The Courtesan's Book of Secrets

‘I didn’t do nuffin’,’ the boy squealed, trying to twist free, but Rafe held him tight. ‘I’m only running an errand for me ma.’

The panicked boy shot a look up at the building and Rafe followed it to see the dark-haired woman gripping the window pane. Her narrow chin and the mole above her lip reminded him of the daughter of a squire, a Miss Allen, he’d met some years ago at a country garden party. It was the last one he and his mother had attended before his father’s mounting debts had forced them to shun invitations. If it was the same young lady, then she’d fallen a long way since he’d last seen her in Sussex.

Rafe studied the thin boy, his face streaked with dirt, his hair covered with a threadbare cap. He was hardly worth the hangman’s rope. He dug a coin out of his pocket and pressed it into the boy’s grimy palm. ‘Take this to your mother and don’t come back in this crowd again.’

He let go and the boy staggered back, clutching the coin to his chest as he darted through the door of the tumbledown rookery. Rafe tipped his hat to the woman in the window.

She mouthed ‘thank you’, then receded back into the shadows.

If only all cheats were so easily dealt with. The sense this round was lost to Cornelia still rubbed, the frustration of Rafe’s current situation more annoying than the ever-widening hole in his stocking. Without the register, any effort to protect and build back the Densmore fortune and name, to spare his mother from further poverty and degradation, would come to nothing. If Cornelia showed anyone in the House of Lords the evidence of his father’s crime, he and his mother were finished. The Bill of Attainder was still in place and the greying Lord Twickenham still intent on enforcing it. Wealthstone would be seized and Rafe’s title forfeit.

It was enough to ruin a good boxing match.

Hartley appeared at Rafe’s side, holding his ticket and practically fluttering with excitement. ‘Come on, I want to get a good place.’

They walked around the edge of the circle of men. Rafe’s height gave him the advantage in the crowd, but they moved three times before Hartley was content with his view. A cheer went up as the fighters appeared in the doorway of one building. The crowd parted, allowing the two boxers to pass into the circle of spectators. They stood across from each other, looking less like a pair of Hercules and more like two blocks of stone some sculptor had hacked at to give them arms, legs and something of a face.

‘Which one is your man?’ Rafe asked.

‘The ox with the scar on his arm.’ Hartley rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘This should be good.’

Rafe studied the scarred fighter, agreeing with Hartley’s description of his bovine features. The man walked in a tight circle, his steps heavy, his arms swinging about his body like two logs. ‘A fiver says your man goes down in the first round.’

Hartley adjusted his hat. ‘That’s no way to wish a man luck.’

‘You’re confident in your tip?’

‘It’s the best one I’ve had in weeks.’

‘Then ten pounds says he falls like a chopped oak.’

Hartley levelled a finger at Rafe. ‘I’ll take the bet and you’ll wish you hadn’t made it.’

The fight began and the two boxers moved to the centre of the ring, circling and jabbing at each other. The unblemished man moved faster than his opponent and landed one good punch to the ox’s gut before catching him with a right hook. The crowd went silent as the ox tipped on his heels and landed flat on his back in the dirt.

The smaller man lifted his arms in triumph.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Grumbles rippled through the crowd as men exchanged money.

Hartley groaned, peeled a ten-pound note off his roll of money and handed it to Rafe. ‘I should have known better.’

‘And next time you will.’ Rafe tucked the note into his pocket.

He thought of Cornelia and his determination swelled with the crowd’s excitement as the next pair of fighters took to the ring. Rafe might be short his entrance fee, but he’d be damned if he’d let Cornelia knock him out of the game. Gaining access to the register wouldn’t be as easy as walking into Mrs Ross’s house and purchasing it, but he’d find a way to slip between Cornelia’s covers, so to speak, make her see how much she owed him for everything he’d done for her and overcome whatever grudge she’d developed against him in France.

As a newly minted Comtesse, she was sure to be at the Dowager Countess of Daltmouth’s salon tonight, worming her way into society. Rafe would be there, too, to remind her of her debt to him. Whatever her plans for the register, she owed him at least the safety of removing his father’s name from the book and it was time to call in her vowel.

Chapter Two (#ulink_f5650473-e6b3-51a4-be76-e4c26d8b5c71)

Rafe strolled into the Dowager Countess of Daltmouth’s salon, taking in the number of ladies in white, high-waisted gowns scattered between the furniture. Their presence on every sofa and chair gave the long room the look of a conservatory filled with pregnant Greek marbles. The women huddled in groups around the thin intellectuals, twittering like birds at the men’s flashes of brilliance. The husbands took up more sober positions near the tables of wine and food, fortifying themselves against any taint of intellectual or poetic leanings.

Rafe moved down the centre of the long room, passing a group of dandies in blue silk coats, their waistcoats cinched so tightly, he could count the pence in their pockets. As if on cue, they lifted their lorgnettes and scrutinised Rafe’s plain black coat and tan breeches, sneering down their powdered noses at his understated dress. He ignored them as his gaze skipped over a few nymphs surrounding a consumptive-looking youth extolling his latest drivel.

‘Lord Densmore, what a pleasure it is to have you here tonight.’ The Dowager Countess of Daltmouth glided up to him in a cloud of rosewater perfume. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

Rafe took her extended hand, nearly folding himself in half to offer a greeting of substance. She’d aged gracefully, her blonde hair arranged to favour her regal nose and high cheekbones. The deep-purple dress flowed over her still enviable curves, revealing a touch of the bosom which had once been the envy of all the ladies. If the lights were lower, Rafe might have mistaken her for a much younger woman. ‘There’s nowhere else in London I’d rather be.’

‘Liar,’ she chided, her thumb brushing the underside of his palm before she let go.

Rafe straightened, cautious of the mature coquette. ‘You’ve assembled an impressive gathering tonight.’

‘Not as impressive as the pillar of the Densmore family.’ Her eyes stroked the length of him, pausing at the buttons of his breeches before rising to meet his eyes. ‘I believe you’ve surpassed even your father in height.’

‘And wit and charm.’ As well, it seemed, as respectability and love for his country.

‘Yes, I greatly admire your charm.’

‘Careful, Lady Daltmouth, or I might mistake your flattery for flirting.’

She laughed like a newly married girl impressing her unmarried friends with her recently acquired experience. ‘I assure you, Lord Densmore, nothing could be closer to the truth.’

‘I’m flattered,’ he lied, more amused than aroused. The woman wasn’t without appeal and if he were eighteen, he might be tempted, but not at eight and twenty. ‘I must warn you, I’m a rogue and not worth trifling with.’

‘I like rogues, they’re so much more interesting than ordinary gentlemen.’ She adjusted the creamy strand of pearls looped around her neck, making the beads rattle together as she settled them against her voluptuous bosom. ‘I hope to see more of you at my card party next week. Perhaps we can knock hands and you’ll find me above you.’

‘I look forward to the challenge.’ He bowed again, but not quite so low. It wasn’t the first time a woman long in the tooth and even longer in the purse had tossed him an offer. He wasn’t about to become a kept man, but he wasn’t about to make an enemy of the Dowager Countess either. Whatever her hungers and family reputation, she possessed connections and he valued them as much as the sovereigns in his pocket.

Her offer delivered, she whirled with the grace of an empress and made for a group of sombrely dressed matrons surrounding a thick-waisted poet. The Dowager Countess tossed Rafe one last suggestive glance before taking her place at the centre of the semicircle. Rafe struggled not to laugh at her imperiousness and her brazen suggestion before another sight knocked the humour out of him.

Cornelia.

She stood just beyond the old crows, near the open window. The evening breeze rustled the sheer gauze of her embroidered blue overdress and the white under-dress hugging the lines of her round hips. Her dark hair was drawn up in a mass of loose curls wound with a black-satin ribbon, leaving the arching line of her neck exposed to tease him. He opened and closed his hand, eager to slide his fingers up the warm skin, dislodge the hairpins and send the tangle of ebony ringlets cascading over her shoulders. There was nothing more beautiful than her dark curls hanging just above the tips of her pointed nipples, the pink buds eager for his touch, her rich, blue eyes wide with anticipation.

He tightened his fingers into a fist before releasing them one by one. Tonight wasn’t about some dalliance from his past. It was about protecting his future and he couldn’t allow the tightness in his breeches to distract him from his goal.

He strolled around the outside of the gathering, watching Cornelia’s gaze slide from one guest to another, sizing up her prey like a wolf waiting to pick off the weakest lamb.

At last her eyes met his, dipping down the length of his body before she flashed him a dazzling smile. Rafe stopped as if he’d hit a wall. He knew this smile. It was a warning, not a welcome.

She settled herself on a nearby sofa as he approached, arranging her skirts over her legs before laying her hands in her lap to greet him like a queen. His ego chafed at her arrogance. How dare she take airs with him? He knew her history, both the real one and the one they’d invented the night she ran away with him from Sussex. Pride demanded he cut her, but he forced himself forward.

‘My dear Cornelia, what a pleasure it is to see you back in London.’ He swept into a low bow, noticing a small stain on one of his stockings before he straightened, careful to keep his smile wide and gracious.

‘I’m the Comtesse de Vane now, or have you forgotten?’ She held out her hand, a large diamond glittering on her middle finger.

‘How could I forget?’ He slid his fingers beneath hers, squeezing them as his lips brushed the knuckles, catching more of the large stone than her skin. The clear gem danced with small rainbows and jealousy cut through him. Even before Paris, he didn’t possess the means to offer such tokens. No wonder she’d abandoned him for the Comte. ‘Especially after the trouble you took to secure it.’