The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’

She began to fill her cup.

A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’

Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’

Not quite so self-assured, then.

‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’

She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.

God, his lungs ceased to work every time she did that.

‘You wish to make sure I speak the truth?’ she asked.

He inclined his head. ‘As you say.’

She returned the teapot to the tray. Her low husky chuckle filled the silence and she cast him a sly glance. ‘Are you sure that is your only reason for wishing to remain in my company?’

Smouldering annoyance flared to anger. The little hussy delighted in tormenting him. ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, the sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I will like it.’

Her gaze dropped from his, her hand creeping to touch her gold locket. When she replied, her smile seemed forced. ‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Evernden.’

She rose and he followed suit. The top of her golden head barely reached his shoulder.

‘I assume we have nothing left to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I would like to leave for Tunbridge Wells in the morning.’

‘I will let you know my decision after I have spoken to Mr Tripp.’

She hesitated, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I am going to join my friend tomorrow, Mr Evernden, with or without your escort. I expect two hundred pounds to be delivered to me before I leave. If not, I will apply to Lord Stanford or perhaps your mother, Lady Stanford. Your uncle promised me that money.’

Next she’d be claiming a child by the poor old man. Well, Christopher would damned well make sure she never troubled any member of his family again. She might not yet realise it, but she had met her match.

Tripp had one more task this afternoon, drawing up a settlement. ‘You will have my answer after dinner, mademoiselle. I wish you good day.’

He executed a courteous, shallow bow and headed for the door. An urgent craving to rid the cloying scent of roses from his lungs lengthened his stride.

From the arched window on the landing, Sylvia stared down at the athletic figure in the swirling greatcoat as he climbed into a shiny black coach emblazoned with the Evernden coat of arms.

The sharp point of her locket dug into her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she tried to still her trembles and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Had he believed her? Why would he not? The thought curdled in her stomach.

He seemed to be the solemn, honourable Englishman described by Monsieur Jean on his return from London. The disgust curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.

Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.

She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.

A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.

Non. The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.

She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.

‘Mademoiselle?’ Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.

With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.

‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’

An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I will become a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’

Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’

A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.

On the wharf, he skirted heaps of cargo, coils of old rope and clusters of merchants arguing in noisy groups. A group of seamen pushed past him with rolling gait, each brawny shoulder loaded with a barrel. Their curses rang in his ears. Nothing cleared the head like sea air, unless, like here, it was befouled with the smell of rotting fish and heated pitch. He grimaced. It really was a noisome, filthy place.

His long stride carried him swiftly past the waterfront where bare-masted ships speared the cloudy sky. The events of the day pounded at his mind in tune with the sea dashing itself against the cliffs.

Clear of the busy docks, Christopher strolled along the front, savouring the sharp breeze on his skin and the tang of salt on his tongue. Exposed by low tide, the yellow pebble beach sported seaweed and blackened spars. Nothing about Dover appealed to him.

Damn it all. It had been a simple task. Stay one night at the Bull, attend the funeral and the reading of the will, then be on his way to the Darbys’ in Sussex by nightfall. Only now, he had to deal with the problem of Mademoiselle Boisette.

Why not give her the money and let her go her own way? Because he hated to leave anything dangling.

He frowned. The interview with Tripp had confirmed his fears that there was little to be had from the sale of Cliff House. A half-pay naval officer had offered to purchase it for a pittance and Uncle John’s creditors wanted a quick sale. Tripp thought there might be a few pounds left, perhaps between ten and fifty, after the creditors received their share. Mademoiselle Boisette would be hard put to manage on so small a sum.

To top it all, Uncle John had reached out from the grave and planted Christopher a facer. A letter, to be delivered if he refused to take Mademoiselle Boisette under his wing.

Curse it. New rage flared up to heat his blood. He dropped on to a wooden bench looking out over the harbour. Sullen, foam-crested waves tumbled up the beach and rattled the stones. On the horizon black clouds heralding yet more rain. A dousing would make a perfect end to the day.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and broke open the red wax seal. Ripe with the smell of seaweed, the stiff breeze fluttered the paper as he peered at the spidery handwriting.

Dear Nephew,

I write in haste, for I have little time left to me. If you are reading this letter, you have rejected my request to care for my little Sylvia.

Request? More like a bludgeoning over the head with a gravestone. Christopher fought the urge to ball the paper in his fist and toss it into the surf rolling around the rotting timber breakwater.

She has been a daughter to me all these years.

Then why hide her away?

Her mother was my first and only love. She chose another, but my feelings remained constant. Now, all I can do for my beloved Marguerite is take care of her little girl, Sylvia. My poor Marguerite, so tender in her emotions, dragged down into the pit of hell by viciousness and vice.

These were words a Gothic novelist like Mrs Radcliffe would have been proud to write. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to read on.