The Courtesan

ALREADY QUESTIONING her wisdom in letting Mae persuade her to attend the theater, Belle asked her companion to precede her out of the carriage. In a bright purple gown of extremely low cut, her cloak left open to display her famous attributes, Mae set off, cutting a path through the throng like the bow of a frigate through dark water.

Thankfully, Mae would distract some of the gawkers—and enjoy every minute of the attention as fiercely as Belle despised it. But if Bellingham’s death was to free her, she couldn’t remain behind the walls of her house in Mount Street. Nor was it fair to continue depriving Mae of the excitement and activities of the London she so enjoyed.

Besides, Kean was to play one of his best roles tonight. Now that she was her own—and only her own—mistress, she could bar the door to her box and with the intense concentration she’d honed over the years, shut out the crowd, the chatter—everything but the action onstage.

Closing her ears and her mind to the shouts and whistles that had begun the moment her coach was recognized, she followed Mae into the theater. Her regal posture and icy dignity, reinforced by the presence beside her of Watson, former bouncer at the bordello where Mae had once worked and now Belle’s bodyguard-cum-butler, served to keep the curious from crowding her as she crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to her box.

A mercifully brief time later, Belle took her seat beside Mae, Watson behind them to guard the door. Mae looked about avidly, plying her fan as she nodded and smiled to acknowledge the greetings called out to them.

Her companion was so obviously in her element that Belle had to smile. She was going to have difficulty embarking on a more retired life with Mae at her side, the woman’s flamboyant presence better than a handbill as an advertisement for the world’s oldest profession. Though her companion had, amazingly, retained a child’s delight in the world and a sunny nature as transparent as clear springwater, there was no disputing the fact that Mae Woods, a whore’s daughter who’d followed in her mother’s footsteps when she was twelve years old, was hopelessly vulgar.

Still, this aging courtesan had been as much mother as friend to Belle in some of her direst hours. She couldn’t imagine dismissing her—even had Mae somewhere other than the streets to go, which she didn’t.

Teach Mae to be more discreet, Belle mentally added to the list she’d begun of Things To Do With My Life Now, and then chuckled at the incongruity of that notion.

A slight diminution in the noise level signaled that the players were about to begin. But as Belle transferred her attention to the stage, her eye was drawn to the glitter of gold on a red uniform tunic. Her gaze rose to the sunburned face above the jacket—the face of the dark-haired, dark-eyed soldier who’d studied her this morning.

He was watching her now, his regard so intense her skin prickled and a shock skittered to the pit of her stomach. She swallowed a gasp, taken aback at the power of that wordless connection. As if he somehow knew the effect he’d caused, the soldier smiled as he bowed to her.

Feeling heat flush her face, Belle looked away without acknowledging him. Mae, ever alert, leaned over to whisper, “Who was that?”

“I have no idea,” Belle replied, pressing a hand over her stomach to quell the flutters and resolutely fixing her eyes on the actor now entering from the wings.

With Kean in excellent form, the supporting cast equally competent and the play engrossing, Belle should have lost herself in the world the players were creating. But to her annoyance, she found the red-coated officer was seated at the periphery of her vision, always just within sight as she followed the events taking place onstage.

Worse, though she never glanced at him to confirm it, somehow she could feel his gaze on her, further eroding her concentration. By the time the interval arrived, she was irritated, restless, and tempted to simply go home.

As the audience began milling about, she turned back to Watson. “Remember, I wish to admit no one.”

Mae put a hand on her arm. “Please, Belle, Lord M and Sidmouth just waved. Can we not let them in?” She added in a low voice, “Darlington and some gents are in the box opposite. I’d hate for ’em to see me here all alone.”

With a sigh, Belle capitulated. “Of course you may receive your friends.”

“Thank you!” Mae said, beaming at her.

But even as Belle resigned herself to an interlude filled with noisy chatter, she felt unaccountably more relaxed. As she suspected, when she cautiously looked in his direction, the soldier was no longer in his seat.

Mae’s two gentlemen appeared promptly and Belle moved to let the men take the seats nearest her. As she settled into a chair near the back rail, she heard a deep, unfamiliar voice addressing Watson.

Once again, sparks sputtered along her nerves, and somehow she knew the speaker must be her soldier. Sternly repressing the impulse to sneak a closer look at the man, she kept her attention on the stage.

Watson’s gravelly reply was followed by another exchange, after which he called to her, “Lady Belle, be ye wishful of receiving a Captain Carrington?”

She felt at once an inexplicable need to flee and a strong desire to tell Watson to let the caller enter. Instead, she said, “I don’t know a Captain Carrington.”

“But she does know me,” a familiar voice interjected. “Will you not allow me in, mon ange?”

“Egremont!” Belle exclaimed with delight, turning instinctively toward the sound of his voice. “I thought you were still in the country. Please, do join me.”

As Watson stepped aside to admit the earl, Belle caught a glimpse of the dark-haired captain behind him. In those few seconds before the door closed, she got an impression of broad shoulders, an intelligent face—and a gaze even more compelling over the short distance now separating them.

With a little shiver, she turned her attention to the gentleman, his dark hair silvered at the temples, taking the chair beside her. “When did you return?”

“Just this morning. You look ravishing, as always, mon ange,” he said, bringing her hand up to kiss. Retaining her fingers in a light grasp, he studied her face. “How are you faring? I didn’t hear of Richard’s death until two weeks ago. I wish I had been here to help.”

“I fare quite well, thank you. And there wasn’t much to do as I was not, of course, involved in the funeral arrangements.” She took a deep breath. “Having been his friend long before you were mine, you may think it despicable of me, but I’m glad he suffered the fatal attack at his club, rather than in Mount Street.”

Egremont squeezed her fingers. “Not despicable at all, my dear. Given how things stood with his family, it would have been most awkward and unpleasant for you, had he breathed his last under your roof. And I hope I’ve always been a good friend to you both.”

Belle’s eyes stung with tears. “Indeed you were. I don’t know what I should have done, had I not had you to discuss literature and art and politics with me, to escort me to the galleries and concerts in which Bellingham had no interest. To laugh with me.” Her throat tight, she added, “You treated me as ‘Belle’s lady’ from the first time we met. I can’t tell you how much that meant.”

“How could I do otherwise? You are elegance and gentility down to your bones, mon ange.” After a moment, he added, “I see you are not wearing black.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “No. I suspect half those watching will censure me for not displaying a proper respect at the death of my protector. Whereas the other half would condemn me for effrontery, did I dare to wear mourning.”

“Would you wear it, could you do as you wish?” he asked, once again studying her face.

“No,” she said bluntly. “Our relationship, as you surely observed, was…complex and often acrimonious.” Lifting her chin, determined to tell the truth even if it lowered her in his regard, she continued, “Though I would not have wished his death, I am not sorry to be free.”

He nodded, apparently pondering that comment. “What do you intend to do now?”

“I’m not certain yet.”

“You have adequate funds?”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

“So you don’t intend to—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not again. Not ever.”

Massaging the hand he still held, he cleared his throat.

Something about his hesitancy, the pressure of his fingers on hers, filled Belle with the dismaying suspicion that this man who had been her one friend among Bellingham’s cronies, the only man who’d not, openly or by innuendo, treated her as Bellingham’s whore, was about to ruin that friendship by offering her carte blanche.

“My wife and I have long had an arrangement,” he began softly. “She despises London. Over the years, she has been content to remain at our country estate, tending to the house and the children, allowing me to go my own way as long as, eventually, I return to her. For an arranged marriage, it hasn’t worked out too badly, and for most of those years, I was content. Until I met you.”

“Please, don’t,” she begged, trying to pull her fingers free, dreading to hear the words.

He let them go. “I don’t mean to distress you, my sweet. I’m not immune to your attraction, despite being several years your senior, and if I thought I could persuade you to become my mistress and make you happy, I should beg you to do me that honor. But I know how much you hated the notoriety Richard thrust upon you.”

He gave her a wry smile. “We have rubbed along comfortably, my wife and I, these many years, and even had I grounds for a divorce, which I do not, I would not do that to her. Since I cannot offer you what you desire most—a legitimate relationship—I beg only that you will allow me to remain your friend.”

He did understand. The poignancy of that affirmation helped to mitigate her discomfort at discovering that even Egremont, whom she’d considered more in the light of an elder brother, felt a carnal attraction to her.

At least he did not intend to act upon his desire, indifferent to her preferences.

“I have few enough friends that I want to lose one—especially not one as dear to me as you,” she replied.