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.
“Geoff?” Harry asked.
“Just thinking,” he said, pouring them both another glass of whiskey.
He went back to the table and sat. Lowering his voice, he said, “A young woman who is associated with friends of mine was found bending over Nell’s body. The doctor thought she might have been searching Nell.”
Harry smiled. “But you don’t think so, do you?”
Geoff shrugged. What, really, did he know about Miss Lovejoy, except that she detested him—and not entirely without reason? He had nearly gotten her cousin killed three months ago. “I cannot imagine why she would,” he said truthfully. “She looks to be the same age as Nell, but years more innocent. I would think a young woman of her sheltered upbringing would be too shocked to find a dead body to think of searching it. But after she left with the Thayers, we found a note in Nell’s reticule. It had notations detailing Miss Lovejoy’s address at the Thayers’, and that she would be at Vauxhall Gardens tonight. This gives rise to the question of whether Nell was seeking her out for some other purpose.”
“Could the Lovejoy chit actually have been Nell’s killer?” Harry ventured.
“Again, why?”
Harry shrugged.
“Even more curious, Miss Lovejoy could be Nell’s twin.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s a coincidence! And a rather intriguing possibility. Could Miss Lovejoy and Nell be siblings?”
“Unlikely. Miss Lovejoy has an older sister and a younger brother. The family was country-bound. That wouldn’t leave room for her father to beget a child on a mistress, nor for her mother to stray.”
A slow smile lit Harry’s face. “If Miss Lovejoy is as comely as our fair Nell, she’s bound to be a real stunner. Yes, might have to arrange an introduction.”
“She’s better looking than Nell, fresher and more innocent. But stay away from her, Harry. She’s trouble or my name isn’t Geoffrey Morgan.”
Harry looked speculative. “Are there any suspects?”
“Just Miss Lovejoy, it seems. No one saw anyone else coming along the paths afterward, or reported seeing anyone following Nell. Miss Lovejoy may not have a motive, but that doesn’t seem to bother the authorities. She’s all they’ve got at the moment. I would not want to be in her shoes.”
“She won’t be arrested, will she?”
That thought gave Geoff pause. Although he didn’t actually care what happened to the haughty little chit, he would not want her cousin caused distress. The man had saved his life, after all. “I hope not, Harry, but that’s not our business. Her family will look out for her. We need to focus on el-Daibul. Damn! I thought we were onto something with Nell. Now we’re going to have to scramble for information again. I fear I’m making a career out of this case.”
“Where do you suggest we go from here?”
“Back to the hells.”
Harry grinned. “And back to the demimonde, for me.”
Dianthe perched on the edge of her chair in Lady Annica’s private sitting room, studying the faces around her. Lady Annica, Charity MacGregor and Lady Sarah Travis were staring at her in horror, and even worse, they were speechless! This was bad. She’d never seen them speechless before. These ladies, masquerading as the Wednesday League, a bluestocking group, secretly obtained justice for wronged women. They had seen and heard things worse than Dianthe’s story, but only one had involved one of their own members. Until today.
At last Lady Annica blinked and closed her mouth. She cleared her throat before she spoke, as if she were afraid she’d lost her voice. “Dianthe, dear, that is appalling!”
“There’s more.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. “Somehow, Miss Brookes knew my name. She called me Dianthe. How could that be?”
“You said you had the same dress?” Lady Annica asked. “Perhaps she asked someone who you were.”
Dianthe shivered, recalling the horror of the scene last night. “Too many coincidences. It defies logic.”
“This entire event defies logic,” Charity declared.
“There is worse. Before I could even leave Vauxhall, the police found a note in Miss Brookes’s reticule with my name and address on it. They stopped me and asked extensive questions and said they would come by the Thayers’ today for a sample of my handwriting.” Dianthe’s stomach clenched with anxiety. “They told Mr. Thayer not to let me out of his sight until they’d had a chance to verify my story, but I slipped away because I knew you all would be frantic once you heard the news. Does that not sound as if they suspect me of something?”
Lady Sarah frowned. “But that is completely absurd. You would not harm a fly.”
“No,” she agreed, “but they don’t know that. All they know is what they saw.”
“Lord Geoffrey Morgan was there?” Sarah asked.
“He advised me to go home and stay there until this was over. Can you imagine?”
“That is good advice, Dianthe,” Sarah said. “But rather than go back to the Thayers’, I think you should come stay with me.”
“Or me,” Annica said.
“Or me.” Charity nodded. “You should be with one of us. I fear Mr. Thayer would not understand what we are about to do.”
“What are we about to do?” Dianthe asked.
“Why, investigate Miss Brookes’s death, of course. Once we prove you innocent, the police will have to leave you alone,” Lady Annica announced with confidence. “And they would not dare to bother you if you are with me and Auberville. He would never permit it.”
Dianthe warmed with the knowledge of how much these ladies would sacrifice for her. But, of course, she could never permit it. She did not like putting the ladies at risk when it was her problem and her future hanging in the balance. Nor could she tell them about Nell’s last words—that she would be next. Or that she’d promised to stop Nell’s killer. They would never let her out of their sight if they knew that little piece of information.
She shook her head. “Auberville is rising in government and I would not do anything to jeopardize that. And Sarah, I know your brother is being considered for Lord Barrington’s vacant post, so I would not have my scandal attached to your name. Likewise for you, Charity.”
Annica frowned, little lines forming between her dark eyebrows. “I appreciate your sensitivity to the matter, Dianthe, but your safety is paramount. We shall write to your sister at once. She and McHugh will return from the Highlands to take charge of this. But that will take two or three weeks. It is possible that Grace and Mr. Hawthorne will return in the interim, but we cannot count on that. Meantime, we must find a safe place for you. And I frankly do not think Mr. Thayer has the necessary connections to provide that. You belong with one of us.”
Dianthe clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. Oh, how she wished she could accept Lady Annica’s invitation. But as terrified as she was, these women had been far too good to her family to taint them with her scandal. She took a deep breath and launched her carefully prepared lie. “I have my own plan. I have already packed a small valise and left a note for the Thayers saying that I shall find lodgings elsewhere. No—” she held up one hand to silence their questions “—I shall not tell you with whom. I do not want you to have to lie should the authorities ask. The arrangements are quite proper and I could not be safer.”
“What will you do?”
Dianthe fought back her encroaching fear. She took a deep breath and lied as if she’d been born to it. “I will keep out of sight until the matter is resolved. Please, there is no need to worry.”
Lady Annica sighed. “We shall begin making inquiries, Dianthe. Now the Wednesday League is fighting for one of our own. Someone is bou
nd to find out something.”
“Do you have the funds you will need?” Lady Sarah asked.
“I believe so.” Dianthe hedged. She had little more than ten pounds, but if they knew her plan to investigate the murder herself, they’d take her in, tie her to her chair and keep her locked up until her family came for her.
Lady Annica frowned. “When, Dianthe? When shall we see you again?”
“Heavens! There may be no need of even a week. The police may find the murderer today and I shall be safely back with the Thayers by tomorrow.”
“Do you promise to meet with us every other day?”
That was a small price to pay for their peace of mind. “Promise. But if the police are looking for me, they will watch your houses. Shall we meet at La Meilleure Robe?”
Charity nodded. “Madame Marie will accommodate us, and we shall put Mr. Renquist on this case at once. A Bow Street runner will be just the thing to hurry this along. Should you need anything—money, shelter or assistance—you know we stand ready to assist you.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know.”
“I fear for you, Dianthe. The streets of London are fraught with danger,” Lady Sarah warned. “All sorts of unscrupulous people are waiting to take advantage of an unwary woman.”
Dianthe stood and smoothed the skirts of her gown. “I shall be wary, Lady Sarah, and quite safe withering away in hiding. If you must be concerned, be concerned over my utter boredom,” she said with a wisp of inspiration.
Chapter Two
“I am sorry, Miss Smith, but I cannot let you a room,” the clerk at the desk of Emery’s Hostel for Women told Dianthe. “It is not our policy to rent to unchaperoned young ladies.”
She glanced around the spotless lobby, which was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, and fumbled with her reticule, wondering how one went about bribing a clerk. “I assure you, sir, that my aunt will be arriving later this evening. I…I will pay extra if that will ease your mind.”
The clerk’s bushy eyebrows lifted at that. “Later? You traveled to town alone?”
“She…ah, sent me ahead.”
“That is most unseemly, Miss Smith. Perhaps you and your…aunt would be more comfortable at Desmond’s?”
He didn’t believe her! He thought she was a woman of questionable virtue. She’d never been refused admittance anywhere, and this was an insult she could scarcely suffer in silence. She’d give the man a set-down if necessity didn’t require discretion. Her cheeks burning, she lifted her valise and walked into the street.
In truth, she’d already tried Desmond’s Hostel and had been refused there, too, and another three hostels besides. She would go back to Aunt Grace’s home on Bloomsbury Square, but returning there would be tantamount to walking into the Bow Street office and announcing her name.
Fighting frustrated tears, she found a vacant bench in the square across from the hostel and sat dejectedly, despairing of finding a safe place to spend the night. Her empty stomach growled. She’d never had to provide for herself or depend on her wits for survival before, and she fought the creeping fear that she was doomed to failure.
After a brief rest, she stood and retrieved her valise. Her last chance for shelter tonight was just around the corner. She prayed the little flat above Madame Marie’s shop was still vacant. If she could stay there for a few days, surely this mess would be straightened out.
She arrived at La Meilleure Robe just as Madame Marie was locking up for the night. The modiste opened the door and admitted her before locking it and pulling the shade over the window. Dianthe glanced around the dimly lit foyer and dropped her valise on a chair to remove her gloves.
Madame Marie peeked out at the street from behind the shade before turning to her. “Chérie! Where ’ave you been? My ’usband ’as been looking for you all day.”
“Mr. Renquist is looking for me? Whatever for?”
“The ladies ’ave told ’im what is afoot. But ’e already knew. Orders ’ave come down from Bow Street that all runners are to appre’end you on sight and bring you to the Bow Street station for questioning.”
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath. “Now I shall truly have to stay out of sight. Is the room upstairs still vacant, Madame?”
“No, chérie. It was let months ago.”
“Then I must leave at once.” Dianthe fought tears of frustration as she began pulling her gloves back on.
“But wait! François will not turn you in. You shall stay with us, eh?”
She could no more allow Mr. Renquist to risk his job, family and reputation than she could have her other friends. “Thank you, Madame, but I cannot. I have just thought of a nice solution,” she lied. She was dismayed by how easy that was becoming.
“Will you not stay and speak with François?”
“Tell him I will come day after tomorrow. I am meeting the ladies here in the afternoon. Once I am settled I shall be able to think about how to proceed.”
Geoff crossed Leicester Square at an angle, heading for Green Street. With dusk settling over the city, traffic was thinning. He would be home in a few minutes. Or, at least, the place he called home. He preferred the moderate home on Salisbury Street just off The Strand to his new mansion on Curzon Street.
Yes, on Salisbury Street, his footsteps did not echo on marble floors, reminding him how alone he was. Still, even there he was haunted by the memory of Constance Bennington. Constance, the first woman he’d ever loved. Her death weighed on his conscience every day. Every night. He knew he could never put her memory to rest until he found the man responsible for her death.
Four years ago, when he’d first begun hunting the white slaver, el-Daibul, to put an end to his kidnapping of Englishwomen, he hadn’t realized the price he’d pay—the price she’d pay—for his efforts. Before they’d put an end to el-Daibul’s scheme, more women had died. Women who could have been saved if only…what? He’d been more diligent? Uncovered el-Daibul’s henchmen sooner? But he hadn’t. And now the memory of what might have been was a constant reproach. And the memory of the others who’d died… Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about the others.
Now he could add Nell Brookes to his growing list of regrets. He should have been more insistent with her when he realized she was sticking her nose into the business of the missing women. Locked her up until the danger was past. If he’d known for certain that she was delving into matters that didn’t concern her…
He shook off his brooding mood. No profit in that. Only pain and remorse. He picked up his pace across the square and stopped to buy an apple from a cart. He used the moment to look around. In his experience, it was always good to take stock of one’s surroundings frequently. Less chance of being surprised that way.
Men were bustling home from their work, women hurrying back from the greengrocer with provisions, children skipping as they hurried to keep up with their governesses. And there, on a bench with a valise at her feet, trying her best to look inconspicuous, sat someone who looked very much like Miss Dianthe Lovejoy. Enjoying her last hours of freedom, no doubt.
He took a bite of the crisp red apple and watched her for a moment. Yes, it was Miss Lovejoy. There could not be two in London like her. God fashioned only one of those a generation—perhaps a millennium. Even Nell had been a pale copy.
He strolled toward her, wondering if he should speak. When he was near enough, he noted the pinched look between her eyes and the slightly reddened rims of her eyes. Had she been crying?
“Trouble, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked. Her chin snapped upward, indicating that he’d startled her. For once, it seemed, he had the advantage in their meeting.
She crumpled her handkerchief and pushed it into the sleeve of her bishop’s-blue spencer. Shrugging, she assumed a haughty mien. “I do not see how that is your concern, Lord Morgan.”
He grinned, finding her continued dislike of him more amusing than aggravating. He almost liked the chit, for no other reason than her dead reckoning of his character. He l
ifted his foot and planted one of his boots on the bench beside her yellow skirt. “It isn’t my concern. I was merely curious. You. A valise. Alone. You must admit the circumstances are rife with possibility.”
She narrowed her eyes and turned away to study the apple cart.
“Going somewhere?” he persisted.
“As you know, Lord Morgan, I am in somewhat of a pickle. I do not want my scandal attached to my friends’ names.”
“Ah, then you’re going home? Back to Bloomsbury Square?”
She sighed deeply and glanced sideways at him. “It is locked up until the Hawthornes’ return.”
“That places you in a rather awkward position, does it not? No family, no friends?”
“Thank you for stating the obvious, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Where are you going, Miss Lovejoy?”
“I intended to let a room at a ladies’ hostel.”
“Were there no vacancies?”
She hesitated, then murmured, “None, I fear.”
“So you are going back to the Thayers?”
“Of course not,” she snapped.
Although he already knew the answer, Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Are the authorities after you, Miss Lovejoy?”
“I…I imagine they are.”
Pity. The girl was in over her head and had no one to help her. His conscience tweaked him and he did his best to ignore it. Miss Lovejoy was just the sort of empty-headed little ingenue he avoided at all costs. “Then what are you doing here in the open? Shouldn’t you be looking for a hiding place?”
“Did I not tell you that I do not want my friends inconvenienced by my problems?”
The first uneasy stirrings of guilt prickled the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck. Adam Hawthorne had been one of the few men to give him the benefit of the doubt. For that reason alone, he owed the man. And then Adam had taken a bullet meant for him, which had compounded the debt. Now that Adam had married Dianthe’s Aunt Grace, could he leave Adam’s gently reared cousin alone on a bench at dusk? Not likely. But he avoided involvement in other people’s lives like the plague. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. Yes, he could give her money and be done with her.
The Courtesan's Courtship Page 2
