The Courtesan's Courtship

He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”

Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”

Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.

But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.

“So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”

Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.

Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.

“What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”

Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”

“If you were to guess?”

“I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”

“You make it sound personal, Morgan.”

“It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.

Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.

What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.

“Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.

“Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”

Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”

Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”

“To warn Auberville.”

Chapter Five

D ianthe sat at a dressing table in Madame Marie’s back fitting room and made a tight coil of her pale hair before pinning it at her crown. She watched Madame lower the black wig over her head and snug it into place.

“Ah, chérie! This is the mistake, no?”

Dianthe stared at her reflection. With every strand of blond hair covered, she had taken on a foreign look. Pale skin with a hint of pink on her cheeks, clear blue eyes and a beauty patch on one cheekbone made her virtually unrecognizable.

“Mistake?” she asked. “You think the beauty patch is too much?”

“Mais non, chérie! But the idea was to make you less noticeable. This—” she waved at Dianthe’s reflection “—will turn ’eads.”

“I do not care about that, Madame. More to the point is if I will be recognized.” Indeed, Dianthe was nearly desperate to change her appearance. She hadn’t been outside without her bonnet and veils since taking refuge at Lord Geoffrey’s house. Anything to evade the killer who, according to Nell, would come for her next.

Madame Marie stepped back to study her critically. “Never!” she said.

Dianthe pulled one curl down and watched as it sprang back into place. She rather liked the way she looked, and she certainly felt safer.

Madame Marie arranged the style in an artful manner and stood back to observe her work. “I did not think you could be more beautiful, chérie, but I was wrong. You look so…à la française.”

Just the thing she wanted. Her French was very good, and she knew she could fake a believable accent. She’d worn a veil to Marie’s shop but she wouldn’t wear one when leaving. She wouldn’t need it.

Best of all, this disguise would be perfect for her new plan. With the wig, an accent, a sophisticated attitude and a new name, she would be worlds apart from Dianthe Lovejoy of Little Upton, Wiltshire. Soon. Very soon.

“Là!” Madame Marie exclaimed. “I do not like that look, chérie. You are ’atching some plot, are you not?”

Dianthe blinked. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame. I am just pleased that I will not have to go about veiled and shrouded. ’Twill be nice to see where I am walking. Would you have a few cosmetics to further disguise me?”

Madame Marie rummaged in a small kit. “You do not need it, chérie, but I ’ave a powder that will warm your pale complexion and lip rouge and kohl for the eyes and lashes.”

A knock at the door drew Madame Marie’s attention away. “That will be François,” she said. “’E said there are matters to discuss with you.”

Francis Renquist opened the door a crack and called in. “Are you decent, Miss Lovejoy?”

“But of course she is decent, François.” Madame Marie smiled at her husband. She let him in and went around him, speaking over her shoulder. “She looks just like ma mere, Lizette Deauville. I ’ave an appointment, chérie. I shall see you tomorrow when the ladies come, eh?”

“Oui,” she called, turning from the mirror to face Mr. Renquist. “Do you have news?” she asked.

Mr. Renquist looked dumbstruck. His eyes widened and he stared at her with his mouth agape. “I, ah. You…are Miss Lovejoy?”

She smiled. “Then you do not think I’d be recognized on the street?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her. “But do not let that make you reckless, Miss Lovejoy.”

“And once I shed the disguise and go back to being Dianthe Lovejoy?”

“No one would link the two of you together,” he confirmed.

Thank heavens. Now she was free to proceed with her plan. But first, she asked, “Did you learn anything, Mr. Renquist?”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. The men I interviewed are well-respected family men. All have alibis for the night of the murder.”

Dianthe wondered how any man who’d dallied with a courtesan and had been fond enough of one to attend her funeral could be a “family man.” “And the others?” she asked. “Did you learn their names?”

“Yes, miss. Nigel Edgerton and Lord Geoffrey Morgan among them. I have not interviewed them yet.”

“As it happens, Mr. Renquist, my cousin and aunt are well acquainted with Lord Morgan. If you will speak with Mr. Edgerton, I shall interview Morgan.” The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Renquist to question Geoffrey Morgan. If he should slip and give her whereabouts away, Mr. Renquist would call him out.

“I am not certain that is a good idea, Miss Lovejoy. Lord Morgan has a reputation as the worst sort of rake.”