The Trouble With Seduction. Victoria Hanlen

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ