The Courtesan's Book of Secrets

‘Well played, Densmore.’ Lord Sewell applauded.

Brixton collapsed back in his chair, one hand over his eyes.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Rafe rose and scraped up Brixton’s substantial pile of notes and coins. ‘It was a pleasure playing you.’

He tucked the money in his waistcoat pocket and stepped outside.

Two sad lamps flanked the front door, their dancing flames casting a faint glow across the pavement, but doing little to pierce the darkness of the street. Rafe stood in the flickering light and inhaled. Mould and rot hung heavy in the damp air, burning his nose more than the stink of stale wine and old cologne from inside.

Perhaps my luck is changing for the better.

‘Did ya ’ave a good night in there, Lord Densmore?’ A familiar voice slid out from the shadows across the street.

Or perhaps not.

Mr Smith, the moneylender, took shape in the twin circles of the lamps. Two henchmen perched on either side of him, one burly with wide shoulders, the other lean and lanky like his employer.

‘My luck was tolerable.’ Rafe shifted his foot to feel the weight of the knife hidden in his boot.

Mr Smith stopped a few feet from Rafe and flipped opened a slim toothpick case. ‘I was beginning to think ya didn’t want to see me.’

Rafe dropped his hands to his side, ready to reach for the knife. ‘How could a gentleman not want to see a man of your esteem?’

Mr Smith pointed his toothpick at Rafe and the two thugs rushed forward. Rafe snatched the knife from his boot, held it up and the two men jerked to a halt.

‘Rough handling isn’t necessary. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?’ Rafe waved the men back with the knife and they dutifully moved closer to Mr Smith.

He ran his thumb down the length of the ivory handle, painfully aware of the thin bit of metal standing between him and real trouble.

‘Please excuse our lack of manners.’ The hammer clicked back before Rafe noticed the gun in Mr Smith’s hand. ‘But I want to impress upon ya the importance of repaying the money ya owe me.’

Damn.

Mr Smith stepped closer, the stench of his garlic breath rising above the manure in the street. The moneylender slipped the toothpick between his teeth, letting it dangle on his chapped bottom lip as he reached into Rafe’s pocket and pulled out the folded notes. Rafe didn’t lower the knife, but kept it raised between them, the blade shining orange in the lamplight. If Mr Smith pulled the trigger, the bullet might tear through Rafe, but not before he got a swipe at the cockroach. He might have lost the advantage, but he wasn’t about to roll over and die in the dirty street like his father had done.

Mr Smith’s dull eyes flicked to the blade. Even with his limited intelligence, he seemed to grasp the threat. He danced back out of Rafe’s reach before his dirty thumb flipped through the notes, calculating their worth. ‘It won’t pay your debt, but it’s a start. Ya can keep the coins.’

‘You, my good man, have an astounding lack of respect for your betters,’ Rafe spat, hoping the man hadn’t left any greasy fingerprints on his waistcoat. He couldn’t afford to replace it.

Mr Smith stuffed the bills into the pocket of his dark trousers, careful to keep the pistol pointed at Rafe. ‘I don’t care who ya father was or what hoity-toity title you have. Ya owe me and I know your estate ain’t worth a brass farthing. All of London knows it, so ya’d better hope Lady Luck slips into your bed because I want me money by next week. If I don’t get it, I’ll sell your hide to the anatomists.’

Rafe took one large step forward, pressing his chest into the hard end of the barrel and staring down at the slack-jawed rat. The metal quivered with Mr Smith’s surprise. One slip and the moneylender would send a ball tearing through him.

‘You may remind me of my debts,’ Rafe hissed in a voice as hard as chipped flint. He wasn’t about to back down or be cowed by the rodent, no matter how much money he owed the man. ‘But you will do so in full remembrance of your station and mine.’

The toothpick dropped from Mr Smith’s open mouth before he clamped it shut. He staggered back, his eyes wide as he stuffed the pistol in his belt and, without a word, scurried off. His thugs hurried after him, the clomp of their footsteps fading into the misty darkness.

Rafe slid the knife back into his boot, ignoring the slight tremble in his hand. Brandishing the weapon might have startled the rat tonight, but it wouldn’t stop him from scurrying out of the dark again and making good on his threat.

It seemed fashions weren’t the only Paris trends to have crossed the Channel.

He looked down at the faint black circle on his waistcoat. ‘Hell.’

He shouldn’t have let his pride goad him into taking such a risk with Mr Smith. He brushed at the spot, relieved to see it fade. He’d already lost his winnings, he didn’t need to lose his life like his father had done and leave his mother to starve.

‘You were very brave, mon ami.’ The weathered voice with a thick French accent drifted out from the shadows behind him.

Rafe whirled to see Monsieur Fournier pulling himself up off the front step of the house next door. ‘Or foolish.’

Monsieur Fournier raised his arms with a wide shrug, his limbs as thin as wrought iron. ‘It appears we’re both down on our luck.’

‘Yes, Lady Luck is proving a most inconsistent mistress.’

‘They’re all inconsistent, les belles femmes.’ He smiled, the glint of his spirit evident beneath the heavy weight of his lot.

‘Then let’s hope we both meet a more willing vixen tonight.’ Rafe took the Frenchman’s hand and pressed the remaining coins from his waistcoat into the palm, feeling the man’s bones through the flesh. ‘Good luck, mon ami.’

The older man’s eyes brightened with gratitude and hope as he shook Rafe’s hand. ‘Bonne chance, Seigneur de Densmore.’

Rafe nodded, then headed off down the street, hearing the laughter spill out of the hell as the Frenchman pulled open the door and hurried back inside.

Rafe quickened his pace, eager to reach the safety of his rented rooms and avoid any more unfortunate encounters tonight. He would need all the luck Monsieur Fournier offered. Mr Smith was right about the state of his finances: there wasn’t a creditor or friend in England likely to lend Rafe enough to repay the moneylender. All the rents from Wealthstone tenants went to pay the mortgages and, despite his luck in finding the spoons, he didn’t think he’d be so fortunate as to find another valuable missed by his father.

Curse the fool. Even the windfall from selling out his country to the French hadn’t been enough to save his father from debt, and death.

Rafe stomped in a puddle of water. It splashed up the side of his boot and dripped in to wet his stocking. He hadn’t escaped becoming an anatomy lesson in France only to end up in a medical theatre in London. Nor was he about to lose what little remained of the Densmore legacy, to see his mother evicted from her home and cast on the charity of some distant relative who’d do nothing except sneer at her misfortune. His father might have lacked the presence of mind to secure a future for his wife and child, but Rafe would, even if it meant crawling into bed with the enemy.

If Cornelia planned to increase her widow’s portion using the register, then it was time for him to share in the wealth. If she thought she could ignore him and their past, she was mistaken. She needed him as much as he needed her and he would make her see it.

He had no choice.

Chapter Three (#ulink_90f28072-2e9a-5ccd-8108-0204ea28d229)

Cornelia watched the swan glide down the canal, the water trailing behind it forming a V spreading out to touch each shore. Despite being nearly noon, all good society was still asleep, leaving the park quiet except for the governesses tending to their small charges. She watched the water flowing through the canal, the steady current reminding her of the river behind Hatton Place and the way the ducks used to swim to the opposite shore as she and Andrew played beside the banks.

She sighed, wondering if he’d outgrown the French shirts she’d sent him for Christmas. She hadn’t seen him since before she and Rafe had set sail for Paris in search of the riches to be gained from the Peace of Amiens. She’d visited him at Mr Higgins’s school where he stayed during the school terms, comforted to know he was somewhere safe while she was across the channel.

She picked at a small knot in the wooden handle of her parasol. If only she had the money to pay the tuition and keep Andrew there over the summer. She lowered the parasol, fluffing the lace along the edge. She’d have the money soon enough and school would begin again in a few weeks. Hopefully, her empty-headed stepmother wouldn’t do anything foolish between now and then. Once Andrew was back at school she could see him. She wasn’t about to travel to Sussex and face the vapid woman or listen in person to the many demands for funds Fanny felt the need to waste paper sending.

Cornelia settled the parasol back on her shoulder, shielding her face from the morning sun as she focused on the rippling water. Closing her eyes, she listened to the gentle slosh of small waves against the bank, letting the rhythmic sound sooth her the way it used to when she was a girl. She’d spent so many hours playing by the river, her ill-fitting dress muddy as she wandered shoeless through the reeds, imagining the stalks to be the sturdy walls of a castle where a handsome prince waited to rescue her, and her mother was still alive.

Foolish dreams.

She opened her eyes and gazed across the grass at a woman holding a small child’s hand as it tottered about on unsteady legs. None of her girlish dreams had come true: not a peaceful life, a happy marriage or a future with Rafe.

What happened between us?

He’d been so different from all the other men, smiling at her from across Lord Perry’s card party as if he understood her humiliation and worry over her father’s mounting losses. He hadn’t laughed like the other men when Lord Edgemont had goaded her weak father into wagering her hand. Nor had he leered at her when old Lord Waltenham won.