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.”
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!”
Sarah