The Trouble With Seduction. Victoria Hanlen

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ