The Trouble With Seduction. Victoria Hanlen

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ