The Trouble With Seduction (34 page)

“As I suspected,” Damen growled. “What was their excuse?”

“All recount a similar story. A brutal gang led by a character calling himself the ‘Scythe’ coerced them into paying protection money. At first, the property managers raised the rents to cover the additional amount. Then they were told to raise rents further and take a portion for themselves. A sly move on the gang’s part to make them culpable, as well as assure their obedience and silence.”

“And what of the fires?”

“They said the fires were set by the gang to create fear and force their victims to do their bidding.”

Damen took off his glasses and polished them. With his father’s unfortunate illness and inability to oversee his holdings, they’d become vulnerable to every kind of corruption. The property managers would be replaced and he intended to give rent decreases. He also knew some of the buildings were in drastic need of repair.

His mind wandered to Sarah again.

Since he’d returned to London, she was never far from his mind. Would she recognize him – a decidedly un-dandyish, hirsute, myopic new Viscount Falgate?

Would she forgive him if he told her the truth about his foray into impersonation and all its absurdity? And could they ever be anything other than enemies now that he was officially one of London’s biggest slumlords.

When he walked into Falgate Hall a while later, the house seemed strangely quiet, as always, even though a big city percolated close to its doorstep the stillness underscored his loneliness.

Then and there he decided he wanted a large family to fill the vast silence with children’s chatter and laughter. And in his imagination, some of those children would have wild blonde hair that would defy any pins or hats that tried to contain it.

A knock sounded at his door.

“Come,” he growled.

The family butler entered and presented a salver with an envelope. Damen glanced at the writing and ripped it open. The sight of the familiar block lettering tightened a muscle in his neck.

No signature, but a large letter ‘I’ was scrawled at the bottom.

Damen read the short message again. This could be another ambush.

Mrs Ivanova conjured countless questions.

She’d managed to cling to his heels during his previous sojourn in London. Only Gormley and his father knew about the deception. Had she figured it out? Could she possibly have known he went to Liverpool?

Given how she claimed she carried Cory’s baby and convinced Sarah he was the devil incarnate, he itched to confront the mysterious Muscovite.

And what about the tiny engine? Had it or the plans been found? Or did the little therapeutic devices Strathford had been working on somehow get misconstrued?

He glanced up at his butler. “Ready the men and dogs.”

***

Damen arrived at the tavern five minutes early and found a seat at the back wall. He wanted a clear view of everything in the place – the bar, the front door, and the hall to the kitchen. He ordered an ale but only held it in his hands while he waited.

Whoever attacked Cory had been deadly serious. The first gang would have done the same to Damen and Sarah had he not known the rookery. He’d survived the Painted Lady pub assault and the two alley fights with bare-knuckle grit and St Giles dirty street fighting.

His father knew he needed to clean out the nests of villains in his properties. Both he and Mary Turner said it would take an army. Since his father’s decline, the criminals now infested the place like an epidemic. If they were bold enough to attack the wealthy and powerful, no doubt they fell on the poor like packs of ravenous wolves.

Damen knew he must fix the problem. The local police were outmatched, incompetent, and corrupt.

On his side, he’d brought three dozen hard, ex-military men, and a dozen detectives. Twelve now blended in with the patrons at the tavern. The others were stationed in the street out front and in the back alley with the hounds.

Customers came and went. A crowd now jammed the place. Unless Mrs Ivanova was a man or dressed like one, she hadn’t arrived. At nearly six he stood, readying to leave. One of the barmen approached and said a woman wanted to speak with him in the alley.

Damen caught the eye of two of his men, wordlessly sending the message to follow. As he entered the narrow hall leading out back, thugs ambushed him. One of his men blew a whistle. Bottles and tankards began to fly. Chairs crashed, tables overturned. Toughs around the tavern rose up to throw punches and corner his men. The villains had brought reinforcements.

It was all-out war.

Only a dim lantern lit the narrow hall. Damen fended off the men’s knives and cudgels. A metal pipe flew out, taking him by surprise.

When he managed to wrench the pipe from the villain’s hands, he noticed the number six tattooed in his palm. Damen kicked and scratched and pounded and heaved until he’d fought his way out the back, dragging Number Six with him. His men quickly gagged and manacled the carpenter and shoved him to the floor of one of the waiting carriages.

“Gather the men,” Damen said to his second-in-command.

The carriages drove straight to a vacant Falgate warehouse.

It took four of his men to drag the large, muscular carpenter inside, rope his arms and legs to a chair, and lift it on top of a table. The lantern light shed grotesque shadows across the brick walls. An ugly taste filled Damen’s mouth.

He looked at Number Six’s bent little and ring fingers, the ones Damen had broken when they were boys. Here was the man who, as a boy, nearly killed Granny Wilkins, bashed Cory in the head with a brick, and might have been the acquaintance the doomed footman said Cory recognized when he’d been attacked and put into a coma.

The dark bruise coloring Number Six’s cheekbone would soon blacken his eye. His knuckles oozed. The bastard and his friends had tried to kill him again, only this time Damen had brought his own men.

He shuddered to think this animal had roamed around Sarah’s home. It didn’t take much imagination to see him planting the incriminating fuses.

“Ungag and toss that bucket of water on him. Let’s see if he has anything to say.”

The carpenter jolted awake when the cold water hit his face. “Bloody hell,” he rasped, and shook his head like a dog with water in his ears.

Damen stepped forward. “Do you know who I am?”

The carpenter looked him up and down and snarled, struggling against his bindings.

He could almost see the wheels turning in Number Six’s head, calculating his escape.

“No? You don’t recognize me? Then let me introduce myself. I am the man who will see you hang.”

The carpenter spat in his face and spewed forth a creative string of St Giles expletives.

“I’d sit still if I were you. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a noose around your neck. It won’t take much to tip that wobbly table you’re sitting on, and then the rope will do the rest.”

Realization finally entered the carpenter’s eyes. “What do you want?”

“Who gave you instructions to attack me and my men?”

“No one. I’m their leader,” he said mulishly.

“I think not.” Damen pressed his foot against the table, making it shimmy.

“I was told to give you a message.” He leaned in to whisper. “A certain brothel madam sends her love.”

The carpenter’s lips curled into a snarl.

“She said she will always cherish… was it Ergatroit?”

The man gasped in a breath while his features rearranged into horrid disbelief. “Where is she?”

“For safety’s sake, I cannot say, but she fled because she was sure the Scythe would kill her if she stayed.”

The carpenter’s skin grew ashen. “The Scythe?”

“Aye. That’s what she said. So, would you like to amend your statement? Who is he?’”

CHAPTER 31

An hour later, six carriages pulled along the edge of the street, within a block of what once had been Mary Turner’s brothel. The first floor had been converted to a white-tablecloth dining room. A fine chef had been hired and turned it into one of the best gentlemen’s eateries in the city.

If food wasn’t what a customer wanted, they could climb the red-carpeted stairs to the second floor for drinks, various games of chance, or their choice of comely strumpets.

Damen and his men now wore jackets and neckerchiefs to fit into the establishment. Fifteen of his men entered the dining room in small groups. More surrounded the front and back.

While Damen and three of his detectives were seated at a table and read the specials, he looked around for the man Number Six said called himself the Scythe. On his third glance about the room, one man seemed familiar.

He’d changed into better clothes as well. Other than his size, he still looked so understated Damen almost passed him over. He was the second farrier who’d barely said a word when he and Sarah visited the Falgate warehouse.

Just then, the bearded farrier appeared from the hallway leading to the back. As if making a stage entrance, Inspector Hooker finally emerged in all his surly glory.

As Hooker and the farrier took their seats, Damen caught the eye of his own lead man.

He got to his feet, approached the inspector, and placed his hands on his hips. “It’s time we had a chat.”

The two farriers lurched forward, but Hooker held up his hand to stop them. He squinted one eye while the other bulged. “We’re busy,” he sneered, dangerously.

“You might want to take a look around this fine establishment,” Damen said in a quiet, controlled voice. “The room is filled with my men. I’d prefer not to have to tear the place apart, but I will if you insist.”

Hooker’s lips thinned as he sniffed. The farriers acted on the signal and heaved the table. Food and dishes flew.

Hooker dashed toward the back hallway.

The men had been ready. While several subdued the farriers, Damen pursued the inspector through the kitchens, where he flung pots of boiling food, knives, skewers – anything he could get his hands on.

As Hooker slammed out the back door, Damen lunged and tackled him. Several of his men rushed forward and helped subdue the inspector. Then hauled him to a waiting carriage.

When they arrived back at the Falgate warehouse, his men dragged Hooker into a small workshop and tied him to another chair. The lantern light made the interior look like a dark cell.

Damen stood gazing at the devil who’d hidden behind a horde of villains and victimized countless people. His pocked face, bulging eye, and crooked mouth were creased with deep lines from a lifetime of ugly sneers. His hair had turned salt and pepper. A sizable paunch protruded from his gut.

“This is kidnapping,” he growled.

Damen drew his lips across his teeth. “Kidnapping is the least of your troubles.”

Hooker’s bulbous nostrils flared. “What ‘r yuh want?”

“For starters, you’re done scratching your gang’s symbol on my property.”

“S’elp me, God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why did you send your men to kill my brother?

“You’re bolloxed.”

Damen kicked the chair over backwards. Then stepped heavily onto Hooker’s chest.

The inspector turned red in the face.

Lifting his foot, he glared at the man. “Answer my question.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“No. I doubt you’ve ever dirtied your own hands. You have your men do the work while you enjoy a fine dinner in a brothel you stole. I repeat, why did you send your men to kill my brother.”

“You’re wasting your time—”

Damen stepped on his chest again, leaning harder this time. “Nor am I a patient man.”

The inspector soon turned purple.

When he finally eased up on his foot, Hooker gasped in air. “I hate all you Ravenhills.”

“Why?”

Hooker’s lips puckered and he spat.

The effort was so pitiful, all Damen could do was shake his head. He wiped the spittle off his shoe onto Hooker’s face and slid the toe of his boot against his throat.

As the inspector’s skin changed shades, his face contorted, and his tongue lolled.

“We can keep playing this game until you choke,” Damen said quietly and released some of the pressure from his foot.

“Your father destroyed my family,” Hooker gasped. “He had my sons and brother deported. The ship never reached Botany Bay. My wife died of a broken heart.”

“That’s rich. You ran your gangs in St Giles for decades. Others were captured, hung, and deported, and you kept yourself hidden, letting others pay the price while you orchestrated all manner of heinous crimes. So it’s an eye for an eye, is it?”

“And anyone you care about,” he spat.

“What do you mean? Is that why you threatened Mrs Ivanova?”

“Who?”

Damen wondered if he’d revealed too much. After the earlier pub fight, he’d wondered if Mrs Ivanova worked with the gangs. “A Muscovite woman who conceals herself behind a black veil.”

Hooker squinted and curled his lip as if Damen were daft.

“She was after the same plans you claimed a Professor Bodkin wanted.”

“I don’t know any Muscovite woman. I received paperwork signed by a Professor Bodkin demanding we obtain the drawings for Strathford’s small engine.”

“Were they ever found?”

“Lady Strathford has them. Mark my words.”

“I’ve wondered about your interest in them. And you know what I came up with? Either you decided you needed your cut, or it was you who had Strathford make the engine. I’m guessing you had a foreign buyer, possibly an arms dealer supplying the Crimea? And when Strathford wouldn’t sell it to you, you blew up his laboratories.”

“You and your Lady Do-gooder have quite the imaginations. His twisted his lips. “She has a lesson coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her and her damned mission. She stole my pigeons… and she thinks she doesn’t owe protection money? He cut a glance over his shoulder at the darkened window.

“She may have won the first round, but I still control the streets! She’s having a celebration tonight…” – he made an ugly smile – “…and I’ve sent her a special present.”