Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  Giles stepped forward and bowed again, slightly. “Very well, Miss Lovejoy. What did you wish to talk about?”

  She shrugged and picked up a spoon as Hanson put the bowl of hot soup in front of her. “Well, we could start with my presence here. What has Lord Morgan told you about that?”

  “That he owes your cousin a debt of honor, miss, and that he has agreed to keep you safe until your relative returns to town.”

  “And that you’re in a bit of a pickle,” Hanson contributed. “I think he is a little afraid for—”

  “That’s enough, Hanson,” Giles said with a stern look. “No sense in frightening the young woman, is there?”

  Hanson nodded before turning back to Dianthe. “Cup of tea, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She debated the wisdom of taking the two men into her confidence. If Morgan had wanted them to know the details of her “pickle” he’d have told them. Instead, she decided to tell them why Morgan felt he needed to…well, not protect her, but shelter her.

  “You’ve heard of the incident?” she asked after she’d related the story.

  “Of course, miss, though not quite the same as you describe it,” Giles explained.

  Irritation reawakened in her. Of course Morgan would tell his version—that Mr. Lucas’s shot had been deliberate. Mr. Lucas would never have done anything dishonorable. But she hadn’t come to argue. She only wanted to set these men at ease around her. She took several spoonfuls of soup while she quieted her nerves.

  Giles brought her a cup of tea. “I can see, then, why his lordship is intent on paying his debt. He always pays his debts.”

  “Mmm,” she said. Some little devil urged her to add, “And collects them, as well.”

  “Yes, miss. Of course.”

  “Does he ever show compassion?” she asked.

  “As much as he was shown by those his father owed.”

  Dianthe paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth. Had she heard correctly? “His father gambled?” she asked.

  “He…” Giles flushed guiltily, as if he’d said too much. “It was a long time ago, miss,” he finished.

  She nodded, though she resolved to find out more about this little twist on Morgan’s character. And while she was on the subject, she asked, “The portrait in the office? Lord Geoffrey told me it was of his sister, Charlotte. She is beautiful, is she not?”

  “She was a delight, miss. So sweet and accommodating. Never a cross word from her.”

  “Ah.” Dianthe smiled. “She’s married and gone now?”

  Hanson sighed heavily. “Dead, miss. An accident barely a year after she married. She fell down a flight of stairs.”

  Dianthe blanched. Dead. Then Lord Geoffrey had been telling the truth. He was more alone in the world than she. “How awful for the family,” she said.

  “Yes, miss. Fit to be tied, Lord Morgan was! We thought he’d—”

  Giles cleared his throat and Hanson fell silent. She began to feel guilty for her veiled interrogation. She shook off the gloom and smiled again, attempting once more to put them at ease.

  “Sudden deaths are so difficult,” she said with a sigh, thinking of her mother, her father and, most recently, her aunt Henrietta. “I’ve had my share, as well, but life is relentless. It goes on, will we, nill we. And time sees us through the worst.” She finished eating and stood. “Well, thank you for the soup. It was delicious. In future, please do not trouble about me. When I am hungry, I shall come find something to eat.”

  As she walked out the kitchen door she caught a snip of whispered conversation. “…seems nice enough…”

  She grinned. It would, no doubt, rankle Lord Geoffrey to think she had made friends with his servants.

  A footman handed Dianthe down from the hired coach but the uniformed doorman at the entry to Thackery’s stopped her before she could enter. She took a deep breath and assumed the personality of Lizette Deauville, audacious flirt and courtesan. She kept a firm grip on her fear and prepared for her bluff.

  “Oui?” she asked, and glanced haughtily down at the man’s hand on her bare arm.

  “Where is your escort, miss?”

  “I am to meet ’im ’ere,” she said with a little lift of her chin. In truth, she had chosen Thackery’s because she had heard her aunt say it was the best of the hells. She took another step toward the inner sanctum as if she had every right to be there.

  “Who is your…escort?” the man asked, with a tone that said he clearly had her identified as a demimondaine.

  There was only one name she could think of that would give her entry—as much as she disliked to use it. “Lord Geoffrey Morgan,” she said.

  “Lord Morgan is not here, miss.”

  Thank heavens! “’E shall be along presently.”

  The youthful doorman studied her intently, indecision written on his face.

  Her knees weakened. If he wouldn’t admit her, her plan would fail. “Do you keep me waiting on the steps, M’sieur?” She lifted her chin in a last attempt to bluff her way in.

  “Well, I…”

  “’Ave I not the correct dressing?” she asked, noting that he was having a difficult time keeping his gaze above her neckline.

  “Well, I suppose you could wait inside.”

  “Merci.” She smiled. “I believe mes amis are waiting.”

  He held the door for her and she entered as if she’d been there a hundred times before. Heart hammering erratically, she knew the hardest part lay ahead.

  Trying not to be obvious, she hurried past a cloakroom and found herself in what could only be the main salon. Brilliant crystal chandeliers lit the center of the room, leaving intimate dark corners around the edges. Two corridors opened off each end of the salon, and she concluded they must lead to private gaming areas. She lifted a wineglass from a footman’s tray and smiled at him. With a glass of wine in her hand she’d look as if she belonged.

  “Upstairs, miss,” he told her.

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “Your party is upstairs in the mezzanine salon.”

  Her party? Ah, he meant her “kind.” She nodded and strolled casually toward the curved staircase leading to the mezzanine, still dazzled by the decor.

  She’d never seen such opulence. Deep, plush wine-colored carpeting cushioned her footsteps, rich embossed wall coverings absorbed harsh sounds, and gleaming, deeply carved mahogany paneling, moldings and wainscoting trimmed the room. A string quartet played quietly in one corner, while men bent over tables, intent on cards or dice. Very few women were present, and most of them were hanging on the arms of wealthy looking men. Dianthe wondered if the gathering in the mezzanine salon would match this one.

  Here and there she recognized a familiar face—one of the Hunter brothers, a magistrate, a few peers, Dr. Worley, and some anxious looking individuals she assumed were losers at one game or another. Across the room at a faro table, Laura Talbot’s brother—the very man who had wagered with Lord Morgan for his sister and lost—placed another bet. Dianthe turned her back to him and began a slow ascent to the mezzanine, using the vantage of height to memorize the floor plan. She wanted to look completely comfortable and at ease with her surroundings.

  At the top of the stairs, a wide marble promenade edged the walls, affording views of the happenings below. Rooms opened off the promenade, providing further venues for risking one’s fortune. What appeared to be the largest of the rooms was at the head of the staircase. Glass doors stood open in invitation, and the sounds of muted laughter and conversation floated outward.

  Gripping her reticule tight to still her trembling, Dianthe strolled into the salon with as much confidence as she could muster and glanced around. Yes, there were women here—pretty women who were daringly dressed. The space was dimly lit compared to the rooms below, but the mood was lighter, as if gambling was only a part of the festivities. As she watched, a man linked arms with a ripe redhead and walked toward the door, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. Dianthe
had the distinct impression they were not in search of another gambling table. Heat flooded her cheeks and she shivered uneasily.

  One wall was paneled with mirrors that reflected the sparkle of crystal prisms from candlelit chandeliers. The opposite wall contained a cushioned banquette for seating, and murals in muted colors. Dianthe could not make out the subject, but there were trees and streams. A landscape, she assumed.

  Even to her inexperienced eye, and to her great discomfort, the atmosphere in the salon seemed heavily sexual. Men appeared to be assessing the women around them, and the women were vying for attention. Dianthe moved to the edge of the room, wanting only to find an opportunity to speak with the women. She saw Flora Denton in conversation with a handsome elderly man, laughing at some jest and plying her fan in a flirtatious manner.

  Dianthe sighed with regret. She could have used a fan to cover a portion of her bared chest. Her scissors had snipped a little lower than she’d intended, and now no more than a quarter of an inch saved her modesty.

  Flora excused herself from the elderly gentleman and moved toward a sideboard to leave her wineglass. Seeing her opportunity, Dianthe hurried toward her.

  Flora glanced up at her approach. She gave Dianthe an impersonal smile and moved to the side, allowing access to the sideboard. Nothing in her manner suggested that she recognized her from Nell’s funeral.

  “Miss Denton, is it not?” Dianthe asked.

  Flora smiled politely. “Have we met?”

  “Mais non,” Dianthe answered. “I know you by reputation only.”

  “Oh?” Flora commented noncommittally. “And you are?”

  “Mademoiselle Lizette Deauville. I am newly come to town.”

  “Newly arrived,” Flora corrected. She glanced around. “Are you here alone?”

  “Oui. For the moment.”

  Flora seemed surprised by this answer. “How did you gain entrance?”

  She laughed. “I told the falsehood.”

  After an uncertain moment, Flora laughed with her. “You are bound to make a splash, Miss Deauville. I am certain you will have invitations aplenty by the time you leave tonight.”

  Dianthe indicated a dim corner with a sweep of her hand, inviting conversation. When they were certain they would not be overheard, Flora arched an eyebrow in a query.

  “This—it is all new to me, Miss Denton. I ’oped you to tell something of the London customs to me. That I need the escort for admission to the gambling ’ell, I did not know.”

  Flora nodded. “There are a few public assemblies to which you may go alone. Thackery’s, as well as many of the other better gambling clubs, are private, and admission is by subscription or invitation only.”

  “But ’ow does one gain entrée to this society?” she asked.

  “One takes a patron. Or acquires a sponsor,” Flora informed her. She gave Dianthe a searching look, as if suddenly suspicious. “For instance, the sponsorship or protection of an Abbess.”

  Dianthe had heard that term before. It referred to a female operator of a brothel. “Là! I do not wish to do the business this way, Miss Denton.”

  “If not, you must find a protector at once. Come, I will introduce you around.” She took one of Dianthe’s hands and started to draw her toward the gaming tables.

  “Mais non! Can we not converse a little longer?” she begged. The last thing she wanted was a protector! Nor did she want a repeat of the disaster at the theater. She had already noted that she and Flora were drawing a few interested glances from some of the men.

  Flora dropped her hand. “You know my name, Miss Deauville. Why is that?”

  Dianthe would need an ally if she was to carry the masquerade off. She sighed and abandoned her French accent. “Nell Brookes.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Flora studied her face. “Did Nell introduce us? I do not recall that, Miss Deauville.”

  She shook her head. “Nell’s funeral.”

  “Good heavens! I would never have known you! What are you doing here?”

  “I am here at your suggestion, Flora. You said I would have to be one of you for Nell’s friends to talk to me.”

  “I never thought…that is not what I meant, Miss Lovejoy. I meant that you do not have a prayer of learning anything from us.”

  Dianthe frowned. “I do not understand. Why do you not care who killed your friend? I should think you would want to find the villain even more than I.”

  “I do want the villain found,” Flora said. Tears filled her eyes and she swiped at them angrily. “But there is nothing we can do. The authorities will not pursue the killer. Apart from searching Nell’s rooms, they have done nothing. We have not been questioned, nor have we seen the authorities again.”

  “But that is why we must investigate, Miss Denton.” Dianthe lowered her voice and glanced around. “Nell was not dead when I found her. With her last breath, she entreated me to find and stop her killer. She said he had killed before and would again. It could be you next time. Or me. Or any of the other women here tonight.”

  Flora paled. “Dear Lord,” she murmured. “That must mean that she had learned something. But if the runners and police cannot find anything out, how shall we?”

  “By not giving up. By caring about Nell and the next victim more than they do. That is why I am here. I want justice for Nell. And…” her voice caught with the memory “…I promised her I would stop him. But I need your help. Please say you will give it.”

  “Miss—”

  “Lizette,” she whispered with a furtive glance around.

  Miss Denton sighed and her shoulders sagged. “The greatest favor I can do you, Lizette, is to deny you.”

  “But you will not,” she guessed. “Because you want justice for Nell, too.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She squeezed Dianthe’s hand. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need introductions to the other…”

  “Demireps? Yes, I can manage that, but do not expect them to tell you much. They will not like you, as you are their competition.”

  “If…if you could vouch for me, that would help my credibility.”

  “I shall say I met you while abroad last summer, and invited you to come visit me.”

  “Thank you.” Dianthe felt the tension leave her shoulders. She’d taken a risk admitting to Miss Denton who she really was, but she still couldn’t admit that Nell was her cousin.

  “What would you like me to tell the men, who are already beginning to ask questions about you?”

  Dianthe glanced across the room to see a small group drinking brandy and watching her and Flora. Their study was openly carnal, and a prickle of fear unsettled her. “I do not know. What will satisfy them?”

  Miss Denton shook off her gloom and laughed. “Why, that you are surveying the scene before making a choice. I shall say you are quite fastidious in your selections. They will beg introductions and you will have to talk to them and let them believe they have a chance, and that should send them into a frenzy of anticipation.”

  “I told the doorman that I was meeting Geoffrey Morgan here,” Dianthe admitted. “It was the only way he would let me in.”

  “Lord! Why did it have to be Morgan? He is such a hard man. So unforgiving.”

  “He was the only one I knew to frequent this establishment. I gambled that he wouldn’t be here.”

  “Lucky bet! But I wouldn’t tempt fate again.” She stood and pulled Dianthe to her feet. “Come, the evening is still young.”

  Chapter Nine

  Geoff moved his whiskey glass aside to spread the reports on the small table in the room over the tavern. He scanned the pages, then went back to read them more carefully. Bad news came in abundance these days.

  Harry Richardson went to the window, open to the humid summer night, cursed the noise in the street, pulled the panes closed and latched them, then paced in circles, obviously impatient.

  Finally, Geoff pushed his chair back and stood. “It’s as we thought, Harry. More disappearances
.”

  “I’ll take the reports to the Foreign Office,” Harry said.

  “We’d better keep them to ourselves for the moment. Until Barrington’s successor has been named, we cannot be certain who to trust. I’ll brief Auberville, Travis, McHugh and Lockwood in private.”

  “They’re still involved in this?” Harry asked.

  Geoff sighed and stretched the kinks from his back. “Involved again—since I told them el-Daibul was on the move. We’ve all had a brush with the devil, and we’ve always known he would come after us someday. To a man, we’d like to see him dead. God knows nothing short of that will stop him.

  “In fact, I think el-Daibul may have something to do with Nell’s death. She was killed either because she was getting close to the truth, or because she and I had been…intimate. I’d lay odds he sent one of his henchmen to do the dirty work. Furthermore, I believe he is behind the break-in on Curzon Street. That is my only known address. My papers had been gone through. He’s sent his men to look for something. He wants to learn how close we are to uncovering his operation, how much we know and what evidence we’ve gathered.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Richardson said. “But how does the break-in connect to Nell?”

  Geoff gestured at the reports on the table. “Activity is increased in all the major ports—New York to Copenhagen. And this time the prime target is courtesans and kept women. The demimonde. El-Daibul must be thinking no one will miss these women, or bother to investigate. That’s what tripped him up last time. Nell either learned something, stood in his way or was targeted because of our relationship.”

  “That’s a leap, Geoff. There’s got to be more. Accidents happen, robberies happen, people are murdered. There are any of a dozen wives who might have wanted Nell Brookes dead. Even Miss Lovejoy could have lost a beau to Nell. You said they looked enough alike to be sisters. One of her suitors may have thought he could spend a little money on Nell and purge the Lovejoy chit from his blood. And that may not have sat well with Miss Lovejoy. Apart from that, Nell could have had a host of enemies on her own. She wouldn’t be the first demirep who tried to make a little extra money extorting a former lover, or who had taken a dangerous man to her bed.”