The Courtesan's Courtship

“But he owes my cousin a favor. He will not harm me in any way. Set your mind at ease on that, sir. But I wonder if you might indulge me in a few questions. You see, there is no one else I can ask.”

Mr. Renquist frowned. “What sort of questions?”

“About the demimonde, sir. And their…well, practices.”

“Here now. You ought not to be concerning yourself with such things.”

“I fear it is too late for that. Miss Brookes was of the demimonde, and therefore certain elements of it are of grave concern to me. They may have bearing on her murder. Perhaps her killer was a patron, or a jealous competitor.”

Considering her words, Mr. Renquist went to the door and peeked out. He shut it again and turned the lock. “If Marie catches me talking about such things, I’ll be hard-pressed to find supper or a bed tonight.”

Dianthe nodded in understanding.

“Ask, then,” he instructed with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

“I think it would be helpful to know how a woman of the demimonde goes on.”

Mr. Renquist looked bewildered. “Goes on?”

“Conducts herself,” Dianthe clarified, covering her embarrassment. “I assume that, if she has a protector, he would escort her places and see to her business and needs. But what if she does not have a particular protector, as Miss Brookes did not? Did Miss Brookes go to events alone? In groups with other ladies of the demimonde? Or would she always have an escort? The possibilities are bewildering, you see, and they could make all the difference in why Miss Brookes was where she was, and in what happened to her. I would ask you to investigate that for me, Mr. Renquist, but I know Madame Marie would have your…hide pinned to a wall should you spend time with that sort of woman.”

A hint of fear passed through Mr. Renquist’s eyes. “I quite agree, miss. Well, not that I am knowledgeable about such things, but the rules of polite society do not apply to the demimonde. Miss Brookes could have gone wherever she wanted, excepting in society.”

“Alone?”

“If she chose.”

“What sort of places would she have gone?”

“Public places, mostly. The theater. Vauxhall Gardens. Her escort the night of her murder was never found. Likely she went alone to meet friends.”

To meet her, Dianthe thought. But the theater? That was an idea. She could purchase a ticket and observe the goings-on. “Where else would a courtesan go?” she asked.

“Where she could meet men. Where ladies do not. Such women would not be admitted to Almack’s or balls and soirees.”

Then what of hells and public houses? Hells. A woman could expect to meet a better sort there than at a public house. Men who had enough money to gamble would be men who could buy an expensive woman’s favors. Nell Brookes had seemed the sort who would prefer men with money, and she’d been pretty enough to attract them. Her friends would have frequented the same places and have known the same men.

And they were the women whose trust Dianthe must win. Only then would she get the answers to her questions. You would have to be one of us….

Precisely what she had in mind.

Dianthe dropped her brush on the dressing table and went to pour herself another cup of tea from the pot on her bedside table. She couldn’t believe she felt so lonely. Her brother, Bennett, was abroad with a schoolmate’s family for the summer, Afton was in Scotland with her husband, and Aunt Grace was on her wedding trip. Dianthe had thought she’d be quite merry with the Thayers until autumn. She wished, now, that she’d gone to stay with Afton and the McHugh in the Highlands. Instead, she was now homeless, bereft of family and at the mercy of a man she had always believed was completely ruthless.

The mantel clock struck the hour of ten and Dianthe rolled her eyes. Hortense and Harriett would be frisking through the salons of the ton at this very minute, with nary a thought of bed for many hours to come, and dozens of young swains in pursuit, while her only company was the monotonous tick of the clock. Tedium coupled with unease made her nerves jangle.

She glanced down at the leather-bound volume on her chair. She’d finished The Taming Of The Shrew, and hadn’t brought anything else upstairs with her. Perhaps she should go down to the library and find something more interesting to read. Something on the upper shelves, perhaps. Yes, something not fit for delicate female eyes. She’d like to know that there was something more shocking than her own life at the moment, and she longed for anything that would distract her.

Without distractions, her mind always returned to Vauxhall Gardens and her cousin dying in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Every day that she delayed taking action was a betrayal of her promise to Nell.

Dianthe hadn’t heard anyone stirring for quite some time, and figured Mrs. Mason and Pemberton had undoubtedly retired for the night. They would have extinguished the lights in the library, so she picked up a lit candle to take with her. Anticipating the library ladder she would have to negotiate to reach the higher shelves, she kicked off her slippers. She’d be more sure-footed on the treads without them.

Despite the pervasive silence, there were a good many lights left burning—one in the foyer, one in the back hallway and another in the sitting room. She’d never known anyone to use the sitting room. Still, the running of the house was none of her business. Perhaps Lord Morgan’s orders had been to be prepared for his arrival at any and all times.

The ornamental umbrella stand in the foyer was tipped over, and she paused to right it and replace the umbrellas. How had that happened? She glanced around but could find nothing else out of place.

With a shrug, she continued to the library. One lamp by the desk was still lit and the fireplace still glowed, the embers a bright orange-red. She closed the door to ensure her privacy should Pemberton come to make one last circuit of the house. She had no desire to explain her taste in reading materials while standing in a nightgown.

She placed her candle on the desk and returned the volume of Shakespeare to the shelf. With heightened anticipation, she climbed the library ladder to read the titles on the top shelf. Oh, for an illicit copy of something naughty—just the very thing to chase worry from her weary brain. Perhaps something by the Italians. Dante or Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, or some other “indecent” work.

But she found nothing to titillate or even raise an eyebrow. She descended the ladder and pushed it along the shelves to a new position. The sound of a footfall outside the library door stopped her. Was it Pemberton coming to lock up for the night?

She was on the verge of calling out when another possibility occurred to her. Had Lord Morgan come to devil her? She really was in no mood for such a possibility. She found their encounters increasingly taxing on her nerves.

A faint moan was followed by a muffled footfall. A prickle of misgiving raced up Dianthe’s spine. This wouldn’t be Morgan. The sounds of that night in Vauxhall Gardens came back to her, and she made an instinctive move toward the desk and the knee well beneath it. For the first time, she noticed that the middle drawer was open and the floor beneath it was littered with papers. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the doorknob turning. Dropping to her knees, she scooted beneath the desk, hugged herself and held her breath.

The door opened and a shaft of light from the foyer spread across the wall behind her. Whatever had been dragged was dropped, and the library door was closed with a quiet click.

Dianthe scarcely breathed. Her heartbeat hammered wildly against her rib cage and fear rose in the form of a solid lump in her throat. Oh! The candle! She’d left it burning!

A gurgling chortle slid through the silence. “I know you’re in here,” a man’s voice whispered.