The Trouble With Seduction (27 page)

Sarah was getting impatient. “I understand. We’ve discussed this before.”

“There didn’t seem to be any clear answer,” Mrs Billings said hurriedly and gazed between her and Mr Ravenhill.

“Please get to the point. Why is the mission closed and what news required me to fortify myself with tea?”

“My lady…” She took a deep breath. “I closed the mission to clean up the mess.”

“The mess?” Sarah looked around the spare entry. Everything looked as tidy as usual.

“Early this morning a masked gang sent bricks through the back windows and ransacked several classrooms and storage.”

Sarah gazed at the closed doors. “Why would they do that? Nothing of value is kept here. It all goes to the neighborhood.”

She jumped to her feet and threw open a classroom door. “Heavens!” Inside, desks were tossed about the room as if a cyclone hit. All the items on the shelves lay scattered or broken about the floor. The vandals had used charcoal to scrawl curses across the walls.

Mr Ravenhill stood at her shoulder. “May I, my lady?”

Sarah let him enter the room ahead of her. He slowly stepped over the debris and appeared to look things over very carefully. “Are any items missing?”

“I… I’m not sure. Mrs Billings?”

Her mission manager wrung her hands. “It doesn’t appear they took much of anything, my lady, merely destroyed the classrooms.”

Sarah pointed to an image scrawled across the wall. “What is this picture?”

Mr Ravenhill narrowed his eyes on the drawing. “It’s a ‘scythe’, the gang’s symbol, and the name of the leader of a major gang. This symbol was also scrawled on the wall of my father’s warehouse.”

“Have you notified the police?” Sarah looked to her manager.

Mrs Billings shook her head. The cobbler across the street said the police do nothing. We should expect a demand for protection money from the villains. He recommended we pay it if we don’t want the place damaged again.”

“This is intolerable! My mission has been here nearly five years helping the poor and needy. I’ve fed the hungry, clothed the destitute, and tried to educate their children so they might make better lives for themselves.”

Mrs Billings nodded, “Countless numbers have been helped. Per your instructions, my lady, I asked some of the children why their friends no longer attend our school. I finally discovered some of their parents have been threatened. Apparently, the swindlers and confidence men are unhappy we’ve been educating their prospective pigeons.”

“So they decided to send a message,” Damen muttered. “The Scythe’s men have left their calling card on your wall. I’m sorry, I’m probably partly responsible for bringing this down on you, my lady. I showed some couples how to calculate their loans. They will be difficult to swindle in the future.”

“Oh, but Mr Ravenhill, that’s exactly what these people need. You gave them the gift of knowledge.”

“And it’s obviously angered a powerful gang who have enjoyed controlling these streets.”

“So, should we give up? Let the criminals continue their villainies so that they may live like parasites off the backs of hard-working people?”

“It appears someone is sending you a dangerous message, my lady. I worry for your safety. If you wish to keep this mission open, I suggest you take the precaution of hiring guards for your protection and that of others.”

CHAPTER 24

The Painted Lady had always been a gathering place for the neighborhood, a place where information flowed over tankards of ale. If Damen was lucky, someone here might give him information.

Attacking Sarah’s mission this morning had been the height of maliciousness. Clearly, the depravity of the ‘Scythe’ and his gang knew no bounds when they hurt the people most in need of charity. The vandals who’d damaged the mission could be the same ones who’d chased him and Sarah. They might even be the ones who attacked Cory.

Damen bought an ale and engaged the bartender in conversation. Though cordial, the fellow busied himself with other customers and shuffled away. Damen then made small talk with several tradesmen standing at the bar and bought them drinks. They responded to his questions in vagaries, volunteering only that times were tough.

He talked to two more who quickly found reasons to disappear into the crowd. No one wanted to talk about the Scythe, or perhaps were too afraid. Giving up, he found a table at the back where he could see everyone who entered or left the pub.

Marbanks had told him Cory came here on the day he’d been attacked. He’d planned to talk with a property manager who frequently stopped by in the afternoons. The man of business described him as friendly, bandy-legged, with a heavy salt-and-pepper beard.

Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone. If anyone knew about rents and neighborhood villains, the property manager should.

Still in his workman’s clothes, Damen kept his head low and pretended to study his murky tankard of ale while he searched the crowd.

The din steadily grew as the place filled.

The man Marbanks described finally entered. He greeted the bartender, exchanged a few words, and collected his tankard.

By now, the sun had sunk in the sky and smoke dimmed the pub. Damen caught his eye and motioned to him. The property manager paled but made his way over.

“Mr Jaspar,” he announced over the noise.

“Aye, Mr Ravenhill, what brings—”

Damen shoved a chair out with his foot. “Have a seat.”

The man gave him a weak smile and slowly sank into the chair. While he sipped on his brew, he seemed to make a squinting assessment of his bruised face.

“I’ve some questions for you, Jaspar. Tell me, why have the rents fallen in your building over the past year?” He didn’t mention his memory lapse or the assault – or rather, Cory’s assault. The man could very well see it on his face. For all he knew, the property manager might have set the villains on Cory.

“I’m sorry for what happened to your…” The man pointed to his face.

Damen merely stared at him, waiting, while raucous customers at the next table whooped and laughed.

Jaspar fidgeted with his tankard and squirmed. “The rents have come down all over. As I said last time, there’s stiff competition.”

“Competition from whom?”

“Other buildings. None of us can get what we used to.” He shrugged and looked up through his baggy eyes like a dog caught making a mess.

“I walked up and down this block before I came here and do you know what I saw? Buildings stuffed to the gills with renters. More tenants than ever, in fact. Adults and children spill out into the street. Multiple families now live in tiny apartments made for one. I’ve talked to some of the people living in them and they say they’ve had several rent increases this year!”

Jaspar blinked, worked his lips into a tight smile, and wriggled in his seat. “Well, you see, Mr Ravenhill, there is this new tax we all have to pay.”

“What tax?”

“A business tax.”

Out of nowhere, a man crashed over their table. Two of the men who’d been laughing shoved out of their seats and started throwing punches. Damen ducked to get out of the way. A boot flew out from the other side kicking him in the hip, barely missing his bollocks. He immediately saw the play – make the assault on him look like a pub brawl. He picked up his chair and swung it in an arc, hitting the kicker and three more, shattering the chair.

The men throwing punches grabbed for him, but he kneed them, kicked two others who’d joined the fracas, and spun away. He picked up the shattered chair legs and swung them like clubs at anyone who came near him.

A bottle crashed across his back, barely missing his head. He pivoted, striking two men trying to jump him from behind. Two more dove for his legs. Kicking and stomping, he fought his way toward the entrance. When he finally made it to the door, a man jumped on his shoulders. Another latched on to his arm, refusing to let go as Damen batted him with a chair leg.

A foot came out and tripped him. He fell out the door onto the sidewalk. Three men piled on top, one flailing him with metal knuckles. Damen let out a roar and kicked, bucked, scratched, and bit. He lashed out, swinging his fists, feet, a bottle lying in the gutter, anything he could get his hands on. He finally managed to break away and ran down a side street that ended at the wall of a two-story building. The only exit was back the way he’d come.

Four burly ruffians swaggered toward him with ghoulish grins on their faces.

He stood his ground. “You don’t really want it to end this way, do you?”

One of them gave him a rotten-toothed smirk and lunged forward, throwing a punch. Damen caught his fist and twisted, then fetched him a blow over the head. The villain groaned, and crumpled.

The other three rushed forward.

One attacked from the front while the other two danced in at the sides. As Damen whirled, one of them leapt onto his shoulders. He rammed himself back against the brick wall throwing the man off while he dealt with the other two. Both were as big as himself. Both flashed butcher’s knives.

Before they could overtake him he spun, kicked, and knocked them into each other. He smashed one in the face and kicked the other in the bollocks, followed by a double-fisted blow over the backs of their heads, sending them to the dirt.

Blood raced through his veins. He’d not experienced this heady mix of danger and excitement in ages. Something fundamental made him want to howl.

The fellow he’d thrown off his back suddenly rose up with a ferocious snarl and slammed his metal knuckles into Damen’s shin. Sharp pain shot up his leg.

He clouted the villain in the nose and jaw. The miscreant fell back to the ground, but Damen couldn’t help popping him once, twice, a third time. “And that’s for the leg,” he growled. Then he grabbed him by the collar again and slugged him two more times for good measure. “And stay down, you filthy bastard.”

As Damen walked past the other three men he noticed one of them start to sit up. He kicked the animal in the stomach and glared at him. “Stay. Down.”

He limped out of the alley to the delicious rush of vitality and satisfaction. “God, I’ve missed that kind of excitement,” he muttered under his breath. Deep down he knew it was wrong to draw pleasure from subduing men with his fists. But whoever made up that rule obviously didn’t know the gratification gained from kicking evil in the teeth. Truth be told, some part of him vastly enjoyed it.

Solid proof he was still a brute.

***

As Damen sat in the cab on the way back to Falgate Hall, he took stock of the situation. Generally, he wasn’t a worrier. If there was a problem, he saw to it. But little made sense in this whole debacle. Sarah wasn’t taking proper precautions against the omnipresent danger. Once she discovered he was a scoundrel, he would have no more influence with her. He must get her to take her safety seriously before that happened.

While it seemed improbable the problems at her mission had anything to do with Strathford’s missing plans, it was strangely coincidental they’d all rained down on her at once.

And how did Cory fit in? Did he somehow get caught up in the maelstrom, or was he part of the problem?

One thing was for certain: Cory’s engagement to a harpy like Miss Lambert, and bringing a strange Russian woman into the country when England was officially at war with them, did not attest to any level of clear thinking.

Damen had finished going over the ledgers and felt fairly certain of Marbanks’ honesty. Granny and Sarah’s mission clients verified rents had increased substantially. Yet all the property managers reported the same percentage decline.

Too many coincidences.

There had to be collusion and he sensed the noose tightening. While chaos reigned, he couldn’t get traction. Every time he got close, a pack of villains emerged from the gutters to do him in.

He was a man of action and it was past time he got a few things done – clean house, as it were. As a pragmatist, he started at one end and worked his way to the other. While he continued to search for Strathford’s plans with Sarah, he would see to some much-needed changes.

***

The next day at three o’clock, as Miss Lambert’s note demanded, Damen climbed the steps to her magnificent townhouse. He handed Cory’s card to the butler. While he waited, he listened to the patter of the elaborate fountain in the marble and statue-lined vestibule.

A few moments later, the butler showed him into a grand parlor dominated by fine wooden furniture, a high ceiling adorned with frescos, lavish plaster moldings, and thick ropes of gilt. Landscapes and friezes circled the room. Anything soft, like upholstery or rugs, was curiously absent. A fire roared in the grate, heating the room well past his comfort, and smelled of something medicinal.

Miss Lambert stood when her butler showed Damen into the room. “Good afternoon, Mr Ravenhill.” She winced. Her skin stretched tight over her skull, emphasizing her rather pronounced proboscis and weak chin.

“Miss Lambert.” He bowed.

The woman did not fit his brother’s customary taste. Though, of late, Cory’s preferences had expanded to a more eclectic variety. He usually preferred his inamoratas in the bloom of health. Women with striking features – if not beautiful, at least interesting; thick hair – any bold color; large eyes – any bright hue; sensuous rouged lips; large… chest… preferably, or plenty of shape elsewhere.

Miss Lambert was the antithesis of his brother’s typical selection – a skinny, pale wisp of a woman with anemic blonde hair and apparently no eyebrows or eyelashes. Strings of tiny pearls laced her thin crown of braids. Her gown was of some lovely, pale, diaphanous material, no doubt made in one of London’s finest salons, completing the picture of a big-beaked arctic fairy.

“Join me.” She motioned for him to sit next to her on the intricately carved wooden settee. Her pinched lips hinted at her mood and the direction of today’s conversation.

“Tea, Mr Ravenhill?” Without waiting for his assent, she handed him a dainty cup and saucer as he took his seat. The spindly-legged table in front of them held a tray with a teapot and no cream or sugar. Once she’d poured herself a cup she sat back, pointedly stared at his face, and grimaced. “Will your bruises be healed by our wedding day?”