“But, my lord,” Giles said in a pleading voice as he sat forward in his chair, a look of earnest confusion on his face, “we have no female staff. Who will attend her?”
“She will attend herself.” Geoff suddenly wondered if Miss Lovejoy required an abigail. She seemed fairly self-sufficient, and Mrs. Mason had not mentioned her needing assistance in dressing or bathing. Surely Giles and Hanson wouldn’t intrude on… “I expect you will respect her privacy in all ways.”
Hanson nodded. “And which room is she staying in, my lord?”
Geoff cleared his throat and glanced down at the papers in front of him. “The one next to mine,” he murmured, knowing what they would think. But, damn it all, what else could he do? It wasn’t as if they had adjoining doors, after all.
Last night after she’d gone up to her room, he’d remembered that she hadn’t any clothing with her, and he’d taken her one of his shirts to use as a nightgown. She’d snatched it out of his hand and slammed the door in his face. He’d gone back to the ballroom and boxed the sandbag dummy until his knuckles were red and he was exhausted, then he’d fenced his reflection until dawn. And still he hadn’t been able to sleep.
Another gulp of coffee fortified him and he met his servants’ eyes. “You will, of course, treat her with the respect due a guest in my home. Her valise will arrive this morning and you will leave it outside her door. Do not enter her room unless she has vacated it. Whatever she wants, give it to her. If it is not within your power to grant her wishes, communicate them to me, and I shall take care of them.”
“Will you not, ah, have occasion to speak with her, milord?”
“Infrequently. I have my own business to tend, and she has hers. I do not wish you to interfere with her in any way. Simply keep her safe and well tended within the confines of this house.”
Giles scratched his balding head. “Then you and this… Miss Lovejoy, are keeping separate lives? We will not wait dinner for you, nor expect you to rise at this hour every day, sir?”
Rise? Hell, he hadn’t been to bed. “For the time being, arrange the household schedule to accommodate Miss Lovejoy.”
“Yes, milord.” Giles nodded. “We shall do as you ask.”
Geoff waited until they’d left the office, then stood and ran his fingers through his hair and along the stubble on his jaw. What next? Bed? Or a bath and a shave? He cursed softly, recalling his promise to meet with the authorities this morning to give a report of last night’s break-in on Curzon Street and then go through his papers to see what he was missing. He’d need to clean up before he left the house. He trudged up the stairs and shut himself in his room. One glance in the mirror made him wince. He looked like hell.
After shaving and changing into fresh clothes, he found himself unable to resist the siren’s call and opened his door and went to the next.
When his houseguest didn’t answer his soft knock, he opened her door a crack. Had she been angry enough to leave while he’d been busy in the ballroom?
No. She lay beneath the red coverlet, her blond hair loose and scattered across her pillow, one hand peeking from beneath his shirt cuff, the fingers curled toward her palm and resting beside her face. Violet smudges beneath her eyes gave testimony to her sleeplessness. Her lips were parted and a soft snore drifted to him and made him smile. So, little Miss Lovejoy was not perfect after all.
That knowledge did not comfort him. No, it only made him want her more, as he had from the moment months ago when he’d first seen her in her aunt’s parlor. Two minutes later, she’d denounced him with words that still echoed in his mind. Are you so bereft of friends that you could not find anyone but a stranger to stand up with you? You are a devil disguised as a man!
Ah yes, she’d had him pegged even then. He closed the door softly and headed for the stables.
In disguise, Dianthe hurried toward Madame Marie’s salon, thinking what an odd lot Lord Morgan’s servants were. They’d left her breakfast on a tray outside her door this morning, along with her valise, which had been delivered from the house on Curzon Street. She’d only seen their shadows thus far. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to have her privacy.
Mrs. Mason had thoughtfully sent along her wig, as well as the dressing gown of his lordship’s that she’d been using. She’d wrapped herself in that and hurried along the hall to the bathroom, where the invisible servants had left hot—now lukewarm—water for her to bathe. Clean and refreshed, she’d dressed, donned her dark wig and beauty patch, and set off for her meeting with the ladies.
She rounded the corner from Piccadilly and entered La Meilleure Robe, setting the shop bell to jingling. Before she could remove her bonnet and gloves, Madame Marie appeared from the back and dragged her into a dressing room. Only Charity MacGregor had arrived, and she stood near the door with an anxious look on her face.
“Chérie! Thank ’eavens you ’ave come,” Madame Marie exclaimed.
A feeling of dread washed through Dianthe. What now?
Charity’s astonished look gave way to concern. She took Dianthe’s hand and led her toward a chair. “Sit down, Di. I have some strange news, and I fear it will affect you.”
“Afton is not coming?” she guessed. “Or has Aunt Grace been delayed on her return?”
“Not that.” Charity took the chair across from her, removed an envelope from her reticule and passed it to Dianthe. “Annica and Sarah have left town rather suddenly, and I am next. Once my husband got wind of what’s been happening, he’s made arrangements to ship me off, too.”
Dianthe shook her head in confusion. “Is it me? Have they found out that you were helping me?”
“No! Heavens, not that. ’Tis a case we worked on four years ago. The local conspirators were caught, but the organizer of the plot escaped due to his residency in a different country. Now, it seems, he is up to his old villainy, and our husbands are insisting we be put out of harm’s way. Annica and Sarah have been sent to Auberville’s hunting lodge in the Highlands. Andrew is arranging for my departure even now.”
“Oh! Of course you must go,” Dianthe agreed. Fear, almost stronger than last night, constricted her breathing. She’d be alone. Truly alone, with no one to help her find her cousin’s killer and no one to rescue her if she were arrested or attacked as Nell had been. She tried to hide her panic.
“Come with us, Dianthe. Fetch your bag and we can be gone before nightfall. Please, come with us and let us keep you safe.”
Dianthe blinked back threatening tears. “No. For your sake as much as mine. How could I hope to finish what I’ve begun if I were in Scotland?”
“Drat! We were afraid you’d say that. There is a coaching voucher in the envelope, and we beg you will use it to follow us. If not today, then soon.”
Dianthe took a deep breath and put on an air of bravado. “I am in a position where all the demons of hell would not be able to get to me. I vow I could not be safer anywhere else on earth. And I was not even in London four years ago. There is nothing to connect me to that case. I am certain I will be quite safe.”
“Consider coming, Dianthe,” Charity entreated, and gave her a quick hug before hurrying out the door.
Dianthe looked down at the envelope in her hand. Perhaps she could turn the voucher in for cash. Her own meager supply was running out.
Sitting at the vanity staring at her reflection, Dianthe could scarcely believe her transformation. Not only did she look different, she felt different. The cosmetic box Madame Marie had given her earlier completed her disguise to perfection. With heightened color to tone her pale complexion and kohl to darken her lashes, she had become Lizette Deauville, the miniature portrait of Madame Marie’s mother. She hoped the modiste would forgive her use of the name.
She knew from hearing Madame Marie’s descriptions that courtesans dressed more provocatively than women of the ton, and she looked at herself in the cheval mirror to see if something could be done to her pistachio-green gown to remake it into something fitting for a courtesan
to wear. A ruching of lace trimmed the low scoop of her neckline, and light fabric sleeves fell from the puffed off-the-shoulder straps.
She slipped out of the dress and retrieved a pair of embroidery scissors from the dresser. With a few snips, the lace ruching was gone, and so were the sleeves. When she pulled her gown on again, she smiled at her reflection. What an amazing difference bare arms could make. And the scandalous sweep of skin between her chin and neckline revealed far more than it hid. The lace trim had been more important to her modesty than she would have guessed. She dared not take a deep breath lest she reveal all.
Stuffing a five-pound note into her black beaded reticule, she added her light kerseymere shawl in multiple jewel-tone colors and a painted silk fan before leaving her room and heading for the front door.
A shadow disappeared down a hallway on the main floor, and she smiled to herself. She felt as if she were living entirely in a shadow world, being served by fairies and followed by ghosts. She was still debating whether to accept this odd behavior or force some sort of acknowledgment when she rounded the corner and crossed The Strand. She wouldn’t need a coach to go the few blocks to the theater, but she thought she’d make more of an entrance arriving in one, so she summoned a large black conveyance. The driver slowed, took one look at her and passed her by, shouting something insulting about “her kind.” She stiffened her spine and walked the distance.
She had just become a courtesan, complete with the insults. She smiled coquettishly at a few men milling near the theater entrance as she purchased her admission. She took a deep breath and bought the seats for an entire box. She prayed it would be worth the expense. People would look at her if for no other reason than that she was the only thing to see in her box. And she hoped it would proclaim her as a new entry to the demimonde. Certainly no proper lady would engage in such fast behavior.
Once settled in her box, Dianthe let her shawl slip from her shoulders and expose the daring cut of her gown. She reminded herself that she was not Dianthe any longer, but Lizette Deauville, and this was the only way she could think of to gain entry to the circles she sought. She opened her fan and moved it slowly, lazily, alternately revealing and shielding her cleavage, and took comfort from the fact that no one would recognize her.
A liveried footman who had, evidently, accompanied his employer to the theater delivered a glass of wine to her. She glanced around at the other boxes to see if she could find her benefactor. A tall, distinguished looking man dressed in elegant gray and red saluted her with his own glass and nodded. He was several boxes to her right, and she suspected he would call on her at intermission.
This was a good beginning, but she wanted to make the acquaintance of the demimonde, not the gentry. Where were the courtesans? Where were Flora Denton and her ilk?
The curtain went up and, under the cover of diverted attention, Dianthe studied the boxes around her and the seats below. There were a few faces she recognized and some she knew well. Thank heavens the Thayers were not there, or she’d likely give herself away. In the box opposite her, she spotted a merry group of men and women. This was interesting. The women definitely did not look entirely respectable. Generous use of cosmetics proclaimed their status. These, then, would be the women whose trust she would need to win. Unfortunately, they seemed determined to snub her.
Within twenty minutes, she felt the weight of eyes upon her. With as much elegance and composure as she could muster, she folded her fan and laid it across her lap before taking another sip of her wine. Looking casually to her left, she found a group of three vaguely familiar men watching her and whispering among themselves. She smiled at them and nodded before turning away.
There was a shuffling behind her and she turned to find the man in gray there, bowing sharply at the waist. He had not waited for the intermission.
“If I may be so bold, miss, have we met? I feel as if I should know you.”
She suspected this would be the case with many men she would meet while in disguise. Men who could afford courtesans and mistresses were men with money. Men of the ton. The same men she had seen and met at soirees, balls, routs and crushes. She would know them, but they would not know her. She tilted her head to one side and offered her gloved hand. “Mademoiselle Lizette Deauville, M’sieur. I do not think we ’ave met, as I ’ave only recently arrived in England.”
He bent over her hand and gave her a charming smile. “Then I count myself the most fortunate of men to have met you before the others. Perhaps that will give me the advantage over them.”
“You flatter me, M’sieur. I do not think I shall draw so very much interest, no?”
“Most certainly yes. Do you see those scoundrels over there?” he said, gesturing in the direction of the three men she had noted earlier.
She nodded. “Mais oui.”
“The Hunter brothers. Charles, Andrew and James. To a man, they look as if they have plans for you.”
Good heavens! Sarah’s brothers! That was why they looked familiar. Regaining her composure, Dianthe returned her attention to the handsome man in gray. “And you, M’sieur? What is your name?”
“Reginald Hunter, seventh earl of Lockwood,” he said.
She coughed. How had she not recognized one of the ton’s leading bachelors?
Misreading her reaction, he hastened to explain. “Yes, they are my brothers. But I am the eldest. And, I must say in all modesty, the best of the lot.”
Had she, indeed, been a courtesan, she couldn’t have asked for a better protector than Lord Lockwood. Or any of his brothers. All unmarried, they had the reputation of relentless rakes, but their names had never been connected with cruelty or stinginess.
Glancing back at Lord Lockwood, she smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Enchantée, Lord Lockwood.”
“Mais non! Je suis enchanté, Mademoiselle.”
His French was flawless and she smiled in approval. Goodness! He hadn’t flirted so outrageously when he’d danced with her at one of Sarah’s balls. Men, she realized, had a different standard of behavior with their sister’s friends than with women of the demimonde.
“What are you doing after the play, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
“I am going ’ome,” she said. “Tonight was for the purpose of…’ow you say, making my feet green?”
“You, Mademoiselle Lizette Deauville, may say it any way you wish. The English, however, get their feet wet when they are green behind the ears.”
“Là!” Dianthe laughed merrily. “I am the novitiate.”
Now Reginald laughed. “Pray not, Miss Deauville! A novice to the language, perhaps, but were you an actual novitiate, my heart would be broken.”
She smiled with relief. He had believed her mixed metaphors. Now he would be utterly convinced of her recent arrival in England. “As you say, my lord. I am the amateur.”
“I doubt you are an amateur,” he contradicted with a knowing smile.
Aware of what he was thinking, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and tried to think of a way to counteract it. Surely a courtesan would not blush at so mild a comment? She lifted her fan and began waving it as if she were suddenly warm. Though their conversation had been whispered, out of courtesy to the actors, she could tell that she and Lord Reginald were drawing rather more attention than the stage. She feared if she invited him to sit, the conclusion would be that she and the handsome lord had reached an agreement, if not for the future, at least for the night. She glanced up at him again and tried to think how to dismiss him.
“I thank you for the wine, my lord, and pray that we shall meet again soon?”
“Are you certain I cannot take you to a late supper, or show you some of the more…provocative entertainments of London? Dampen your toes, at least?”
“Per’aps another time, no?”
He sighed in mock disappointment. “Perhaps another time, yes. And, should you wish to hone your English skills, I stand ready to assist you.”
She offered her hand again and,
with a bow and a kiss to her palm, Lord Lockwood was gone. She noted the other Hunter brothers elbowing each other in the ribs and exchanging banknotes. They had been betting on the outcome of the encounter! How amusing. Just to muddy the waters, she gave all three a little wave.
By the time intermission came, Dianthe was awash in curious stares and veiled attention. Though it was what she’d wanted, she began to feel uncomfortable. Hostility fairly coiled around her. From the women of the ton? From the other courtesans, who would regard her as competition? Or from the killer? Surely he would not recognize her.
She had meant to mingle with the demimonde during the intermission, but suddenly she hadn’t the faintest idea how. Did courtesans have a separate retiring room than the ton?
She stood and pulled a few dark curls over her shoulder to cover a fraction of the vast expanse of her décolletage. With a deep breath, she grasped her reticule, drew the curtain of her box aside and looked about for a group of courtesans or some indication of where they might have gone. Would it be rude of her to intrude upon their company? Perhaps she could start a conversation by asking about Lord Reginald.
As she turned toward the mezzanine staircase, she found a sea of masculine faces staring up at her. To a man, they bowed and began coming up the stairs to join her. Panic began to set in. How would she ever manage such a horde? She stepped back but a strong hand clamped around her arm.
Warm breath brushed her ear as someone leaned close. “Are you utterly insane?”
Geoff fought his rising anger as he waited for Miss Lovejoy to turn toward him. It was a slow process. He watched the flush sweep up the curve of her cheek, saw the chill bumps rise on her arms, and felt the little shiver pass through her. When her eyes lifted to his, he could see her shock.
“You have two seconds to smile and nod, or I shall expose you at once,” he said between gritted teeth.
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