The Courtesan's Courtship

by Gail Ranstrom

  Congé? If she recalled the finer points of her French, it meant a dismissal or farewell. “’Ow generous, Miss Tucker?”

  “Diamonds, Miss Deauville. Necklaces and rings valuable enough to support them for years.”

  “Là! ’Ow long must they…serve ’im to receive such a congé?”

  Miss Tucker accepted a cup of rum punch from a footman and raised it in a toast. “As a consort, no more than a week or two. As a mistress, never longer than two months. I do not exaggerate, Miss Deauville, when I tell you that every woman in this room would stand in a queue to be his next.”

  “Pourquoi?”

  The courtesan paused and gave her a curious smile. “Why, Miss Deauville! You must be very exacting of your sponsors if you do not recognize Lord Geoffrey’s uniqueness. Often, little consideration is given to our comfort, much less our needs. To have a lover who is inventive, athletic, talented and tireless is a rare thing. As you are no doubt aware, he has some esoteric tastes, but those are more a joy than…”

  Dianthe looked down to compose her face as Miss Tucker continued. Good heavens! Esoteric? What in the world could that mean?

  “Miss Deauville? Are you unwell? Have I said something to—”

  “Mais non,” she murmured. Poised again, she looked up and gave Miss Tucker her brightest smile. “You are correct, of course. ’E is most accommodating. I was simply curious, Miss Tucker.”

  “Why, I do believe you are jealous,” Miss Tucker laughed. “How charming. No wonder Lord Geoffrey finds you entertaining.”

  Dianthe kept her smile fixed in place, pretending she hadn’t noticed the insult. She did not want to alienate Miss Tucker, since she was the only courtesan she’d met who was willing to talk about the business of the demimonde. “Are there any ’oo would wish me ill for my…good fortune?”

  “Some. But to no avail. As I’ve said, he never repeats.”

  “C’est vrai? A month?” But why was she astonished? Lord Geoffrey Morgan was unwilling to form attachments. His history forbade it. She glanced over at a table where vingt-et-un was being played. A brunette woman had been staring at her all evening. Dianthe made a guess. “The woman at vingt-et-un? Was she one of them?”

  “Miss Elvina Gibson? Long ago,” Miss Tucker said.

  “Oui, and ’e never repeats.” She sighed with resignation. “Are there many I should know about?”

  Miss Tucker shrugged. “Fewer and fewer, Miss Deauville.”

  “Oui? Is ’e taking fewer mistresses?”

  “Some have met with unfortunate accidents.”

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “C’est vrai?”

  “Most recently, Miss Brookes.”

  Her cousin had been Lord Geoffrey’s mistress? Dianthe turned to look back at him, still standing in the doorway watching her. Why hadn’t he mentioned that little detail? “W-when?”

  “Late last year. December, I think.”

  “And Flora Denton?”

  “Not as a mistress. Flora is charming in her own way, but she lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. Lord Geoffrey looks for brightness. He prefers a cheerful disposition and a pragmatic turn of mind. He never involves himself with women who may want too much from him.”

  “But ’e gives diamonds,” Dianthe mused. “’Ow much more could they expect?”

  “Love. A lasting or long-term liaison. Nell wanted marriage, a house in the country, children. But she was too wise to ask. One such as Lord Geoffrey could never wed a woman like Nell—a woman of questionable reputation.”

  A woman like Nell. A woman like her. It was bad enough that she’d been accused of murder, but should her relationship to Nell be known… Oh, what did it matter? Ruined by association or accusation, the results were the same. “Oui,” she said. “And you, Miss Tucker? Why did your association with Lord Geoffrey end?”

  “It lasted two weeks. Quite intense.” She sighed dreamily. “Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. He’d fought back whatever demons haunt him, and could finally sleep through the night again. He’d sated his needs enough to bring them under control.”

  “Oui! Oui, je comprends.” Dianthe gritted her teeth. She couldn’t understand why Miss Tucker’s constant harping on Lord Geoffrey’s skill annoyed her so. Nor why the room had grown so warm. As fascinating as this subject was, it had wandered astray from her purpose. “I’ve ’eard of Nell Brookes. She was murdered, no? But why? What ’ad she done? What manner of person could do such a thing?”

  Miss Tucker shrugged. “An angry wife? A rival?” Her eyes shifted to Miss Gibson, still at the vingt-et-un table. “Even a former lover. Lord Geoffrey, perhaps. I hear they did not part on friendly terms, although her congé was exceedingly generous.”

  “Why…why would Lord Geoffrey kill ’er?”

  “I haven’t the faintest notion, Miss Deauville. I only know they’d had words a few days before her death. Nell laughed about it, but…”

  But she’d turned up dead just the same, Dianthe thought. And Geoffrey Morgan had not been far behind her. How long had it taken him to join the group around her body? Minutes? Seconds? Had he been hiding in the shrubbery all along? And was he sheltering Dianthe now so that he would know what she was finding out? And if she found out that he’d had something to do with Nell’s death, would he kill her, too? Though she doubted he was the sort to kill a woman, she would have to tread carefully.

  Miss Tucker took her arm and led her toward a group of men who had just stood up from a card table. She was grateful that she didn’t recognize any of them. Two bowed politely and quickly hurried away, clearly more intent on gambling than socializing. She had already met one of the remaining men, and studied him as he bent over her hand.

  “Miss Deauville, so pleased to meet you again. Dare I hope you are here alone?”

  “Mais non, Mr. Munro. I am with Lord Geoffrey. I believe ’e is losing ’is money somewhere.” She resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder to see if he was still watching.

  “Losing? Geoff? I doubt that, Miss Deauville. He’s the luckiest man I’ve ever known. He could fall into a barrel of manure and come up clutching a gold sovereign.”

  The other man laughed, and Dianthe turned her attention to him. He was lean, swarthy, clean-shaven and well-dressed. There was a faint scar over his left eyebrow. His eyes were as dark as obsidian, and she suspected he might be foreign. He, too, bowed over her offered hand while Miss Tucker made the introduction.

  “Miss Deauville, may I present Senor Juan Ramirez. He has been visiting our fair isle from Barcelona.”

  Ah, that explained his dark good looks. “Enchantée,” she murmured with a little curtsy.

  “I am pleased to meet you at last, Miss Deauville,” he said in perfect English that bore just the faintest trace of a Castilian lisp.

  At last? Had Mr. Munro mentioned her? “’Ave you been in England long, Senor Ramirez?” she asked.

  “Perhaps two weeks. Alas, my visit is drawing to a close.”

  Dianthe opened her mouth to tell him not to miss the British Museum, but she remembered that she, too, was supposed to be new in town. “Such a short trip, M’sieur. ’Ave you come on business or pleasure?”

  “A little of both, Mademoiselle,” he said with a charming smile.

  “I ’ope you conclude everything to your satisfaction.”

  “That is why I have come myself, Mademoiselle Deauville. One should tend to the small details oneself if results are important, is it not so?”

  “Oui,” she agreed readily. “The personal touch, yes?”

  He chuckled, then shrugged apologetically. “I regret that it has become so late. I fatigue easily in England. I must return to my hotel. Perhaps we will meet again, Mademoiselle Deauville? Miss Tucker?”

  “Have you and Mr. Munro come together?” Miss Tucker asked.

  “I am afraid we have,” Mr. Munro answered for his companion, a look of regret on his face. “I should return Senor Ramirez to his hotel. Will you be here later?”
>
  Dianthe turned to find Lord Geoffrey still watching her. A hard expression had settled across his features and she recalled his warning about Mr. Munro. “I am growing weary myself, sir. I doubt I shall see you again tonight.”

  Munro bowed and departed with Senor Ramirez. Miss Tucker gave Dianthe a curious look. “Goodness! Senor Ramirez is quite the gentleman. I do not know the man well, but by the company he keeps I expect he will be very amusing. And he will have exquisite manners.”

  “The company ’e keeps?” she asked.

  “Why, yes. As you know, Mr. Munro is a gentleman of the first order. So refined, and his manners are impeccable. He has had so much to overcome.”

  “Oui? What ’as ’e overcome? A low birth?”

  “Heavens no! He is the second son of an earl. He is a true aristocrat in every sense of the word. He has had to overcome the tragic loss of his wife. He quite doted upon her. And I believe she was enceinte at the time.”

  Charlotte? Enceinte? That was something Giles and Hanson hadn’t told her. Poor Mr. Munro, to suffer a double loss… She had noted the dullness of his eyes and had wondered the cause. Now she knew. The man was in deep mourning. “Très tragique,” she agreed with a little sigh.

  “He has found solace in the demimonde, but he vows he will not marry again. He says he hasn’t enough heart left for it. Quite disappointing.”

  Dianthe nodded absently, wondering what Lord Geoffrey could have done to make such an enemy as Lewis Munro.

  Geoff decided to cut his losses before they grew. He wondered what could be behind his recent rash of bad luck at gambling. It really was unprecedented. Instead of losing more, he decided he’d see how Miss Lovejoy was passing the time.

  He’d brought her to the Blue Moon—the seediest of the Covent Garden hells—hoping the atmosphere would disturb her enough to make her retreat from her ill-advised crusade to find Nell’s murderer. But watching her from across the room, he witnessed the utter failure of his plan. Despite the presence of men like his former brother-in-law, she was none the worse for wear. It was well into the wee hours, and she’d lost none of her sparkle.

  In a roomful of jades, Miss Lovejoy shone like a diamond. Men and women gravitated to her, drawn by her easy grace and humor. He began to see why she had earned the reputation as one of the ton’s favored daughters. Ah, but no longer.

  Now she had fallen so far from grace that she had become an inhabitant of his world—gamblers, cheats, rakes, courtesans and adventurers. And who better to tutor her than he?

  She turned slightly and glanced at him as if she was aware of his study. A blush crept up her cheeks. If he had not known that she had nothing but contempt for him, he might have mistaken that blush for fondness. She was adapting well to the role of his mistress, although she still lacked a certain worldliness. Lessons in the demimonde might be just the thing. They would keep her busy and out of his way. He would look into that in the morning. Not that she actually needed tutoring in inciting his lust. His blood had begun to boil just watching her.

  Miss Lovejoy separated herself from Emma Tucker and came toward him. “Lord Geoffrey,” she said, taking his arm. “Are you ready to leave?”

  Yes, he was, but he was not certain he should be alone with her at the moment. His hunger for her was disturbing, to say the least, and had she been a true courtesan, he’d have her in an upstairs room by now, naked, writhing and calling his name. She might drive him to distraction with her stubborn nature and her spirited defiance, but Lord, that body would be worth whatever obstacles came with it.

  Alas, Miss Lovejoy was not a courtesan. And he was obligated to return her to his friend in the same condition she’d come to him. He looked down at her and sighed in resignation. “Yes, Miss…Deauville, I suppose we shall have to go home sometime.”

  The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and his own wayward fantasies of Miss Lovejoy in a negligee had lulled Geoff into unwariness when her soft voice brought him back. “I am finding Mr. Munro’s company quite charming.”

  He straightened in his seat across from her. After the incident in the coach on the way home from the theater, he’d decided sitting opposite was safer than sitting beside her. “I warned you to stay away from him.”

  “I haven’t encouraged him. He and Senor Ramirez simply stopped to have conversation with Miss Tucker. Do you know Senor Ramirez?”

  “We have not been introduced. But if he is keeping company with Munro, he’s bound to be a rakehell.”

  “Said the rakehell,” she pointed out. “But I must say that my experience differs from yours. Mr. Munro, like Senor Ramirez, is civility itself.”

  “Munro has manners enough to get along in society, but that is a very thin veneer and covers something else entirely.”

  “What?”

  He hesitated. If what he suspected was true, she’d be in danger. If it was false, he’d have slandered the man undeservedly. But he could tell her what he was certain of. “Munro does not possess the slightest compassion for anyone but himself. He cannot feel empathy or sympathy for others. It is not in his nature.”

  “That is harsh, Lord Geoffrey. As I understand it, he is in deep mourning. You cannot expect him to react as others who have not suffered.”

  “Pah! I know the man, Miss Lovejoy. Stay away from him or you will regret it.”

  “Are you jealous of him, sir, for the consequence and position in society that you forfeit because of your scandalous behavior?”

  He gritted his teeth. She had a talent for sending him into a rage with the least provocation, but he wouldn’t rise to her bait. He smiled into the darkness. He knew the perfect way to get even with her tomorrow.

  Deciding a change of subject would be his best ploy, he asked, “Did you learn anything useful for your investigation this evening, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “I’m afraid not. But I believe I’ve won the confidence of Miss Tucker. I think I could begin to ask more direct questions the next time I see her.”

  “Your progress is slow,” he observed.

  “Painfully so. I wish there were some way to hasten it.”

  “There may be.” He folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to distance himself from her. “I shall take care of it tomorrow.”

  A short silence ensued and then Miss Lovejoy stirred in her seat. “Esoteric,” she murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What does ‘esoteric’ mean?” she repeated.

  He mulled over the word. “I suppose it would depend upon the context.”

  “If one were said to have esoteric tastes?”

  He couldn’t see her face clearly in the darkness of the coach. “Considering the company you’ve been keeping, Miss Lovejoy, that could mean just about anything.”

  “Would it be like aesthetic?”

  He fought his grin. “In one sense, yes.”

  “Which sense?” she pressed.

  “Artistic.”

  Her little sigh carried to him and was so winsome that he longed to touch her lips with his and absorb the heat of it. “No, I do not believe that is what was meant. One of the ladies mentioned that…her gentleman has esoteric tastes.”

  His eyebrows shot up as he tried to think how to answer her question. “If someone were to tell me their mistress had esoteric tastes, and he had a smile on his face, I would take it to mean that she was…somewhat original, and that her particular preferences were…ah, exotic or specialized. Should he look annoyed or unhappy, I would assume they involved…” How could he explain little perversions, such as deriving pleasure from the giving or receiving of pain? Or erotic foreplay in the form of…? No. She was losing her innocence far too quickly without his help. He wouldn’t hasten it. “I say, what the devil have you been discussing with the demireps?”

  “Nothing much. They just say things and then laugh or sigh, and assume I know what they are talking about, but I don’t. I hoped you would be able to educate me.”

  Bloody hell. If she only knew
how much he wanted to educate her!

  “But, on the whole, would you want a lover with esoteric tastes?” she persisted.

  “I would certainly be intrigued enough to want to discover the exact nature of the esoteric pursuits.”

  Another sigh filled the chasm between them. “Just what I was thinking,” she murmured.

  Chapter Eleven

  The more Dianthe thought about it, the more she began to understand just how wrong she’d been about Geoffrey Morgan. Oh, not about his scandalous behavior, nor any of the pertinent facts. But wealth was more a tool for him than a goal. So why did he gamble? Why was he escorting her to gaming hells? Indeed, why did Geoffrey Morgan do any of the things he did?

  For example, he was escorting her to her fittings for gowns he had purchased for her. With no possible benefit to himself. He may want to pay his debt to her cousin, but he’d gone well beyond his obligation.

  She twirled one dark curl of her wig around her finger as she studied him, sitting across from her in the coach. He was reading the Times and had only spoken to her in monosyllables since arriving home last night. She knew she had gone too far in goading him about his reputation, but he’d been so awfully prejudiced about Mr. Munro. Could he not see the man was suffering?

  He folded the paper and tossed it on the seat beside him. When he noted her study, he gave her a cool smile and folded his arms across his chest. “How are your fencing lessons coming?”

  “I am enjoying them immensely,” she admitted. “But I still do not think I could actually hurt someone.”

  “That is the whole point, Miss Lovejoy. If you cannot disarm or kill your opponent, why bother?”

  She could not dispute his logic so she merely shrugged. “I do enjoy my matches with Mr. Prescott. He says I am exceeding his expectations.”