Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  “We’ve always been at sword-point in one way or another.”

  “I did not love you before.”

  He held his breath. “Do you…love me…now?”

  She shivered and her voice caught on a sigh. “Yes.”

  She loved him? But how could she? He’d flaunted her as a courtesan, warned her she could not trust him. But he’d never told her that she had taken his breath away the first time he’d ever seen her.

  “Dianthe,” he said, his voice cracking over the force of his emotions. “I…not a single one of your relatives would thank me for loving you, and a few would call me out. And they’d be right. I want nothing more than to despoil you.” He held her closer, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her scent.

  “Do not try to be noble,” she said. “Finish what you’ve begun…!”

  Praise for Gail Ranstrom

  A Wild Justice

  “Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

  —The Romance Reader

  Saving Sarah

  “Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

  —The Romance Reader

  The Missing Heir

  “Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end…”

  —Romantic Times

  THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP

  GAIL RANSTROM

  Available from Harlequin Historical and GAIL RANSTROM

  A Wild Justice #617

  Saving Sarah #660

  The Christmas Visit #727

  “A Christmas Secret”

  The Rake’s Revenge #731

  The Missing Heir #753

  The Courtesan’s Courtship #783

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  NOVELS AVAILABLE NOW:

  #784 MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE

  Victoria Bylin

  #785 THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

  Margaret McPhee

  #786 THE MAID OF LORNE

  Terri Brisbin

  Once again, with love, to my family.

  Thank you for all the years of love, laughter and friendship. I couldn’t ask for more.

  My gratitude and love to Rosanne, Margaret, Cynthia, Lisa, Eileen and Suzi, who always tell me the truth, even if I don’t like it. And especially to Sandi F., through thick and thin.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  August 18, 1820

  Fragmented shadows skittered across the dark pebbled pathway in Vauxhall Gardens, confusing in their quickly changing patterns. A sigh. A moan. The wind? Even the shadows menaced. Dianthe was not timid, but she had never liked being alone in the dark. Objects seen or imagined disappeared with the next shift of the wind. She stumbled, certain her friends had come this way to watch the fireworks over the river just moments ago. Had she made a wrong turn in the dark?

  The bushes nearby rustled and a prickle of fear raced up her spine. Was it the breeze off the river, or were Hortense and Harriett doubling back for her? Or could it be that strange man shrouded in a scarlet cloak who’d run into her earlier? She hadn’t been able to see his face, but he’d seemed surprised when she’d turned to glare at his hand on her arm, as if he had thought she was someone else.

  She stubbed her toe again and seized the trunk of a tree to keep her balance. Eerie dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves and branches cast another kaleidoscopic mix of shadows and light, but this time there was no mistake. The object she’d stumbled upon was a woman. She looked like a forgotten doll lying facedown and partially hidden beneath a fragrant honeysuckle bush.

  Dianthe recognized her—the girl’s white dress, actually. It was almost identical to her own, right down to the pink satin ribbon that trimmed the neckline and hem. She’d seen the young woman earlier in the evening, near the entrance.

  Hortense, who had been returning from the privy, had stopped and stared. “My goodness, Dianthe, she could be your twin. Even her hair is your light blond,” she’d said. That had been hours ago.

  Dianthe knelt beside the girl and touched her shoulder. “Miss? Are you ill? Do you need help?” she asked, fighting rising alarm.

  “Miss?” she asked again, shaking the girl’s shoulder gently. A faint moan sped Dianthe’s heartbeat. She tugged at the woman’s shoulder and turned her over, her hands coming away wet and sticky. A dark gleaming stain spread in a ragged pattern over the bodice of the young woman’s gown. Dianthe was shocked by the look of panic and despair on the girl’s face.

  “Oh…’tis you. S-stop…him,” she whispered in a faint, wavering voice. “Don’t let…him get away with…this. Promise me.”

  “What?” Dianthe asked. “Get away with what, miss?”

  “M-murder. Promise….” The woman was agitated, though her voice was growing weaker by the moment. “Be careful, Dianthe…he saw you and will come for you next.”

  “Do I know you, miss? Who will come? And who was murdered?” she asked.

  “The others…and…me,” she said with a soft sigh. “Stop him…before…”

  A chill of fear and dread raced along Dianthe’s nerves. No, that didn’t make sense. The girl expelled another sigh and seemed to settle into her arms.

  Dianthe shook her again, and her head lolled to one side. “Miss!” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I promise, miss! I promise! Just say something. Please!”

  The girl’s eyes were open. Why wouldn’t she answer? “Miss?” Dianthe asked again, louder this time, and fighting the onrushing panic.

  She leaned forward, her hair tangling on the branches of the honeysuckle bush and coming loose from her coiffure. An object lay on the ground beside her and, without thinking, she picked it up. Moonlight flashed off the edge. A knife!

  Aghast, she recoiled and fell back on her bottom, growing dizzy with disbelief. No, it wasn’t true. The young woman’s eyes were still open—she couldn’t be dead!

  Dianthe gulped in a lungful of air, then another, fearing she was about to faint. She couldn’t gather her wits or comprehend the horror of what lay before her. Still dizzy, still holding the knife, she drew her knees up and placed her forehead on them, breathing deeply and fighting her rising nausea.

  “What the deuce—”

  She looked up to find a stranger staring down at her in horror. “Someone bring a lantern!” he shouted.

  A moment later, the small clearing sprang to life and a sea of faces surrounded her. Hortense and Harriett pushed forward, staring down at her with mouths agape. Their father knelt on the other side of the dead girl and felt for a pulse.

  “What happened, Miss Lovejoy?” Mr. Thayer asked.

  “I don’t know,” she squeaked. “Miss Banks went home and left me to search for you alone. I was trying to catch up for the fireworks and I tripped over…” She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. Blood. There was blood on her gown and her hands. And on the knife she still held.

  A gentleman dressed in sober black pressed forward and appraised the scene. She recalled meeting Dr. Worley at parties and soirees, and had even danced with him once or twice. Surel
y now that he was here everything would begin to make sense.

  He looked across the body at her. “Why, ’tis Nell Brookes. What is she doing here? And what are you doing with her, Miss Lovejoy? She’s hardly the sort I would expect to see you with.”

  What could he mean? What sort? “I found her here,” she said, pushing her tangled hair out of her face.

  The doctor knelt beside Mr. Thayer, touched the dead girl’s neck and shook his head. “She’s only been dead a few minutes,” he said. “The knife punctured her heart. That’s why there’s so much blood. Her killer will be covered in it.” He looked back at Dianthe and frowned. “What happened, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Uncomprehending, she glanced from the girl to Dr. Worley and back again. “She… I found her…” She glanced around at the growing crowd surrounding her. They were looking at her in fascinated horror. Good heavens! Could the murderer be among them? Could he be staring at her even now? Would she be next, as the girl had warned? “I…I fell over her,” she said weakly.

  “The weapon?” he asked, gesturing at the knife in her hand. “Where did you get it?”

  “On the ground. B-beside her.”

  “How did you come to have so much blood on you, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “Here now!” Mr. Thayer interceded. “What are you suggesting? Miss Lovejoy is a proper lady. She does not get herself into trouble.”

  Hortense and Harriett nodded in agreement.

  Mr. Thayer calmed himself and spoke again. “Miss Lovejoy has not been out of our sight more than ten minutes.”

  Dr. Worley looked sympathetic. “Miss Brookes has been dead less than five,” he said. “Was there anyone else about, Miss Lovejoy? Anyone who can verify your story?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t even recall her own name. She could only remember a feeling of dread and disquiet.

  The crowd was pressing forward in morbid curiosity, and Dr. Worley turned to them. “Did any of you see someone fleeing down any of the paths?”

  No one spoke. A number of cautious glances passed from person to person. Surely they couldn’t believe she would murder a complete stranger for no particular reason? Dianthe sought a friendly face, someone who had witnessed the event and who could solve the mystery. But they were all strangers to her.

  Oh, dear! Not all strangers, curse the luck.

  One man, taller than the rest, and absurdly good-looking, edged through the crowd and quickly scanned the scene. He took in the dead girl, the people crowding into the tiny clearing, the shrubbery around them, and then his gaze settled on her. Only the quickest blink of his hard hazel eyes betrayed that he recognized her.

  Lord Geoffrey Morgan! Oh, of all the people she’d not have wanted to find her in such a state, he was at the top of her list. How he must be relishing this moment after her set-down in her aunt’s drawing room months ago.

  But why was he here? For all that he was a baron and from a respectable family, he had fallen low. He should be in some Covent Garden hell, bilking some poor green lad of his fortune. He was a devil—a notorious, ruthless and unscrupulous gambler. And it was ridiculous to think that he might have a life as mundane as to include visits to a pleasure garden.

  Edging past the front row of spectators, he knelt beside Dr. Worley and looked at the body. “Nell Brookes,” he muttered, his frown forming creases between his eyes. He passed one graceful, elegant hand over the girl’s face to close her eyes. “What happened, Worley?”

  “Stabbed in the heart. She cannot be dead five minutes. Miss Lovejoy, here, was…found her.”

  Morgan looked up at her, a flicker of surprise lifting his eyebrows. “What were you doing here, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “I was going to the river to meet the Thayers. I tripped over her as I came down this path.” She looked around at the faces again. If the murderer knew the girl had spoken to her—had made her promise to find him—would he come after her? No, she had to keep the dead girl’s words a secret. “She…she was already dead,” she finished, horrified to hear her voice rise with hysteria.

  Lord Morgan reached across the distance, gently opened her fingers and pried the knife from her grip. She suddenly realized that she must look very suspicious, indeed—with blood on her hands and gown, her hair tumbling loose from its pins and the knife in her hand. A sinking feeling caused her to go suddenly cold, and she shivered.

  The frown lines between Lord Geoffrey’s hazel eyes deepened, but she took heart from the strength that poured into her from him. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is no time for missish vapors, Miss Lovejoy. Keep your wits about you.”

  She clamped her mouth shut and hugged herself tightly, fighting back tears.

  He smiled with satisfaction. “There’s a good girl.” He turned to the crowd. “Back away please. You are trampling evidence. Someone fetch the constabulary. And someone bring a blanket.”

  Dianthe could not take her eyes off the girl. “She is so young,” she said.

  “In years,” Lord Morgan agreed.

  “Should…should someone fetch her parents?” The tears she’d been fighting welled in Dianthe’s eyes as she thought of how deeply they would mourn. She looked down, not wanting Lord Morgan to witness her weakness.

  “I do not believe she has parents,” he said.

  “You knew her?”

  “We had met,” he commented in an even tone.

  “Then who is her guardian?”

  “She was without a guardian. A woman of…independent means.”

  Dianthe felt a blush steal up her cheeks as she met his eyes. Independent means. She suspected she knew what that meant. “Even so, Lord Morgan, someone must care for her. Someone must have brought her here. They should be told.”

  Mr. Thayer interceded with an angry glance at Lord Morgan. “You ought not to be carrying on such a conversation with Miss Lovejoy. ’Tisn’t fit for innocent ears.”

  “She’s shown more sense than the rest of you,” Lord Morgan said, his appraising gaze sweeping the crowd. “Someone see if you can find Miss Brookes’s escort.” He turned to Dianthe and asked, “Did you come here with Mr. Thayer?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Then leave with him. You will not want to be here for the rest of this, and it will be better if you are not too available. Where is your aunt?”

  “She and Mr. Hawthorne have gone to Italy on their wedding trip. They will not be home for another month, I think.”

  “Where will you be if the police need to speak with you?”

  “The Thayers’.”

  “Then I’d advise you to remain quietly with the Thayers until your aunt returns. Do you think that is possible for you, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Was he insinuating that she was a rowdy chit who had difficulty behaving? She stood and lifted her chin in the air as she swept her skirts away from him, then went to stand beside the Thayers. Harriett and Hortense each took one of her arms and led her away from the scene. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Lord Morgan watching her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. Could he actually suspect her of murder?

  The seedy Whitefriars tavern in a back street was the sort of place few people would even notice. Geoffrey could have bought the whole damn tavern for the sum he’d paid in rent over the last four years. Ah, but it was good to have a safe den in unexpected areas if one needed to go to ground quickly. Or needed to meet with people one would rather not be seen with.

  He climbed the back stairs, drew his dagger from his boot, unlocked the door and stepped into the room, ready for whatever was waiting. In this part of town, break-ins were commonplace. But all was well tonight. He slipped the dagger back in his boot, took kindling from a basket, lit the fire and then the oil lantern on the table. A whiskey bottle and two glasses completed his preparations. Nothing fancy here.

  Sir Henry Richardson’s knock was right on time. The man was nothing if not prompt. Geoff let him in and locked the door behind him.

  “What’s so damn urgent to pull me from Polly�
��s bed?”

  Geoff shook his head. Sir Harry, as the man was widely known, was a true ladies’ man. Tall and lanky, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, he never lacked for female attention, though he was wise enough to confine his amorous attentions to the demimonde. It would never do to have the angry father or brother of some innocent debutante looking for him.

  Harry sat and Geoff poured him a stiff glass of whiskey. “Nell Brookes is dead.”

  Harry choked midswallow. “Nell? Son of a… What the hell happened?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Not you?”

  Geoff sighed. “I confess the thought entered my mind more than once, but no. If she had made some connection to Mustafa el-Daibul, well, she could have been the best lead we’ve had since the bastard entrenched himself in Tangier years ago. Nell knew women were missing, but I warned her to keep out of it. The stubborn minx did not tell me she was determined to see if she could get to the bottom of it. She knew I’d stop her.”

  “A great pity. Nell was an excellent toss in the sheets. Knew all the tricks of the trade,” Sir Harry mused, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. When he’d finished the contents, he slammed it down on the table. “So we’re set back a bit. What’s next?”

  “I’m still trying to sort that out,” Geoff told him. “There are…complications.”

  “And what might those be?”

  Geoff envisioned Miss Dianthe Lovejoy, bent over Nell’s body, holding the knife and smeared with blood. Dr. Worley had said the killer would be covered in blood, and Geoff had watched the gates until damn near dawn. No one had exited with any trace of blood on his or her clothing—except Miss Lovejoy. Surely, despite mounting evidence to the contrary, she had nothing to do with Nell’s death. What could her motive possibly be?

  Geoff’s other thought—less likely but more troubling—was that Miss Lovejoy and not Nell Brookes had been the killer’s target. She looked enough like the courtesan to have confused a hired killer, and their gowns were startlingly similar. If that were the case, Miss Lovejoy would need a warning.