat of tar. “Farnsworth, could you please come in here?”

Once his friend was seated he laid out his plan. “I need you to hire at least three dozen ex-military men and a dozen detectives all with extensive training in hand-to-hand combat. I also need at least half a dozen trained bloodhounds. How soon do you think you can have them assembled?”

CHAPTER 30

The day after Lord Falgate’s funeral, Damen drove his father’s fast-racing gig to Horatio Kirkland’s office on Bond Street. His solicitor’s note had said, “Good News!”

He tossed the reins to his driver and hopped down to the pavement, hoping to God he wouldn’t have the bad luck to encounter either Mrs Ivanova or Miss Lambert today. Of course, he might be hard to recognize in his baggy business suit, beard, glasses, and tall, black top hat.

When he entered the offices, Kirkland greeted him with a triumphant smile. “Our threat of legal proceedings and investigator interrogations have brought forth fruit! There was no rent competition.”