The Trouble With Seduction (12 page)

This wasn’t what Damen had in mind when she’d asked him here today. But he could tell she intended to help these people before she talked with him.

“Show me where I need to be.”

Sarah settled him at a larger desk in one corner and gave him a box with paper, pencils, chalk and a small chalkboard.

Damen greeted his first student, a burly lantern tradesman, and helped him calculate the profit on his products, account for spoilage and discussed the tricks some raw material vendors tried to hide in their loans.

When the man left, Damen happened to look over at Lady Strathford sitting in the far corner of the room teaching division to two women. Her energy and eager anticipation of their responses had the women brightening to her. She complimented them on their quickness and good memories and then wrote something on each of their papers.

A tendril of her heavy hair escaped its pins and unspooled down the back of her dark gown. Her eyes twinkled as she praised her students for their correct answers. When incorrect, she caught her full lower lip between her teeth until they figured out the problem. Then white teeth shined in approval. She glowed in those moments. He didn’t know when he’d seen a lovelier woman.

His next student was a young man who left school before he mastered multiplication. Damen wrote the multiplication table on a piece of paper.

While he explained how to use it, he cut glances toward the other side of the room where Sarah quietly showed a couple various calculations on paper.

The man and woman suddenly became agitated. “They’ve raised our rent thirty percent?” the man sputtered.

“I can sympathize, Mr O’Flarety.” Sarah’s brows pinched together. “The landlords in this neighborhood are a miserly disgrace. They raise rents beyond affordability, compounding the overcrowding with their greediness and do nothing to maintain their buildings. Hard-working people are forced to live in discomfort and squalor.”

Damen’s ears burned. He’d recently discovered his father owned most of the tenements and lodging houses on this very street. The ledger at their family’s man of business showed that over the past year Falgate rents had
declined
thirty percent. How could that be?

Much as he’d have liked to ask the couple questions, he could tell that if Sarah discovered his father owned her students’ buildings, she’d hand him his walking papers forthwith.

A young couple was then ushered in with their two small children as his next students. They introduced themselves as John and Meg McCarthy.

“We’re new here,” John began humbly. “When I asked at a nearby tavern for directions to lodgings a man approached me and asked if I knew anything about fruit and vegetables.”

Damen knew where this was going.

“The man said he liked to help newcomers and would give me a loan for a cart to sell produce in the street. Told me how much I’d have to pay back and when. Laid it out nice and thorough. Then he asked if I had a little money to get started. I said, yes, some savings. Before I could tell him the amount, Meg pulled me out of there saying the baby needed something.”

Damen had seen this same scenario repeatedly in his grandfather’s pub. The new ones always stood out, often falling prey to illicit schemes. His mother would boot the slimy thieves out of the pub, but that didn’t stop them from approaching their marks on the street.

“You did right, Meg.” He gave her a smile. “The city is full of thieves intent on parting you from your money. Do you remember the numbers he gave you?”

“I have them right here.” John produced a wrinkled scrap of newspaper.

Damen laid a clean sheet of paper on the desk and jotted down the numbers. Within minutes he demonstrated to John and Meg the loan was a swindle. The interest rate was so high they couldn’t sell enough vegetables to pay back the loan without using their savings. The young family would have been in the poor house by Christmas.

“It’s a hard truth. Usury is rampant in the city, bankrupting people who can ill afford it.” He tried to tell them as gently as possible that their clothes, their speech, their wide-eyed wonder, branded them as outsiders, new and ignorant to the many evils that could befall them here.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, but be wary of anyone who approaches you. Don’t make any agreement until you’ve looked at it from all angles. If you have any questions, this mission is here to help.”

***

In the alley across the street, a heavyset man sat on a barrel behind a vegetable wagon chewing on his cheroot. A gap between the turnips provided a good view of the front door and windows of the old factory.

For two decades he’d run a successful operation. He’d done it by standing his ground, crushing rivals and keeping a tight grip on business.

No one. No. One. Got in his way.

He could see Lady Strathford sitting in the front classroom of her mission talking with a man and woman. At the other end of the room sat Ravenhill.

He took his time looking him over. His men had told him they’d not recognized the filthy bastard. He’d chastised them for blind idiots. Now he grudgingly saw their confusion. There sat the high and mighty Viscount Falgate’s second son at a desk dressed in clothes typical of a lice-ridden St Giles second-hand shop. Perhaps that’s why his men were confused. His clothes looked no different than most workmen walking down the street.

A young couple with a babe and toddler sat across from Ravenhill while he wrote on a piece of paper. He turned it around for them to study and pointed with his pencil as he spoke. An expression of alarm soon filled both the man and woman’s faces.

One of his men almost conned this couple. He’d sent two others after them, but they’d managed to slip away. Now they were at the mission talking to Ravenhill, and he’d shown them something they didn’t like.

Spiky tendrils of pain circled his temple giving him a splitting headache. He threw down his cheroot and stomped on it in disgust. Anger seethed in his gullet. He knew in his bones Lady Strathford and Ravenhill were up to something, and his men had better get to the bottom of it.

***

Sarah sat at the desk across the room with another couple, finishing their lesson in addition and subtraction. While she’d talked with her students, she’d kept an eye and ear on Mr Ravenhill.

Strangely, he fit right in with them.

Except for his size, his tattered clothes and damaged face were a common sight in this part of town. Even more surprising, he spoke the street language and seemed to have a firm grasp of St Giles’ crooked dealings.

When they’d seen the last of the students, Ravenhill packed up the box of writing implements and brought it over to her. “It is admirable your charity extends to championing fair housing for the city’s poor.”

The comment warmed her. “It’s our duty to help one another. If we do not address the problems of the poor, their suffering will eventually find its way to our doorsteps. Our French neighbors learned that lesson.”

He raised a brow. “Ah, and a student of history. I commend you on your social responsibility. You are a far-seeing woman, my lady.”

“Thank you. I do what I can.” She busied herself putting her writing implements into the box to avoid his potent gaze.
Oh, dear, were her cheeks glowing red?

“I must thank you, Mr Ravenhill, for tutoring and counseling the mission’s clients on such short notice. Did I hear you speak to one or two students in their own dialect?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

She recognized his response to discomfort. “How do you do it?”

“Musical ear, my lady.” He tapped the side of his head.

“That is truly a talent.” Although his answer didn’t entirely convince. Not only had he spoken in the St Giles dialect, she thought she’d heard him shift patois to match the speech pattern of several other students. “I must also thank you for so generously sharing your knowledge.”

He turned toward the window and looked out over the street.

She followed his gaze. A man with a bundle of firewood shuffled down the sidewalk. A woman bent under the weight of a large basket of laundry trudged by. Several waifs darted through the pedestrians, probably looking for a pocket to pick. Across the street a costermonger cart sat part way into the alley. Was that what had caught his attention?

“Through an accident of birth or fate, I was given the finest education in the realm.” His voice came out in an uncharacteristically aloof tone. “It took but a few minutes of my time to help. God willing, it will keep some of them out of trouble for a day or two.”

Sarah watched the grim expression tighten his battered features. He acted as if he’d done nothing. His modesty and altruism filled her with admiration.

Their students had very little, struggling each day to pay for the most basic necessities.

Ravenhill was the son of a viscount. Entitlement flowed in his veins. Yet with great courtesy and patience he’d listened to their troubles and answered their questions.

From what she’d heard, he gave excellent advice. His discussion on the loan-swindling techniques for costermonger carts was particularly enlightening. How had he come by such intimate knowledge of their underhanded tricks?

“Might you be available again, Mr Ravenhill? There are many who could use your expertise. I didn’t know you had such a gift for teaching.”

His dark brows quirked as if she’d said something funny.

Her heart did a little flip. The charming scoundrel. It felt like she’d pulled back a rose petal and discovered a lovely compassionate part of him beneath. What other stellar qualities did he keep hidden?

He’d sat at her mission’s crude wooden desk in his tattered workman’s clothes, where he explained everything from simple addition to complex loan concepts.

Rather than talk down to his students, he put them at ease, simplified the lessons and spoke in a language they understood. The quiet sensitivity he showed these needy people and his slow, careful discussion to make sure they understood amazed her.

Aristocrats typically disdained anything to do with business… or the lower classes. Oddly, Ravenhill showed genuine concern for these people.

In short… he cared.

Oh, the suffering and despair she’d seen in too many men and women who’d been robbed of their last farthing by unscrupulous thieves.

“There is much need for practical advice in this part of the city. Is there any way I can persuade you to tutor again?”

One side of his mouth quirked. “Persuade?” His gaze slid to her lips.

Flutters launched in her chest again. He wasn’t making what she was about to propose any easier. “We both could use assistance with certain… things. Tomorrow, I would like to visit your father’s warehouse where my husband had his laboratory. In return I will give you the names of those who attended the Grancliffe party.” She dug into her pocket for the list.

“Does this mean you’ve decided to work together?”

His sultry rumble sent a tingle up her spine.
Mercy
, he was persistent. “Let’s just say… it’s a favor for a favor.”

***

Damen sat next to Sarah’s little desk in a somewhat larger chair while she read aloud the names on the list. He listened to the rise and fall of her clear voice, relishing the silken timbre.

“Do you think you remember any of the guests now?” she asked.

Damen shrugged. Of course he didn’t remember anyone. He’d not been at the party. Some of the names he knew because he’d heard them mentioned elsewhere. And, of course, he knew the countess and Miss Collins.

He’d assumed the person his brother had seen in the doorway was a man. Now he realized the acolyte could have been anyone, even a child.

“You mentioned a Mary Sikes. How old was she?”

“Perhaps my age. She did nothing to draw attention in either manner or word, practically invisible as servants are trained.”

“Can you describe her to me?”

Sarah gazed around the schoolroom. Her long, honeyed lashes wafted up and down in a series of blinks. “She covered her dark braids with a white cap and she had even, unremarkable features. I seem to recall a strawberry birthmark right here.” Sarah pointed to a spot on her neck. “But her most distinguishing features were…” A blush rose on her cheeks as her hands made a few expansive gestures that Damen finally realized meant large breasts.

Words deserted him and an awkward silence ensued while he struggled not to let his eyes drift down to Sarah’s own very fine… features. How would Cory have responded to that? “Yes, well…” He coughed. “Do you recall seeing me talk to anyone?”

“At dinner you sat at the opposite end of the table. You and Captain Parker carried on a lively conversation. Later, you danced with several women before you danced with me and then left directly after.”

“With whom did I dance, besides you?”

Sarah’s face turned pink again. “I did not follow your every move, Mr Ravenhill.” Her lips twitched at the corners. “But if memory serves, I remember seeing you with Lady Molesworthy and Miss Hortense Soames.”

“Are they people who might be involved in underhanded dealings?”

A quick laugh escaped before she managed to reschool her expression. “Lady Molesworthy and Miss Soames are practically ancient. I can’t see them doing anyone physical harm. Their weapon of choice is their wagging tongues.”

“Is there anyone else on this list you’d consider questionable?” he asked.

“Apart from the woman named Mary, no. Until your revelations about my husband renting your father’s warehouse, I’d been of the opinion my husband did not keep secrets. Now it appears he had a separate laboratory, working on projects with colleagues he’d never discussed and… perhaps a woman named Mary,” she gulped.

“The only verified evidence in any of those suspicions is that Strathford rented my father’s warehouse which then suffered an explosion and fire.”

“Nevertheless, the police inspector said a Professor Bodkin collaborated with my husband on a small engine. Previously I doubted his claim. Now I’m of a mind it’s within the realm of possibility. I assume they worked together in Strathford’s laboratory in your father’s warehouse. Despite the fire, there might still be evidence, however minute, that Professor Bodkin or Mary Turner were there.”