The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (3 page)

While her face remained a blank page, storms swirled in the depths of her eyes. ‘A friend owns a small, but exclusive, ladies’ dress shop in the town. I plan to invest in her business.’

With short sharp steps, she returned to her seat. The heavy scent of roses thickened the air. ‘Would you care for some more tea?’ She picked up the teapot. ‘I have grown fond of the English
thé
.’

Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’

She began to fill her cup.

A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’

Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’

Not quite so self-assured, then.

‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’

She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.

God, his lungs ceased to work every time she did that.

‘You wish to make sure I speak the truth?’ she asked.

He inclined his head. ‘As you say.’

She returned the teapot to the tray. Her low husky chuckle filled the silence and she cast him a sly glance. ‘Are you sure that is your only reason for wishing to remain in my company?’

Smouldering annoyance flared to anger. The little hussy delighted in tormenting him. ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, the sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I will like it.’

Her gaze dropped from his, her hand creeping to touch her gold locket. When she replied, her smile seemed forced. ‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Evernden.’

She rose and he followed suit. The top of her golden head barely reached his shoulder.

‘I assume we have nothing left to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I would like to leave for Tunbridge Wells in the morning.’

‘I will let you know my decision after I have spoken to Mr Tripp.’

She hesitated, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I am going to join my friend tomorrow, Mr Evernden, with or without your escort. I expect two hundred pounds to be delivered to me before I leave. If not, I will apply to Lord Stanford or perhaps your mother, Lady Stanford. Your uncle promised me that money.’

Next she’d be claiming a child by the poor old man. Well, Christopher would damned well make sure she never troubled any member of his family again. She might not yet realise it, but she had met her match.

Tripp had one more task this afternoon, drawing up a settlement. ‘You will have my answer after dinner,
mademoiselle
. I wish you good day.’

He executed a courteous, shallow bow and headed for the door. An urgent craving to rid the cloying scent of roses from his lungs lengthened his stride.

From the arched window on the landing, Sylvia stared down at the athletic figure in the swirling greatcoat as he climbed into a shiny black coach emblazoned with the Evernden coat of arms.

The sharp point of her locket dug into her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she tried to still her trembles and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Had he believed her? Why would he not? The thought curdled in her stomach.

He seemed to be the solemn, honourable Englishman described by Monsieur Jean on his return from London. The disgust curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.

Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.

She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.

A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.

Non
. The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.

She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.

‘Mademoiselle?’
Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.

With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.

‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’

An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I will
become a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’

Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’

A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.

On the wharf, he skirted heaps of cargo, coils of old rope and clusters of merchants arguing in noisy groups. A group of seamen pushed past him with rolling gait, each brawny shoulder loaded with a barrel. Their curses rang in his ears. Nothing cleared the head like sea air, unless, like here, it was befouled with the smell of rotting fish and heated pitch. He grimaced. It really was a noisome, filthy place.

His long stride carried him swiftly past the waterfront where bare-masted ships speared the cloudy sky. The events of the day pounded at his mind in tune with the sea dashing itself against the cliffs.

Clear of the busy docks, Christopher strolled along the front, savouring the sharp breeze on his skin and the tang of salt on his tongue. Exposed by low tide, the yellow pebble beach sported seaweed and blackened spars. Nothing about Dover appealed to him.

Damn it all. It had been a simple task. Stay one night at the Bull, attend the funeral and the reading of the will, then be on his way to the Darbys’ in Sussex by nightfall. Only now, he had to deal with the problem of Mademoiselle Boisette.

Why not give her the money and let her go her own way? Because he hated to leave anything dangling.

He frowned. The interview with Tripp had confirmed his fears that there was little to be had from the sale of Cliff House. A half-pay naval officer had offered to purchase it for
a pittance and Uncle John’s creditors wanted a quick sale. Tripp thought there might be a few pounds left, perhaps between ten and fifty, after the creditors received their share. Mademoiselle Boisette would be hard put to manage on so small a sum.

To top it all, Uncle John had reached out from the grave and planted Christopher a facer. A letter, to be delivered if he refused to take Mademoiselle Boisette under his wing.

Curse it. New rage flared up to heat his blood. He dropped on to a wooden bench looking out over the harbour. Sullen, foam-crested waves tumbled up the beach and rattled the stones. On the horizon black clouds heralding yet more rain. A dousing would make a perfect end to the day.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and broke open the red wax seal. Ripe with the smell of seaweed, the stiff breeze fluttered the paper as he peered at the spidery handwriting.

Dear Nephew,

I write in haste, for I have little time left to me. If you are reading this letter, you have rejected my request to care for my little Sylvia.

Request? More like a bludgeoning over the head with a gravestone. Christopher fought the urge to ball the paper in his fist and toss it into the surf rolling around the rotting timber breakwater.

She has been a daughter to me all these years.

Then why hide her away?

Her mother was my first and only love. She chose another, but my feelings remained constant. Now, all I can do for my beloved Marguerite is take care of her little girl, Sylvia. My poor Marguerite, so tender in her emotions, dragged down into the pit of hell by viciousness and vice.

These were words a Gothic novelist like Mrs Radcliffe would have been proud to write. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to read on.

Understand, my dear Christopher, her father deserted his child and continues to deny her. I have spent my life and most of my money trying to prove her claim.

You must succeed where I have failed. The duke must pay for his crime.

Please, do not let me down. You are Sylvia’s only hope.

John Christopher Evernden.

The word
hope
had been underlined several times.

He was supposed to guess the name of this duke? He turned the paper over to see if it contained the answer on the back. Nothing. Was he supposed to walk up to each of them in turn and accuse them of siring a French bastard?

Damn. His uncle must think him some sort of knight on a white charger, riding around the countryside rescuing damsels in distress. Questionable damsels at that.

It was the sort of thing Garth would have jumped at when they were boys. And Christopher would have followed behind, cleaning up the mess. A fool’s errand. The old man had to be addled in his pate. Sylvia Boisette had been brutally clear about her mother’s occupation.

But not the daughter? For some obscure reason, he wanted to believe Uncle John’s assertion she was his ward and nothing more. In the face of a statement made by a man facing death, Christopher ought to believe in her innocence as a matter of family honour, despite her wanton behaviour earlier today.

A sudden image of her siren smile, the languorous removal of her gloves, fired his blood. Hell, did he have no self-control where this woman was concerned? Was desire mingled with disgust colouring his judgement?

Whatever the case, the almost nonexistent funds for her support left the workhouse as the only solution unless he succumbed to her blackmail.

He stared blindly at the tumbling surf and grating pebbles.

She needn’t know how much would be left after the sale
of the house. He could add to the balance, just be rid of her. He certainly had enough blunt left from the tidy profit he’d made on the last cargo of silks from the Orient. Even after purchasing a half-share in a ship bound for America, there was more than enough left to see Mademoiselle Boisette comfortably settled.

It would solve the problem.
If
he could be sure she would leave his family in peace.

He stuck the note in his pocket alongside the agreement drawn up by Tripp, pushed to his feet and headed towards town and the comfort of his inn. He’d think about it some more over dinner.

Taking hasty decisions on an empty stomach only resulted in trouble.

A
t the crunch of wheels on gravel, Sylvia turned her gaze from her beloved cliffs to the Evernden carriage rolling through the gate.

Thirsty for one last memory, she wheeled in a slow circle, the coarse fabric of her plain, grey wool travelling cloak twisting about her legs. Above her, white against grey, crying seagulls hovered on a breeze alive with the boom of crashing surf and a smattering of rain. Weighed down by the lessons she’d learned as a child, she drank in her last view of the rambling mansion’s warm red brick framed by windswept larches. One could never go back.

The matching chestnuts slowed to a halt at the front door. All loose-limbed athletic grace and conservative in a black coat, Mr Evernden leaped down. The wind ruffled the crisp waves of his light brown hair. His handsome face brightened when he caught sight of her.

Warmth trickled into her stomach. Her mind screamed danger.

He waited as she strolled across the drive to his side, then glanced at her green brassbound trunk beside her valise on the steps. ‘Is this everything?’

She had packed only the most practical of her clothing. She nodded. ‘All I need.’

The coachman tied her luggage on the rack at the back and Mr Evernden swept open the carriage door. ‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle Boisette?’

He held out his hand to assist her in. A small, polite smile curved his firm mouth and green sparks danced in his eyes.

Awareness of his size and strength skittered across her skin. She stilled, frozen by the odd sensation. Last night, his note had indicated his agreement to take her to Tunbridge Wells. After performing the harlot yesterday, dare she trust him? Prickles of foreboding crawled down her back.

She ignored his proffered aid. ‘Quite ready, Mr Evernden.’ Maintaining a cool expression, she stepped into the well-appointed carriage and settled on the comfortable black-tufted seats.

He followed her in, his musky sandalwood cologne heady in the confined space. Lean long legs filled the gap between the seats as he lounged into the squabs in the opposite corner. He gave her a sharp glance, then rapped on the roof and the carriage moved off with a gentle sway.

The window afforded glimpses of white sails skimming the spume-capped grey waves of the English Channel, an impenetrable moat around the castle of her past.

‘Another wet day,’ he said.

She kept her gaze fixed outside. ‘Indeed.’

‘Having caused us to freeze all winter I understand there are predictions that the Tomboro volcano will also ruin our spring.’

The masculine timbre of his voice resonated a chord deep inside her. For no apparent reason, her breath shortened as if his size and strength and even his cologne pressed against her chest. She clenched the strings of her reticule in her lap. ‘So I have heard.’

An awkward silence hung in the air.

He cleared his throat. ‘We will stop at Ashford for lunch and arrive in Tunbridge Wells before the supper hour.’

‘Thank you.’

Tunbridge Wells and Mary Jensen and her future. Her heart swelled with optimism and she touched the locket at her throat. Everything would be all right.

An impatient sigh gusted from his corner. He shifted, stretching out his long legs until his shining black boots landed inches from the edge of her skirts.

For all his outward appearance of ease, tension crackled across the space between them. Determined to ignore it and him, she focused her gaze out of the window.

He eased his shoulders deeper into the corner. She glanced at him from beneath her bonnet’s brim and cast a professional eye over his attire. After all, a successful modiste kept
au courant
with the latest styles, male and female, and she had met few members of the
ton
hidden away in Dover.

His buff unmentionables clung to his well-muscled legs, a smooth second skin over lean, strong thighs. Her pulse quickened.

Unable to resist the tempting sight, she let her gaze drift upwards past narrow hips to his broad chest, the close cut of his black coat, unmistakably Weston. Above an intricate, snowy cravat, she followed the column of his strong neck to his patrician profile, then to his hair arranged
à la Brutus
. A stray lock fell in a wave on his broad forehead. No dandy, just the quiet elegance of a man comfortable with himself.

As if he sensed her perusal, he turned his head and glanced at her from beneath half-lowered lids.

Cheeks burning, she flicked her gaze to the view.

Not another glance would she spare for her escort. Mary and her shop must be the focus of all her attention.
Their shop.
She hugged the thought to herself, a glimmer of warmth in a chilly world. Although small, according to Mary it was
situated one street from the centre of the spa. No longer as popular as Bath, the Wells continued to attract older members of the
ton
because of its proximity to London. But Mary’s last letter had arrived six months ago. Her business must be thriving if she could not find the time to write.

‘Mademoiselle?’

Her stomach lurched.

Merde
. She had all but forgotten him. Taking a deep breath, she willed her heart to stop its wild fluttering and forced frost into her tone. ‘Miss Boisette, Mr Evernden, since I plan to make my home here in England.’

He raised a brow. ‘Boisette is hardly an English name?’

He was right. It was the name her English mother had used in her new life in Paris, a life where she preferred not to shame her family name. Sylvia had simply adopted it. ‘It is how I wish to be addressed.’

A furrow formed above his patrician nose, but he inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’

‘I prefer to be addressed as Miss. Both of my parents were English. Also, there is no need for polite conversation, since after today we will never meet again.’

His firm mouth tightened and his nostrils flared as if he held back angry words. ‘As you wish,
Miss
Boisette.’

The carriage turned north away from the coast and he gazed out the rain-spattered window at the passing hilly countryside.

She let go of her breath. She infinitely preferred the heat of his anger to the other warmth she’d sensed deep in his eyes. Yesterday, he had been furious as she removed her gloves. Furious and fascinated.

Therein lay the danger. While he might have convinced the softhearted Monsieur Jean as to his honourable nature, she knew better than to trust any man.

Painful pinpricks ran over her shoulders. At any moment he might press her to make good her offer from the previous
day. The dangerous game she played might yet be lost. She squeezed tighter into her corner of the carriage.

They reached Ashford around mid-day and lunched at the King’s Head. There, in clipped sentences he explained the document setting out the terms under which he agreed to provide her with the promised funds. Sylvia signed it and he produced a velvet purse containing twenty-five guineas, the rest to be forwarded from his bank within two weeks. With new horses put to, the carriage jolted its way across country to their final destination and at long last, the coach bowled into Tunbridge Wells. Sylvia leaned forward for a better view of the High Street and the famous spa at the bottom of the hill. The town was smaller than she expected. It didn’t matter. The infusion of funds from her uncle and the two of them sharing the work—and she would work night and day—it could not help but be a success.

The coach eased into a narrow lane and pulled up outside a timbered, bow-fronted shop with swathes of cloth draped in the window. Mr Evernden reached for the door handle.

Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. She did not want him to realise the unexpected nature of her arrival. She placed a hand on his sleeve.

The hiss of his indrawn breath shivered to the pit of her stomach.

She drew back, startled. Shaken by her response to that faint breath, she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘If you would request your coachman to put my luggage on the road, I will not put you to any further inconvenience, Mr Evernden.’

He turned the door handle. ‘It is no trouble at all, Miss Boisette.’

Stubborn man. She raised a brow. ‘I prefer not to arrive here blatantly accompanied by a young gentleman of the
ton
.’

His expression turned grim and he dropped his hand. ‘It is
impolite to leave you in the street, but it shall be as you desire.’ He sat back. ‘I wish you all the best in your new life, Miss Boisette, and bid you good day.’

His stern remoteness appealed to her far more than effusive politeness. He’d acted the perfect gentleman in all their dealings, while she had treated him to an outrageous display of hot and cold. No doubt he thought the worst of her. A pang of regret held her rigid for the space of a heartbeat. She must not care about his opinion. She reached for the door. ‘Thank you.’

She stepped out on to the slick cobbles.

At Mr Evernden’s order, the coachman heaved her belongings down beside her and climbed back on to his perch.

Shocked to discover her hand shaking in trepidation, she knocked on the door, all the while aware of Mr Evernden’s intense gaze on her back. She turned, raised her hand in farewell, and the carriage moved off, affording one last glance of Mr Evernden’s stern profile in the window.

The door opened to reveal a freckle-faced girl of about ten. Behind her, a passage led into the depths of the first floor and a narrow set of stairs wound upwards. Mary had never mentioned a child. She must be the maid.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ the girl asked.

Sylvia took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Is Miss Jensen home?’

‘There ain’t no Miss Jensen at this address.’

Sylvia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. I live here, don’t I?’

‘Who is it, Maisie?’ a voice called from upstairs.

‘A lady looking for a Miss Jensen, Ma,’ Maisie yelled back.

A plump, dark-haired matron in a chintz gown, a chubby baby on her hip and a question on her face, clattered down the stairs.

Foreboding quaked in Sylvia’s chest. She took a shaky breath. ‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. I’m here to see Mary Jensen.’

The woman shook her head. ‘She’s gone, miss. The
landlady said she fell ill and her brother fetched her back to London more than five months ago.’

The entrance to the Sussex Hotel at the back of the promenade hummed with activity. Coaches rumbled in and out, grooms struggled with frisky teams, ostlers ran to and fro and passengers, rich and poor, milled around in controlled confusion in a yard rich with the smell of horse manure and stale ale.

Sylvia tried to make sense of the bustling chaos. She dug into her meagre store of small coins and gave a ha’penny to the boy who had carried her trunk from Frog Lane.

He touched his cap and dashed off, whistling a merry tune.

Oh, to be so youthful and carefree. Sylvia couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t been anxious about something. She clutched her reticule to her, where the slip of paper with Mary’s new address, which the plump matron had given her, resided. And right now she was about to embark on an exceedingly risky course. Respectable females rarely travelled by common stage. But then she had never been considered respectable.

She had no option. She would not waste her small store of guineas on expensive modes of travel. Nor could she afford to lose them to footpads or pickpockets. Since no one in the yard appeared to notice her, she unlocked the trunk and hid the purse of guineas in its battered depths. Rising, she caught the eye of a passing lackey in brown livery.

‘Can I help you, miss?’

‘Please take my trunk inside.’

He moved aside to allow a gentleman and his lady to pass through the entrance into the lobby. ‘Have you a room bespoke, miss?’

‘I just need one small chamber.’

‘I dunno. You best check with the master. Your luggage will
be safe enough with the porter while you go and see what Mr Garge has to say.’

He hefted her trunk on his shoulder and staggered to the stable entrance with Sylvia marching behind. He dropped it beside an elderly porter seated on a wooden box outside the mail-coach ticket office and storeroom. Another carriage rattled into the yard and the lackey raced off to meet it.

Sylvia smiled at the porter. ‘I plan to catch the first coach to London tomorrow morning. If you would be so good as to see my trunk is placed on it, I would be most grateful.’

A pair of twinkling brown eyes looked at her from beneath straggly grey brows and the weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I’ll be more than pleased to oblige, miss,’ he said. ‘You gets your ticket in there.’ He jerked his head towards the office.

‘Thank you.’ She gave him a penny and went inside to pay for her ticket. By the time she had completed her purchase and come outside, the porter had dispensed with her trunk. The door to the storeroom seemed sturdy and there were bars at the window. Hopefully, her money and her small cache of jewellery would be safe enough. Valise and hatbox in hand, she entered the inn.

One side of the wide entrance hall housed a counter. Across the way, a confusing array of doorways and passages led off in various directions. A bell sat next to the guest book on the counter. She rang it.

Moments later, a short, fat, florid-faced landlord in a black coat and striped waistcoat bustled out of the dining room door. ‘Good evening, miss. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Good evening. I will be catching the six o’clock stage tomorrow morning and require a single room for the night.’

‘The name, miss?’ he asked, running a stubby finger down the list in his book.

‘I do not have a reservation.’

He looked behind her as if he expected someone else.
‘How many in your party, miss? We are very busy today. I am not sure I can accommodate you.’

‘There’s no one else in my party.’

He frowned. ‘Didn’t you just arrive with this gentleman?’

Sylvia glanced over her shoulder. A young sprig of fashion in a many-caped driving coat and stiff shirt points swept through door.

‘I am travelling alone. I…My maid took ill at the last moment.’