The Courtesan's Book of Secrets

‘It was hardly any trouble at all.’ Cornelia slid her hand out of his grasp, tilting it to view the stone, as if checking to make sure it was still in its setting. ‘The Comte didn’t possess the necessary vigour to fulfil his conjugal duties.’

The ever-so-subtle tightening of her full lips didn’t escape Rafe’s notice. So, the marriage hadn’t been all bliss. He should have taken delight in the subtle revelation, but he couldn’t, nor could he believe she’d sold herself to the old man for a few thousand francs and a title. The idea of the Comte’s gnarled hands pawing at Cornelia made his meagre dinner roil in his gut, but he hid it as he would a disappointing hand in a tight game.

She’d chosen the hunched old man as her bedmate. No one had forced her into it.

‘And now you’ve returned, the happy, wealthy widow.’ He sat down next to her, the cushion beneath him sinking and making her lean closer.

Her full lips eased into a gloating smile as bright as the diamonds dangling from her ears. ‘I couldn’t have imagined a more delightful way to come home.’

He motioned to an exceptionally tall footman carrying a tray of champagne and selected one of the offered flutes. He took a sip, allowing the tart liquid to cool the acid remarks dancing on his tongue. ‘And you’ve also stumbled upon an inventive way to increase your widow’s portion. Tell me, who do you intend to threaten for money?’

He’d never thought her cruel enough for blackmail, but after the clever way she’d duped him with the Comte, he wouldn’t put anything shady past her now.

She tilted her head to one side, placing a small amount of distance between them. Pulling open her fan one stick at a time, she revealed the painting of Venus lounging nude in Mars’s arms. He knew the fan. She always carried it when on the hunt for a lucrative and less talented opponent. ‘What makes you think I purchased the register for such a sinister reason?’

‘What other reason could you have? It’s hardly pleasurable reading.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised at how much fun it is to peruse.’ She fanned herself with three quick flicks, making the candles on the pillar behind them waver. ‘The full list of every titled man Mrs Ross ever paid to betray our country during the colonial revolt. Some of the names are quite shocking.’

‘For instance?’

She cast him a sideways glance, her eyes skimming the length of him, focusing on his foot before rising to meet his face. For a moment he didn’t think she’d tell him, then he saw the sense of satisfaction widen her eyes. He inwardly cringed. She wasn’t just going to tell him about the register, she was going to torture him with it.

‘For instance, the Dowager Countess of Daltmouth.’ She lowered her arms, levelling her fan at the imperious woman. ‘It appears her late husband accepted quite a generous amount from the French to turn coward at the Battle of Saratoga.’

Rafe let out a low whistle. ‘Which means all the old rumours are true.’

She sat back, adjusting her diamond bracelet. ‘Given her massive efforts to reform the Daltmouth name, she can hardly afford to have any evidence of his treason come to light.’

‘Which she’ll avoid by paying for your silence.’

‘It is but one possibility.’

She flicked the top edge of her teeth with her tongue as she always did at the end of a well-played hand. He eyed her mouth, bitter desire twisting his insides. He wanted to brush his lips across the delicate blush of her cheek, take one small earlobe in his teeth and remind her of everything he could do to her, to make her want him beyond reason. Then he could leave her the same way she’d abruptly left him.

He straightened and set his champagne glass on the side table. There would be time for more pleasurable business later. ‘An interesting plan, but incredibly flawed. She’s weathered worse storms than you. Threaten her and she’ll crush you.’

Cornelia’s eyes flashed with irritation before she took a deep breath and they softened to their usual languid blue. ‘Ah, Rafe, ye of little faith. I have no plan to blackmail the Dowager Countess.’

A loud laugh from the far end of the room silenced the gentle murmur of conversation and everyone turned to watch the current Earl of Daltmouth, the dowager’s pudgy son, throw back his head so far, he nearly stumbled into the sharp-jawed footman passing behind him. The Earl straightened himself with a great deal of effort and the footman’s assistance. ‘I’m going to blackmail him.’

Rafe studied the stout fellow. The Earl’s eyes were nearly lost in the large cheeks underneath them and his round chin was beginning to disappear into the second one forming just beneath it.

A chill shot through Rafe as Cornelia leaned in close to his ear, her verbena perfume as shocking to his senses as her warm breath on his neck. ‘He isn’t as astute as his mother and much more inclined to pay.’

Rafe nodded, hating to admit even to himself the logic of her choice. The Earl was known in society for many things. Astounding feats of genius were not one of them. ‘You’ve improved a great deal since Paris.’

‘I learned from the best.’ She flicked her fan over her chest and the memory of her in his bed, the white sheets wrapped around her naked body as she curled herself around him, flashed through his mind. His manhood tightened and he shifted on the sofa, determined to maintain a steady course.

‘Since I taught you so much, allow me one favour.’ He leaned in to her and she looked up at him through her dark lashes. The beautiful blue irises surrounded by clear white fixed on him, sending another jolt of need through his body. Curse the minx for this hold she had over him. ‘Give me the page with my father’s name on it. I have no money to pay you and you can gain nothing by hurting me. Consider it a thank you for everything I taught you.’

‘My dear Rafe.’ She laid one gloved hand along the side of his face, her lips moist, parted and so temptingly close. ‘I see poverty has not robbed you of your sense of humour.’

She patted his cheek, then rose, the sweet sway of her hips not lost beneath the high-waisted dress as she strolled away. A cold dunk in a pond couldn’t have done more to wilt his need and he drummed his fingers on the velvet cushion, the bitterness he’d tasted in Paris filling his mouth again.

* * *

Cornelia struggled to walk a smooth, straight line as she left Rafe, her whole body shaking with excitement and rage. She hadn’t been this close to him since their last night together in France. The tart scent of tobacco smoke and wine clinging to his coat from a long night in the hells had nearly been her undoing. It reminded her of too many evenings with him in the card rooms of Paris, and then in their apartment afterwards, his hard chest pressed against her breasts, his skilful touch making her insides ache.

A shadow wavered in the corner near a heavy sideboard, reminding her of the dark hallways of Ch?teau de Vane and the cold bite of Rafe’s betrayal. She shivered, all desire to rush back across the room to him gone. Instead she continued forward, savouring the memory of Rafe’s surprised eyes. She’d struck a blow, even if it had taken every ounce of self-control to remain calm while he sat so close and to not break her fan over his head for abandoning her in Paris.

She eased her grip on the delicate accessory to keep from crushing it. How dare he brazenly approach her after what he’d done and expect her to hand over the register pages. She was no longer the naive daughter of a country Baronet in need of his guidance. She was the Comtesse de Vane, even if the title was worth little more than the tin heraldic shield hanging above her mantel.

Joining the circle of women surrounding Lady Daltmouth and a poet, Cornelia shifted back and forth in her slippers. She tried to focus as the poet extolled the virtues of womanhood, nodding along with the other ladies, but his words were a meaningless jumble. Rafe’s mere presence in the room made her jittery. If this continued, she’d be unable to put together a coherent thought by the end of the poet’s stanza. Taking a deep breath, she focused as she exhaled, settling herself the way Rafe had once taught her to do before engaging in a high-stakes card game.

Curse him, he seemed to be everywhere in her life.

As she exhaled the second breath, Cornelia focused on the Dowager Countess. She sat like a petite queen on a low gilded chair, scrutinising the people around her, the small lines at the corners of her eyes relaxing or hardening depending on whom she took in. Cornelia followed her gaze around the circle, noting the lesser nobility who flocked to her salon. After the late Earl’s cowardly retreat at the Battle of Saratoga, there were few in the ton willing to show the Daltmouths favour. This collection of people was the Dowager Countess’s answer to their snub, an attempt to create an alternate society of mushrooms and nobles of questionable lineage. Cornelia had counted on this cultivation when she’d left a card at the Dowager’s Mayfair town house yesterday morning. Her effort was rewarded when tonight’s invitation arrived with the Dowager’s gold engraved card.

Lady Daltmouth’s haughty, scrutinising look fell on Cornelia, dipping down the length of her sheer blue overdress. One sculpted brow rose a touch, but the lines of the Dowager’s face remained smooth. Like many of the other matrons, Cornelia imagined the older woman disapproved of her choice of dress so soon after the Comte’s passing. Let the Dowager think what she wanted, Cornelia refused to mourn the old dog.

Her silent judgement given, Lady Daltmouth turned to the poet and cut him off mid-sonnet.

‘I think you’ve extolled the virtues of your work enough for one evening, Mr Keans.’ She rose and crossed to Cornelia, sending the flock of ladies surrounding her scurrying out of her way. She stopped in front of the younger woman who offered a deep curtsy before rising.

‘Comtesse, I see you have a preference for French fashion,’ the Dowager announced.

So, it wasn’t the lack of black, but the tighter cut of Cornelia’s dress the Dowager disapproved of. ‘Oui, madame.’

The Dowager’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘I hope you did not bring back too many other French customs such as papist beliefs.’

Cornelia looked down at the short woman, careful to keep her face free of any emotion. ‘No, my lady. I kept my Protestant faith. It wasn’t my beliefs which interested my late husband.’

A surprised gasp escaped from someone behind the Dowager, whose mouth twitched up in one corner. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Good evening, Comtesse.’

She swept past her and across the room in the direction of her son, who watched her pending approach with dread. His face drooped in relief when his mother passed him to speak to one of the many tall footmen stationed around the room. It was then Cornelia noticed the impressive height of the liveried young men. They were all exceptionally tall, almost as tall as Rafe, and scandalously handsome.

Well, well, well, it seemed Lady Daltmouth wasn’t such a strict Protestant after all.

Cornelia opened her fan, her amusement fading. It was time to focus on less appealing sights.

She sauntered into the Earl’s line of vision, offering him a coy smile when his eyes met hers. His face rumpled in confusion and he turned to look over first one shoulder and then the other.

She curtsied, tilting forward a touch to give him a better view of her chest and drive home her invitation. His piggy eyes flicked to her breasts with the same greed she remembered lighting up the Comte’s watery eyes from across many card tables. Despite the queasy roll of her stomach, she maintained the look of pleasure as he approached, his girth making him waddle more than walk.

‘Comtesse, we’re honoured to have you grace our little gathering,’ he gasped, winded with the exertion of crossing the room.

The hypocrite. He wouldn’t have deigned to speak to her if she was still the Honourable Cornelia Trofton.