by JayneFresina
Miss Piper, as he'd said to his brother, was merely business, not pleasure.
But Ransom was in a teasing mood. "Father would say she's bound to become a distraction, and you know he has big plans for you. Can't let anything get in the way of his ambitions for the golden boy."
"Very amusing."
"He wants to keep you out of trouble, away from scandal. I don't want him coming up here and cursing at me for encouraging you in some ill-advised romance with a flighty American, who is, it might be said, a fugitive from justice." He grinned. "Sounds like a tragedy poised to happen and I get the blame for everything as it is. Perhaps I ought to confer with father, before I help you with this wayward American woman."
Damon knew his brother enjoyed wielding this sort of pompous, older brother authority over him. Eventually, like anything with which Ransom tried to amuse himself, it wore itself out; one merely had to be patient. So he replied steadily. "I told you, it's simply business. I've been hired to do a job and that's all. I need some information, and I know you can get it for me."
As the manager of Deverell's Gentlemen's club, Ransom knew everything that went on in that town. It was this ability to collect other people's secrets, particularly those of a darker nature, that made him an extremely useful ally — or the worst of enemies, depending upon your point of view.
"You want me to find out who took the gossip about your American hussy to the newspaper."
"There has to be somebody with an axe to grind."
"And this is...business?"
Damon reached over his brother's desk to straighten a glass paperweight and a pile of papers that had bothered him since he entered the room. "Absolutely."
"Why go to all this trouble?" Ransom grumbled, clearly suffering that day from a lack of sleep and an excess of drink the night before. "It's just a story in the newspaper. The devil knows there's been worse printed about us. A damn sight worse."
"That doesn't mean it's right. Sooner or later somebody has to stand up and put a stop to it."
"Father would say, why bother? He never explains or feels the need to defend himself."
"Well, that's our father." And sometimes Damon thought it might have been nice if their father did stand up and defend himself. Supposedly he was writing his memoirs to explain a lot of things, but since nobody had seen them yet their existence was in dispute. "Miss Piper's father feels differently, it seems. He's hired Stempenham and Pitt to put right any misunderstandings. So that's what I mean to do."
Ransom glowered at him darkly. "Yes. You always were one for lining up the edges, straightening things, putting them in neat order. Even as a child. Used to bloody annoy the hell out of me. Like sharing a bedchamber with a damnable monk."
When Damon's mother had died, True Deverell took him and his elder, full-blood brother Justify, to live with the rest of the family at Roscarrock Castle, on a small rocky island off the Cornish coast. From then on, all True's children lived, played and fought under the same roof, until they were sent away to various boarding schools, or, in the case of the daughter, sent off to spend time with her mother. At Roscarrock, a Camelot-like castle sometimes shrouded in a magical fog that might have been summoned by Merlin himself, they had a mostly happy existence with very little discipline— at least, none that was obvious to the outsider. But somehow their father kept them in a line, albeit one that was loosely configured, the boundaries reliant on his mood that day. He usually gave them their head, until, for whatever reason, he suddenly remembered that they were his responsibility and felt the need to rein them in. Since the reining in was neither pleasant, and as unpredictable as an English summer, the boys soon learned to keep their worst behavior out of his sight. Just in case.
Three of the boys— Ransom, Justify and Damon— had shared a bedchamber. While Justify and Damon, accustomed to life in a small cottage with their mother, kept their side of the room shipshape, Ransom's side was a tumble of confused mess: broken cricket bats, discarded riding boots, sticky jam pots stolen from the kitchen, stained shirts and pages torn from books, scribbled on with dirty words and naughty sketches just to shock one of his many unfortunate nannies. A thousand times he was told to make his side of the room neat, and a thousand times he left it just as it was, sometimes adding to the wreckage, pounding through it in a new pair of boots, breaking and crushing whatever he stepped on in his temper. It was clear to the perceptive, watchful Damon that Ransom merely bided his time until he was of age to leave the house and live where he chose. He blamed the divorce entirely on their father and was the only defender of his mother, Lady Charlotte. Yet, underneath all the shouting, Ransom still yearned for his father's attention and approval.
All True's sons fought for his notice in their own way, and every Deverell "cub" had a raw confidence, the ability to ignore the outraged slights of society with as much aplomb as they broke its rules in the first place— a talent they had learned, or inherited, from their notorious father. But although his brothers careened through life like a handful of scattered jacks, never knowing or much caring where they might land, Damon had one thing they lacked— an instinctive caution.
Six years younger than Ransom, as a child Damon had looked up to the other boy, thought him daring and bold, wished he could be more like that himself and less anxious about life, less of a worrier in general. In fact, he had occasionally pushed himself into perilous situations in some attempt to earn his brother's respect, terrified out of his wits but always determined. No doubt the admiration he felt for Ransom was only deepened by the fact that his elder half-brother thought him an annoying gnat to be swatted away impatiently. Eventually Damon had given up and given in to his guarded side, abandoning those ill-fated attempts to be as reckless as Ransom, and instead being content to please their father.
At last, now they were older, the brothers had formed a tentative alliance of mutual tolerance for each other's differences and reluctant recognition for their similarities. It was an attachment still growing, slowly and guardedly. Damon had high hopes of one day receiving a hug from his brother instead of a hand shake. Small steps. Not that he would know quite what to do with such a gesture, if he ever received it. Like that hand pat from Lady Roper, it would utterly upset the routine of his day.
Still it wouldn't be unwelcome.
Looking at his ill-tempered brother today, Damon felt as if he had worked harder for this man's friendship and acceptance, than he had for admittance to Lady Elizabeth Stanbury's bed.
"Will you help me or not?"
Ransom sighed and rolled his eyes to the plaster cupids that grinned stupidly down from the ceiling. "I just don't know whether I should. What do I get in return?"
"Remember all those times you sent me off on missions for you when we were young?" Damon persevered. "When we played the Knights of Camelot. Of course, I wasn't always allowed to participate, but once in a great while you humored me— when you had use for a small, thwarted stump of a boy who would do anything to be included. And I was just foolish enough to oblige. Surely you owe me one favor." At least one.
But Ransom could be aggressively unhelpful when suffering one of these bleak moods.
"Christ, haven't thought of that in years." Head pressed back against his chair, Ransom studied his brother again for a long moment. "Being father's favorite, you always got away with things. You were always forgiven. So, yes, that made you a useful brat from time to time." He leaned forward again to clip the end of a cigar and light it, using a candle from his desk. "Now you're the dull lawyer who spends all his evenings bent over papers, working late and wasting candles. No more reckless games for you, eh? No more angry schoolmasters' broken curricles, or even angrier schoolmaster's seduced wives. That's all forgotten for you. These days you might as well live in a bloody cloister. Father really believes you're the angel of the bunch, his ace in the pack, now that you've reformed your naughty schoolboy ways. But then, sometimes a man sees only what he wants to see."
Of course, his brother knew not
hing about Lady Elizabeth Stanbury. Or did he? Sometimes one should not ask "how" when it came to information Ransom procured, for the only thing at doubt was the "when".
Damon said carefully, "I simply decided there are enough madmen in the asylum known as our family. Somebody has to keep the lamps and fires lit without burning the place down."
There was silence again while his brother leaned back, eyes closed. Damon thought he'd fallen asleep there and then, until those dark, haunted and weary eyes opened again, just halfway.
"And there's something else you need from me," Ransom muttered. "I can feel it as you hover before me like the grim bloody reaper. What is it? What else do you expect me to do for you?"
"That woman you were seeing recently, the one who writes for the ladies’ magazine. Is she still enamored of you, or did she come to her senses yet and kick you out of her boudoir?"
"Dottie?" Ransom grinned. "She remains very much enamored. Why?"
Watching the glowing tip of his brother's cigar, Damon moved a crystal ashtray closer to where the ash was likely to fall. "Perhaps you might put an idea into her head about a piece on the American visitors. Something light and sweet. Something that shows them for what they really are— three young ladies, far from home, experiencing a different world. Surely that would be an interesting story. Cheerful, colorful."
"I don't know why you're bothering," his brother said again, yawning widely, stretching both arms over his head, careless about the ash from his cigar. "Calling in all your favors from me, seems like a lot of trouble for one little wench."
I don't know why you're bothering, was something Ransom often said, while plowing through his life in the same way as he once stomped carelessly through the wreckage of his bedchamber, airily "not bothered" by the destruction. Probably waiting for somebody to dare tell him he was being an ass, so that he could laugh in their face and show how "not bothered" he was by that too.
"Will you assist me in this endeavor or not?" Damon rubbed his forehead to relieve the frown he felt pressing on it.
Abruptly Ransom laughed. "Come on, little brother. I know there is a woman somewhere, isn't there? Not the American perhaps, but somebody. It's not possible for you to be celibate for so long, I'm sure. For some reason you're keeping her a deadly secret, that even my sources struggle to uncover, so I can only conclude she's married and has great cause to stay that way. Not still that Latin tutor, surely. Tell me and then I'll do what you want."
"If you're going to question me about my affairs, perhaps I ought to ask you about yours. I know Dottie isn't the only one at the present time. What about the French tart from the music hall stage? Belle something? Of course, there are many more. I don't suppose you can tell them apart or remember all their names. Why bother to learn them, when they'll be in and out within a few weeks at most? Or, perhaps I should say, you will be."
"No need to get yourself into an apoplexy, dear boy. It is my duty, as the eldest, to look out for you in matters of the heart."
"Don't do as I do, do as I say, eh? Just like father. I don't see how I can be expected to win a seat in the House of Commons when I have the rest of you dragging the family from one scandal to another." By then he had raised his voice to a roar without even meaning to do it. Nobody ever pricked a temper out of him the way Ransom could. "Why is it all on my back?"
"Tsk, tsk, I see the vein bulging in the side of your neck. Calm yourself before it ruptures."
Damon swung around and strode for the door, but his brother's voice stopped him.
"Alright! Alright! Don't go off in a huff, little brother. Keep your lover a secret if that makes you happy. I will check my sources for you and find out what I can about the naughty Miss Piper and her enemies on this side of the Atlantic. And I will put the thought of a story in dear Dottie's ear." Ransom chuckled low, flicking his ash into the proper receptacle at last, much to Damon's relief. "I wouldn't want you to say I never do anything to help. Just don't blame me when it all goes awry and Miss Piper leaves you with a black eye too."
He replied through gritted teeth. "How kind of you to help."
"As I said before, I could advise you on the art of juggling females, but you think you know better. So have at it. Just make sure to tell father I tried to talk you out of it. I'm sure I'll take the brunt of his wrath anyway." Ransom's eyes turned even darker as he drew on his cigar and blew out a ghostly cloud of grey. "By the way," he added suddenly, as if he'd just remembered, "I can tell you that Miss Piper is just twenty-one, likes to take long, improper walks all on her own and has a sweet-tooth." He winked. "Their cook likes to tell stories to the chimney sweep who flirts with one of my maids. Anything else you want to know about her, just ask, little brother." He laughed. "Did you think you were the only red-blooded male who might be interested in a little novelty piece?"
Damon felt his blood cool. It wouldn't be the first time his brother looked to steal a woman from under his nose. But then he shook the thought off. This was merely business, not pleasure. His brother would not goad him into acting as if it was anything more. So he smiled. "I hope you're ready to duck a few punches. I'd start getting more sleep, if I were you."
Chapter Ten
Lady Roper sent him a message, thanking him for intervening in her husband's "ill-wrought" lawsuit, and inviting him to tea. Damon, never comfortable with displays of gratitude, which seemed to him a waste of everybody's time— of course they were thankful to be got out of a sticky situation and he was only doing his job— so he would usually decline. But this time he accepted. Why not? The old lady was plainly left alone a great deal by her husband and needed company. Why should he not spare a quarter of an hour?
"Whispers in certain neighborhoods, Master Deverell, inform me that you are a young man who can get things done," the lady said to him as she poured the tea that day. "And now I see it is true for the bold way you dealt with his lordship. He does not generally listen to anybody, and I had begun to wonder if an excess of wax should be syringed from his ears. It would have to be done while he was knocked unconscious, of course." She looked away from him with what was almost a dreamy expression— and just a hint of gleeful malice.
Damon set his hat on the seat beside him. "I was merely doing my job, Lady Roper."
Her eyes refocused on him. "But that's just it. You weren't doing the job, were you? You were talking yourself out of one. And you did so as a kindness. To me."
He shrugged uneasily. "As you said to me before, Lady Roper, we all do the best we can with the cards we are dealt. I am no saint, but if I see a cruelty or an injustice I try to right it."
"Yes, indeed." With an unsteady hand she passed him a cup and saucer, the china rattling together and making his teeth hurt. "I am flattered you remember anything I said, but then, I suppose, as a lawyer you have need of a very good memory." She beamed. "And a very determined spirit."
"I suppose so."
"We have great need for young men like you in this world, Master Deverell."
He winced and sipped his tea. "Do you?"
"There is, I think," she tilted her head, eyes twinkling, "a little naughty charm in you. An allure that could take you far. Although you try to keep it well hidden, young sir, behind a gruff exterior. I suppose you don't know yet how to use that gift properly. Fortunately for the ladies!"
"Charm?" His teacup rattled even more precariously.
"Oh, I do not mean the pretty charm of a music box waltz, or a country field of buttercups. I mean the charm of dark and sinister magic. A natural, primordial ability to captivate and then persuade. A great power and dangerous in the wrong hands." She slid a large slice of cake onto his plate. "Of course, if used for good, it could have enormous benefit to those less fortunate."
He squinted. "Could it?"
"And since you are here, I wondered if I might impose upon you..."
Thus it began. Lady Roper, he soon discovered, was not nearly as faded and frail as appearances suggested. In fact, she had a very strong mind and an
equally strong hand, steering him skillfully into helping her causes. Of which there were many.
His simple acceptance of tea in her parlor was the first step to becoming involved in her quiet efforts to clean up the filthy streets of London, provide better services to the poor and improve access to medicine and education. Once she had him trapped on her sofa, tea cup in one hand and sponge cake in the other, she spoke quickly and firmly of all the things he could do to assist her. Damon saw her eyes darting constantly to the clock and guessed she tried to fit it all in before her husband returned and she must resume her usual act of the fragile, empty-minded old lady.
He felt powerless to resist and actually wondered whether she'd put something stronger in his tea.
"The moment we met," she told him, "I recognized that persuasive, merciless charisma. Some men have to try too hard, they have to be forceful and raise their voice and shake their fist." She shuddered. "They perspire and get very red in the face. Most unbecoming. But you do none of that. Getting what you want comes quite naturally to you. Makes you a very useful person to have on one's side."
The duration of his visit expanded from an anticipated quarter of an hour, to two full hours. And Damon began to realize that she had, from that first pat upon his hand, deliberately drawn him into a web of sorts. Because of that gesture he had undone her husband's lawsuit on her behalf, and now he was further under her thrall.
"Madam," he replied sternly, "I believe you can give lessons on ruthless charm."
Before he left Lady Roper's parlor that first day, he had promised to help her with her missions in the poor communities of London. But Damon had secured a few small favors from her in return.
* * * *
Social invitations soon began arriving at the rented house in Belgravia. A few elderly, very well respected ladies came calling, and then the little silver dish in the hall, usually empty, was suddenly filled with cards left behind.