Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  “Fine,” Harry said. “I’ll hire one of Bow Street’s best. But why the sudden curiosity?”

  “Not so sudden,” he muttered. There were so damn many factors at work here—Nell’s death, and the manner of her death. The resemblance between Miss Lovejoy and Nell Brookes had always bothered him, then Miss Lovejoy’s calling card showing up in Nell’s lodging house. He was too cynical to believe in coincidences. Nell’s death had to have something to do with either Miss Lovejoy or his investigation into the abductions. Not both.

  He looked up at Harry again. “I think Nell’s murder has something to do with el-Daibul. I heard that she thought she had found a way to set herself up for life. Sounds more like blackmail than a wealthy lover. Could she have stumbled across information about the kidnappings and demanded hush money?”

  Harry’s smile faded and he grew somber. “You’re right. Where would she find a wealthy lover? Someone would have known.”

  “As it happens, I’ve also learned that she told Elvina Gibson she was afraid of someone. Blackmail is a filthy business. Nell wouldn’t be the first to be killed instead of being paid. I’ll question Elvina more closely on that tomorrow.”

  Harry emitted a stream of epithets, and then shook his head. “You didn’t get my message? Elvina is dead. She was found earlier tonight behind the Blue Moon. Knifed.”

  Geoff’s mind reeled. “It has to be el-Daibul’s doing. He must have a henchman nearby.”

  “Hmm. If you didn’t get my message about Elvina, then you don’t know the rest.”

  “El-Daibul? We’ve found him?”

  “Not precisely.” Harry gulped his brandy and took a deep breath. “We don’t know where, but it looks as if he’s come to us at last. He could be in England.”

  “Could be? You don’t know?”

  “Our navy intercepted a ship in the channel, just offshore. The seamen claim they are Spanish, but I’d wager a year’s pay they’re Moorish. Too damn coincidental to have a ship like that off the English coast, and el-Daibul missing at the same time.”

  At last! Geoff’s planning, plotting and baiting had yielded results. Excitement coursed through his veins. He hadn’t been able to reach el-Daibul in Algiers or Tangier, but he’d finally succeeded in luring the son of a bitch to England by checkmating his every move! “Where is the ship?”

  “Towed to Dover. The crew is under lock and key. Do you want me to go down and question them?”

  With a couple of changes and fast horses, he could be to Dover and back within two days. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Harry, but I’ve come this far. I want to finish it. I’ll know the questions to ask. I’ll know if they’re lying. And I know how to make them tell the truth.”

  “Christ have mercy on them. When do we leave?”

  “In the morning. Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long ride. Meet me at the White Lion at dawn.”

  “That’s scarce six hours away.”

  “You don’t have to come, Harry.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Harry was a good friend and a trusted confidant. Geoff clapped him on the shoulder on his way out the door. It should be safe to go home now. Dianthe would long since have been snoring softly in her bed. Now, for a deep sleep and an early start.

  Dianthe saluted her reflection in the mirror, thinking how odd it was that the fencing blade was almost becoming a part of her—like an extension of her right arm. Now she understood the need for all the mirrors. Watching her form helped her to see her weaknesses and figure out how to improve them.

  She did not like her weaknesses. She hated being wrong. And she’d been so terribly wrong. About—well, about everything. It bothered her worse that Geoffrey Morgan had been so aggravatingly right.

  She was a snob. Oh, not in the traditional sense. No, in a much more insidious way. In a way that had allowed her to deceive herself about the fact. It wasn’t that she’d ever thought herself inherently better than others—she didn’t. But she had been judgmental, deciding a person’s worthiness based on gossip and appearances. How could she have been so shallow, never looking beneath the surface, and letting others shape her opinions?

  She’d lived a sheltered life, despite that her family had to scratch and save to keep body and soul together. They’d clung to their gentility with tenaciousness. Somehow, she’d believed that everyone made the choices they wanted to make. But now, when she thought of her cousin and Flora Denton, she realized they’d become courtesans because they’d had no alternative. And Dianthe was scarcely a breath away from a like fate. The same society that had touted her as a reigning beauty was now judging her based on gossip and a single unfortunate incident. The wheel of fortune had turned, and she was paying the price for her ignorance.

  She moved through the exercises again and again, thinking how unfair she’d been to believe Mr. Munro over Lord Geoffrey. The latter had been nothing but good to her. And, she had to admit, patient with her insults. He’d taken her in when she was stranded, and saved her life that night on Curzon Street. To her knowledge, he’d never lied to her. Then why hadn’t she believed him until he’d said those fateful revealing words? I tried to protect her and the others, but it was not enough! It’s never enough.

  No wonder he had an abhorrence of being responsible for her. No wonder he’d insisted upon the fencing lessons. Well, she’d make him proud there, at least. The best way she could repay him was to not add to his burdens. And, perhaps, to see if she could get to the bottom of Charlotte’s death.

  Geoff let himself into his office through the garden door and dropped his key on the desk. He was still too tense, too unsettled, by his argument with Miss Lovejoy to do anything but toss and twist in his sheets. A little physical exercise would be just the thing to relax him.

  At the door to the ballroom, he paused and stepped back into the shadows. Miss Lovejoy, in her trousers and shirt, was moving through the various postures and positions, fencing with her reflection. Prescott must have taught her that method of improving one’s form.

  She’d tied her glorious blond hair on top of her head with a green ribbon, and he was amazed anew by how different she looked without the dark wig. As Lizette, she was exotic and seductive, but as Dianthe, she was fresh and innocent. God help him, he wanted them both.

  She lunged at the mirror, her trousers tightening over her buttocks and legs in a way that left nothing to the imagination. A slow fire kindled in his loins. When she straightened and rolled her shoulders, her breasts pushed against the fluid drape of her shirt, and he gritted his teeth.

  He started to retreat, but her voice, a wistful sigh, stopped him.

  “Oh, you’ve been such an idiot! How are you going to unravel this knot?”

  What knot? He glanced back into the ballroom. She was speaking to her reflection.

  She sensed him there and turned to meet his eyes. He expected her to accuse him of peeping, but she smiled instead. Here was an opportunity sent from God to begin unraveling that twisted knot.

  “Lord Geoffrey.” Raising her blade, she saluted him, then bowed. “Have I thanked you for the fencing lessons? I’m finding them quite helpful, especially when I cannot sleep.”

  He gave her a wary smile. “I usually come here before going to bed.”

  “Shall I leave?”

  “I think you need the practice more than I.”

  “Come, then. Teach me what you know, sir. I could benefit from your…instruction.”

  Something almost humorous flickered in his hazel eyes, Dianthe noticed. “Are you suggesting a match?”

  “Oh, I see. You are rusty and need time to hone your skills?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. He shrugged out of his jacket and vest and tossed them over the lone chair. He went to the rack to consider his choices. He glanced back at her foil and chose one for himself.

  She smiled, flexed her blade in a challenge and moved to the center of the room to face him, waiting for him to join her.

  “Would y
ou rather use blunts?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t used blunts since my second lesson. Mr. Prescott says it is cheating. He says you must always fence as if your life depends upon it.”

  “Very well. Let me secure a button—”

  “Not necessary. I trust you.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “You are using a button.”

  “I do not trust me.”

  He laughed as he came to face her. They stood in the center of a large circle drawn on the marble floor with chalk. “Mr. Prescott has been teaching you the Spanish Mysterious Circle method?”

  “He says it is the quickest route to perfection.”

  Morgan nodded and stretched his arms over his head to loosen his muscles. Coming back to the en garde position, he nodded that he was ready. “Veney? A practice bout to three? Shall we see what my money has bought me?”

  She grinned and returned his nod. They crossed swords and she quickly pressed her button to his heart. “Hit,” she called. She stepped back and bowed, knowing she’d caught him completely off guard.

  He laughed and spread his arms. “Your point, Miss Lovejoy. I’ll be better prepared next time.”

  She slashed her blade to the side flamboyantly. “Do not underestimate me, Lord Morgan.”

  “What happened to Lord Geoffrey?”

  She shrugged, circling him. “You are the one insisting upon formality. Have I not invited you to use my given name? I think you prefer the formality to keep distance between us. Your choice, sir.”

  They crossed swords again and this time Lord Geoffrey was ready. He parried her thrusts and scored a hit by slapping her upper arm with the side of his blade. “Hit,” he called.

  “Aye,” she conceded, stepping back.

  “I am bound to say, Dianthe, that you exceed my expectations.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she warmed with pleasure. She loved the sound of her name on his lips—drawled with a hint of softness. A cautious heat crept through her.

  The next encounter forced her to pay closer attention. She managed to hold him off nearly three minutes before he scored a hit. When she conceded with an “aye” and a bow, he smiled.

  “Enough practice, Dianthe? Are you ready for a competitive match?”

  A few wisps and curls had escaped her ribbon, and she blew them out of her eyes. “To five.” She nodded. “En garde, Geoffrey.”

  His mouth curved in a delicious smile as he lifted his sword to the garde position. He was obviously pleased that she’d used his name. After a strenuous exchange of blows, Geoffrey traversed and, before she could turn to face him, she felt a tug at the top of her head. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders and she spun about to find her green ribbon dangling from the point of his foil.

  She grinned, knowing the degree of skill that had required. She liked this playful side of him. She’d seen flashes of it before, but she’d managed to crush it rather quickly. “Your point,” she conceded.

  They crossed swords and moved into the next bout quickly. She focused on his rhythms and began to anticipate his moves, pleased to see the look of surprise and approval on his face. She feinted to the left, then slipped her sword under his, pressed the button to his neck and moved close to his chest to deny him an opening.

  “Hit,” she panted.

  He froze, obviously unwilling to risk injury, but his eyes shifted to meet hers. They were filled with something akin to pride. “Aye,” he acknowledged.

  But Dianthe did not disengage at the concession. She smiled and slid the button down the side of his neck to the bottom of his cravat. Very carefully, she pushed the button between his neck and the fabric. At last he flinched.

  “Tsk-tsk, Geoffrey. Don’t breathe yet. I have never done this before.” With an upward slicing motion, and just missing his earlobe, she cut the silk folds, and the cravat slipped to the marble tiles.

  His chest started to rumble and she realized he was trying to contain his laughter. She grinned and stepped back before he could retaliate.

  “Your point,” he acknowledged. “One each.” He saluted her and resumed the en garde position.

  She crossed his sword and they were engaged. She realized he had merely been amusing himself with her when he applied himself to the attack. It was all she could do to defend herself, parrying his thrusts, but he gave her no opening for a riposte.

  He lunged in a lightning move, his sword drawn back and his left hand extended toward her to stop her advance into his blade. As it was, the foil’s point dimpled the skin at the V of her shirt. Very slowly, he lowered his foil, flicking the buttons off her shirt one by one. The fabric gaped, but the way it was tightly tucked into her trousers kept it in place.

  Heat washed through her, but she resisted the impulse to look down to see if she was still decent. Instead, she looked up, into Geoffrey’s eyes. His expression was guarded, as if he were waiting for some reaction from her. Given their prior relationship, he would be expecting anger, indignation or an accusation. Instead, taking heed from Miss Osgood’s lecture on a woman’s power, Dianthe ran her tongue over her lips and smiled. Something glimmered in his eyes, and she knew she’d scored a hit of her own.

  “Will you call it?” she asked, reminding him of his privilege.

  “Hit,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Aye,” she replied, agreeing to his claim. He was going to kiss her. He was leaning toward her, his head tilting ever so slightly to cover her mouth. She lifted her chin to meet him halfway.

  He blinked and shook his head as if he’d forgotten himself, then stepped back into en garde position.

  Oh, shame! She wanted him more than he wanted her. From the night he’d brought her to Salisbury Street, she’d fought her feelings, tried to keep distance between them, afraid of what loving a man like Geoffrey Morgan would do to her reputation and marriage prospects. She’d only wanted to find Nell’s killer and regain her place in society. Now she didn’t care about society. It was Morgan’s good opinion she wanted. Reputation and eligibility were nothing balanced against a moment in his arms.

  Trying to forget her gaping shirt, she raised her foil and traversed to the left. Geoffrey followed, keeping in step with her. After exchanging a few blows with their blades, she took the initiative to score a hit, and lunged. The button at the tip of her foil pressed into his navel. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of surrender.

  Peeved, instead of calling the hit, she drew her foil downward, cutting the fastening of his trousers. He scarcely breathed. She used the button to lift a corner of his shirttails out of the waistband. Only then did she step back and say, “Hit, Geoffrey.”

  He cleared his throat. “Aye. Match point?” he asked, his sword angled toward the floor.

  She brought her blade up, in position, and concentrated on his face, looking for a blink, a shift in his gaze, anything that would betray that he was preparing to advance on her. Concentration, calm, detachment. But, in the end, it did not matter. Nothing of Geoffrey’s icy calm betrayed his intentions. After a moment of unnerving stillness, he lunged and flicked his unprotected point upward, slicing the tapes of her waistband. He stepped back, as lithe as a panther, his blade back to garde, making it clear he would not call the hit.

  She parried with a blow against his blade and he executed a blinding riposte, sliding his foil the length of hers as he continued his advance, causing her arm to come up until their hilts locked. At that exact moment, his chest landed against hers and he grabbed the wrist of her sword arm, rendering her helpless.

  With her arms upraised, her chest pressed to his, he looked down at her and said, “I can think of quicker ways to do this, Dianthe.”

  Was he waiting for her to demur? She’d wanted this, invited it. But could she go through with it? There was only one way she’d ever find out. She came up on her toes and placed her lips against his, waiting.

  With a hungry growl, he released her wrist, dropped his sword and pulled her tightly
against his chest to deepen the kiss. Her foil slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck. The heat of his mouth, the greedy demand of his tongue, the stroking of his large hands on her back brought her to a fever pitch.

  She was breathless with yearning, straining to feel his body pressed to hers. All the days of denial and resistance were swept away in that flood of desire. She wanted more. She needed more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A deep shudder passed through Geoffrey and he loosened his hold on her. “Dianthe,” he whispered. “Dianthe. I feared this would happen if I ever said your name.”

  He was right. Without the defense of formality, all their carefully erected walls were crumbling. But she didn’t care. She wanted more of the wild yearning he awoke in her.

  “I’m not one of your society fops,” he warned in a low voice. “You cannot play with me like this and think I will take it in good grace. Do not expect nobility from me, Dianthe. You know me for the libertine I am. I know right from wrong, but I don’t give a damn.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel wrong.”

  He tangled his fingers in her hair and cupped her head, bringing her mouth up to his. “Reckless Dianthe, to tempt me so,” he whispered against her lips.

  “It may be that I am a libertine, too.” She smiled.

  He lifted her off her feet and carried her up the stairs. Her room! It would have to be her room. Giles and Hanson would never open that door uninvited. He kicked her door closed behind them before carrying her to the edge of her bed and setting her on her feet.

  He tugged at her shirttails, freeing them from the snug fit of her trousers. With nothing restraining it, the front of her shirt fell completely open and he skimmed it over her shoulders. God save him! No stays. No chemise. Just long tendrils of liquid gold tumbling over her breasts and curling around her firmed nipples. Her breasts were perfect for her slender frame, full, lush and in proportion to her figure. His hand shook, actually shook, as he cupped one breast and bent to nibble the beckoning tip. “Beautiful,” he sighed.