The Trouble With Seduction. Victoria Hanlen

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