The Trouble With Seduction (9 page)

Clearly he was an inveterate ladies’ man bent on beguiling and manipulating her. It seemed far-fetched that her husband’s death and the attack on Ravenhill could have been perpetrated by the same villain or villains. Edward had been dead over two years and Mr Ravenhill only returned to London several weeks before.

This whole situation put her mind in a muddle. First of all, she could not conceive of why someone would want to hurt dear Edward. While it appeared his elusive plans might somehow be involved in his death, she’d been unable to find any evidence they existed.

The inspector insisted Professor Bodkin filed a complaint that she return them. But why would he kill for something as trivial as drawings? Now Ravenhill thought he’d seen someone suspicious at Amelia’s party. Sarah certainly didn’t remember anyone there by the name of Bodkin or even a professorial type. And then there were those blasting fuses. Where had they come from? No. Things did not fit together at all.

***

Two hours later, Alfred Marbanks, Falgate’s man of business, came out from behind his large mahogany desk and grasped Damen’s hand. “So good to see you again, Mr Ravenhill. What may I do for you?” He gazed briefly at his bruises without comment, motioned for him to be seated in a plush leather side-chair, and settled into the one next to him.

Damen gazed around the tastefully decorated office with its gilt-framed landscapes and brown and gold velvet drapery. “As you might recall, I was here a few days ago…”

Marbanks gave his twin tufts of white hair several vigorous rakes, resettled his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat in a series of what appeared to be ritualistic tics. He finally gripped his hands and pressed them hard to one knee.

“My memory is a bit hazy about the meeting.” Damen pointed to his bruised forehead by way of explanation. “Be so good as to recount our discussion and where I said I was going afterward.”

“Uhmm-Uhmm, I’d be delighted, Mr Ravenhill.” Marbanks scrubbed his hand through his tufts again and coughed. “We went over the ledgers for the Falgate properties in London. As you left, you said you would visit the Painted Lady to talk with one of the property managers.”

“May I see the ledgers?”

“Most certainly.” Marbanks jumped to his feet and scuttled to the oak-paneled door. He and his assistant soon returned with several large ledgers, set them on the desk and opened their heavy bound covers.

At the sight of them, the hairs prickled on Damen’s arms. He was heir to all these London properties, but for some reason, his father kept them secret. After university, he’d sent him to Liverpool to manage and enlarge the family’s holdings.

Damen sat forward, running his finger down the columns of addresses as he flipped through the ledger. He’d known his father owned warehouses but never imagined he had so many lodging houses and tenements.

“Lord Falgate used to take a more active role in his properties. He’d three men who oversaw the building managers and reported directly to him. A few months after your father became ill they disappeared. How is he?”

“About as well as can be expected. Thank you for asking.” Damen turned the page. His eyes flew to the Painted Lady’s address and those above and below. It appeared his father owned nearly every building on the block. He turned more pages to find the addresses of tenements surrounding Lady Strathford’s Mission of Mercy.

Damen squinted at the writing and pointed to several ledger entries. “What do these red marks mean?”

“Those are the buildings that suffered fires.”

“And what is this column in blue?”

“Those are the rent declines compared to a year ago. As you can see, the vast majority of properties have fallen an average of thirty percent.”

Muscles tightened in Damen’s neck and down one arm. Cory had been investigating the fires and this was what he’d found: massive rent declines? While their father had been ill, someone had compromised his properties. “Why have the rents declined?” He kept his voice low and even.

“Some of the buildings are unable to be rented while they’re being restored after the fires. In others, the property managers say they’ve experienced trouble getting the prices we used to ask.”

Damen recently visited to the Painted Lady and saw how packed the neighborhood looked. By all appearances, it wasn’t for a lack of people needing lodgings.

“How many fires have there been?”

Marbanks dug through a folder and handed him a neatly printed record of addresses, dates and damages. “There were twenty-seven total.”

Damen studied the list. “What started the fires?”

“Various things. Some were unexplained. In the domiciles, stoves and fireplaces were the main culprit.”

“How about the warehouses?”

“I have another sheet here somewhere…” Marbanks fished through a file. “Here it is.” He studied it a moment. “Those have been more difficult to define. Two were caused by lanterns, four have yet to be explained and three were explosions.”

“Explosions?” The word conjured more alarm than a fire. Cory had been searching for an arsonist, yet the word ‘explosions’ seemed to attach greater intent to the villainy. Icy talons scraped down Damen’s spine. What caused them?”

Marbanks glanced at his paper. “Two of the blasts were suspicious in that the tenants claimed the exploded articles were not theirs. The other was an inventor who’d been conducting experiments.”

“Who was this inventor?” Damen held his breath.

Marbanks quickly thumbed through the ledger for the corresponding address and pointed to the name of the tenant. “It says Lord Strathford rented the back portion of the Flatiron warehouse.”

Damen’s pulse quickened and he gulped in air. He squinted at the fuzzy numbers, and rubbed an eye. Strathford had rented a warehouse from his father, and there’d been an explosion? Another chill went down his spine. “When did it happen?”

The man of business pointed to the red printing in one of the ledger columns. “Approximately three years ago.”

Cory’s journal entry had been dated three years before as well.

“As I recall” – Marbanks yanked off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief – “there was a confusing story about a young woman’s disappearance after the fire.”

“Did I mention if I intended to investigate her disappearance further?” Damen asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. You seemed to know the woman.”

“Another
woman
,” Damen muttered to himself. How did Cory keep them all straight? “What was her name?”

“I thought I heard you say Mary Turner.”

CHAPTER 8

“Women convicted of murdering their husbands used to be hung and burned at the stake.” Sarah stared at the thin circle of fire on the end of her cigar and grimaced.

“That hasn’t happened in at least a hundred years,” Amelia, her best friend since childhood, and now the Countess Grancliffe, reassured. She reached across the outdoor table and placed her hand over Sarah’s. “Don’t let the police inspector upset you. He’s obviously an uncivilized bully. Is your brother helping you deal with him?”

Sarah slowly gazed about the beech tree’s long branches extending to the ground around them, forming a spacious leafy cave, and shielding them against unwanted onlookers. She shook her head. “His answer, as always, is to let my husband take care of it.”

“But you don’t have one.”

“Precisely. I know my brother loves me, but problems often get bigger, rather than smaller, when he gets involved. His solution is for me to marry his friend.”

Amelia frowned. “Never you worry. You have a top solicitor. He will take the inspector in hand.”

Her solicitor had been helpful in the past, but he’d not filled her with confidence when they met with Hooker. “I’ve been advised to contact someone with influence in judicial and police matters.”

Calista, Amelia’s cousin from New York, expertly tapped the ash off her cigar into the ashtray and blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. “Lord Sutterland would be the one to talk to.” She gazed at Amelia. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes. I agree. He’s very well connected in those matters.” Amelia fingered her cigar. “Do you play chess?”

“My father and I used to play.”

“Good, we’ll introduce you. Calista plays chess with him every week. In the meantime, we must do something to take your mind off your troubles.”

“I don’t wish to make light of your situation.” Calista waved her cigar expansively through the air. “I, of all people, can certainly sympathize. But it helps to go somewhere highly diverting, someplace amusing… with lots of entertainment.”

What would Sarah do without her friends? The world had seemed to be closing in on her until they’d arrived to cheer her up. She took another dainty puff on her cigar and made a little cough, still not quite accustomed to the mechanics of smoking.

Calista gave her a bright smile. “See, a tiny sip is best until you get used to it.”

No wind circulated inside their leafy enclosure, yet to Sarah’s eyes, the branches seemed to undulate strangely. Was it from the cigar or the contents of a flask Calista had produced from her reticule and added to their lemonade?

“I have a favor to ask, Amelia.” Sarah rolled her cigar between her fingers. “It has come to my attention that perhaps someone connected to Edward’s accident was at your party a few weeks ago. Would it be possible for you to make a list of all present? And could you please include the servants and anyone else who might have arrived late, guest or not.”

“Oh, my, Sarah! Whom do you suspect?”

“I’m not sure. It’s for an acquaintance who thought they briefly saw someone there.”

Amelia’s face lit up. “This is all so mysterious. Who is this acquaintance?”

Sarah bit her lower lip and tasted rich Cuban tobacco. Yesterday’s image of Mr Ravenhill in his revealing work smock appeared in her mind. She probably should have nothing more to do with him. Handsome males always brought trouble. The very first boy she’d admired teased her into breaking her leg. Its weakness would probably forever plague her.

She shouldn’t reveal he was the one who wanted the list, but she hated lying, and especially to her friends. “This
acquaintance
believes they have found a connection between the fire that killed Edward and the men who attacked… him.”

“It’s Mr Ravenhill!” Amelia clapped excitedly.

Calista’s dimple twitched, and she shoved her cigar into her mouth.

Sarah wanted to make herself very small and slink away. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of, and these were her friends. She and Ravenhill were such a chestnut – a wealthy widow
befriending
a handsome rake, the younger son of a peer. “You purposely misunderstand the situation. There is nothing between us and that is the way it will stay.”

Amelia took a sip of her lemonade and licked her lips in an apparent attempt to keep them from quivering. “I’m sorry. We make light, but we know the situation is dire. There are dangerous villains afoot who are up to very serious business. I will put the list together as soon as I get home and ask my housekeeper to help.”

Calista squinted against the smoke trailing from the end of her cigar as she expertly shuffled the cards, dealt and then tapped off her ash. “So where should we go to get your mind off your troubles?”

“I fear I’m not familiar with the city’s entertainments.” Sarah retrieved the fluffy fan hanging from the back of her chair and gave it a few flicks. “Aunt Eliza has only recently managed to entice me outdoors. This renovation has sprung unwelcome surprises at every turn.”

Amelia gave Sarah a sympathetic look. “I can understand your annoyance and distress. Grancliffe Hall has resisted even the most minor sprucing and mounts an outright rebellion whenever we try to modernize.”

“Old houses can be so cranky.” Calista wrinkled her nose and scowled in an imitation of an old crone. “I say it’s high time we found somewhere worthy to sally forth and shake our taffeta.” She took another puff on her cigar and blew smoke rings into the air.

Sarah watched the wispy wheels of smoke issue from her mouth. “I must learn to do that, once I master smoking these things.” It was refreshing to meet someone so uninhibited. This outlandish young woman liberated her, made her forget the suffocating proprieties.

As a childless widow, Sarah now inhabited a nebulous, ill-defined category. Though no longer a green girl, the conservative rules of decorum taught at her father’s knee still clung tenaciously. She was not one to fight cultural mores and fitting in did not come easily. It was far simpler to avoid people and situations that made her or others uncomfortable.

Calista occupied a vague social category as well
–
perhaps this was the reason Sarah felt immediate kinship. As a wealthy heiress from New York, Calista had been sent to live with her cousin Amelia’s family under a shroud of speculation. Rumors and newspaper articles had followed her, whispering stories of improprieties and an unbalanced personality. All she’d witnessed was a very bright, lively, somewhat lost young woman, trying to make the most of her situation.

“Shall we go to the opera?
Il
Trovatore
is due to open soon.” Amelia picked up her cards and studied them. “There’s plenty of room in the Grancliffe box. Would you like to go?”

Outside the enclosure of foliage, footsteps crunched along the gravel walkway approaching their tree. In due course, Megpeas announced from beyond the branches, “My lady, there is a gentleman here to see you. Are you at home?”

She turned toward her butler’s voice. Her head gave a little spin. “Who is it?”

“Mr Ravenhill, my lady.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught an exchange of fluttering lashes between Amelia and Calista. Sarah took another gulp of lemonade. “Would you ladies care for a fourth in the game?”

Amelia smiled like the cat that got the cream. “Mr Ravenhill? What a surprise!”

Sarah’s face suddenly burned. “Should I invite him to play? Cards, I mean.”

Amelia and Calista looked to each other and chorused a little too readily, “Yes!”

The surge in Sarah’s pulse made her hand tremble and she nearly dropped her cigar. “Megpeas, please give us a moment before you bring him back.”