The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  Stupid. The inability to sleep after leaving Christopher Evernden in the dining room did not give her an excuse to lie in bed. He reminded her of a disapproving older brother, except nothing brotherly lingered in the depth of evergreen eyes flecked with brown. His steel-hard resolve to do his duty and his ingrained sense of honour pulled at her like the full moon on the ocean. Not to mention his handsome face.

  An ache squeezed her heart and her breath hitched at the pain. Burrowing into the pillow, she shook her head in denial. No handsome face would lead her down the path to ruin and misery. No. She would not let another Evernden man break down her carefully constructed defences.

  A sliding noise and a bang jolted her fully awake. She stared into the gloom. It wasn’t morning. A pale square of light glimmered on the wall opposite the window; the rest of the room lay in deep shadow.

  She turned over.

  Oh, God! Outlined by moonlight, a head and shoulders filled the window frame.

  Fingers of ice held her body immobile and squeezed her throat. She opened her mouth to scream. A faint croak emerged.

  The dark shape dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. This had to be a dream. She swallowed what felt like gravel.

  The shadow lunged at her. Shivers of dread clawed down her spine, breaking the frigid clasp of fear. She kicked the bedclothes aside. A heavy weight landed on her, driving the breath from her lungs, pinning her down. A warm callused hand covered her mouth and nose. She fought for air. The smell of tobacco filled her nostrils and she tasted salty sweat. She flailed her arms, kicked out at him. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  Not again. This couldn’t happen to her again.

  Her lungs begged for air. Her head swam; darkness crept to the edges of her vision. She flailed her arms. He grunted as her fist made contact in the region of his head. His weight shifted, his grip eased. She closed her teeth hard on the soft flesh of his thumb. Sweat and tobacco soured her tongue.

  He cursed.

  Triumph surged in her veins. She gulped at the sudden sweet rush of air and squirmed from beneath him.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she cried. ‘Get out.’

  ‘I’m going,’ he said, shaking his injured hand. ‘An’ like it or not, pet, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘No.’

  She dived off the bed towards the door. Her elbow struck the bedpost and sent agonising tingles shooting to the tip of her little finger. Bent double, she clutched her arm to her chest.

  ‘Help,’ she screamed. ‘À moi.’ Would no one come to her aid?

  He raised his hand, his fist clenched around something black. She ducked.

  The blow snapped her head back. A sharp pain, a flash of light, then sinking blackness rose up and swallowed her.

  Christopher opened his eyes, his heart racing. What the hell? It had sounded like a woman’s scream.

  He groaned. It must have been a bad dream, either that or some lusty knave was hard at it with a red-faced maid. The sour thought only made his own fantasies of Sylvia more frustrating.

  The mist of sleep and the fog of brandy slowly cleared. Good God. He’d lain down fully clothed. He’d clearly spent far too long with Dorkin and his finest French brandy before coming to bed.

  A thud overhead sent him bolt upright.

  Devil a bit. Miss Boisette must be pacing the floor.

  More bumps. The hair on the back of his neck stirred, his skin prickled. It didn’t sound like pacing. It sounded more like a battle. What the deuce was going on up there? He leaped off the bed, flung open the door and peered into the hallway.

  A whispered curse from above directed his attention up the stairs. Caught in the dim glow from the lantern on the landing, a man stood rigid, ready to step down. In his arms, he carried something large and white like a bundle of sheets. A servant?

  ‘Identify yourself,’ Christopher ordered.

  The man let his burden slide to the floor. A pair of slender legs and trailing blonde hair gleamed before they disappeared into the shadows.

  Sylvia?

  Christopher dashed up the stairs. The man swung a bag at his head. Sylvia’s valise. Christopher ducked. He charged the man’s gut with his shoulder.

  His opponent grunted, stumbling backward. Christopher bunched his fists. Disadvantaged by the man’s position above him, Christopher couldn’t get a clear swing. The man flung himself forward. A sharp elbow jabbed Christopher in the ribs. Air rushed from his lungs. He doubled in pain. The man shoved him hard against the balustrade and hurtled down two flights of stairs. He crashed out through the front door, still clutching the bag.

  Gasping, Christopher started after him.

  Damn. He couldn’t leave Sylvia. He turned and took the stairs two at a time to her side.

  As still as death, she lay sprawled on the planked landing, her face pale and her lips bloodless in the lantern’s flickering light.

  Bile rose in his throat. Dead? He knelt and lifted her wrist. Her pulse beat strong and steady. He ran his hands over her limbs and her torso. Thank God, no blood.

  He chafed her cold hands. ‘Sylvia.’

  She didn’t move.

  He pulled her nightgown down to cover her shapely calves and picked her up. Her head fell back, revealing her slender throat and a bruise behind her ear. Rage like molten metal surged through him. Damn the blackguard for striking a woman. If he ever got his hands on him, he’d kill the bastard.

  He hesitated. He couldn’t leave her here or take her to her own room in case the damned rogue came back. Instead, he carried her down to his chamber and laid her on the bed.

  ‘Mr Evernden.’ Dorkin’s voice sounded shocked. ‘What are you doing with that there young lady?’

  ‘Damn it, Dorkin. Don’t just stand there gawking. Miss Boisette is hurt. Fetch a doctor.’

  ‘I’ll get the missus,’ Dorkin said. ‘She’ll know what’s best. Mr Christopher, I never would have thought it of you.’ Dorkin hurried off.

  Christopher stared at his departing back. What the devil did he mean? He glanced down at the practically naked girl on his bed. Dorkin must think that he…Hell. Now he’d have some explaining to do.

  He eased the counterpane from beneath her and pulled it up. He smoothed her hair back from her face. Unbound it had the texture of silk. He investigated the lump on her tender skin behind her ear.

  The cur had struck her a vicious blow. A sick feeling washed over him. What kind of man would do that to a woman? Why had this man attacked her? Not just attacked, he’d tried to abduct her. He shook his head. Beautiful she might be, but people didn’t go around stealing females because they were beyond-reason lovely. Not in this day and age, for God’s sake. Unless some rogue thought Christopher would pay to get her back?

  He enclosed her cold fingers in his hands, trying to warm them, his gaze on her pale face. Damn, she was exquisite. And he’d been right about the nightgown. He’d seen far too much of her beneath it. Her limbs were every bit as lovely as he had imagined and twice as tempting.

  Need ripped through him like a torturer’s knife pressed against his ballocks.

  He cursed under his breath. He had to put a stop to this, and soon. In the meantime, he kept his gaze fixed on her face. Where the hell was Mrs Dorkin, anyway? Sylvia might die before she got here.

  He felt her pulse again and sighed with relief to discover its steady rhythm. A rhythm that in no way matched the tumult of his own erratic heartbeat.

  Hell’s teeth, his racing heart had nothing to do with the scantily clad Sylvia and everything to do with his burning need to catch this criminal. He should be chasing the villain, not sitting here holding her hand.

  Limp and white, her long slender fingers lay like a bird’s broken wing in his large palm. The hand of a lady. Except that this lady was a courtesan’s daughter.

  ‘Now then, Mr Christopher Evernden, what’s all this I hear?’

  Thank God. Mrs Dorkin would know how to care for Sylvia. He moved aside to let her get to the bed.
/>   Her face full of anxiety, Mrs Dorkin leaned over and peered down at the unconscious girl.

  ‘Miss?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Sylvia drifted through thick grey fog.

  A moan increased the pain in her head. She opened her eyes. A fuzzy moon-face hung over her. She shuddered. What did he want with her?

  She put up her hands to ward him off. ‘Don’t touch me, you whoremaster,’ she yelled. ‘Get away from me, you pig.’ She struck out with her fists.

  ‘Lawks,’ moon-face said.

  ‘In English, Miss Boisette.’

  Mr Evernden’s voice.

  What was he doing in her room? Why had he climbed through her window?

  ‘You unholy bastard.’ She tried to sit up. The room spun around her, nausea rose in her throat.

  ‘Miss Boisette, speak English and for God’s sake mind your language. You sound like a Paris trollop.’

  French. They were speaking in French. She tried to get her mind working. Someone had filled it with treacle. Her temples throbbed.

  A firm hand pressed her back against the pillows.

  ‘Now don’t you take on so, miss.’

  It was Mrs Dorkin whose face hung over her in a shifting blur. Sylvia blinked the mist from her sight.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head, dear,’ Mrs Dorkin murmured, smoothing her hair back. ‘Pansy will be along in a minute with a compress. You lie nice and quiet and you’ll be all right in no time.’

  Sylvia gazed around the room. This was not her room. She stared past Mrs Dorkin at Christopher standing at the end of the bed. Another man hovered in the doorway behind him.

  Christopher wore a shirt open at the throat and looked decidedly tousled. His expression held concern. What had he done to her? The last she remembered, they had been arguing at dinner.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  Christopher frowned. ‘Someone tried to abduct you.’

  ‘Someone? Who? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did you not see who it was?’

  A rough lilting voice came back to her, a growl close to her ear and full of menace. And you’re coming with me, pet.

  ‘He came in through the window. He spoke French with a strange accent,’ she said.

  Christopher leaned forward, his expression intent. ‘What sort of accent?’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘Hard to tell. He whispered.’

  ‘Exactly what did he say?’

  ‘He said I had to go with him.’ Her limbs trembled as the fear rushed back.

  Christopher’s expression hardened. ‘He got you halfway down the stairs. Luckily, I heard you cry out.’

  She remembered the feel of his hand on her mouth, the taste of his skin on her tongue. She shuddered. ‘He smokes cigars,’ she said.

  ‘How on earth could you possibly know that?’ Suspicion darkened his eyes.

  ‘He covered my mouth with his hand. I couldn’t breathe, so I bit him. I tasted cigars.’

  Admiration flickered in his eyes, replaced by worry. ‘Good God, he might have killed you.’

  Yes, she believed he might have. The man who had whispered in the dark was capable of anything, even murder. A shiver shook her at the recollection of his hands on her body. She had to leave here. He might return.

  She pushed herself up on her elbow. An ache throbbed in her skull. She touched the back of her head and winced as her fingers encountered a tender lump. She closed her eyes, seeking relief.

  ‘Now, now, miss, what did I say?’ Mrs Dorkin said. ‘You lie down. You’ve had a nasty shock. Mr Christopher, your questions must wait until later.’

  ‘I must get up.’ Her voice quavered, but she refused to acknowledge her weakness. ‘I have to catch the stage to London.’

  ‘Not today, you won’t,’ Mrs Dorkin pronounced. ‘Ah, Pansy, there you are. Bring that bowl over here.’

  The maid sidled around Christopher and set a bowl and towels on the bed next to Mrs Dorkin.

  ‘Go on now, Mr Christopher,’ Mrs Dorkin said. ‘And you too, Dorkin. This young lady has had a nasty scare and a bad knock. I’ll see to her head, and after some willow bark tea, she’s going to sleep. Out you go. At once.’

  Sylvia sent Christopher a look of appeal. ‘I have to leave today. What about my trunk?’

  A frown creasing his forehead, Christopher shook his head. ‘Listen to Mrs Dorkin, Miss Boisette. Don’t worry about your things, I’ll look after them.’

  He didn’t wait for her to argue and Mrs Dorkin didn’t listen to her protests.

  Fatigue washed over Sylvia. As limp as the week-old lettuce she’d prized as a starving child running the streets of Paris, she sank back against the pillows and welcomed the cold compress Mrs Dorkin applied to her aching head.

  Christopher took Dorkin outside and they scoured the perimeter of the inn, looking for signs of the intruder. Above the old kitchen at the back, the thatched roof sloped within three feet of the ground and Dorkin pointed out a pile of stones against the wall. ‘He must have used them to climb up.’

  Cold moonlight revealed broken thatch where the intruder must have stood to force open the second-floor window. Dorkin peered at Christopher. ‘Very strange goin’s on, sir. Why would anyone want to abduct the young lady?’

  Since Christopher had asked himself the same question without an answer, he shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Most importantly, he didn’t want a whole bunch of gossip about this. Travelling with a woman of less than savoury repute was bad enough; talk of tonight would just increase speculation. Christopher would come off just as badly as Miss Boisette and neither of them deserved it.

  ‘I suspect it was a mistake,’ Christopher said. ‘Or someone thought to ransom her because she is travelling under my protection. I think it is best if we do not say anything to anyone else about this until I can speak further to Miss Boisette.’

  Whatever Dorkin thought about the affair, he simply nodded his agreement, his close connections to the influential Everndens ensuring his loyal silence. With no particular expectation of finding anything, Christopher walked out to the lane. A black shape lay amidst the rough grass on the verge. He picked it up and turned the hat over in his hands.

  There was nothing remarkable about the fairly common black felt hat worn by the lower orders. The man in the bar tonight had worn just such a hat. Christopher frowned. Had the man dropped it when he rode away or was he Sylvia’s midnight visitor? If so, there remained the question of why? He tucked it under his arm and followed Dorkin into the inn.

  Chapter Six

  C hristopher gazed into the window of the most well-known dressmaker in Tunbridge Wells, taking in the lengths of brightly coloured muslins and satins and the assortment of gloves and hats and other more personal articles of ladies’ apparel laid out before him. He tugged at his cravat.

  He did not want to do this.

  He had no choice. The damn rogue who attacked Sylvia had stolen every article of her clothing along with her bag and when Christopher had presented himself to the porter at the Sussex Hotel, the fool proudly announced he personally saw to putting the young lady’s chest on the six o’clock coach. When Christopher upbraided him about the folly of sending the baggage without the owner, the man had shrugged and said the lady was very positive in her request. She could pick it up at the London office as soon as she arrived there. Meanwhile, Sylvia had nothing to wear but her nightgown.

  Two ladies stepped around him and entered the establishment. The younger one slid him a curious glance.

  Inwardly, Christopher cursed. He definitely didn’t want to do this. Garth might take pleasure in overseeing his mistresses’ adornment, but Christopher preferred to give them the money and send them shopping.

  Hell and damnation. He’d spent the past two days doing nothing but things against his better judgement. Well, he’d damned well had enough of dancing to other people’s tunes. Sylvia would travel to London under his escort and no argument. Last night was all th
e evidence he needed of the danger she faced travelling alone.

  First, he’d buy her some clothes and then he would drop her off with this friend of hers. After that, he would wash his hands of the whole business and head back to Sussex as originally planned.

  Perhaps a closed carriage would be a better mode of travel given the dreadful weather this year. He could leave his curricle at the Bird and take a post-chaise. He shook his head. Then he’d be left in London with no means of transportation. Bloody hell. She would just have to put up with it.

  He squared his shoulders and strode into the cluttered shop. Manikins draped with swathes of cloth posed in front of shelves filled with fabrics of every hue. The two women ahead of him dithered over a tray of ribbons. Christopher flicked through a book of fashion plates on a side table and waited. One page pictured a blue gown with a modest, but attractive, neckline. He liked blue and it matched the colour of her eyes. Perfect.

  He fixed the middle-aged dressmaker with a stern look. Rows of purple ruffles on her billowing lilac gown made her ample bosom all the more impressive.

  She bade her other customers farewell and bustled to his side. ‘How can I be of service, sir?’

  ‘I want to buy a gown for my sister.’

  On her way out of the door, the younger woman sniggered. Christopher ignored her.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the smiling seamstress said.

  The woman’s knowing expression told him she did not believe a word. He narrowed his eyes and spoke firmly. ‘My sister is having a birthday and I wish to buy her a gown, in blue, today.’

  The woman frowned. ‘It will have to be ready-made, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The woman pulled a sheet of paper out from under the counter and stood with quill poised, looking at him. ‘If you would provide her sizes, I will look and see what I have in stock.’

  Sizes. God. He knew nothing about sizes. He took a stab at it. ‘She’s slender and petite.’

  ‘Height?’

  He held his hand at shoulder height. ‘Her head comes to about here.’

  ‘Waist?’

  Christopher stared at her. ‘Er…’ He’d held her by the waist yesterday. He recalled the feel of her slender body under his fingers. He held his hands in a circle, not quite touching each other. ‘Like this.’