The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (6 page)

‘Mr Evernden.’ Dorkin’s voice sounded shocked. ‘What are you doing with that there young lady?’

‘Damn it, Dorkin. Don’t just stand there gawking. Miss Boisette is hurt. Fetch a doctor.’

‘I’ll get the missus,’ Dorkin said. ‘She’ll know what’s best. Mr Christopher, I never would have thought it of you.’ Dorkin hurried off.

Christopher stared at his departing back. What the devil did he mean? He glanced down at the practically naked girl on his bed. Dorkin must think that he…Hell. Now he’d have some explaining to do.

He eased the counterpane from beneath her and pulled it up. He smoothed her hair back from her face. Unbound it had the texture of silk. He investigated the lump on her tender skin behind her ear.

The cur had struck her a vicious blow. A sick feeling washed over him. What kind of man would do that to a woman? Why had this man attacked her? Not just attacked, he’d tried to abduct her. He shook his head. Beautiful she might be, but people didn’t go around stealing females because they were beyond-reason lovely. Not in this day and age, for God’s sake. Unless some rogue thought Christopher would pay to get her back?

He enclosed her cold fingers in his hands, trying to warm them, his gaze on her pale face. Damn, she was exquisite. And he’d been right about the nightgown. He’d seen far too much of her beneath it. Her limbs were every bit as lovely as he had imagined and twice as tempting.

Need ripped through him like a torturer’s knife pressed against his ballocks.

He cursed under his breath. He had to put a stop to this, and soon. In the meantime, he kept his gaze fixed on her face. Where the hell was Mrs Dorkin, anyway? Sylvia might die before she got here.

He felt her pulse again and sighed with relief to discover its steady rhythm. A rhythm that in no way matched the tumult of his own erratic heartbeat.

Hell’s teeth, his racing heart had nothing to do with the scantily clad Sylvia and everything to do with his burning need to catch this criminal. He should be chasing the villain, not sitting here holding her hand.

Limp and white, her long slender fingers lay like a bird’s broken wing in his large palm. The hand of a lady. Except that this lady was a courtesan’s daughter.

‘Now then, Mr Christopher Evernden, what’s all this I hear?’

Thank God. Mrs Dorkin would know how to care for Sylvia. He moved aside to let her get to the bed.

Her face full of anxiety, Mrs Dorkin leaned over and peered down at the unconscious girl.

‘Miss?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

Sylvia drifted through thick grey fog.

A moan increased the pain in her head. She opened her eyes. A fuzzy moon-face hung over her. She shuddered. What did he want with her?

She put up her hands to ward him off. ‘Don’t touch me, you whoremaster,’ she yelled. ‘Get away from me, you pig.’ She struck out with her fists.

‘Lawks,’ moon-face said.

‘In English, Miss Boisette.’

Mr Evernden’s voice.

What was he doing in her room? Why had he climbed through her window?

‘You unholy bastard.’ She tried to sit up. The room spun around her, nausea rose in her throat.

‘Miss Boisette, speak English and for God’s sake mind your language. You sound like a Paris trollop.’

French. They were speaking in French. She tried to get her mind working. Someone had filled it with treacle. Her temples throbbed.

A firm hand pressed her back against the pillows.

‘Now don’t you take on so, miss.’

It was Mrs Dorkin whose face hung over her in a shifting blur. Sylvia blinked the mist from her sight.

‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head, dear,’ Mrs Dorkin murmured, smoothing her hair back. ‘Pansy will be along in a minute with a compress. You lie nice and quiet and you’ll be all right in no time.’

Sylvia gazed around the room. This was not her room. She stared past Mrs Dorkin at Christopher standing at the end of the bed. Another man hovered in the doorway behind him.

Christopher wore a shirt open at the throat and looked decidedly tousled. His expression held concern. What had he done to her? The last she remembered, they had been arguing at dinner.

‘Why am I here?’

Christopher frowned. ‘Someone tried to abduct you.’

‘Someone? Who? Why?’

‘I don’t know. Did you not see who it was?’

A rough lilting voice came back to her, a growl close to her ear and full of menace.
And you’re coming with me, pet.

‘He came in through the window. He spoke French with a strange accent,’ she said.

Christopher leaned forward, his expression intent. ‘What sort of accent?’

Sylvia shook her head. ‘Hard to tell. He whispered.’

‘Exactly what did he say?’

‘He said I had to go with him.’ Her limbs trembled as the fear rushed back.

Christopher’s expression hardened. ‘He got you halfway down the stairs. Luckily, I heard you cry out.’

She remembered the feel of his hand on her mouth, the taste of his skin on her tongue. She shuddered. ‘He smokes cigars,’ she said.

‘How on earth could you possibly know that?’ Suspicion darkened his eyes.

‘He covered my mouth with his hand. I couldn’t breathe, so I bit him. I tasted cigars.’

Admiration flickered in his eyes, replaced by worry. ‘Good God, he might have killed you.’

Yes, she believed he might have. The man who had whispered in the dark was capable of anything, even murder. A shiver shook her at the recollection of his hands on her body. She had to leave here. He might return.

She pushed herself up on her elbow. An ache throbbed in her skull. She touched the back of her head and winced as her fingers encountered a tender lump. She closed her eyes, seeking relief.

‘Now, now, miss, what did I say?’ Mrs Dorkin said. ‘You lie down. You’ve had a nasty shock. Mr Christopher, your questions must wait until later.’

‘I must get up.’ Her voice quavered, but she refused to acknowledge her weakness. ‘I have to catch the stage to London.’

‘Not today, you won’t,’ Mrs Dorkin pronounced. ‘Ah, Pansy, there you are. Bring that bowl over here.’

The maid sidled around Christopher and set a bowl and towels on the bed next to Mrs Dorkin.

‘Go on now, Mr Christopher,’ Mrs Dorkin said. ‘And you too, Dorkin. This young lady has had a nasty scare and a bad knock. I’ll see to her head, and after some willow bark tea, she’s going to sleep. Out you go. At once.’

Sylvia sent Christopher a look of appeal. ‘I have to leave today. What about my trunk?’

A frown creasing his forehead, Christopher shook his head. ‘Listen to Mrs Dorkin, Miss Boisette. Don’t worry about your things, I’ll look after them.’

He didn’t wait for her to argue and Mrs Dorkin didn’t listen to her protests.

Fatigue washed over Sylvia. As limp as the week-old lettuce she’d prized as a starving child running the streets of Paris, she sank back against the pillows and welcomed the cold compress Mrs Dorkin applied to her aching head.

Christopher took Dorkin outside and they scoured the perimeter of the inn, looking for signs of the intruder. Above the old kitchen at the back, the thatched roof sloped within three feet of the ground and Dorkin pointed out a pile of stones against the wall. ‘He must have used them to climb up.’

Cold moonlight revealed broken thatch where the intruder must have stood to force open the second-floor window. Dorkin peered at Christopher. ‘Very strange goin’s on, sir. Why would anyone want to abduct the young lady?’

Since Christopher had asked himself the same question without an answer, he shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

Most importantly, he didn’t want a whole bunch of gossip about this. Travelling with a woman of less than savoury repute was bad enough; talk of tonight would just increase speculation. Christopher would come off just as badly as Miss Boisette and neither of them deserved it.

‘I suspect it was a mistake,’ Christopher said. ‘Or someone thought to ransom her because she is travelling under my protection. I think it is best if we do not say anything to anyone else about this until I can speak further to Miss Boisette.’

Whatever Dorkin thought about the affair, he simply nodded his agreement, his close connections to the influen
tial Everndens ensuring his loyal silence. With no particular expectation of finding anything, Christopher walked out to the lane. A black shape lay amidst the rough grass on the verge. He picked it up and turned the hat over in his hands.

There was nothing remarkable about the fairly common black felt hat worn by the lower orders. The man in the bar tonight had worn just such a hat. Christopher frowned. Had the man dropped it when he rode away or was he Sylvia’s midnight visitor? If so, there remained the question of why? He tucked it under his arm and followed Dorkin into the inn.

C
hristopher gazed into the window of the most well-known dressmaker in Tunbridge Wells, taking in the lengths of brightly coloured muslins and satins and the assortment of gloves and hats and other more personal articles of ladies’ apparel laid out before him. He tugged at his cravat.

He did not want to do this.

He had no choice. The damn rogue who attacked Sylvia had stolen every article of her clothing along with her bag and when Christopher had presented himself to the porter at the Sussex Hotel, the fool proudly announced he personally saw to putting the young lady’s chest on the six o’clock coach. When Christopher upbraided him about the folly of sending the baggage without the owner, the man had shrugged and said the lady was very positive in her request. She could pick it up at the London office as soon as she arrived there. Meanwhile, Sylvia had nothing to wear but her nightgown.

Two ladies stepped around him and entered the establishment. The younger one slid him a curious glance.

Inwardly, Christopher cursed. He definitely didn’t want to do this. Garth might take pleasure in overseeing his mistresses’ adornment, but Christopher preferred to give them the money and send them shopping.

Hell and damnation. He’d spent the past two days doing nothing but things against his better judgement. Well, he’d damned well had enough of dancing to other people’s tunes. Sylvia would travel to London under his escort and no argument. Last night was all the evidence he needed of the danger she faced travelling alone.

First, he’d buy her some clothes and then he would drop her off with this friend of hers. After that, he would wash his hands of the whole business and head back to Sussex as originally planned.

Perhaps a closed carriage would be a better mode of travel given the dreadful weather this year. He could leave his curricle at the Bird and take a post-chaise. He shook his head. Then he’d be left in London with no means of transportation. Bloody hell. She would just have to put up with it.

He squared his shoulders and strode into the cluttered shop. Manikins draped with swathes of cloth posed in front of shelves filled with fabrics of every hue. The two women ahead of him dithered over a tray of ribbons. Christopher flicked through a book of fashion plates on a side table and waited. One page pictured a blue gown with a modest, but attractive, neckline. He liked blue and it matched the colour of her eyes. Perfect.

He fixed the middle-aged dressmaker with a stern look. Rows of purple ruffles on her billowing lilac gown made her ample bosom all the more impressive.

She bade her other customers farewell and bustled to his side. ‘How can I be of service, sir?’

‘I want to buy a gown for my sister.’

On her way out of the door, the younger woman sniggered. Christopher ignored her.

‘Yes, sir,’ the smiling seamstress said.

The woman’s knowing expression told him she did not believe a word. He narrowed his eyes and spoke firmly. ‘My
sister is having a birthday and I wish to buy her a gown, in blue, today.’

The woman frowned. ‘It will have to be ready-made, sir.’

‘Of course.’

The woman pulled a sheet of paper out from under the counter and stood with quill poised, looking at him. ‘If you would provide her sizes, I will look and see what I have in stock.’

Sizes. God. He knew nothing about sizes. He took a stab at it. ‘She’s slender and petite.’

‘Height?’

He held his hand at shoulder height. ‘Her head comes to about here.’

‘Waist?’

Christopher stared at her. ‘Er…’ He’d held her by the waist yesterday. He recalled the feel of her slender body under his fingers. He held his hands in a circle, not quite touching each other. ‘Like this.’

‘Eighteen inches, I should think,’ the woman said, scratching on her paper.

‘Chest?’

Christopher held himself steady, refusing to be put off, despite an overwhelming inclination to flee the store and forget the whole thing. How would a brother know that kind of thing? He wouldn’t. He shook his head.

The woman tutted. She looked down at her own well-endowed figure. ‘Like me?’

Perish the thought. ‘Smaller. Quite a lot smaller.’

The woman crossed to a manikin and held her hands cupped in front of it. Christopher could tell that she had done this before. ‘Like this?’ she asked.

The shape of the woman’s hands were nothing like the small upthrusting breasts beneath the nightgown he’d glimpsed in the small hours of this morning. He swallowed. ‘Not so round.’

‘Ah,’ the woman said, her lips pursed. ‘Lisette, dear. Do come out here a moment.’

A young woman in a stiff black gown cut high to the neck emerged from behind a yellow curtain beyond the counter. The shopkeeper swung her around by the shoulders to outline her figure’s profile. She pulled the gown tight at the sides, revealing a pert and shapely figure.

‘How about like this?’

He pushed the disturbing image of Sylvia’s breasts, coupled with visions of her legs, her golden hair hanging to her waist, to one side. The girl was close enough to Sylvia to make no difference. ‘Yes. About like her, perhaps a little more slender.’

The woman bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’m sure we have something to your liking, sir. I’ll be but a moment.’

Christopher approached a display cabinet and leaned against it, looking in. The case contained gloves and little lacy things. Soft and delicate things he imagined Sylvia wearing at night or beneath her gown. Filmy, clinging garments designed to hug soft feminine curves. Curves which felt so right in his arms. Curves he’d had no business touching and which were likely to disturb his mind and his body for a very long time.

Disgusted with the turn of his mind, he flung himself into a gilt chair jammed between stacks of cloth, his gaze fixed on the brightly coloured bales, refusing to think about Sylvia at all.

He didn’t have long to wait for the woman to return. He stared at the froth of garments draped over her arms.

‘I brought you a morning gown in blue-and-white muslin. Something for daywear, I think you said? I also took the liberty of bringing an evening gown, right for almost any function. This shade of rose is all the rage and truly lovely. No lady would be disappointed.’

He hesitated. Decisions never bothered him, but he had no idea what Sylvia liked. ‘I’ll take them both.’

The woman smiled. ‘She is a lucky lady to have a generous…brother like you.’

He gritted his teeth at her impertinence, but leashed his temper. It didn’t matter what she thought. ‘I also need things to go under those, and a hat, gloves, you know the sort of thing.’

The woman’s face lit up as if she’d been given a gift. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Might I suggest—’

‘Just put it all together. Everything a lady will need for two days. I will come and collect them in half an hour, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all, Mr Evernden,’ the dressmaker said, rubbing her hands together.

He mentally cursed his stupidity. He’d lived not five miles from here during his youth—was it any wonder she knew him? She would also know he did not have a sister.

In the dark passage outside the parlour, Sylvia prepared herself to face Mr Evernden over luncheon. She smoothed her hair and swallowed a gasp when her fingers encountered the tender spot in her hairline behind her ear.

A shudder ripped through her. Who would want to abduct her in the middle of the night and steal all her clothes? The thought left her feeling shaky, unlike herself.

It seemed so peculiar. And now she found herself further indebted to Mr Evernden. She glanced down at the gown he had purchased for her. A fashionable high-waisted blue muslin with a generous amount of lace in the neckline and pretty puffed sleeves, it must have cost a fortune, it and the rest of the items he’d brought back from Tunbridge.

Spine straight, she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the front parlour Mrs Dorkin reserved for her most favored guests.

Newspaper in hand, Mr Evernden rose to his feet and
bowed. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Boisette. I hope you are feeling more the thing?’

The deep timbre of his voice and his concerned expression drove all thoughts from her mind, except how handsome and large he looked framed in the bow window. This man had saved her life last night. A fluttering warmth danced in her veins. ‘Thank you. I feel much better.’

Afraid her eyes would give her away, she dropped her gaze to the table. ‘My goodness.’ A basket of bread, a cold ham and platters of fruits, cheeses and other delicacies lay spread out on the table in front of him.

His warm chuckle reverberated from his chest. ‘I hope you are ravenous.’ He gestured to the banquet. ‘I certainly can’t eat all this myself and Mrs Dorkin will be most put out if we do not do it justice.’

He went around the table and pulled out the chair for her. ‘Please, sit down.’

The calm easy manner soothed her jangled nerves and, as she settled into the chair, the scent of his sandalwood cologne filled her senses. She risked a smile.

His eyes widened a fraction and a heat flickered in their green depths.

A fire ignited beneath her skin. Her pulse tripped and quickened. She felt warm and shivery all at once. She stared down at her hands folded in her lap and noticed their tremble. The blow to her head had affected her more than she thought.

He returned to his seat.

She wove her fingers together, stilling them. ‘Thank you for purchasing this gown, Mr Evernden. I am sorry to put you to so much expense.’

His gaze travelled over her, appreciation in their depths. ‘It certainly fits well enough and the colour matches your eyes.’

The urge to smile back, to simper like a schoolgirl, tugged
at her lips. She caught it and held it at bay. ‘I would have preferred something a little less fashionable, but I do thank you.’

His mouth twisted in a wry smile and he raised a brow. ‘There was little else to choose.’

She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. ‘It’s a lovely colour.’

He grinned, cheerful and boyish. Her foolish heart skipped a beat.

‘I hope the other items were to your satisfaction?’ he asked.

A laugh rose in her throat at his smug expression. Never had a man charmed her like this. Razor-sharp claws of fear tore at her stomach. Fear of her own weakness. She kept her expression and smile cool. ‘Yes, thank you.’

He cocked his head to one side as if puzzled, then shrugged. ‘Allow me to help you to a slice of ham.’

She unclenched her stiff fingers and passed him her plate. ‘Thank you.’

On it, he placed a roll, some wafer-thin ham and three asparagus spears, bright green against the white china.

‘That is enough,’ she murmured.

‘You must keep up your strength after last night, Miss Boisette.’ He added a slice of chicken.

He returned her plate and filled his own.

They ate in a comfortable silence.

‘May I pour you some coffee?’ she asked.

‘Please.’ He pushed his cup and saucer towards her and she filled it. The earthy aroma wafted up. It was as if they were a married couple. A painful yearning ached in her chest. She would never have a husband.

‘You are very attached to your locket, Miss Boisette.’ A small jerk of his chin brought her to realise she clutched the heart-shaped gold at her throat.

‘It is the only thing I have left of my mother. The only thing I brought to England from Paris.’

A muscle flicked in his lean jaw at the mention of her
origins and pain stabbed her heart. No gentleman would want to be reminded of her background.

After a mouthful of coffee, he placed his cup on the saucer and gave her a long steady stare. ‘I’m afraid we must discuss last night. Do you have any idea why this man might want to abduct you?’

Nausea rolled in her stomach. The reason that had occurred to her was not something she wished to discuss with any man, particularly one as straitlaced as this one. ‘I have no idea at all.’

‘Did you recognise his voice? Can you describe anything about him?’

A hoarse low whisper echoed in her ears and a bitter taste touched her tongue. ‘As I said before, he spoke French, but the accent was odd.’ She shook her head and winced at the ache. ‘He seemed familiar. Someone I’ve met.’

He stared at her, eyes narrowed, intent. ‘Where?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’ The recollection of enveloping darkness rolled over her. She touched a hand to the lump behind her ear.

‘Dorkin is of the opinion we should call in the local magistrate. I’m not so sure.’

The thought of the authorities made her shiver. Her blood froze the way it had when she had been a child on the streets in Paris at the sight of the National Guard. She strove to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I prefer to leave for London immediately. There must be a later stage I can catch.’

He frowned. ‘Quite honestly, I also would prefer not to become entangled in a lengthy enquiry. The circumstances of our travelling together are rather unfortunate. However, I cannot allow you to continue your journey by public transportation. After last night, surely you must see the danger?’

Unwelcome warmth glowed in her heart at the genuine concern in his eyes. She made one last-ditch attempt to stave him off. ‘People travel quite safely that way every day, Mr
Evernden. Last night’s events were perpetrated by some rogue trying to rob the inn. I was the unfortunate victim.’

He gave her a long searching look. ‘I wish I felt sure it was a random act. I think I saw the fellow in the bar last night. He struck me as a man with a purpose.’ Determination shone in his eyes and hardened the set of his jaw. ‘Whatever the case, I will see you safely to London.’

Christopher eased his team around the tight turn on to White Lyon Street. He narrowly avoided a marauding band of sailors propositioning a group of tawdry trulls flashing their wares like exotic birds in the moulting season. Ragged men and women huddled in doorways. The dreary rookeries of London’s East End crowded in on them.

He glanced at Miss Boisette’s wooden expression. ‘Your friend must have her business in a different part of town.’