The Courtesan

Jane shook her head doubtfully. “Mrs. Jarvis said if I ever thought to go to a constable, I’d be wasting my breath. I came to London willing enough, and staying at her house were my own choice.”

“Only because you were threatened! I cannot believe such a scheme could be legal. But no more on that now. Do you want to return to Mrs. Jarvis?”

Jane shrugged. “What respectable household or shop would hire me now, however good I be with my needle?”

Belle smiled wryly. “I can’t claim to be a ‘respectable’ household, but the task itself will be honest enough. Would you like to work for me? I have a great many gowns I should like to have remade and ’tis a project beyond my skills. If you have the talent to do so, you would be rendering me a very great service.”

“I should be honored, ma’am!” Jane exclaimed. A moment later, her excited glow faded. “But…I don’t expect Mrs. Jarvis would let me. I bring in a lot of business.”

Belle lifted her brows. “She can hardly force you to stay—unless she wishes to face prosecution. This is still England, and even women such as we cannot be held against our will.”

“Then you think…you think I can stay?”

“Jane Parsons, do you wish to work for me?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!”

“Then consider yourself hired. However, since it is quite probable that Mrs. Jarvis will not rejoice over your decision to pursue a new profession, let me inform her by message.”

Jane paled. “I expect she’ll be fiercesome angry.”

“Never you worry about it! Now, let’s find you some proper clothing and get you settled.”

But once again Jane hesitated. “The rest of your household…they may not much like having a girl such as me thrust among ’em.”

Recalling the range of checkered pasts among her employees, Belle laughed. “’Tis unlikely anyone taking service in the house of the infamous Lady Belle would stand in judgment of a fellow creature—nor would I permit it. Come along now. In the morning, you can begin on those gowns.”

Though Jane rose, she didn’t follow. “What if Mrs. Jarvis sends somebody to…to fetch me back?”

Behind the question, Belle sensed the girl’s fear of the infamous Waldo. “I assure you, even if she dispatches her henchman, Watson is fully capable of handling him. He was once the best prize-fighter in England.”

At that, Jane cast herself once again at Belle’s feet. “Oh, my lady, I shall be forever grateful! And my skill with a needle ain’t empty boasting, neither, you’ll see! Show me any style you favor in a magazine or shop window, and I can make you the very thing!”

“I see we shall deal very well together,” Belle replied, smiling as she shepherded Jane from the room.

After turning her new charge over to her housekeeper, Belle returned to pen the note informing Mrs. Jarvis of her employee’s defection. By the time she’d finished crafting that missive, Belle’s satisfaction at liberating Jane had faded.

Though she knew she’d done all she could, she found herself pacing her chamber, the glass of wine she’d sipped while composing her note unable to quell the agitation she’d felt ever since Miss Bellingham had accosted her at the theater.

Also simmering in her veins was the familiar desire to lash out at the world for the outrages it permitted—and particularly at the villains who preyed on innocents.

It was some time before she tired enough to seek her bed.

How fortunate, she thought as she plumped up her pillow, picturing with sardonic anticipation the arrogant, lustful male faces watching—and then challenging—her from the gallery, that tomorrow she had another fencing lesson.

CHAPTER FIVE

AUBREY MUST HAVE suspected Jack might have second thoughts about challenging Belle, for shortly after Jack rose the following morning, he answered a rap on his door to discover his friend standing in the hallway. “Help yourself to some ale,” Jack invited, suppressing a smile.

“Much obliged,” Aubrey said as he seated himself. “Wanted to arrive early and make sure you were prepared.”

“Or to make sure I went through with it?”

“No question about that,” Aubrey responded as he poured a glass. “Gave your word. Just thought I’d escort you over, me being your second of sorts.”

“Not a second—a principal,” Jack retorted wryly. “You being the one who volunteered me.”

“Could have refused if you’d wanted. But what man could resist the opportunity to win a kiss from Belle—especially one who has an excellent chance of succeeding?”

Jack wanted to protest, but honesty kept him silent. It would be gratifying to succeed where other men had failed, but Jack knew that deep down, what he sought most was a taste of the woman who so intrigued and attracted him. He had tossed restlessly most of the night, sleep eluding him as his mind kept conjuring vivid images of taking her in his arms, her mouth yielding, opening under his. In lieu of replying, he took a long draught of ale.

“I tipped the hackney driver to wait,” Aubrey said after draining his mug. “Given your reputation for swordplay, the gallery should be crowded. We must depart immediately if we wish to secure chairs.”

“I would rather stand at the side, where I can observe the lesson without it being obvious.”

“Search out her weaknesses,” Aubrey agreed, “though not being a fencer of your rank, I’ve yet to note any. You’ll not want to miss even the smallest opening that could allow you to win the wager—and perhaps persuade her that further intimacy would be even more enjoyable, eh?”

Jack laughed. “There’s little chance of that. I can’t meet her price, and I doubt my lovemaking skill is sufficient to impress a woman of Belle’s vast experience.”

“Did those French and Spanish ladies not teach you a trick or two?”

Jack shook his head. “Your vivid imagination again, Aubrey. Soldiers spend much more time slogging through dust, mud and rain to bed down on damp ground or in flea-infested hovels than romping with foreign beauties.”

Aubrey picked up Jack’s uniform jacket. “Please, don’t shatter my boyhood illusions. Your coat, sir. If Belle should take a liking to you, promise you’ll not forget the part I had in bringing you together.”

“I’m unlikely ever to forget,” Jack replied dryly as he fastened the jacket and buckled on his sword. He would not, he told himself as they proceeded to the waiting hackney, let his imagination play with the intoxicating notion of luring Belle into more than a simple kiss.

She’s a wanton who would bed any man for a price, his righteous mind protested. But such a wanton! the part of his brain devoted to pleasure replied. Hadn’t she kept Bellingham’s desire aflame for years? His whole body tightened at the notion of the love tricks she must know…He dare not allow himself to imagine those smooth white hands, those plump pink lips performing their magic on him.

Enough, he brought his thoughts up sternly. Let lust rule his head and, talented fencer that she was, she’d insure he didn’t win so much as one kiss.

As they approached the hackney, Edmund Darnley walked up. “Thought I’d come lend my support.”

“Come along,” Aubrey said. “But if Jack does succeed in winning Belle, he’s promised me the first introduction.”

“Winning Belle?” Edmund echoed with a puzzled look.

“Just Aubrey leaping to unsupported conclusions, as usual,” Jack replied. “There’s no question of anything but a kiss—which, I may add, I’ve yet to win.”

“Then let us take our places so you have maximum time in which to determine how to do so,” Aubrey said.

The three friends piled into the coach. A short time later, they entered the fencing room to find it, as Aubrey had predicted, already crowded. Jack nodded to Montclare and several others, while Rupert gave Jack a glacial glance as he passed to take up a place along the left wall.

A short time later, master and pupil walked in. Belle, dressed again in breeches and shirt, her golden hair pulled tightly back, ignored the assembly, focusing instead on inspecting her sword and testing its balance.

Releasing the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or vexed that this time he hadn’t drawn to himself that compelling, focus-shattering gaze. Though she did not deign to look at him, he was acutely aware of her every movement.

He mustn’t, he reminded himself, become distracted by the shapely derriere hugged by her doeskin breeches as she bent to adjust her foil or the arresting curves outlined beneath the shirt as she raised her arm, lest he be trounced as ignominiously as Wexley.