Rebellious, Scandalous, and Irredeemable

Sarah, Lady Strathford is ready for a little harmless frivolity with a man of her own age and her own appetites… surely that’s not too much to ask! After the death of her beloved husband years before, Sarah is ready for an adventure… Enter the dashing, roguish – and baffling – Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

Ravenhill, however, is not the gentleman he seems, and soon Sarah finds herself battling against the corrupt and harsh world around her as it threatens to destroy all she holds dear. The question is, will her seduction at the hands of Mr Ravenhill prove to be her savior or her downfall?

The Trouble with Seduction

Victoria Hanlen

www.CarinaUK.com

VICTORIA HANLEN

Award winning, historical romance author, VICTORIA HANLEN, has worked at a wide range of jobs, from fashion, to corporate business, to treading the boards of stage and professional opera. A lifelong writer, she once put her skills to use in PR and advertising. But the writing she enjoys most is dreaming up stories with happily ever afters. Victoria and her husband live in rural New England surrounded by a host of wildlife. For more, please visit her at:

http://victoriahanlen.com

https://www.facebook.com/VictoriaHanlen

https://www.twitter.com/VictoriaHanlen

Immense gratitude goes to my fabulous editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her patient guidance and for taking a chance on a new author. Many thanks goes to the very talented Carina UK team. You continue to amaze me with your brilliant, creative work.

To Ann Clement, Julia Gabriel, Anna James, Jael Wye, Jamie Beck and Jessica Trapp—thanks for the honesty, laughter and enthusiasm. It’s meant the world to me. I so appreciate the camaraderie and encouragement of the Connecticut Romance Writers of America.

I’m also grateful for my very supportive family. You are my moorings and inspiration.

Most of all, thank you dear reader for choosing to spend a few hours with The Trouble with Seduction. I hope Sarah and Damen entertained you.

To my husband.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

London, England, April 1855

Sarah Strathford brushed a pesky curl out of her eye and glanced at the clocks lining the shelves of her elegant boudoir. Their mélange of rhythms had gone from cheerful patter to nettles in her ears. Each tick taunted that her time had once again been appropriated.

Megpeas, her butler, appeared in the doorway. “My apologies, my lady…”

“I know, I know. Is my brother still here?”

“Yes, my lady. He and Lord Lumsley have made themselves comfortable in the parlor.” Megpeas’s stiff mask indicated they’d run roughshod over him again.

Sarah capped her fountain pen, slid her Mission of Mercy’s account ledger into her desk and tried not to frown at her butler. It wasn’t his fault this made the third time this week her brother and his boon companion decided to pop by. “Very well, I will see to them now.”

While descending the stairs, Sarah fumed over what this would do to her crowded schedule. Idle hands were the devil’s handiwork, but more importantly, being productive kept her mind from dwelling on uncomfortable subjects.

As a consequence, she did not like surprises. Especially surprise visits from her brother on the pretext of a friendly chat with his choice for her next husband. Hopefully, after a polite word or two, she could send them on their way.

When Sarah reached the first landing of the grand, heart-shaped staircase, she paused to gaze at the magnificent rotunda with the larger-than-life statue of David. The sight still took her breath away. Though not as large as Spencer House, Strathford Hall had many of the fine designs and architectural embellishments. Her dear Edward had bought her this lovely Mayfair home.

She breathed in the clean scent of beeswax and proceeded to the parlor door where she stopped again to smooth down the high collar of her black gown and compose herself. The sooner she said her hellos and goodbyes, the sooner she could get back to her list of tasks. She pushed open the parlor door.

Bear-grease pomade hung thick on the air. Her hand slid the short distance from her collar to her mouth to cover her cough.

“My dear, how lovely you look!” Baron Lumsley jumped to his feet, beaming.

Her brother, the Earl of Rollinson, soon followed, all smiles. He and his friend were a mismatched pair, Niles being tall and thin while Lumsley tended toward portly and barely reached his shoulders. Apart from that, their tailors had put them into similar light-colored jackets, plaid trousers and silk waistcoats.

The mirror over the fireplace immediately revealed her mistake. Heavens! No wonder they’d got the wrong impression.

Gracie, her lady’s maid, had been in a surprisingly good mood this morning. While she’d jabbered on about a yellow rooster and a donkey, she’d tamed Sarah’s blonde hair and curled ringlets down the sides of her face. The style rather flattered her. Something Sarah had told her repeatedly not to do. Flattering hairstyles, comely gowns and rouge had a way of putting her into all sorts of unwanted situations. Like now.

“Curls complement you, my dear,” Lumsley effused. He took her hand and placed a damp kiss on her knuckles.

He and Niles had been friends since her brother brought him home from Harrow during one of the holidays. From a round-faced youth, Lumsley had grown into a rather medium sort of man: medium height, medium features, medium build. Not bad… not good… just medium.

His one distinguishing characteristic – his slicked-down, medium-brown hair – had thinned, leaving a bald patch in back. The missing follicles appeared to have decamped to more fertile ground in his abundant muttonchops, which now framed his ruddy cheeks and met in a bristly mustache under his nose.

“How have you been, my lord?” She withdrew her hand and dried it on her skirt.

“Very well, thank you.” Lumsley’s broad grin showed the gap between his two large front teeth. “This may be rather last minute, but we were in the area and hoped you might accompany us to Berkeley Square for an ice at Gunter’s.”

Sarah tried to keep an equable expression as she gazed at her deceased husband’s little mind-puzzler contraptions sitting on the table in front of the sofa. Few guests could resist their allure and Niles and Lumsley had obviously been playing with them while they waited.

“I do appreciate the offer, but I have an appointment.” She almost added that even if she didn’t have an appointment, she couldn’t think of doing anything so spur-of-the-moment. She must place it on her schedule and mentally prepare.

“Ask them to wait until we return,” Lumsley wheedled amiably. “Or better yet, postpone it to another time.”

Sarah idly scratched her knuckles. “I probably shouldn’t.”

Outside, a furious storm of hammering commenced, rattling the parlor’s glass panes. The workmen had finished their noonday meal and with it went the blessed silence. She stepped to the window to see the journeymen tear into Strathford’s burned laboratory.

A whole other species of masculinity strutted below them – muscling heavy timbers and pieces of granite and brandishing large tools – a surprisingly fit lot and quite diverting for a widow of two-plus years.

Such manliness rarely made it into her limited circle of acquaintances… except for, well, the vexatious Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

“Sit, then, and spend a few moments with us.” Her brother smiled and motioned for her to take a place on the couch next to his friend.

Sarah loved her brother and didn’t want to disappoint him, but it didn’t take a singular intellect to see he wanted her to marry his best friend.

Outside, a loud screech rent the air. She turned back toward the window in time to see a portion of the laboratory’s wall collapse onto Edward’s invention garden.

Lumsley strode to her side and whistled at the sight.

Sarah gazed down, heartsick. With his wonderful genius, her husband had designed a singular garden and populated it with his unique inventions. It had been the embodiment of everything Edward had been.

Three workmen crawled through the plume of dust spewing out of the new opening. Two more rolled wheelbarrows over the shattered memory fountain to shovel up the debris. A broken water pipe, now a small geyser, flooded what was left of the flower bed.

“This renovation appears quite the undertaking, my lady.” Lumsley turned to her brother. “Are you helping your sister with this project, Rollinson?”

“This is my project,” she piped up. “The rooms have needed repair for far too long. A blot on the neighborhood, I’ve been informed. I’m rebuilding them to suit my interests.”

“And you haven’t helped her, dear boy? For shame,” Lumsley chastised her brother. “She needs a man to control that army of workmen outside.”

“I’d hoped she would have chosen a husband by now.” Niles winked.

Their conversation faded to the background while Sarah considered the situation. As a young woman she’d been isolated and biddable, marrying two staid old men for her father’s convenience and peace of mind.

Lumsley could be an improvement in some respects. He was closer in age, she’d known him for years and he’d certainly fit in well with the family. But he reminded her of cold porridge. Nothing about him drew her. She gazed about Edward’s collection of small inventions and unique clocks working like delicate heartbeats on the shelves about the room.

Not one of them was ordinary or mediocre. Perhaps that was the reason why her husband so disliked him?

“You were always good at organization, Lumsley. Something I’ve admired about you.” Niles gestured to his friend. “He has the impeccable ability to immediately see where things need to be put to rights.” He swept his hand toward Sarah and raised his brows. “He could help you sort out all that rabble outside if you’d give him a chance.”

Her Aunt Eliza’s counsel came back to her. “Have courage, my dear. You are a widow of means, and now have the luxury to find your own happiness.”

How Sarah wanted to take her aunt’s advice. But the day-to-day responsibilities and realities of making her own way had begun to wear. She’d spent most of her adult years as a wife confined to a woman’s sphere. Doubts now crept in, questioning if she’d the fortitude to withstand her family and society’s pressure against remaining an unmarried woman.

She gazed down at the ruined garden and clenched a fist to her stomach. The sight worked on her like a punch to the solar plexus. Self-condemnation tumbled over her like a wave. If she’d been better at managing, Edward’s miraculous invention garden would still be in one piece.

An overpowering urge to hold and touch items Edward made for her became paramount. Her teeth ground together as she strode to the door. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m not able to go with you today. Megpeas will show you out.”

“I say, Sis, getting away for a little while might be just the thing.”

She yanked open the door. “Unfortunately, I already have a very full day.”

Sarah nearly ran up the stairs and down the long hallway. Her shoes tapped on the marble slabs as she turned into a darkened corridor. Three rows of rectangular wooden moldings marched along the walls.

After checking up and down the empty hallway, she pulled a chain from under her collar. On it hung an ornate key. She counted to the middle fifth rectangle on her right, ran her finger under the lower left-hand corner, and fitted the key into the lock. Giving it a firm twist, the secret door swung inward. She quickly stepped through and relocked the door.

For Sarah, entering this plush, gilded room had been an escape from everyday life into a world of pleasure and sensuality. Sparkling red and gold veils filtered sunlight and shed an aura of fantasy across masses of soft furs and pillows. This had been her and Edward’s secret seraglio.

Slowly making her way across the soft sheepskin and llama hides, she touched the face of the court jester automaton Edward had designed for her. Polished music boxes lined a Chippendale bookcase. She lifted the lid on a mahogany and rosewood music box. The tinkling melody of Schubert’s ‘Near My Beloved’ began to play.

Humming along, she grasped the silver salver from the bedside table’s bottom shelf and set it on top, pulled back the red velvet and unveiled its contents. Special oils, redolent of lime, cedar and incense – still pungent after all this time – burst through the air and filled her senses.

Eddie, the Earl of Strathford, her second husband, hadn’t been what most considered physically attractive or possessed of a conventional personality, and in certain social situations he could be slightly awkward. None of these things mattered.

Though twice her age, she’d grown to treasure him for his good heart, his curiosity about the world and his sheer brilliance. How she had relished watching him create. Out of scraps of odds and ends he’d piece together the most miraculous inventions.

Sarah breathed in the fragrances and perused the salver of Edward’s toys like she would a tray of tasty treats. A smile worked its way across her lips. Oh, the wickedness of that man. Over the few short years of their marriage, dear Eddie had shown her what a creative inventor could do for a woman. Unfortunately, his inventions often took priority and his toys became her only bed partners. Perhaps she should see if they still worked?

Gliding a hand over a few of the devices, she paused above the ‘spine tickler.’ Then pressed her palm into its shiny ball bearings. Hmm. No. Maybe not.

This one, perhaps? Her fingers flexed over the ‘pony rocket.’ A particularly provocative memory locked her teeth, sending a zing through a molar. No. She didn’t trust herself with the ‘pony.’

Her hand grazed the slightly ribbed surface of the ‘Buzzy Bee,’ Edward’s redesigned version of le Tremoussoir. He’d painted it yellow and had given it to her for her twenty-fifth birthday. She picked it up, admiring its contoured design and perfect dimensions constructed just for her. The surface felt surprisingly warm, almost inviting.

Once more, for old time’s sake?

Sarah lay down on the bed’s soft fur, hiked up her skirts and, as she turned the key to wind up the device, read Edward’s inscription: THINK OF ME.

“Eddie. Dear Eddie, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered, as she pressed the button and smiled at the mechanism’s low zzzzzz.

The initial touch always startled. After a few moments, its buzzing vibration filled her nether regions with a tingling hum. She closed her eyes, concentrated on Edward’s sweet visage and let her imagination unfold.

Unbidden, instead of Edward, the handsome face and strapping physique of one extremely irritating dance partner surfaced.

Mr Cornelius Ravenhill.

She sank deeper into the furs and commanded his image to smile, only to realize she’d not seen him smile, merely glower disapprovingly. While they’d danced, she’d been agape at his good looks and manliness. He, on the other hand, barely said two words to her and kept his gaze pinned to the doorway. Rude lout. A little over a week had passed since, and she refused to give him even a second thought. How had that vexatious man snuck into her daydream?

The ‘Buzzy Bee’ bravely soldiered on, spurring her cleft into a delicious throb, making her hips quiver. Soon her sinews quickened, readying to find that sublime moment of bliss.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

Sarah grimaced and her eyes rolled back into her head. She barely heard the knock at the secret door as her inner muscles coiled and tightened toward that glorious peak.

Tap, Tap, Tap. “My lady. Are you in there?”

Her maid’s voice momentarily broke through the pleasurable sensation.

Sarah pressed the ‘Buzzy Bee’ harder against her – concentrating, clenching, feeling the deeper sensation drive tremors all the way down her legs.

Tap, Tap, Tap. “Please, my lady.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “What!”

Gracie called from the other side of the door. “One of the workmen found something in the laboratory’s ashes. The foreman thinks it highly important, something you must see.”

***

A few minutes later, Sarah limped through the curtain hung to block the dust and grime in Edward’s burned laboratory. A fine hum of frustration stiffened her spine. This day had been one interruption after another.

Several workers leaned on their shovels talking and laughing. In the corner, the burly carpenter swung a huge hammer into the wall, shattering the charred plaster. He bent over to inspect his work.

She stopped abruptly. Her eyes fastened on the two firm mounds of – Good Heavens! She spun around. Workmen stood about dawdling, inflaming her sensibilities to palpable aggravation. She pivoted again in search of the foreman. “I was told an item had been found, one I needed to inspect,” she announced to no one in particular.

“Yes, my lady,” a low rasp vibrated behind her.

She turned.

The carpenter mopped a sleeve over his forehead and slid a stub of pencil behind an ear. The movement drew attention to the flexed muscles outlined by his tight work smock. “It is over here, my lady.” In three long, languid steps he arrived at a worktable in the opposite corner.

Sarah followed, growing testier by the second.

Leaning forward, his broad shoulders crowded her against the table. His scent of soap and charred wood suffused the air. He pointed to what looked like a half-burned cord.

She clutched her high collar and sought to calm her clambering pulse. “What is this… thing?” The nearness of such an overtly virile male made her insides jumpy.

“A spent blasting fuse, my lady.” His voice lowered to a breathy scratch. “Fuses like this one are used in mines to blast out rock. Not the sort of thing generally found lying about stately mansions.”

“My husband was an inventor. He collected many unusual items for his contraptions.”

“Did his inventions include explosions?”

Not in the usual sense. She pulled at her collar. “I wouldn’t know.”

“This fuse was not totally destroyed in the blast.” He motioned to the charred walls.

The ominous sound in his voice made Sarah’s mouth go dry. “What are you saying?”

“It appears, my lady, your husband’s laboratory may have been purposely destroyed.”

“Is this what the foreman wanted me to see?”

“Yes, my lady. He has gone for the police.”

CHAPTER 2

Not far away, Damen Aloysius Ravenhill, eldest son and heir to Viscount Falgate, trudged down the dim, rock-lined corridor of Falgate Hall. The cold fortress remained as forbidding as ever. With each step, dread clawed deeper, forcing him to hesitate in the bedchamber’s doorway at the prospect of what he would soon find.

He took a step into the dark-paneled room. A mammoth four-poster bed dressed in a green canopy and intricately carved ebony bedposts stood in its center. At the head of the bed, Damen could barely make out a large, bowl-shaped wrap of bandages.

Viscount Falgate, his father, sat in a wheelchair at the side of the bed, hunched forward, gently holding a lifeless hand. Cornelius’s distinctive amber ring glinted on the hand’s little finger.

Deep bags spilled over the viscount’s prominent cheekbones. His once robust physique now appeared shrunken, desiccated to a bird-like fragility. Damen hadn’t seen his father since he’d visited Liverpool six months before. His decline verged on frightening.

Falgate glanced at him through puffy red eyes and croaked angrily, “I told you not to come.”

Damen had caught the first train to Falgate Hall anyway. Worry rode with him every twist and turn of the journey.

Heart heavy with foreboding, he took another step. Now he could see his battered, almost unrecognizable younger brother propped up against the headboard. From his eyebrows upward, layers of bandages circled his skull like a turban.

“Cory.” Damen barely recognized the tight rasp of his own voice.

His father swallowed audibly. “The villains tried to make it appear a mugging.”

“Who did this?”

With the briefest of shrugs, his father muttered, “Before dying, his footman said they’d been following a bawd when five ruffians attacked. He said Cory knew one of the villains. Our coachman found your brother and his footman the next morning in an alley behind the Mission of Mercy in St Gi—” A wracking cough stole his breath.

St Giles? Why was Cory in St Giles?

The last time he’d seen his brother had been in Liverpool five years before when he’d shipped out on a vessel bound for the Orient.

His father’s face contorted. “He’d barely been back in London two weeks.” After a moment, he regained control and turned to Damen, scrutinizing him. “Are there no barbers in Liverpool?”

Resisting the urge to rake his fingers through his long beard, he took halting steps toward the bed. He grasped the bedpost and finally let his eyes drift over his brother. If not for his occasional shallow gasps, Cory appeared a corpse.

Sentiment wrapped its talons around his heart and squeezed painfully. Had they used his brother’s head as a battering ram against a brick wall? His fists ached to pound the bastards into a bloody pulp. “Do the police have any leads?”

“I prefer they not be involved.” Anger vibrated in his father’s hoarse voice. His gaze drifted back to Damen’s beard, almost making it itch.

The police in St Giles had been an unscrupulous, overbearing lot when Damen was a boy. Clearly, his father still considered them corrupt. “Is there anything I can do?”

Anguish lined the viscount’s face as he shook his head.

“Why was Cory in St Giles?”

“Suspicious fires destroyed parts of our warehouses and properties. He’d been investigating them. I’ve lost the stamina to fight this.” His shoulders slumped. “If they’re not stopped, there’ll not be a pot left to pi—” He coughed deeply, dug into a pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

Damen paced to the window. He should have been here. Sorrow and barely repressed fury boiled inside. Only a year apart, as boys he and Cory looked enough alike to be twins. They’d often used their resemblance to fool marks and shopkeepers – running them in circles.

Cory was the charmer. He’d seen him talk his way out of trouble too many times to count. When that didn’t work, Damen had always been there with the heavy fists and dirty tricks to chase whomever needed chasing off.

“You should have sent word.” He cut a sharp glance toward his father. “You know I’m better at dealing with rabble than he is.”

“You had your hands full in Liverpool. Cory offered to help.”

Mementos from the pranks he and his younger brother had enjoyed as youths lay scattered about a heavily carved table. Lifelike decoy ducks used on their hunting trips lined the table’s back. Damen twiddled the movable feet of a small metallic duck as he studied the new, exotic items brought home from his brother’s recent travels.

The assault on Cory couldn’t have come at a worse time. Crews were in the midst of constructing two warehouses – a risky, weighty task. Fists, brawn and cunning ruled the Liverpool docks. He should be there right now to safeguard his family’s interests.

Still, he and Cory were as close as any two brothers could be. Not since his mother passed had his powerlessness so frightened him. He had to do something. He couldn’t bring Cory out of his coma, but he could catch the brutal villains who’d done this and put them behind bars. An idea took form as Damen gazed at the decoy ducks again. “I’ll find Cory’s attackers.”

“NO!” his father barked with surprising force. “This is precisely why I told you not to come!”

“I spent my boyhood in St Giles. I know the ways of that world. No one is more prepared than I.” As a boy, against his parents’ orders, he’d explored the rookery’s labyrinthine underworld. There, villains could melt into the murk, their identities amorphous, ever shifting. If anyone could find them, he could.

“Cory and I were often mistaken for one another. No one would—”

“I forbid it!” His father’s voice came out as thin and sharp as a dagger nailing him to the wall. “You were nine when you left, still a boy. Your full attention is needed for our growing business in Liverpool. I wanted you there for a reason… to keep you as far from St Giles as possible.”

“Farnsworth, my superintendent, can take over in my absence.”

The muscles worked in his father’s emaciated jaw as he gazed up at the ornate cast plaster on the high ceiling. “You underestimate the danger.”

“I know the police can’t be trusted, and the villains’ trail grows colder by the minute.”

His father’s face turned crimson. A new vigor seemed to revive him. “Stubborn fool!” He pounded his cane on the floor. “How can you be so brilliant yet so dense? If they were bold enough to do this to him, they will not hesitate to do the same to you!”

“Why?”

“You are my sons. Over the years I’ve had to do… things.”

“But who are they?”

His father rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers. “An ever-changing sewer of villains that thrive in the shadows with gangs and networks of underlings.”

Damen fisted his hands in his pockets. “You know I can do this. I’m familiar with their underhanded tricks and deceits. I lived there long enough to know how to fight dirty.” He made sure his next words were delivered with unmistakable conviction. “And I intend to root out his assailants whether or not you agree.”

Moments passed while his father sat in silence. His voice came out a low croak. “What are you suggesting?”

“You said Cory had been looking for an arsonist. Perhaps he stumbled onto something more.”

“That something more was five ruffians, not one sole arsonist.” His father glared at him.

“In any event, it appears he found the problem, or, rather, the problem found him.”

“Wandering through St Giles after dark was the biggest problem.”

“This was not some random attack, Father. The footman said Cory knew one of the villains. What I find odd is that neither of us has been in London for years. Cory may have an enemy that followed him here?”

“What do you plan to do?” His father sounded like he was tiring.

“Given our resemblance, it shouldn’t be difficult to proceed as if I were him. I intend to goad his assailants out into the open. With any luck I should have them in irons within a few days.”

His father’s lips curved sourly. “Before you dive into the mire, you should know a marriage has been arranged between Cornelius and a woman of means – a Miss Eugenia Lambert.”

Damen’s gaze shot to his comatose younger brother. “Cory is taking a wife?”

“In four weeks.”

Damen let out a snort of disbelief. “He’s not even been back in London two weeks and he’s already engaged?”

“Cory returned with a desire to find and marry a wealthy woman. A perfectly reasonable ambition for a second son. He interviewed and made a choice between three eligible women. Miss Lambert agreed to his proposal two days ago.”

“Who were the other two?”

“The heiress Miss Calista Collins and Lady Strathford.”

“Lady Strathford? As in the widow of Lord Strathford, the famous inventor? Why didn’t he choose her?”

“He said something about too many ghosts in the wedding bed. She’s twice widowed. Are you acquainted?”

“I’ve never met her, but was quite impressed with Lord Strathford. I heard him lecture at Cambridge – rather an odd duck, but a brilliant, brilliant man. She must be a lot younger than him.”

“At least half his age.” His father pressed bony fingers to his brow. “Hopefully, you’ll not have to deal with Miss Lambert. I’ll talk to her father about postponing the wedding. If you’re set on doing this, we’d best keep Cory’s real condition mum.”

***

Damen, his father and Gormley, his father’s valet, withdrew to the room adjoining Cory’s to discuss plans. Yet no matter how much they coaxed and cajoled, Gormley remained deeply distressed and uncooperative.

“I am not at all comfortable with this,” the valet pleaded. “Passing yourself off as your younger brother is sure to send the men who assaulted him after you.”

“That’s the plan, Gorm.” Damen took another gulp of his father’s fine whiskey.

The lanky valet hunched his shoulders, letting his long arms dangle limply at his sides. “This is not at all wise. Think of the repercussions.”

Damen set down the bottle and braced his hands on the table, forcing his head forward. “Hit me, you miserable lily pad!”

Lord Falgate leaned forward in his wheelchair and jammed his cane shakily toward the valet. “He’s stubborn as always and bent on doing this whether or not we agree. So get to it, man – bonnet him! Now’s our chance to thrash him for all the times he’s irritated me.”

Gormley’s gaze drifted around Damen face, his expression growing more and more dejected. “I’d forgotten how closely you favor your brother.” The valet turned to Falgate. “You had me shave off his beard. Now I must pulverize his handsome face? I’m sorry, my lord, it simply isn’t done.”

Falgate glared at the valet and jammed his finger toward Damen.

Gorm sighed and slapped Damen openhanded across the face, leaving little more than a sting.

His father pounded his cane against the floor in frustration. “Be a man and put some muscle into it! If I were in better fettle, I’d do it myself.”

“Come on Gorm. Give me a shot, right here.” He pointed to his cheekbone. “I can’t very well go down and pick a fight in a wharf bar, now can I? I’m supposed to be mugged and left for dead.” He took another gulp of whiskey and shoved the bottle toward the valet. “Here, have another swallow. Now wind up those big mitts of yours and show me some knuckles!”

An hour later, Damen sat alone with Gormley, as the valet finished applying salve to the cuts and bruises around his face.

“Please accept my apologies. I am a very poor pugilist. The last time I struck someone I was ten years old.”

Damen carefully worked his jaw. “You’ve missed a world of fun, Gorm. Not many have your natural talent. When you finally got into the spirit of things, you threw some impressive toppers.”

“I regret to say, it was mostly the drink. Acquaintances tell me whiskey makes me quarrelsome. I’ve learned to stay clear of the stuff. Shall we have a look at your brother’s wardrobe? I believe you and he are very nearly the same size.”

A few minutes later the valet returned with a set of clothes and held them out. “These seem to be the tamest, Mr Ravenhill.”

Damen’s brows went up. Egads! He’d forgotten how his brother liked to be noticed. “There’ll be no relaxing in the corner in those.” Damen preferred conservative gear. Not only did darker colors tend to be more imposing, they held up better and didn’t show dirt. Of course, Cory always enjoyed attention, especially from the ladies.

“Did my brother say where he intended to go the night he was attacked?”

“No,” Gormley mumbled, and proceeded to help him into Cory’s shirt and brightly colored red vest. “He did not account for his comings and goings. The coachman mentioned he took him to the Painted Lady pub in St Giles.”

“Did he also visit the boxing club next door?” If his brother had been trolling for scoundrels, he couldn’t find a better place than the Painted Lady.

“I couldn’t say,” the valet grumbled. “Never was there a darker den of depraved villains and cutthroats.”

“Have a care, Gorm. Our grandfather started those establishments. Mum took over when he fell ill.”

“My apologies.” Gormley’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Clearly your brother stumbled into the path of vicious criminals.”

Damen hadn’t felt this grinding helplessness since their mother died of cholera when he was nine. He’d watched her perish, powerless against a terrifying illness that killed her in less than two days. After she passed, all he managed to keep in remembrance was her shawl.

While Cory cried for weeks, Damen seethed in anger at an enemy he could not fight.

He would never forget the way she had gazed at him, the love in her eyes. She’d been pretty, clever, hard-working and adamant he and Cory keep up with their studies so they could ‘make something of themselves.’ Would she ever have imagined the fell disease that killed her and so many others would alter the path of descent to make her husband, Ebenezer Ravenhill, Viscount Falgate?

Only scraps and pieces of the next few years remained in Damen’s memory. There was prep school with Cory and then Rugby School and an endless number of fights with a breed of boys who felt it their duty to teach the low-class upstarts their place. Fortunately, he’d enough pent-up rage and dirty street skills to correct the schoolboys’ faulty thinking by applying his own brand of teaching.

Gormley held out the loud tartan-plaid trousers and then helped Damen into a fawn-colored jacket. When he’d finished dressing him, the valet stepped back in appraisal. “With your face a mass of cuts and bruises, I would easily mistake you for your brother.”

Damen turned to the tall standing mirror. An involuntary chill skittered over him as he took in the clothes and his bruised countenance. Even he could see the eerie resemblance. Working his shoulders, he realigned his stance to the way he’d seen Cory position himself: feet firmly planted, shoulders back, chest out, chin tucked, a steely look in his eye. “I’ll need your help to make this charade convincing, Gorm.”

“You can count on me, Mr Ravenhill. Might I suggest putting a bit more swagger in your mannerisms? Don’t forget your fondness for revelry and irresponsibility, and that you quite fancy yourself a ladies’ man.”

An apt description of his younger brother. He’d the luxury of being unreliable. As boys, he and Cory tore around St Giles, getting into mischief like two little hellions. In many ways, Cory was still that happy-go-lucky boy… with their mother’s infectious laugh.

Gormley made a careful adjustment to Damen’s gold-specked cravat. “As to your speech, you favor lengthening ‘ah’ sounds and over-softening ‘R’s’.”

“Right. Picked up a bit of Liverpudlian, have I?”

The valet nodded. “And how do I put this politely… you must remember to include in your speech a little more irony and self-deprecating humor. And on occasion, when things don’t go your way, you resort to…” – he cleared his throat – “…clever wit and charm.”

Damen frowned and growled. “I’m capable of clever wit and charm. When they’re warranted.”

“Of course,” Gormley sniffed.

Had the whiskey also released a bit of cheek in the ordinarily stiff valet? Damen suddenly realized playing his carefree, easy-going brother might be a little more challenging than he’d thought. “And what are those small exotic statues in… Cor… I mean, my room?”

The valet pursed his lips. “One of them is your Buddhist guardian. You told me their hand gestures represent a mudra with deep symbolic meaning.”

“I have a Buddhist guardian? What do I do with it?”

“I’m not sure. Although one time I found you sitting cross-legged on the floor chanting indecipherably. You’re quite limber for a man of your size.”

“Indeed.” Inwardly, Damen groaned. “And as to my fiancée, did I reveal any details about Miss Lambert?”

“You said you’d only met her the once when you made your brief proposal.”

“Did I mention what I thought of her?”

“Not directly. But apparently she’s not shy about making her will known and inspired immediate action. On your first and only visit she discovered one of Rufus’s hairs on your sleeve.”

“Who is Rufus?”

“Your dog.”

“I have a dog?” Damen winced. He liked dogs well enough, but they barked and chewed on things and, well, basically raised havoc with his neat and orderly life.

“A big jolly fellow. At her instruction, you came home and banished the poor hound to the stables.”

“Am I that easily influenced?”

“Perhaps you’d hoped to create the impression of pleasing her? I rather doubt your mistress is aware of your betrothal, either.”

“I have a mistress?” Damen almost choked. Why was he surprised? His brother loved women. He hadn’t thought any further than putting Cory’s attackers in irons. Women were another matter, though. They could put a tangle in things. His brother’s irresponsibility always spawned confusion, emotion, drama. He’d forgotten how mixed up Cory’s messes could get.

“I assume Mrs Ivanova is your mistress.” Gormley sniffed. “A message arrived from her this morning. Perhaps you should have a look at it.”

CHAPTER 3

The next day, Damen sat in a dark corner of his grandfather’s old pub, the Painted Lady, fingering a greasy tankard of ale. Mrs Ivanova’s note had been precise: two o’clock, back table, left side. There’d been no endearments or sweet words, not even a hint of sexual lure. Perhaps Slavic mistresses didn’t use such coquetry? The mystery and uncertainty made him feel like he was inching along the slippery side of a precipice.

Surreptitiously, he gazed about the grimy pub. Childhood memories rose at every turn. He’d remembered the place being bigger, cleaner and filled with laughter. The new proprietor had added more tables and rebuilt the bar. A highly polished mirror – clearly the pride of the establishment – stretched behind the bartender. Its wavy reflection and splotches of mildewed silver suggested low quality and advanced age.

Cigar smoke hung about the room like a miasmic fog, barely masking the pervasive stench of St Giles’ open sewers, unwashed bodies and the avaricious hankerings of the Painted Lady’s clientele.

An arrow of light briefly cut through the murk and quickly disappeared. Someone had entered from the back. A rather tall, veiled woman, dressed entirely in black, appeared at his table.

“Vulf.”

Wolf? Her accented contralto put teeth in the word. He might have expected something more, well, endearing. Perhaps she’d found out about his brother’s engagement? Gormley had said she might not be happy about it.

Damen gestured to the vacant chair across from him.

Gracefully, she slid into the seat and leaned forward as if studying him from behind the black filmy material covering her face. “Who did this to you?”

The ominous timbre in her voice tightened the muscles in the back of his neck. Damen couldn’t quite place her accent – a regional dialect, perhaps? He coughed and tried to speak like Cory. “A mystery.”

“And the drawings?” she whispered, turning her veiled bonnet from side to side, clearly checking for eavesdroppers.

Drawings? Still no words of tenderness or affection? Was Mrs Ivanova truly his brother’s mistress, or did their relationship encompass something entirely different?

“I don’t know. They found me insensible.” He gently circled a finger to massage his temple and attempted a confused expression. “Not sure what happened.”

She leaned back and set her gloved hands on the table. Through the black lace covering her fingers he could see a thin silver band with a tiny raised design ringing her little finger. “Fires ruin. Strathford dead. Now you do other plan.”

Fires? Strathford dead? She made it sound as if Cory had something to do with the fires and Lord Strathford’s death. He grimaced as if he were in pain and set his elbow on the table to rest his head in his palm. “What other plan?”

She let out a little huff. “Seduce.”

Damen nearly jerked upright before he caught himself. “Seduce? Whooom?”

She looked around again and leaned closer. “Strathford widow. Find drawings.” Her contralto took on an edge of vexation. “Secrets slip in bed play, no?”

That was certainly an odd order. Wouldn’t seducing another woman possibly jeopardize a mistress’s meal ticket?

He grimaced as best he could with his lumps and bruises. “My memory took a beating along with my head. What drawings?” He purposely slurred his words. “And what do I do with them if I find them?”

She sat for a long moment, silently studying him and finally whispered, “I take to Vesele.”

Was Vesele a person or place? He didn’t know how far he could go with his act of amnesia and made a soft groan as if his injuries pained him. “Remind me. What do the drawings depict?”

“You know theezs!” Mrs Ivanova hissed. The anger in her voice thickened her accent.

Her head turned from side to side again before she said in an even quieter voice, “Small engine.”

Damen was certainly no choirboy and had perpetrated his own fair share of misdemeanors, but seducing a woman for information was not one of them. Unless Cory had totally lost his moral compass, he doubted his brother would either.

There must be another way to get information about this… small engine. He still wasn’t quite sure what the whole endeavor required or why. “My apologies. Due to my injuries, I must recuse myself.”

“Pfftt. They heal. Still have Beeeg Charm, No?”

Beeeg Charm? Was that sarcasm in her voice? Did ‘Beeeg Charm’ refer to Cory’s… charm… or something more physical? “I am not acquainted with Lady Strathford.”

She spat out a word in Russian, one he felt certain translated into a scathing expletive. “You think theez joke.” Her tone turned low and vicious. “You meet. You dance.”

Lord. Cory must have already told her he’d met Lady Strathford. Damen quickly backtracked. “Like I said, my memory is rather scrambled about certain matters.”

Mrs Ivanova worked her hands, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “Many want engine drawings. Beeeg buyer pay much.” She pointed to his head. “Vesele maybe do theez? If Vesele knows of drawings, very dangerous. Must hurry!”

CHAPTER 4

Sarah sighed and gazed at the upper floors of the Crystal Palace.

Beams of sunlight filtered through the opaque glass covering the ceiling and walls. Fountains pattered, flowers perfumed the air, patrons murmured their praise for the multitude of exhibits. All blended to produce a sense of pleasure and awe.

The grandness of the place almost diverted Sarah from her problems.

Almost.

“Strathford would have been enthralled by all the wondrous inventions,” she mused, wistfully.

“Indeed, this is a fairyland for every taste.” Her Aunt Eliza dragged her gaze from an exquisitely embroidered gown. “It’s time you put away your mourning clothes, my dear. Let’s visit my new modiste and have you fitted for a gown in this very shade of blue.”

Sarah and her aunt moved on, halting to study a Roman statue of a scantily clad warrior. The sculptor’s sensuous chisel had brought to life every magnificent sinew. A memory surfaced of the handsome miller’s son Sarah had kissed when she was sixteen.

Unbidden, bone-deep humiliation crept in, squeezing her stomach like a vise. Even after all these years, the remorse over those few stolen moments of happiness almost made her ill.

She leaned close to her aunt, their bonnets nearly touching. “There is something I must tell you.” She peered about to make sure no one could hear them. “For over two years I’ve thought Strathford’s death an accident. Yesterday, workmen found suspicious items in his laboratory. The police now think he was murdered.”

Her aunt gasped. “Oh, my dear, that is disturbing news. Do they have any idea who would do such a thing?”

Sarah exhaled shakily in remembrance of their questions and curled a lip in distaste. “I couldn’t help feeling they think I killed him.”

Eliza’s features tightened. She immediately pressed her hand down through the air. A little signal she’d devised to alert Sarah when she spoke too candidly. “Such frank words in public could be misconstrued, dear.” She quickly looked around before whispering, “Surely you must have misunderstood.”

Sarah pinched her lips together and shuddered. “The police inspector’s questions left me quite… alarmed. It did no good insisting I have no idea who would have wanted to hurt Strathford.”

A pang of anguish tightened her throat. “For over two years I’ve held true to his memory and mourned his death. How I miss him, Auntie. This whole situation has me so... despairing. I have no husband, no family…” She gazed longingly at the nearby children playing around a fountain. “No babies to raise.”

Shifting her attention back to the muscular statue, she exhaled a shuddering breath. “To make matters worse, since the workmen started renovating the laboratory, I have these… stirrings… these annoying quivers I can’t quite satisfy. Such things never happened after my first husband’s death.”

“You were practically a girl when Lord Hardington died. Now you’re an experienced woman.” Her aunt gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Such stirrings are quite natural. I must confess, after Oswald died, a similar condition came over me.” A smile quivered at her lips. “Perhaps you should take a lover.”

“Elizabeth Fortnoy,” Sarah whispered in mock offense, “I am scandalized.”

Her aunt’s eyes twinkled as she spoke under her breath. “Your agitation may be a sign it is time to rejoin the living. I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but I always thought your father rushed you into marrying men whose youth had fled them decades before. This time you have the luxury of being able to do a little shopping. Pick out a few pretty ones. See if anything about them takes your fancy. Happiness does not always land conveniently on one’s doorstep. Sometimes it’s necessary to go after it with a club.”

“Yes, Auntie. But I fear the police suspect me of mur—”

Her aunt’s eyes widened and her hand fluttered through the air.

“Well I… I’m so overwhelmed by this new development regarding Strathford’s death. I dare not make any… new friends.” A mist formed in Sarah’s eyes.

Eliza gazed at her sympathetically, then peered around the displays and other patrons. “Now where is that maid of yours? We should go outside. A little fresh air and sunshine should chase away those gloomies.”

Sarah tipped her head back to stem the tears. “Gracie went to the necessaries. She wanted to experience the innovative new water closets.”

Taking several deep breaths, Sarah gazed at an upper floor displaying industrial inventions. Through a blur of unshed tears she glimpsed a familiar continental jacket. She blinked and then blinked again. Oh, no, that couldn’t be the irritating fellow from the dance… and in her daydream? Her pulse launched into a faster beat.

Were his shoulders always that broad?

***

When Sarah’s maid finally returned, they made their way to the outside exhibits. A few minutes later, Gracie bobbed in excitement. “Oh, my lady! Look, there by the Dinosaur Lake. Could that be Mr Cornelius Ravenhill?”

Eliza turned to Sarah with a knowing smile and raised an inquisitive brow. “Have you met Lord Falgate’s younger son?”

Attempting a show of nonchalance, Sarah muttered, “Briefly,” and concentrated on running her hands over the pleats of her very modest sable-colored gown. Finally, unable to resist a peek, she held up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

From a distance, she could see a tall man in a distinctive fashionable suit, leaning on a cane. Fabric gaped around his middle. When she’d met him at the Grancliffes’ party, his tailoring had been perfection and the height of continental fashion. “Are you sure that’s him?”

Her aunt gave her a sidelong glance. “Our fair city has not given him a very kind homecoming. I heard villains killed his footman and beat him to within an inch of his life. Such a travesty,” she breathed. “His dark looks were said to be rather appealing.”

Sarah fiddled with her reticule. “Yes, he was most handsome, and he knew it, too. Truly, I’ve never met a more conceited, self-absorbed man. I am inclined to believe he’s hidden behind his fine features to conceal his lack of intelligence. Perhaps his mishap will educate him on how to communicate with the rest of us mere mortals.”

Gracie blinked, her eyes bugging slightly the way they usually did when she was about to say something droll. “Let that be a lesson to you. If a big, sturdy man and his burly footman can get their stuffings beaten out of them, you wouldn’t stand a chance, running off on your own the way you do.”

“I don’t run off.” Sarah tucked the escaped strands of her intractable hair back under her bonnet. “It’s important business for my mission.”

“So you’ve said, but it’s foolhardy.” Gracie rose up on her toes, gazing toward the lake. Patrons flocked about the fences enclosing the exhibit’s gargantuan prehistoric creatures. “Quick, my ladies!” The maid rocked from foot to foot in excitement. “That mother and her children are leaving. We’d best grab her spot at the rail if we ever plan on seeing those ancient water monsters.”

Others saw the opening as well, forming opposing currents, pushing them to and fro. With all the comings and goings, somehow her mischievous maid managed to maneuver them into a spot right next to the continental suit.

“Have you ever seen teeth that size?” Gracie threw out her arm to point at the creature, while loudly exclaiming, “Adults know these beasts are plaster, but I fear for the little ones’ imaginations. They’re bound to cause nightmares!”

Could her maid shout any louder? Sarah dug into her reticule, searching for something, anything to give the impression she was totally unaware of the tall man standing right next to them. Her lively, ebullient maid could be entertaining company, but sometimes she wanted to strangle her.

Without meaning to, one of Sarah’s hands accidentally slipped, upended her reticule, and dumped its entire contents onto the ground. “Oh, dear.” She looked at her aunt whose features contorted as if it took great effort to keep from breaking into peals of laughter.

While Gracie scrambled to pick things up, Sarah heard a throat being cleared.

“I believe these might be yours.” A smile colored the richly resonant voice.

She turned to gaze up into one large handsome brown eye. The other was a puffy, purplish slit. Her breath caught at the sight. “Thank you,” she exhaled.

He held out her small magnifying glass. The wind carried the scent of his tantalizing citrus and sandalwood cologne. Instead of giving her back her utility ring, he pulled the gadgets from their protective leather sleeve, inspecting them one by one. “Now isn’t this clever. A little knife, a saw and screwdriver, a tiny pair of scissors, pliers and a nail file. My goodness, you are certainly prepared for any occasion.”

Finally handing back her utility ring, he removed his top hat. His dark hair stood in disarray, ruffling in the warm breeze. On one side of his forehead and down his cheek, large, colorful bruises encompassed several lacerations.

She tried to smile but couldn’t take her eyes off his injuries.

The moment stretched on a little too long. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, have we been introduced?”

Of course he wouldn’t remember her, or at least he would pretend not to. He’d barely said two words to her the first time they’d met. “Yes,” she sniffed. “If you might recall, we recently danced together at the Grancliffes’ party.”

“Oh.” His brows furrowed as he gazed about her face. Then he wound his finger in a circle at his ear. “The bump on my head quite… I do apologize. Please tell me your name again.”

Just as she’d expected. Handsome young men never saw her. She pinched her lips together. “I am Lady Strathford.”

His one eye seemed to intensify on her face. “Are you any relation to the late Lord Strathford?”

“Yes, his widow.”

“My condolences,” he said, gently. “A true loss. Lord Strathford was a very talented inventor.” He dipped his head and said in a voice – if her ears were not deceiving her – bordering on sultry, “Please forgive me. My memory is a bit hazy. Is there anything else I should know about… us?”

“Uuuss?” She swallowed reflexively. His careful study of her face, at first, made her uneasy and then started to annoy. What was he getting at? Was he insulting her with a rude joke? From the way Gracie had maneuvered them in beside him and her subsequent reticule mishap, perhaps the arrogant man presumed she was chasing him. She’d long since learned handsome, perfect men wanted nothing to do with imperfect females. But the unexpected thrill of him referring to them as ‘us’ made her pulse flutter. Irritatingly.

“We met briefly a little over a week ago, nothing more.” She gazed into his one good eye expecting a bland show of bored insouciance. Instead, she found a bright gleam of humor and a flash of – were her eyes deceiving her? – signs of intelligence? It couldn’t be. She rallied her indignation.

“As you might recall,” Sarah huffed, “we danced one waltz.”

“Did we?” The uninjured side of his lips curled into a smile.

“You did not say a single word as we danced, and barely looked at me.” She sniffed.

“That doesn’t sound at all like me. Are you sure?” She caught a momentary gleam of white teeth.

“Indeed. The doorway had you spellbound. I wondered that you couldn’t wait to leave.” The ordeal had made her feel like a chore he’d been obligated to complete. Except for his remarkable good looks and strong dancing skills, she’d decided he’d nothing more to recommend him.

“And did I immediately begin calling on you and bringing you bouquets?” His voice still contained a sultry resonance, but odd little catches in it sounded like he struggled against laughter.

Now he was definitely insulting her. She drew herself up straighter. “I must say, after that one dance, I find this discussion highly irregular.” So the man could put two words together.

Eliza stood at her side gazing out at the dinosaurs while her hand fluttered frantically about.

Sarah clamped her lips closed, twisted the strap of her reticule around her hand and peered about the crowds, readying to stomp off. She did not have to stand here and be ridiculed. Turning back to collect Gracie and Eliza, she happened to gaze up into that one dark, glimmering eye. Her pulse unexpectedly broke into a skip. Unintended words escaped her mouth. “Truly, do you not remember our dancing?”

He tapped a finger to his forehead. “Please accept my apologies, my lady. Some things are still a bit fuzzy. The doctor said a little more time might be needed.”

“Oh.” She swallowed a lump of mortification. What was the matter with her? He’d been beaten senseless. By the looks of him, they’d put great effort into pounding him about the head and face. Had they damaged his memory as well?

She’d assumed his attendance at the Crystal Palace meant he’d recovered enough to be out and about town. “Please forgive me, Mr Ravenhill. I thought you were teasing me. I thought after I accidentally…” She looked down at her shoe and scraped it over the pathway’s gravel.

“You accidentally…?”

“Well I…” she coughed. “When we danced, I accidentally stepped on your boot… once or twice… and I assumed you’d decided to take it elsewhere.” Dancing with handsome Mr Ravenhill had made her terribly nervous and her weak leg sluggish. “You didn’t say a word when I stepped on you.” She decided not to mention his raised, disapproving brow.

“Then you immediately took me into a dizzying spin.” It was all she could do to control her faulty leg and not land on her posterior. “When the music ended you quickly escorted me back to my friends. I didn’t get the chance to apologize because you disappeared.”

Mr Ravenhill looked down at his shoes and then back up at her. “So that’s how I got the sore foot. I thought my attackers had tramped on it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have possibly done it much damage,” she said in disbelief.

The uninjured side of his face curved into a smile and… did he wink his good eye?

“I hope I apologized for setting my boot where you needed to step? My big feet have a habit of getting in the way.”

Her cheeks heated.

“So by your lack of response, I take it I was a cad and let you assume total responsibility.”

Sarah gazed up at him and suddenly realized the man was a horrible tease. This made her even more bewildered. Lately, men whom she’d never considered insisted on making her acquaintance. No doubt word had spread that her two marriages had left her with a sizable income. Could that be what put the sudden gleam in Mr Ravenhill’s eye?

He dipped his head. “Perhaps if I call on you in a day or two you will allow me to atone for my bad behavior?”

***

Damen watched the three women move on to another of the large creatures and couldn’t help admiring the widow’s lovely form – a tempting shape his rather outsized hands, and, well, the rest of him, would relish exploring. So that was the redoubtable Lady Strathford. Luck had been with him in making her acquaintance.

Shrouded in her somber mourning colors, he initially thought her another solemn wren. All that changed when she looked up at him and very clearly spoke her mind. The combination of her flashing blue eyes, saucy high cheekbones and unruly blonde hair – sprouting out from under her bonnet – gave her a kind of rare spirit. Quite worked up his blood.

Her voice had been the real surprise. Its velvety purr called to the man in him, even as she itemized his blunders, or rather, Cory’s blunders.

Gratifying, that.

Most women found his brother irresistible. Apparently, Lady Strathford possessed the rare immunity to Cory’s charms. The whole package quite stirred his insides to a fine hum.

He pulled himself up short. He shouldn’t be indulging in infatuations and especially regarding Lady Strathford. He needed information, that was all, and he’d no intention of seducing her for it. The sooner he found his brother’s attackers, the sooner he could get back to the construction of his warehouses in Liverpool.

He already had two women to deal with, Cory’s fiancée and his mistress. And Mrs Ivanova could prove to be a conundrum. She knew things – personal things – and it was only a matter of time before she realized he wasn’t Cory. But she also might know why his brother had been viciously attacked. Whether he wanted to or not, Damen must continue to meet with her.

It had been his plan to parade around London’s popular attractions in his brother’s most eye-catching clothes to show that he was still alive – injured, but on the mend. He was pleased that, so far, his cuts and bruises made people look away rather than examine him too closely.

No one indicated they thought him anyone other than his brother. If the footman had been correct, Cory knew one of the villains. Eventually, they would seek Damen out, if for no other reason than to inspect their handiwork.

Apart from Mrs Ivanova, how convincing did he need to be? Cory had been back in London less than two weeks after years away.

Damen gazed at a plaster Iguanodon. Like him, it was not the real article. What did Lady Strathford see when she looked at him through those glorious wide-set eyes? Cory’s handsome face, frightfully beaten? Did she have the slightest idea he was an imposter? It had been a long time since a woman put his insides so in a jumble.

CHAPTER 5

The next day the police inspector sat in Sarah’s parlor in his worn dark suit with a red poppy stuck in his lapel. An ominous scowl contorted his hard features. As he stared intently between Sarah and her solicitor, one eye bulged, appearing to grow larger, reminding her of a telescope.

Drops of perspiration glistened on her solicitor’s face. Though one of the most temperate rooms in Strathford Hall, the usually comfortable parlor did not relieve the man’s discomfort.

Sarah, on the other hand, struggled against the chill that coursed up and down her limbs making her palms clammy and her feet tap under her skirts.

This time, she kept telling herself, this time she refused to be intimidated. Inspector Hooker dare not accost her with defamatory questions and insinuations with her solicitor in attendance.

The inspector sniffed through his bent snout and rasped, “The recent discovery of blasting fuses now brings into question whether Lord Strathford’s death resulted from an unfortunate accident or foul play.”

“Surely, you don’t suspect my client of such deviousness?” Her solicitor wheezed as he mopped his brow. “At the time of her husband’s death Lady Strathford was visiting friends in Cambridge.”

“She has informed us of that fact. She did not need to be present,” the inspector growled. His mouth curled into an ugly sneer. “Blasting expertise can be bought, especially with some of our boys home from the Crimea.”

“What proof have you she arranged anything to harm her husband?” her solicitor shot back.

Hooker’s lips thinned. “Recently, Lord Strathford’s cousin filed a complaint. When the earldom passed to him, all the money in Lord Strathford’s estate went to Lady Strathford and—”

“Perfectly legal,” her solicitor interrupted. “His cousin received everything due in the entailment. The income and properties bequeathed to Lady Strathford were independent and not entailed. Lord Strathford could will his personal estate wherever he chose.”

The police inspector addressed her solicitor while he leveled his unsettling eye on Sarah. “The new earl has opened up a different inquiry.”

Sarah could hardly breathe. “What inquiry?”

“Quite bluntly,” the inspector smirked, “he claims you only married Lord Strathford for his money. You did the same with your previous husband, Lord Hardington. Both met with untimely deaths.”

“That is absurd!” Sarah protested. She didn’t have a choice in whom she married. Her father arranged both marriages. True, her first husband died only two years after they’d wed, but the grippe killed him. A doctor had been on hand throughout his whole illness.

“It has also come to our attention” – the inspector curled the side of one lip – “that at the time of his death, your husband was working on a project with another inventor. They’d made a significant breakthrough in the efficiency of an engine. He claims your husband made drawings and demands you turn them over to him immediately.”

“Who is this fellow?” she asked.

“A Professor Bodkin.”

She briefly searched her memory. “I’ve never heard of him. Nor do I know of any drawings.”

When the police inspector finally took his leave, Sarah thought she would faint. As she massaged her pounding temple, she turned to her solicitor. “Strathford’s odious cousin has already contested the will and lost. Now he hopes to send me to the gallows to finally get his hands on my husband’s money. And who is this Professor Bodkin?”

“Not to worry, my lady.” Her solicitor’s double chin wobbled. “You inherited your husband’s estate legally. We will get to the bottom of this professor’s claim.”

***

Damen stood in the vestibule of Strathford Hall, holding a bouquet of flowers, and feeling like the biggest kind of scoundrel. Nothing real could come of this association with Lady Strathford. Yet some part of him eagerly anticipated seeing her. Could one or two of Gormley’s punches have actually knocked something loose?

Having an attraction to Lady Strathford could only complicate an already convoluted situation. Additionally, she possessed certain characteristics he’d classify as off limits. In fact, she resembled a certain type of female he’d sworn to avoid.

Yet when she dumped her reticule all over his feet, he’d found her frank dialog and guilelessness intriguing. Her wide-eyed forthrightness not only tickled him but made him want to pick her up and kiss her just to see what she’d do.

He looked down at the flowers in his hands while the stark reality of what it meant to play Cory set in. Where his brother thrived on a devil-may-care, hedonistic profligacy, Damen’s stolid, sensible side squirmed with misgivings. The lifestyle and uselessness already threatened his need for order, accomplishment, and the moorings of responsibility. Hopefully, his stint as a decoy would be short-lived.

Mrs Ivanova made him uneasy. Then there was the fiancée, to whom he was yet to be introduced. Were any more females waiting in the wings? Cory, he knew, tended to collect them like some men collected guns – both were a delicate piece of machinery and equally as dangerous. Finding and apprehending his brother’s attackers might very well prove easier than juggling his women.

Down the spectacular marble-lined hall a door opened and a familiar figure emerged.

Damen cursed under his breath. Even after two decades he’d no trouble recognizing the ‘terror of his childhood.’

As the man advanced, he could see he’d added more girth and his bushy sideburns had grayed. On meeting gazes, the man’s pocked features and sour smirk shifted minutely.

Something resembling surprise deepened the wrinkles around his lips. Eerily, one eye focused in on Damen’s bruises. Then it probed his uninjured eye as if to ferret out every secret he’d ever kept, every detail he’d deliberately withheld. “Back for more, are you?”

The ambiguous question could have referred to any number of things, none of them pleasant. Damen fisted his hands. The man could still put him on the defensive. Well, he was no longer that frightened boy. Keeping his voice a dangerous calm, Damen made sure he injected the proper amount of irony. “Pleased to see me?”

Perceiving a confrontation brewing, the butler quickly retrieved a hat from a nearby closet and intervened. “Do you require anything else, Inspector Hooker?”

Inspector? The miserable cur had been promoted?

Hooker positioned his hat on his head while he stared pointedly at him. The same kind of intimidation he’d used on him countless other times. Back then the man had only been a constable.

The butler opened the door and saw the inspector out, then quickly motioned to Damen’s card. “I will see to this immediately, Mr Ravenhill.” A few moments later the butler returned and led him to what appeared to be a sitting room or perhaps a small gallery. On the shelves and in display cases sat automatons and what he assumed to be Lord Strathford’s small inventions.

Damen couldn’t help a surge of curiosity as he scanned the little mechanical devices. Could the tiny engine be among them? Something caught his eye. On top of a side table sat an unusual object, painted yellow.

***

“He’s finally here.” Sarah’s insides took flight. Not since her brief infatuation with the miller’s son when she was sixteen had she awaited a man with such anticipation. How could she describe what his visit did to her? After so many years of ennui, he filled her with hope. Hope that life might contain joy, and that perhaps, for once, she’d be granted the attentions of a handsome gentleman whose wit and vigor filled her with excitement.

Smoothing down her skirts, she resisted the urge to run to Edward’s invention gallery. Four uneasy days had passed since she’d met Mr Ravenhill at the Crystal Palace Dinosaur Park.

After the first day, she’d decided his request to visit her had been a hollow appeal. After the second, she’d thought he’d had another mental lapse. And after the third, she’d resigned herself that he’d suddenly remembered why he’d considered her beneath his attention in the first place.

Today had started badly with Niles again popping by with Lumsley. It worsened with the police inspector’s insinuations. But Mr Ravenhill’s presence restored her belief that good and bad eventually balanced.

The novelty of this visit by a man who’d somehow invaded her daydreams had her feet barely touching the floor. Plus, he was the first gentleman caller who’d come of his own volition.

While other young women of her station had London seasons, she’d never enjoyed the attention of beaux. She’d married her first husband practically out of the schoolroom. There’d been no wooing or courting, just straight to the altar with an old man she barely knew.

And the fantasies she’d had of Mr Ravenhill… Not only was he nearly her own age, he was – injuries aside – one of the most attractive men she’d ever met.

She paused in the doorway and tried to calm the excitement pulsing through her veins. He stood at the side table with his back to her. The sight of his broad shoulders and robust physique quite took her breath away.

Ravenhill set his walking stick against the wall and picked up something on the table in front of him. She heard the clickety-click of a key winding a spring. Then the oh-so-familiar zzzzz.

She froze, heat blossomed across her cheeks. What was that doing in here?

His shoulders worked as he moved the toy from hand to hand, then held it up for closer inspection. He set it on the table to let it dance about, happily buzzing and jumping around the mahogany. Picking it up again, he seemed to be doing something with it in front of him. He let out a little snort of laughter and slowly extended his arm, pressing the Buzzy Bee to the back of his neck.

Her breath caught.

Mr Ravenhill startled at the noise and abruptly turned toward her. If anything, the bruising and swelling around his face had become more pronounced.

His jaw went slack. “It tickles,” he said sheepishly, manipulating it, pressing it into his palms to demonstrate.

She clutched the collar of her high-necked gown. Seeing him caressing it in his big hands made her breathing turn rather shallow.

With a slow, furtive reach, he set the toy on the table behind him.

Undaunted, the Buzzy Bee bounded about, thumping the wood, hammering out its own Irish jig as it whipped in noisy skips and circles, exuberantly demonstrating how its mechanism rivaled the durability of an eight-day clock.

Ravenhill stood there, brows furrowed, acting as if the Buzzy Bee no longer existed.

Awash with mortification, Sarah rallied every last scrap of self-possession, marched over to the table and picked up the bouncing contraption. How had her little toy got into Edward’s gallery and what possessed Mr Ravenhill to play with it?

“Dare I ask what demonic instrument of torture I unleashed?”

“Instrument of tort…” Sarah bit her tongue and quickly moved to the desk, pulled open a drawer and shoved it in. The little fiend buzzed and bounced against the wood like a caged wasp, causing the whole desk to vibrate.

“My husband made it to relieve his aching muscles,” she lied. If Mr Ravenhill had any inkling of the part of her person it was meant to relieve, she would surely die of embarrassment. She retrieved the Buzzy Bee and opened one of the display cases on the wall. After setting it inside, she closed the glass door.

“I didn’t realize he also invented items for personal use. I always thought he was a big machinery kind of fellow.”

“If he needed something and he couldn’t buy it, he made it.” Bespoke. Designed. Measured. And adjusted for faultless performance. Her face felt positively crimson.

Like a little dog eager to escape, the Buzzy Bee continued to bounce and jitter around until all the other devices on display rattled.

She quickly moved the contrivance to a wooden cupboard and placed it on a shelf. It immediately jumped off. Barely catching it, she stuffed it into her skirt pocket and set her jaw. Then nodded toward Ravenhill as if she’d finally fixed things.

A muffled, less emphatic zzzzz buzzed in her pocket. She prayed her skirts and petticoats would absorb the sound and fixed an expression of assurance on her face. “I believe its spring is running down.”

Clasping her hands at her waist, she ignored the vibration against her leg, determined not to let Edward’s little toy spoil this visit. “Now then. How have you been, Mr Ravenhill?”

He gazed at her face and then down at the zzzzz in her skirt pocket. His shoulders seemed to quiver. Was he biting his lip?

Dear Heavens, could he possibly know of the Buzzy Bee’s true use?

He straightened, and went very still. “I’d say I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble, but you’d know it for a lie.” He quickly turned toward the table. She heard a quiet gulping sound and watched his shoulders rise and fall with several deep breaths.

When he turned back he’d retrieved a bouquet. “Fortunately, I had the forethought to bring a peace offering.” Using his cane, he slowly walked across the carpet and held out his flowers. “My lady, I saw these White Roses and Blue Lilies of the Nile and thought of your lovely eyes.” One side of his mouth pulled up in a grin. Were it not for the injury to his face, she imagined the man would be beaming.

The sweetness of the gesture quite took her by surprise. She accepted the bouquet and breathed in their fragrance. “Thank you. How thoughtful. Shall we sit? I can’t help notice the foot I stepped on still pains you.”

He dipped his head gallantly and followed.

She sat on the comfortably large sofa and held the bouquet while he positioned himself on the far end. Even so, such a tall, brawny man somehow made it shrink.

The smile continued to quiver on one side of his lips, while he gazed at her as if drinking in her countenance.

How she’d hoped he’d look at her thus. But with the Buzzy Bee still vibrating against her leg, the most improper images took form.

She searched for something innocuous to say. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

The question seemed to snap him out of whatever reverie he’d been in. “No, thank you.” He shifted toward her, capturing her gaze. “I’d hoped you might accompany me for a ride in my new phaeton.”

The evil device’s spring chose that moment to unwind in a furious bout of buzzing, making her skin tingle all the way up and down her leg.

“Oh!” Her eyes went wide, and she gripped her bouquet.

Far from glowering at her with disapproval, as in her first fantasy of Mr Ravenhill, his gaze intensified on her face as if he didn’t dare look away.

Her hand flew to her chest. “Dear me! I, I hadn’t anticipated such a… a kind invitation.” With Edward’s toy going on a rampage in her pocket and now this spur-of-the-moment offer from a man who made everything in her flutter, she bounded to her feet and nearly dashed to the window and back. “When do you suggest?”

“Your enthusiasm is… exhilarating. How about now?”

“Now?” Her insides somersaulted. Such a request needed consideration, a careful measurement of the propriety and formalities involved.

Oh, dear. Why had she stubbornly resisted Gracie and Eliza’s pleas to buy new gowns?

A ride with a gentleman caller while wearing mourning attire for her deceased husband would not be the thing. People would say she’d thrown decorum to the wind. Her aunt’s advice for happiness echoed in her mind. Would Mr Ravenhill consider it a slight if she refused to go with him?

“Where do you intend on taking us?”

“I thought a trot through the park. My team is in need of exercise.”

“Well, I…”

Megpeas, her butler, tapped on the doorjamb. “My apologies, my lady, one of the workmen begs a moment of your time.”

“Please tell him I’m busy?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, he insists it’s important.”

The burly carpenter leaned around her butler. His gaze shot past her to narrow in on Ravenhill. Was it a trick of the light or did the expression in his eyes change dramatically? Turning, she found Ravenhill’s attention riveted on the carpenter. A sizzle of unspoken male hostility passed between the two men.

What were they doing? Could this day get any stranger?

She swallowed uneasily and addressed the carpenter. “What is it?”

The carpenter returned his gaze to her, his expression and voice now wholly respectful. “I’m sorry, my lady. I thought it important to tell you another device has been found. You may want to inspect it before the police arrive.”

“They just left!”

Mr Ravenhill shoved himself to his feet in a stance bristling with power and aggression, while glaring at the carpenter.

“No!” she almost shouted. What had got into these men? “Please make yourself comfortable, Mr Ravenhill. I’ll be back before you can blink twice.”

***

For the second time that day, Damen encountered a face from the past. He’d recognized Hooker right away. While he’d not yet discovered how he knew the carpenter, something about him raised every last one of his hackles. By the hostile stare the man returned, he suspected the fellow had a better memory. But who was he?

Damen went to the door to get another look at him. He took a few more steps for a clearer view. Before long, he found himself following the carpenter and Lady Strathford down several long halls and a flight of stairs. Hammers and chisels pounded so energetically the walls and floors seemed to shudder.

By the time he ducked through a curtain-strung doorway, the carpenter had crowded Lady Strathford into the corner against a workbench, and was pointing to something.

Two flashes of metal caught Damen’s eye. As he bent to retrieve the small objects off the floor, he found himself at a better angle to see her face. Clearly, the journeyman’s attentions made her uncomfortable.

He crept up and wacked the carpenter’s ankle with his cane. The man lunged back, but Damen had anticipated his reaction and already stepped out of the way. “My apologies,” he said airily. “My cane caught on debris and quite unsettled my footing.”

The carpenter drew his lips across his teeth like a dog threatening to bite.

Now closer, he took the measure of the man and studied his rugged features. Animosity shone in his hard eyes along with that glint of familiarity.

“I say, this is a nice big room.” Damen raised his cane and pointed to a charred bookcase, giving Lady Strathford a graceful way of extricating herself from the corner. “What do you plan on doing with it, my lady?”

Her pallor had gone rather anemic. For a moment he wasn’t sure she’d respond. “An orangery,” she finally replied and stepped around the carpenter toward the bookcase.

Damen shouldered his way into her spot at the workbench and gazed at the thing the carpenter had been pointing to. “A blasting fuse?” He reached to pick up the cord.

The carpenter’s gnarled paw shot out to cover the fuse, a dangerous growl issuing from his lips. “That is evidence… we don’t want it damaged a’fore the police can examine it.”

Damen shoved his hand into his pocket while he considered the man. They looked of an age. His other characteristics – a sturdy build, a thick, bent nose and a short temper – had been common among toughs in his old neighborhood.

Clearly the carpenter remembered him. But did he know him as Damen, Cory, or both?

How and where had he known this man? After his mother’s death, he rarely returned to London and had lived in Liverpool since university. Twenty years could strip memories and change faces, yet he was sure they’d met.

He pointed to the bruises around his face and head. “Please excuse my jumbled memory, but I can’t help thinking we’re acquainted. When and where might we have met?”

Hostility shone bright in the carpenter’s gaze before he looked away. “Haven’t seen you a’fore this day.”

Lying was not the man’s strong suit.

“I found this on the floor.” Damen pulled one of the metal pieces from his pocket and held out the auger bit. “Didn’t want you to lose this.” When the carpenter extended his other hand, he saw a small number six crudely tattooed in the center of his meaty palm. His little and ring finger were bent and gnarled, signs they’d been badly broken.

A rough gang of child thieves had tattooed a number into their palms when Damen lived in St Giles. Most were abandoned or orphaned, surviving any way they could. Many died, some were hung, others transported. There’d been at least forty, who, for anonymity’s sake, only answered to their numbers.

A memory, ripe with fury, flooded back. Granny Wilkins had been shuffling down the street using her cane, her basket slung over one arm. A street urchin raced out of an alley and grabbed hold of her basket. She fought as much as a cripple could. The urchin kicked and jostled her, all the while twisting at the basket. He finally gave her a hard shove, sending her into the street in front of a team of horses. They reared and screamed.

Damen rushed into the street, grasped her under her arms and dragged her to safety. At nine, he’d been big for his age. Thankfully, Granny, a tiny bird of a woman, was not much bigger than himself.

The next time Number Six struck, Cory was walking along the sidewalk playing with his little pop-up clown. The guttersnipe dashed out of a doorway, hit him in the back of the head with a brick and grabbed the toy. Cory fought, but his attacker pounced on him and was about to smash the brick into his face when Damen came to his brother’s rescue.

He grabbed the urchin’s arm and squeezed his wrist hard. The boy cursed and dropped the brick to reveal the number six in his palm.

And Damen didn’t stop there.

He’d heard the guttersnipe had attacked a little girl a block away, leaving her with a badly broken arm. Granny Wilkins could have been killed if the wagon driver and his horses had been any less attentive. Number Six was ready to bash Cory’s skull in with a brick.

Damen grasped the boy’s ring and little finger and twisted, cracking them over his knee. The urchin screamed in pain. Then he wrenched the boy’s fingers toward the other side, feeling bones pop. The boy shrieked and jerked his hand away, mewling loudly as he ran off.

Number Six’s fingers were the first he’d broken in retribution after coming to a victim’s aid.

Lady Strathford approached and grasped his elbow. “I think we’re done here. Mr Ravenhill, would you please escort me back?”

Damen allowed her to guide him out. Inside he fought a battle between guilt and wanting to tear the carpenter limb from limb.

CHAPTER 6

“I must confess,” Sarah said an hour later when they entered a straightaway in Hyde Park, “you are the first gentleman caller to take me on a carriage ride through the park… ever.”

Mr Ravenhill gave her a quizzical smile and dipped his head. “I’m honored.”

“My friends experienced this when they were still green girls. I seem to live life in reverse. I married, was widowed twice, and finally am invited for a carriage ride around Hyde Park.”

He placed his hand over his heart and affected a wounded expression. “And here I thought spending time with me was the reason for your eagerness, when all along it was the carriage ride you anticipated. Well then, is it everything you imagined?”

As he reined the horses, the smooth play of his muscular arms and broad shoulders stole her attention. She tore her eyes away only to have them land on his long, sinewy thighs, perfectly described by his tight continental trousers. Her pulse made a funny little skip.

She quickly averted her eyes to something safer, like his dark hair, fluttering in the wind around the rim of his top hat. An image of running her fingers through those thick, shiny waves made her blood surge even faster.

She turned around in her seat in an attempt to give the impression she was surveying the carriage, when in fact, she wanted to keep her gaze from locking on to some other delicious part of him. By now her attraction to him battled so with her ingrained propriety, she lost control of her mouth’s somewhat faulty filter. Raw thought gushed forth without restraint.

“The carriage is certainly one of the finest made and the horses couldn’t be more beautiful or well trained, but…”

He winced. “Thank you, my lady… but?”

She looked up at him, trying not to wince at the cuts and bruises spoiling what she knew to be a most attractive face. “But I never imagined my escort would appear like he’d recently fought in a prize fight… and lost!... Badly!”

Mr Ravenhill let out a bark of laughter. “You do speak your mind. I’ll have you know I worked hard for these bruises.”

Sarah realized, too late, her unforgivable frankness and demurred. “I’m sure it was most uncomfortable.”

“Now you have me blushing, my lady. Either my valor or my fighting skills have been called into question. I can’t decide which.”

She clutched at her high-necked collar, incredulous that such words had come from her mouth. “Please forgive my unfortunate tendency to misspeak.” Heat rose up her neck.

“No. An apology will not suffice. A forfeit is required.”

“A forfeit!” The butterflies already flitting around her stomach staged a riot. “Surely you must understand, it was a slip of the tongue.” She’d never had anyone express disapproval once she’d made a sincere apology.

“As your forfeit you must reveal something embarrassing about yourself.”

Sarah nearly choked. Hadn’t she already embarrassed herself enough? Some women could blithely talk and flirt with handsome, enticing men. Her isolated upbringing and marriages had kept her apart from society, preventing her from learning the finer points of flirting and conversation. More heat flushed her face. Couldn’t he tell what he was doing to her?

Then her mind latched on to the Buzzy Bee. Ooooh. Is that what he’d been driving at all along? The brakes finally slammed down on her internal chaos. Her lips drew into a peeve. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why is Inspector Hooker sniffing around your home?”

So it was the inspector and not Edward’s little toy that had tweaked Ravenhill’s curiosity? Sarah exhaled in relief. “You saw that loathsome police inspector leaving?”

“Indeed,” he said grimly, adding curious weight to the word.

“You know him?”

“Regrettably.” One side of his mouth curved down. “He enjoys putting a squirm into everyone he meets. I attribute it to his low self-worth and stupidity.”

“Oh! Well said! Well said!” She clasped her hands to her chest. “You do know him.”

He dipped his head again. “Why is he loitering about your parlor?”

“I believe he thinks I murdered Lord Strathford.” She clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. Mercy! What was the matter with her? Of all things to let slip. “I… I mean,” she stammered, “he tried to bully me into saying I had something to do with his untimely death.”

“Did you?”

She sputtered at his bold response. “NO! I’d thought his laboratory explosion a horrid accident. I loved my husband and haven’t the slightest idea how to operate the fuses the workmen found. But the inspector persists.”

“Does he have any evidence you did it?”

“He said I must have hired someone.”

“Accusations and conjecture,” Ravenhill muttered. “He hasn’t changed, the lazy cockroach. The workmen could have easily placed them when they started remodeling your home.”

Sarah bit her lip. “I should have thought of that. When Strathford died, an investigation was conducted. They found nothing to suggest foul play. The inspector also said a Professor Bodkin claims my husband drew up plans for a small engine they’d been working on together. The professor now demands I give them to him.”

“Bodkin? Now why does his name sound familiar? How very odd.” Mr Ravenhill’s undamaged brow furrowed. “Didn’t your husband die some time ago? Why is Bodkin only now coming forward?”

“I have no idea, but my solicitor promised to investigate his claims.”

Mr Ravenhill readjusted the reins before turning to her. She tried not to watch the play of his arm and shoulder muscles against his lightweight jacket.

“Competing inventors have a long and impressive history of envy and violence. Do you know where to find the plans?”

“No. Lord Strathford must have made them for his inventions, but it never occurred to me to ask where they were kept.”

“You might want to have a look around, my lady.”

She gazed at him squarely. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

A glint formed in his uninjured eye and then darkened as it drifted over her face, down her neck to her bosom and back up again. The admiration in his gaze made her feel like she was the most ravishing woman he’d ever seen. Her heart skipped a beat. She’d never experienced such a thrill from any man, let alone one as thoroughly arousing as Mr Ravenhill.

“Perhaps I could offer my assistance,” he quietly rumbled. “But I will need to become familiar with your home and anywhere else your husband could have secreted away his plans. It may require our working together closer than is customary.”

***

“So you wish to be my lover, Mr Ravenhill?” Two guileless pools of blue gazed back.

Damen gulped – shocked she’d put into words a thought he’d kept at bay since their first meeting. “No! That’s not what I… I mean, it’s not entirely… More to the point…”

He glanced around. A carriage quickly approached from the rear. Had they heard? The woman did not embrace subtlety or coy airs. He’d never considered himself easily surprised, but sometimes she said the most astounding things. Was she purposely trying to fluster him?

“Let me square away the team.” He rapped the reins, sending the horses into a trot down a side trail, hoping the distraction would give him time to collect his scattered thoughts.

She’d misconstrued his intensions; well, maybe not entirely, but he would now have to be very careful how he phrased his next question – one for which he desperately needed her agreement in order to find his brother’s assailants. He cut a quick glance toward her, while trying to determine her state of mind.

Was her little upturned nose twitching mischievously or was she deep in contemplation? He couldn’t tell. Tiny freckles scattered across her pronounced cheekbones. From the sides of her bonnet, unruly flaxen curls bounced in the breeze.

Her eyes sparkled as they traveled over his arms, across his shoulders and up his neck. With determination, he resisted falling into them.

When he’d put a fair distance between their carriage and others, he took another run at the topic. “Let me put it another way, my lady. It has come to my attention, although I have no memory of it, that the men who attacked me thought I knew the whereabouts of a certain set of plans.”

Another wayward curl escaped her bonnet. “Do you think they meant the same ones as Lord Strathford’s?”

“It seems highly possible. I find it too coincidental that I was nearly killed and your husband may have been murdered over a set of plans with a similar description. It’s imperative we quickly find them.”

“I see.” But her confused expression belied her words. She gave him a tight smile. “I’m not saying I’m agreeing to… an alliance…”

Anticipating her refusal, he insisted, “What I am proposing is completely above board, I assure you.”

“Why would I want to do such a thing?”

“You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he smiled. “Figuratively, of course.”

At the look of incredulity that flashed across her features he stammered, “Or perhaps more accurately, a favor for a favor.”

Mrs Ivanova had suggested seduction. Of course he desired Lady Strathford, but had he been that obvious? Perhaps her two previous marriages had taught her the subtle signs. He quickly added, “It appears you might be forced to prove your innocence, which means you must find the true murderer or murderers. I wish to find the men who attacked me. It is possible they are one and the same.”

***

This time, before speaking, Sarah took greater care in measuring her words. “You and I would make very easy targets for tittle-tattle. I am a widow and you are the fancy-free second son of a viscount. Whether or not it is true, we would be considered lovers.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged, “if we were not discreet.”

She bit her lower lip. Was this how affairs began? She’d made light of her Aunt Eliza’s comment that she should take a lover, yet here was a most desirable man suggesting just that. The flutters that had been tickling her insides now flitted through her veins. Not two hours before she’d despaired of ever seeing Mr Ravenhill again. Now he wished to assist her discreetly?

Part of her exulted at his suggestion until more pragmatic considerations threw a bucket of ice-cold reality onto it. Her life until now had been staid, isolated and private. Neither of her deceased husbands had ever been underfoot. They’d kept their lives, even their bedrooms, comfortably separate.

Now, if she agreed, not only would a very attractive man be ‘underfoot,’ she would have to worry about them being discovered. They could easily become the topic of rumors and gossip and… oh, dear, what would her brother say?

Though her father died nearly a year before, memories of his unrelenting discipline and rants meant that at nearly thirty her first thought was still for her and her family’s reputation. Even beyond the grave, his rigid rules of decorum held sway.

“The most probable place for the plans would be in my home,” she intoned carefully. “With all the servants and workmen marching about, it would be difficult for you to go unnoticed. Should you become too familiar about my home, it is likely we would be called lovers. I cannot risk my own or my family’s reputation.”

“You do make remarkably quick leaps of logic, my lady. Quite left me in the dust for a moment.” He pulled at his collar and quirked up one side of his mouth. “I can understand your fear of tittle-tattle, but I must ask you to consider which would be the worse gossip – your arrest for murdering your husband or being the secret lover of Dame… uh, Mr Cornelius Ravenhill?”

Sarah straightened in her seat. Even though the inspector frightened her, the logical part of her latched on to what Mr Ravenhill had said earlier. The inspector was an incompetent. He’d nearly accused her of hiring someone to set blasts in her husband’s laboratory, a total untruth and fabrication.

The professor and plans could be another of his groundless allegations. Edward was not shy about discussing his successes. He would have told her if he’d made a unique engine.

“At the very least,” Mr Ravenhill continued, “I suggest you stop work on your renovation and secure the premises. Hire top blasting specialists of your own to examine the suspicious fuses and where they were found. Inspector Hooker is devious and not to be underestimated. To be on the safe side, I’d even contact friends and acquaintances who have influence with top police and judicial offices. If Hooker makes any more allegations, no matter how outlandish, be sure to have your own experts investigate to counter his claims.”

Sarah took a moment to consider his recommendations. They certainly seemed logical, if perhaps a little excessive. The commanding way he spoke had a stern authority she’d not expected from such a charming rogue.

What a puzzling man.

It could be said she was a little starry-eyed. Mr Ravenhill, more than any gentleman she’d ever met, certainly drew her. There was nothing medium about him. Additionally, he was intelligent, well spoken, mannered, the son of a viscount and he seemed to like her.

On the other hand, she’d only met him three times. He’d recently returned from abroad, giving minimal accounting of his years away. His story of traveling the world as a merchant of curiosities didn’t jibe with his debonair mien and the occasional shadow of aloofness and command.

For certain, she needed to find Edward’s plans and prove her innocence. But her ingrained propriety and memories of her father’s tirades about ‘loose women’ made her quail at the prospect of prurient gossip.

She clasped her hands in her lap, resigned to the only decision she could make. “While it appears we both have need of my husband’s mysterious plans, for the time being, I’m sure I can search my home myself. If and when I find plans that resemble your description, I will be sure to keep you informed.”

CHAPTER 7

“Lord Strathford’s widow is not cooperating and I need her help,” Damen confessed to Cory the next day as if he would open his eyes, give him a crooked smile, and tell him he was still a ham-fisted bungler when it came to women.

The drapery had been pulled to filter the morning sunlight into the dark-paneled bedchamber. Damen gazed about the purple bruises circling his brother’s closed eyes. “I’m doing everything I can to find the villains who did this to you, but I’ve run into a problem.”

He sank down into the chair next to the bed and placed his hand on Cory’s arm. A slow pulse beat beneath, proof life still existed inside, but could he hear him? Could he understand?

“And the irony is,” Damen continued, “you were far better at gaining a woman’s assistance than me. I could use some pointers if you’d stop being such a laze-about.”

The cuts and swelling across his brother’s face had blossomed into a kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes he jerked a finger or a foot, but he’d still not opened his eyes. The doctor told him, with each day that passed, he was less likely to awake, but Damen refused to give up. Somehow he had to reach him and pull him back from the abyss.

“Your mistress said you were looking for Strathford’s plans before you were attacked. Now Lady Strathford needs to find them and prove she didn’t kill her husband. But she has refused my help. She fears the gossips will call us lovers. Imagine that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know you could have easily talked her round.”

Damen leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in one palm. Now more than ever, he believed finding the plans would lead to his brother’s attackers and probably Lord Strathford’s killer. How could he persuade Lady Strathford to work with him and let him search her mansion? He leaned back, barely seeing the intricate plasterwork marching across the ceiling. “What did you find, Cory, that made someone want to kill you?”

His brother’s slow, almost imperceptible breathing was the only answer.

Damen stood, walked around the end of the bed, and barked his shin on Cory’s sea chest. “Blast! What’s that doing here?” As he rubbed his leg, he noticed the trunk’s open latch and lifted the lid. Inside lay Cory’s navigating equipment, a bundle of letters, several books, two old newspapers written in a foreign language… and a worn, leather-bound journal.

He opened it and read the first entries dated five years before, right after Damen had seen Cory off in Liverpool. His brother’s pencil scrawl recorded the weather, the ship’s speed, other incidentals, and a few surprisingly good likenesses of porpoises.

He thumbed through more dry discourse, and turned the journal on its side to admire landscapes Cory had drawn of ports he’d visited, notes about the geography, maps and charts and a few portraits of the inhabitants. He flipped to the back pages. There he found the date, two weeks before, where Cory had recorded his arrival in London. An entry three days later said:

Grancliffe party. Saw Dante’s acolyte!!

“Two exclamation points,” Damen mumbled.

He turned to the last entry, the day Cory had been attacked. He read the words aloud. “‘Half ten. Meet Dante’s acolyte. Strathford coda.’ What does that mean?” He read it several more times.

Dante. Who was Dante?

Could it refer to Dante’s Inferno? Or the devil? Perhaps hell or fire? What about acolyte – a follower or assistant? And what did ‘coda’ mean? Maybe a dance, or a concluding event of some sort? If he interpreted the words correctly, it appeared his brother knew the ‘acolyte’ of the ‘inferno’ that was ‘Strathford’s end.’

He searched more of the journal for clues to the mystery. On a page dated three years earlier he found another entry:

Bird will sing.

At two years earlier, an entry said:

Strathford coda.

He could only guess at what these pencil scratches meant while his mind spun with darker questions. Damen reached up and rubbed the taut muscle in his neck. Cory was supposed to have been on a merchant ship during that time. Yet his journal made it appear he’d slipped back into England without contacting him or their father.

A cold chill skittered across his shoulders. It appeared his brother was somehow connected to Strathford. And most disturbing of all, it made him wonder if Cory might have been involved with the laboratory explosion and fire that killed the inventor?

A vague recollection surfaced of Sarah saying his brother ignored her at the Grancliffe party. His attention had been pinned to the doorway. That didn’t sound like Cory. Beautiful women always took precedence. This acolyte must have been very important indeed. No doubt a dangerous character as well.

He raked his fingers through his hair. How could he find out who’d been present at the party?

***

Sarah rubbed her temple. “Difficulties, problems and annoyances. That’s all I seem to have these days.” As her carriage rumbled down the street, she jotted down another item on her list of things needing attention. She’d risen early this morning to consult with Mrs Billings before her mission school began for the day. Lately, they’d made a few changes, and she was anxious to know if they’d brought more children into the school.

The carriage finally pulled to a stop. Her driver opened the door and let down the stairs. “Mind your step, my lady.”

She alighted onto the murky sidewalk and glanced about. Her mission sat in St Giles, one of the poorest parts of London, close to those most in need. Wagons and working-class pedestrians bustled along the grimy street. Shops lined the first level of the soot-coated buildings. Small factories, boarding houses and tenements packed the dilapidated neighborhood as well.

Sarah climbed the steps and entered the mission’s front door. The Spartan front entry doubled as a greeting room and Mrs Billings’ office. Her second-hand desk and side chairs showed wear, but all seemed neat and tidy.

Her mission manager bustled out of a classroom. “Oh, good morning, my lady!”

“Good morning, Billings. Might I have a word?”

Sarah followed her into the classroom and shut the door. “Are you happy with the new teacher and cook?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs Billings smiled. “The new teacher is enthusiastic, yet still maintains discipline and the children seem to like her. The new cook is quite proficient as well. She manages to make a balanced and very tasty free dinner for the children.”

“But have we seen any increase in enrollment?”

The mission manager bit her lip. “This may seem somewhat roundabout, but that nice young couple you gave arithmetic lessons to stopped by with a few of their friends. There appears to be great interest in learning how to calculate the cost of their loans. The adults are seeking knowledge. Perhaps if parents see the value of education, they will send their children.”

“Excellent idea, Billings!”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“The adults need education even more desperately than their children. They have to use it every day. Perhaps we can give lessons in the evenings after their work.”

Mrs Billings gave her a worried expression. “Classes at night might not be safe. The tailor down the block was attacked last night in his shop. The gang that’s been terrorizing the neighborhood demanded protection money or they’d do it again.”

“Surely they wouldn’t attack a mission. This is a charity,” Sarah said in disbelief. “We help people.”

“These are despicable villains, my lady. I doubt they have any scruples whatsoever. I told our workers to keep a sharp eye out for anyone who looks suspicious.”

***

The sun had reached its zenith by the time Damen arrived at the dim alley where the coachman said Cory and his footman were found. Today he’d dressed in the shabby shirt, trousers and boots he used to blend into the seedier parts of Liverpool and its dockyards.

He started at one end of the pathway and paced to the other. Both opened out to larger streets. Little more than a dirt-lined drainage gap between buildings, the track hardly seemed wide enough for three men abreast, much less seven knocking each other about.

Damen stretched out his arms, easily touching the long clapboard building to one side and the high brick wall on the other. Apart from children’s laughter and the sounds of a play yard nearby, nothing seemed particularly untoward or out of the ordinary. He dug into his workman’s smock for his pencil and small notebook to make notes.

“Mr Ravenhill? My goodness, I barely recognized you.”

His pulse stuttered in surprise. The dulcet voice flowed over him like warm syrup. Damen whipped round and swept his cap from his head. “Lady Strathford, what are you doing here?”

She stood at the opened gate bisecting the brick wall. Two pink smudges colored her creamy high cheekbones. Sunlight reflected off her crown of tight braids creating something of a halo around her head. Her graceful hands rested on the shoulders of two urchins peering around her skirts.

His heart bounded into a faster beat. Had he ever seen a lovelier, more feminine sight? A Madonna, an angel.

She gently turned the children back inside and closed the gate to approach him. Her high-collared, dingy, dark gown, typical of a St Giles matron, made a wise ensemble for this part of town. But her exquisite countenance was a rarity for any part of town.

Part of him wanted to take her in hand and bustle her back to Mayfair. This was no place for a beautiful woman. Even angels were in jeopardy in St Giles. Plenty of dangers overtook the locals. More befell those who appeared like they had something to steal. “Have you lost your way, my lady?”

“I might ask you the same.” Her sparkling gaze drifted about his face, settling in on his lips, stirring in him a completely inappropriate response.

She pointed to the three-story brick building behind her that looked like a factory. “On the other side of this wall is one of the charities I support – my Mission of Mercy. Several of the teachers have been watching you and wondering what you’re about.” Damen peered around the upper-floor windows. He now realized one or two faces peered back.

“This is where our coachman said he found us. My footman said five ruffians set upon us.” An idea came to him. “Did anyone at your mission see the attack?”

“Oh, dear. What time did it occur?”

“I was told in the wee hours of the morning.”

“The mission is open from seven to seven. I can ask if anyone saw anything suspicious.” She gazed around the path as he’d done. “It must have been a squeeze for seven men. Are you certain you didn’t crawl in here to escape?”

“The thought did cross my mind.” Damen paced to one end of the short passage where it intersected with a larger road. Various buildings and tenements populated the street. Near the entrance stood a second-hand store, a gin shop, a store that sold small animals, and several gambling saloons. As far as he knew, Cory hadn’t been a gambler. If he had entered one of those establishments, it was likely in pursuit of someone.

Sarah approached him at the path’s entrance and looked back toward her mission. “This is a well-known shortcut through the neighborhood.”

Damen turned to follow her gaze. “Yet another confusing piece to the puzzle. What brought me to your mission, and why was I attacked practically on your back doorstep?” Could Cory have known of Lady Strathford’s mission and hoped he might get help?

“Have any of your memories returned?”

He rubbed the side of his head and hoped to sound convincing. “There is something. You said when we danced at the Grancliffe party my gaze had been fixed on the doorway, and afterward I disappeared? I think I might have seen someone at the party, someone who might have been responsible for the attack on me and my footman.”

“What did this person look like?”

“Not sure. I only know I was shocked to see them.” If Damen read the two exclamation points in Cory’s journal correctly, his brother had been surprised.

“You don’t think one of the guests…”

“I don’t know what to think.” Damen slapped his cap against his knee. “Do you remember seeing anyone in the doorway?”

“No.”

“If we could get a list of those in attendance, you and I could review the names and, together, perhaps identify this person.”

Sarah studied him with a raised brow. “Is this your sly way of luring me into working with you?”

Damen gazed about her lovely face, wanting to pull her close and whisper exactly how he’d like to work with her. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly and her subtle gasp raised her chest as her eyes traveled over his neck and shoulders.

The moment stretched.

A heavily laden dray rumbled by, loudly hitting a pit in the street, shattering the cocoon of awareness around them.

Damen realized he’d forgotten to breathe and tried to return his attention to the problem at hand. “The more I discover, the more I’m convinced my attack and your husband’s death are connected.”

“The party seems an odd place to find such a villain.” Her words came out rather breathy with a slight quiver. “It was meant to introduce Miss Collins to a few of Lord and Lady Grancliffes’ acquaintances. A few new arrivals to London were added to the guest list at the last moment, as I assume you were.”

“How can I get a list of everyone there?”

Sarah straightened at his words and her brows went up again.

“Yes, yes, I know…” His voice drifted into his more impatient business tones before he managed to clamp his lips shut. She thought he wanted to use the list as an excuse to get closer. Unlike his servants and employees, she didn’t have to follow his orders. A different approach would be needed.

Contriving his best Cory smile, he leaned down and gazed about her face as if she were the only star in his cosmos. “It would be so very helpful…” Instead of being the in-control charmer, he fell into the infinite blue of Sarah’s eyes, and lost track of everything around him.

His hands were circling her waist when her lips pulled into a thin line. He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back.

Her mouth continued its downward curve as she sniffed. “Perhaps I could send a note to Lady Grancliffe, but I’m not promising anything.”

***

“The man is a scoundrel and too charming by half,” Sarah muttered to herself as she marched back up her mission’s brick walkway. A silly smile kept trying to work its way across her lips.

No man ever affected her like this. Even with his face a mass of bruises, one glance from him made her light-headed. When he bent to her, peered deep into her eyes and gave her that look like he could devour her, she felt a thrill all the way down to her sturdy-soled boots.

For goodness’ sake. The way Mr Ravenhill’s work smock outlined his muscular torso approached indecency. And Heavens! She must be going daft. For a moment she’d almost broken all sense of propriety, reached out and smoothed down his collar.

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.”

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