The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

A furrow formed above his patrician nose, but he inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’

‘I prefer to be addressed as Miss. Both of my parents were English. Also, there is no need for polite conversation, since after today we will never meet again.’

His firm mouth tightened and his nostrils flared as if he held back angry words. ‘As you wish, Miss Boisette.’

The carriage turned north away from the coast and he gazed out the rain-spattered window at the passing hilly countryside.

She let go of her breath. She infinitely preferred the heat of his anger to the other warmth she’d sensed deep in his eyes. Yesterday, he had been furious as she removed her gloves. Furious and fascinated.

Therein lay the danger. While he might have convinced the softhearted Monsieur Jean as to his honourable nature, she knew better than to trust any man.

Painful pinpricks ran over her shoulders. At any moment he might press her to make good her offer from the previous day. The dangerous game she played might yet be lost. She squeezed tighter into her corner of the carriage.

They reached Ashford around mid-day and lunched at the King’s Head. There, in clipped sentences he explained the document setting out the terms under which he agreed to provide her with the promised funds. Sylvia signed it and he produced a velvet purse containing twenty-five guineas, the rest to be forwarded from his bank within two weeks. With new horses put to, the carriage jolted its way across country to their final destination and at long last, the coach bowled into Tunbridge Wells. Sylvia leaned forward for a better view of the High Street and the famous spa at the bottom of the hill. The town was smaller than she expected. It didn’t matter. The infusion of funds from her uncle and the two of them sharing the work—and she would work night and day—it could not help but be a success.

The coach eased into a narrow lane and pulled up outside a timbered, bow-fronted shop with swathes of cloth draped in the window. Mr Evernden reached for the door handle.

Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. She did not want him to realise the unexpected nature of her arrival. She placed a hand on his sleeve.

The hiss of his indrawn breath shivered to the pit of her stomach.

She drew back, startled. Shaken by her response to that faint breath, she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘If you would request your coachman to put my luggage on the road, I will not put you to any further inconvenience, Mr Evernden.’

He turned the door handle. ‘It is no trouble at all, Miss Boisette.’

Stubborn man. She raised a brow. ‘I prefer not to arrive here blatantly accompanied by a young gentleman of the ton.’

His expression turned grim and he dropped his hand. ‘It is impolite to leave you in the street, but it shall be as you desire.’ He sat back. ‘I wish you all the best in your new life, Miss Boisette, and bid you good day.’

His stern remoteness appealed to her far more than effusive politeness. He’d acted the perfect gentleman in all their dealings, while she had treated him to an outrageous display of hot and cold. No doubt he thought the worst of her. A pang of regret held her rigid for the space of a heartbeat. She must not care about his opinion. She reached for the door. ‘Thank you.’

She stepped out on to the slick cobbles.

At Mr Evernden’s order, the coachman heaved her belongings down beside her and climbed back on to his perch.

Shocked to discover her hand shaking in trepidation, she knocked on the door, all the while aware of Mr Evernden’s intense gaze on her back. She turned, raised her hand in farewell, and the carriage moved off, affording one last glance of Mr Evernden’s stern profile in the window.

The door opened to reveal a freckle-faced girl of about ten. Behind her, a passage led into the depths of the first floor and a narrow set of stairs wound upwards. Mary had never mentioned a child. She must be the maid.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ the girl asked.

Sylvia took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Is Miss Jensen home?’

‘There ain’t no Miss Jensen at this address.’

Sylvia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. I live here, don’t I?’

‘Who is it, Maisie?’ a voice called from upstairs.

‘A lady looking for a Miss Jensen, Ma,’ Maisie yelled back.

A plump, dark-haired matron in a chintz gown, a chubby baby on her hip and a question on her face, clattered down the stairs.

Foreboding quaked in Sylvia’s chest. She took a shaky breath. ‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. I’m here to see Mary Jensen.’

The woman shook her head. ‘She’s gone, miss. The landlady said she fell ill and her brother fetched her back to London more than five months ago.’

The entrance to the Sussex Hotel at the back of the promenade hummed with activity. Coaches rumbled in and out, grooms struggled with frisky teams, ostlers ran to and fro and passengers, rich and poor, milled around in controlled confusion in a yard rich with the smell of horse manure and stale ale.

Sylvia tried to make sense of the bustling chaos. She dug into her meagre store of small coins and gave a ha’ penny to the boy who had carried her trunk from Frog Lane.

He touched his cap and dashed off, whistling a merry tune.

Oh, to be so youthful and carefree. Sylvia couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t been anxious about something. She clutched her reticule to her, where the slip of paper with Mary’s new address, which the plump matron had given her, resided. And right now she was about to embark on an exceedingly risky course. Respectable females rarely travelled by common stage. But then she had never been considered respectable.

She had no option. She would not waste her small store of guineas on expensive modes of travel. Nor could she afford to lose them to footpads or pickpockets. Since no one in the yard appeared to notice her, she unlocked the trunk and hid the purse of guineas in its battered depths. Rising, she caught the eye of a passing lackey in brown livery.

‘Can I help you, miss?’

‘Please take my trunk inside.’

He moved aside to allow a gentleman and his lady to pass through the entrance into the lobby. ‘Have you a room bespoke, miss?’

‘I just need one small chamber.’

‘I dunno. You best check with the master. Your luggage will be safe enough with the porter while you go and see what Mr Garge has to say.’

He hefted her trunk on his shoulder and staggered to the stable entrance with Sylvia marching behind. He dropped it beside an elderly porter seated on a wooden box outside the mail-coach ticket office and storeroom. Another carriage rattled into the yard and the lackey raced off to meet it.

Sylvia smiled at the porter. ‘I plan to catch the first coach to London tomorrow morning. If you would be so good as to see my trunk is placed on it, I would be most grateful.’

A pair of twinkling brown eyes looked at her from beneath straggly grey brows and the weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I’ll be more than pleased to oblige, miss,’ he said. ‘You gets your ticket in there.’ He jerked his head towards the office.

‘Thank you.’ She gave him a penny and went inside to pay for her ticket. By the time she had completed her purchase and come outside, the porter had dispensed with her trunk. The door to the storeroom seemed sturdy and there were bars at the window. Hopefully, her money and her small cache of jewellery would be safe enough. Valise and hatbox in hand, she entered the inn.

One side of the wide entrance hall housed a counter. Across the way, a confusing array of doorways and passages led off in various directions. A bell sat next to the guest book on the counter. She rang it.

Moments later, a short, fat, florid-faced landlord in a black coat and striped waistcoat bustled out of the dining room door. ‘Good evening, miss. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Good evening. I will be catching the six o’clock stage tomorrow morning and require a single room for the night.’

‘The name, miss?’ he asked, running a stubby finger down the list in his book.

‘I do not have a reservation.’

He looked behind her as if he expected someone else. ‘How many in your party, miss? We are very busy today. I am not sure I can accommodate you.’