The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  He didn’t like tea. He never drank it, not even for his mother. He took the cup she held out. ‘Thank you.’

  She peeped at him through her lashes. ‘What an amusing situation to find ourselves in, Mr Evernden.’ Her husky laugh curled around him with delicious warmth.

  He steeled himself against her blandishments. ‘I would hardly call it amusing, mademoiselle.’

  After slowly stirring her tea, she replaced the spoon in the saucer without the slightest chink. She arched a brow. ‘Mais non? You do not find it entertaining? A farce. The son of a noble English milor’ and a courtesan’s daughter, trapped together by a dead man’s will? My mother was une salope. A prostitute, I think you say in English?’

  Startled, Christopher swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. Damn. It burned the back of his throat on the way down.

  He struggled not to cough for several seconds. By God, he hadn’t come here to listen to this. She might look like an angel, but she used the language of the Paris gutters. ‘Your frankness, madam, is astonishing.’

  To his satisfaction, she looked slightly nonplussed.

  She tilted her head in enchanting puzzlement. ‘I thought it would be better if we did not, how do you say it…mince our words?’

  Did she think he would be taken in by such contrived gestures? Christopher glared at her. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If it is plain speaking you want, you shall have it. My uncle’s will leaves me in a damnable position. I have no alternative but to place you somewhere you can do no further harm to my family’s good name.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what will happen to me in a workhouse or some other charitable institution?’ Despite her smiling expression, desperation edged her voice. ‘Oh, no, Mr Evernden. I will not allow it.’

  Christopher glanced around the elegant drawing room. She was right. Wherever she ended up, it would not be like this. Her beauty would leave her vulnerable to all kinds of abuse. The thought sickened him.

  Damn it. She’d been his uncle’s mistress for years. What difference could it possibly make to a woman of her stamp? ‘You have no choice. Cliff House must be sold to pay my uncle’s debts. You must go somewhere you can learn a respectable occupation.’

  A shadow darkened her eyes to fathomless blue. Fear? Anger? Golden lashes swept the expression away, leaving her gaze clear and untroubled. He was mistaken. Women like her did not know fear.

  Except that looking at her, he couldn’t quite give credence to the gossip. Or did he simply not want to believe something this beautiful could be so depraved?

  She surged to her feet in a rustle of stiff silk and skirted the table between them. The heavy scent of roses wafted over him. He didn’t recall her wearing so much perfume in the study.

  As light as a butterfly, her hand rested on his upper arm. She slanted him a teasing glance. ‘The key is respectable, non?’

  Heat prickled up his arm. How would that hand feel in his? Soft? Warm? Before he could discover for himself, she floated to the window. A vague sense of loss swept him.

  Her hair molten gold and the profile of her perfect face and figure haloed by the glow of the afternoon sun, she paused, looking out.

  Another pose designed to drive a man to lustful madness. He tightened the rein on his self-control and waited in silence.

  She pressed a hand to her throat, fingering the trinket suspended at her beautiful throat, then turned to face him full on.

  He squinted against the light, straining to see her expression.

  ‘Your uncle made no complaints,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to take his place?’

  Once more, unruly blood stirred at the suggestion in her husky voice. For a moment, he considered her blatant offer. Blast her. He was no cup-shot, idle rake like his brother. ‘Quite sure.’

  She remained silent for a moment, thoughtful, then smiled and raised one hand, palm up. ‘Then give me two hundred pounds from the sale of Cliff House and I swear the Evernden family will never hear from me again. Nor will I ever mention my connection with your uncle.’

  Blackmail. A brief pang of disappointment twisted in his chest, instantly obliterated by a flood of relief. Two hundred pounds was a pittance to rid his family of this blot on their good name. If he could only trust her word. ‘Where will you go?’

  The sultry coquette evaporated, leaving a haughty young woman staring down her nose. ‘That, sir, is none of your concern.’

  If she thought to bleed him dry a few hundred pounds at a time, she’d come to the wrong door. ‘If you want money from me, I will make it my concern.’

  She hesitated, then dropped her gaze. ‘I am going to Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘Tunbridge Wells?’ The nearest town of any significance to the Darbys’ estate where he planned to spend the next fortnight. He’d arranged to pick up his curricle at the Sussex Hotel and send the town carriage back to London. ‘And how do you intend to support yourself?’

  While her face remained a blank page, storms swirled in the depths of her eyes. ‘A friend owns a small, but exclusive, ladies’ dress shop in the town. I plan to invest in her business.’

  With short sharp steps, she returned to her seat. The heavy scent of roses thickened the air. ‘Would you care for some more tea?’ She picked up the teapot. ‘I have grown fond of the English thé.’

  Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’

  She began to fill her cup.

  A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’

  Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’

  Not quite so self-assured, then.

  ‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’

  She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.

  God, his lungs ceased to work every time she did that.

  ‘You wish to make sure I speak the truth?’ she asked.

  He inclined his head. ‘As you say.’

  She returned the teapot to the tray. Her low husky chuckle filled the silence and she cast him a sly glance. ‘Are you sure that is your only reason for wishing to remain in my company?’

  Smouldering annoyance flared to anger. The little hussy delighted in tormenting him. ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, the sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I will like it.’

  Her gaze dropped from his, her hand creeping to touch her gold locket. When she replied, her smile seemed forced. ‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Evernden.’

  She rose and he followed suit. The top of her golden head barely reached his shoulder.

  ‘I assume we have nothing left to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I would like to leave for Tunbridge Wells in the morning.’

  ‘I will let you know my decision after I have spoken to Mr Tripp.’

  She hesitated, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I am going to join my friend tomorrow, Mr Evernden, with or without your escort. I expect two hundred pounds to be delivered to me before I leave. If not, I will apply to Lord Stanford or perhaps your mother, Lady Stanford. Your uncle promised me that money.’

  Next she’d be claiming a child by the poor old man. Well, Christopher would damned well make sure she never troubled any member of his family again. She might not yet realise it, but she had met her match.

  Tripp had one more task this afternoon, drawing up a settlement. ‘You will have my answer after dinner, mademoiselle. I wish you good day.’

  He executed a courteous, shallow bow and headed for the door. An urgent craving to rid the cloying scent of roses from his lungs lengthened his stride.

  From the arched window on the landing, Sylvia stared down at the athletic figure in the swirling greatcoat as he climbed into a shiny black coach emblazoned with the Evernden coat of arms.

  The sharp point of her locket dug into her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she tried to still her trembles and leaned her fo
rehead against the cool glass. Had he believed her? Why would he not? The thought curdled in her stomach.

  He seemed to be the solemn, honourable Englishman described by Monsieur Jean on his return from London. The disgust curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.

  Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.

  She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.

  A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.

  Non. The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.

  She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.

  With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.

  ‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’

  An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I will become a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’

  Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’

  A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.

  On the wharf, he skirted heaps of cargo, coils of old rope and clusters of merchants arguing in noisy groups. A group of seamen pushed past him with rolling gait, each brawny shoulder loaded with a barrel. Their curses rang in his ears. Nothing cleared the head like sea air, unless, like here, it was befouled with the smell of rotting fish and heated pitch. He grimaced. It really was a noisome, filthy place.

  His long stride carried him swiftly past the waterfront where bare-masted ships speared the cloudy sky. The events of the day pounded at his mind in tune with the sea dashing itself against the cliffs.

  Clear of the busy docks, Christopher strolled along the front, savouring the sharp breeze on his skin and the tang of salt on his tongue. Exposed by low tide, the yellow pebble beach sported seaweed and blackened spars. Nothing about Dover appealed to him.

  Damn it all. It had been a simple task. Stay one night at the Bull, attend the funeral and the reading of the will, then be on his way to the Darbys’ in Sussex by nightfall. Only now, he had to deal with the problem of Mademoiselle Boisette.

  Why not give her the money and let her go her own way? Because he hated to leave anything dangling.

  He frowned. The interview with Tripp had confirmed his fears that there was little to be had from the sale of Cliff House. A half-pay naval officer had offered to purchase it for a pittance and Uncle John’s creditors wanted a quick sale. Tripp thought there might be a few pounds left, perhaps between ten and fifty, after the creditors received their share. Mademoiselle Boisette would be hard put to manage on so small a sum.

  To top it all, Uncle John had reached out from the grave and planted Christopher a facer. A letter, to be delivered if he refused to take Mademoiselle Boisette under his wing.

  Curse it. New rage flared up to heat his blood. He dropped on to a wooden bench looking out over the harbour. Sullen, foam-crested waves tumbled up the beach and rattled the stones. On the horizon black clouds heralding yet more rain. A dousing would make a perfect end to the day.

  He pulled the letter from his pocket and broke open the red wax seal. Ripe with the smell of seaweed, the stiff breeze fluttered the paper as he peered at the spidery handwriting.

  Dear Nephew,

  I write in haste, for I have little time left to me. If you are reading this letter, you have rejected my request to care for my little Sylvia.

  Request? More like a bludgeoning over the head with a gravestone. Christopher fought the urge to ball the paper in his fist and toss it into the surf rolling around the rotting timber breakwater.

  She has been a daughter to me all these years.

  Then why hide her away?

  Her mother was my first and only love. She chose another, but my feelings remained constant. Now, all I can do for my beloved Marguerite is take care of her little girl, Sylvia. My poor Marguerite, so tender in her emotions, dragged down into the pit of hell by viciousness and vice.

  These were words a Gothic novelist like Mrs Radcliffe would have been proud to write. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to read on.

  Understand, my dear Christopher, her father deserted his child and continues to deny her. I have spent my life and most of my money trying to prove her claim.

  You must succeed where I have failed. The duke must pay for his crime.

  Please, do not let me down. You are Sylvia’s only hope.

  John Christopher Evernden.

  The word hope had been underlined several times.

  He was supposed to guess the name of this duke? He turned the paper over to see if it contained the answer on the back. Nothing. Was he supposed to walk up to each of them in turn and accuse them of siring a French bastard?

  Damn. His uncle must think him some sort of knight on a white charger, riding around the countryside rescuing damsels in distress. Questionable damsels at that.

  It was the sort of thing Garth would have jumped at when they were boys. And Christopher would have followed behind, cleaning up the mess. A fool’s errand. The old man had to be addled in his pate. Sylvia Boisette had been brutally clear about her mother’s occupation.

  But not the daughter? For some obscure reason, he wanted to believe Uncle John’s assertion she was his ward and nothing more. In the face of a statement made by a man facing death, Christopher ought to believe in her innocence as a matter of family honour, despite her wanton behaviour earlier today.

  A sudden image of her siren smile, the languorous removal of her gloves, fired his blood. Hell, did he have no self-control where this woman was concerned? Was desire mingled with disgust colouring his judgement?

  Whatever the case, the almost nonexistent funds for her support left the workhouse as the only solution unless he succumbed to her blackmail.

  He stared blindly at the tumbling surf and grating pebbles.

  She needn’t know how much would be left after the sale of the house. He could add to the balance, just be rid of her. He certainly had enough blunt left from the tidy profit he’d made on the last cargo of silks from the Orient. Even after purchasing a half-share in a ship bound for America, there was more than enough left to see Mademoiselle Boisette comfortably settled.

  It would solve the problem. If he could be sure she would leave his family in peace.

  He stuck the note in his pocket alongside the agreement drawn up by Tripp, pushed to his feet and headed towards town and the comfo
rt of his inn. He’d think about it some more over dinner.

  Taking hasty decisions on an empty stomach only resulted in trouble.

  Chapter Three

  A t the crunch of wheels on gravel, Sylvia turned her gaze from her beloved cliffs to the Evernden carriage rolling through the gate.

  Thirsty for one last memory, she wheeled in a slow circle, the coarse fabric of her plain, grey wool travelling cloak twisting about her legs. Above her, white against grey, crying seagulls hovered on a breeze alive with the boom of crashing surf and a smattering of rain. Weighed down by the lessons she’d learned as a child, she drank in her last view of the rambling mansion’s warm red brick framed by windswept larches. One could never go back.

  The matching chestnuts slowed to a halt at the front door. All loose-limbed athletic grace and conservative in a black coat, Mr Evernden leaped down. The wind ruffled the crisp waves of his light brown hair. His handsome face brightened when he caught sight of her.

  Warmth trickled into her stomach. Her mind screamed danger.

  He waited as she strolled across the drive to his side, then glanced at her green brassbound trunk beside her valise on the steps. ‘Is this everything?’

  She had packed only the most practical of her clothing. She nodded. ‘All I need.’

  The coachman tied her luggage on the rack at the back and Mr Evernden swept open the carriage door. ‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle Boisette?’

  He held out his hand to assist her in. A small, polite smile curved his firm mouth and green sparks danced in his eyes.

  Awareness of his size and strength skittered across her skin. She stilled, frozen by the odd sensation. Last night, his note had indicated his agreement to take her to Tunbridge Wells. After performing the harlot yesterday, dare she trust him? Prickles of foreboding crawled down her back.

  She ignored his proffered aid. ‘Quite ready, Mr Evernden.’ Maintaining a cool expression, she stepped into the well-appointed carriage and settled on the comfortable black-tufted seats.