The Courtesan's Courtship

She gritted her teeth and gained control over her temper before she responded. “Excellent! As you have reminded me that you do not involve yourself in the affairs of others, I’m certain that you will wish to keep to your custom and leave me to my own devices.”

His jaw tightened. “As you please.”

The echo of the slamming door still rang in Geoff’s ears as he crossed the street and hailed a hackney. The annoying little fool! She was hell-bent on landing herself in trouble. Well, she could do as she damn well pleased. He refused to become involved. He knew from bitter experience that he could not change the way people thought or the decisions they made. He’d given up long ago.

The most irksome part of this scheme was that he was forced to acknowledge that he was just like every other man in little Miss Lovejoy’s sphere. She smiled, and his body, if not his mind, responded in the most primal way. She’d looked hungry and vulnerable, and he’d wanted to slay her dragons. Physical. It was merely physical.

He’d restricted his amorous activities to members of the demimonde for the past five years. They’d been seductive and skilled, and some had even managed to teach him a few tricks. And the last thing he needed or wanted—now or ever—was an insipid, spoiled, smugly superior debutante complicating his life. But were she anyone other than Adam Hawthorne’s cousin…

Well, she might be naively innocent, but she was right about the police. They would not look an inch farther for Nell’s killer than Dianthe Lovejoy’s door. And, as much as he wanted to, he could not prevent her from investigating Nell’s death. He doubted anyone would take her seriously, or that she’d have the least little success. It was more likely she’d get herself arrested.

And he wouldn’t care as long as she did not get in the way of his investigation. But she wasn’t going up against el-Daibul, so that was unlikely. He couldn’t stop her from asking useless questions, so he may as well prepare for the consequences.

Yes, he’d just look in on the troublesome miss daily and leave her to her own devices the rest of the time. Her cousin would be back from the Continent soon and take her off his hands. Geoff prayed that would happen before Miss Lovejoy embroiled herself in another scandal or got truly under his skin.

Chapter Three

T he truth is, Dianthe mused as she sank into the huge copper tub of steaming, jasmine-scented water, I could become very used to this sort of life. She’d never known decadent luxury and rather thought it suited her. She’d mentioned to Mrs. Mason in passing her desire for a hot bath, and found it waiting for her when she’d come up to her room. A maid had even been sent to help her undress and pin up her hair.

Dianthe squeezed the huge porous sponge over her bare shoulders, loosening a stream of warm water. Heaven! This was heaven. She hadn’t been terrified once since coming here. She was safely isolated from the rest of the world.

Lord Geoffrey Morgan was obscenely rich, but she’d never dreamed what that would entail. It was whispered that he was as rich as Croesus. And why not? He’d won several of the country’s largest fortunes in games of chance. The money was not really his, so she should not feel in the least bit guilty for accepting his hospitality while she sought out Miss Brookes’s killer.

She needed to make a list. The task had seemed so simple before she actually had to think of the details, but now that she was faced with the execution of her plan, she was puzzled by the daunting task.

First, she would need to find out where Miss Brookes’s family was and who her friends were. The only way she knew to accomplish that task was to attend the girl’s funeral. Certainly her friends and family would be there, and surely the girl had confided in someone about an enemy so dangerous he might want to kill her.

Madame Marie would lend her a dark gown and bonnet. Dianthe had had room for only a few gowns in her valise, and she’d never anticipated the need for a mourning gown. Since the bluestocking ladies had enlisted Mr. Renquist to begin investigating, she suspected he, too, would be at the funeral.

Stepping out of the tub, she dried herself quickly and wrapped the towel around her. She glanced over at her simple lawn nightgown draped across her bed. She hadn’t even had room to bring her dressing gown, so Mrs. Mason had brought her one of Lord Morgan’s robes to use during her stay. It was made of rich, midnight-blue brocade with matching satin lapels and cuffs, and she couldn’t wait to wrap the lush fabric around her.

Having the warmth of Morgan’s robe around her was oddly like an embrace. His scent enveloped her. The clash of her bath oil and his French milled soap reminded her that, even in such little things, they were at odds. The robe engulfed her and she had to roll the sleeves back several turns.

Seeking a distraction, Dianthe went to curl up in a chair by the fire to sip tea from the delicate blue-and-white porcelain cup. The Times, folded on the tray, was open to the death notices. Two narrow lines reported Nell’s name and the place and date of her funeral. Tomorrow. Heavens! So soon?

She glanced toward the bed uncertainly. Hung with deep blue curtains, the white velvet coverlet strewn with blue-and-gold pillows, it held the promise of comfort. Sleeping in Geoffrey Morgan’s bed didn’t seem right, somehow. Well, in Geoffrey Morgan’s house, at any rate. It could be a very dangerous thing to be in his debt. But Lord Geoffrey had less in the way of reputation to lose than her friends, and it wasn’t as if she were living under the same roof.

She shook off her brooding and put her teacup down. Tomorrow, then, she would borrow a somber gown from Madame Marie and attend Miss Brookes’s funeral. Dianthe would learn what those closest to Nell knew about the murder and, with a touch of luck, she and Mr. Renquist would conclude the matter.

The weather had turned gloomy and a steady drizzle kept traffic on the thoroughfares to a minimum. Dianthe took a shortcut through Duke’s Court to St. Martin’s Church, heedless of the sodden hem of her charcoal-gray skirts. She had draped a black veil over her gray bonnet to obscure her face, and kept her black umbrella low over her head.

A few carriages were drawn up outside the church, but no mourners milled on the steps. Had she made a mistake? Were the services later? She was about to turn and retrace her steps when she saw Mr. Renquist, without the usual red waistcoat of the Bow Street runner, enter the church. She took a deep breath, climbed the steps and closed her umbrella before passing through the vestibule into the nave and taking a seat in the back.

Only one other woman was in attendance, sitting in the back pew on the opposite side of the aisle, and perhaps a dozen men sitting separately near the front. Were these Miss Brookes’s clients? Protectors? Her family?

The men turned to watch her. Dianthe bowed her head and kept her veil in place. She could feel their eyes boring through her, and she prayed she would not be recognized.

A few moments later, the minister entered and faced the meager congregation. She had never attended actual funeral services before, as Aunt Henrietta believed that gently reared females were too delicate for such disturbing events. In her entire life, Dianthe had only visited her father’s and mother’s graves in Wiltshire once, and gone to her aunt’s grave. That was the extent of her experience with death rituals, so she watched the proceedings carefully.

Prayers were said, then a short, impersonal eulogy that revealed little about the woman they were about to bury. The cleric alluded to Nell’s profession only when he made the point that “even those who had fallen were beloved of Christ.” Then an actual rite for the dead was read. Though the men bowed their heads at prayers, she could not detect any sign of genuine grief from their posture or bearing. Except Lord Geoffrey Morgan.

He had entered late and taken a seat near the front. His face was tense though composed. Dianthe knew him well enough to recognize the way he registered distress. His lips were drawn thin and his complexion was pale. She thought a little better of him for being here and for feeling grief or compassion for Nell Brookes.

Dianthe, too, was deeply touched, and wiped impatiently at the hot tears seeping down her face. She could not forget the beautiful young woman lying forever still inside the narrow coffin. Did no one but she lament the dreadful circumstances that had brought Nell to such a pass? Then the other woman began weeping, too, and Dianthe wondered if she could be Nell’s mother or sister.

After a shockingly brief time, the funeral was over. The woman stood and hurried out of the church, and Dianthe followed, hoping Mr. Renquist would at least learn the names of the men in attendance.

“Miss!” she called as the woman reached the street.

The dark-cloaked form missed a step but did not turn or stop.

Dianthe hurried after her, raising her umbrella against the steady drizzle. “Miss! Please, spare me a minute!”

This time the woman stopped but did not turn. When Dianthe came abreast of her and raised her veil, the woman gasped. “You must be Miss Lovejoy. Everyone is talking. You do look like Nell.” She resumed walking and spoke in a soft voice. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk about Miss Brookes,” she answered.

“Walk with me, then. I do not wish to be seen here—or with you.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason there are so few people at Nell’s funeral. We cannot afford to be associated with murders, nor to be questioned by the authorities. Were our names, or those of our clients, made public…well, you can imagine the scandal.”

Dianthe matched her stride. “Are you Miss Brookes’s sister?”

“Nell had no family. Or none that she spoke of.”

“A friend, then?”

There was a hesitation, then she murmured, “Yes.”

Dianthe’s curiosity spiked. The woman was lovely, despite the drab colors she wore, and she used cosmetics—something Dianthe and her friends would never do. Was she a member of the demimonde? “You have me at a disadvantage, miss. You appear to know me, yet I do not know you.”

“Yes, I know you. You are accused of Nell’s murder.”

Lord! She could feel her reputation slipping away. “Miss Brookes had been stabbed when I found her.”

“I never believed you had anything to do with it. The police are fools to think so.”

“I want to find out who the real murderer is.”

“Because it will clear you,” the woman concluded in a cynical tone.

“I want to see justice done. Whoever did this to Nell should pay for it. Please help me find her killer. I just want to ask a few questions. Will you tell me your name?”

There was a long silence before the woman spoke again. “My name is Flora Denton.”

“Thank you, Miss Denton. How long have you known Miss Brookes?”