The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  ‘Eighteen inches, I should think,’ the woman said, scratching on her paper.

  ‘Chest?’

  Christopher held himself steady, refusing to be put off, despite an overwhelming inclination to flee the store and forget the whole thing. How would a brother know that kind of thing? He wouldn’t. He shook his head.

  The woman tutted. She looked down at her own well-endowed figure. ‘Like me?’

  Perish the thought. ‘Smaller. Quite a lot smaller.’

  The woman crossed to a manikin and held her hands cupped in front of it. Christopher could tell that she had done this before. ‘Like this?’ she asked.

  The shape of the woman’s hands were nothing like the small upthrusting breasts beneath the nightgown he’d glimpsed in the small hours of this morning. He swallowed. ‘Not so round.’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman said, her lips pursed. ‘Lisette, dear. Do come out here a moment.’

  A young woman in a stiff black gown cut high to the neck emerged from behind a yellow curtain beyond the counter. The shopkeeper swung her around by the shoulders to outline her figure’s profile. She pulled the gown tight at the sides, revealing a pert and shapely figure.

  ‘How about like this?’

  He pushed the disturbing image of Sylvia’s breasts, coupled with visions of her legs, her golden hair hanging to her waist, to one side. The girl was close enough to Sylvia to make no difference. ‘Yes. About like her, perhaps a little more slender.’

  The woman bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’m sure we have something to your liking, sir. I’ll be but a moment.’

  Christopher approached a display cabinet and leaned against it, looking in. The case contained gloves and little lacy things. Soft and delicate things he imagined Sylvia wearing at night or beneath her gown. Filmy, clinging garments designed to hug soft feminine curves. Curves which felt so right in his arms. Curves he’d had no business touching and which were likely to disturb his mind and his body for a very long time.

  Disgusted with the turn of his mind, he flung himself into a gilt chair jammed between stacks of cloth, his gaze fixed on the brightly coloured bales, refusing to think about Sylvia at all.

  He didn’t have long to wait for the woman to return. He stared at the froth of garments draped over her arms.

  ‘I brought you a morning gown in blue-and-white muslin. Something for daywear, I think you said? I also took the liberty of bringing an evening gown, right for almost any function. This shade of rose is all the rage and truly lovely. No lady would be disappointed.’

  He hesitated. Decisions never bothered him, but he had no idea what Sylvia liked. ‘I’ll take them both.’

  The woman smiled. ‘She is a lucky lady to have a generous…brother like you.’

  He gritted his teeth at her impertinence, but leashed his temper. It didn’t matter what she thought. ‘I also need things to go under those, and a hat, gloves, you know the sort of thing.’

  The woman’s face lit up as if she’d been given a gift. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Might I suggest—’

  ‘Just put it all together. Everything a lady will need for two days. I will come and collect them in half an hour, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all, Mr Evernden,’ the dressmaker said, rubbing her hands together.

  He mentally cursed his stupidity. He’d lived not five miles from here during his youth—was it any wonder she knew him? She would also know he did not have a sister.

  In the dark passage outside the parlour, Sylvia prepared herself to face Mr Evernden over luncheon. She smoothed her hair and swallowed a gasp when her fingers encountered the tender spot in her hairline behind her ear.

  A shudder ripped through her. Who would want to abduct her in the middle of the night and steal all her clothes? The thought left her feeling shaky, unlike herself.

  It seemed so peculiar. And now she found herself further indebted to Mr Evernden. She glanced down at the gown he had purchased for her. A fashionable high-waisted blue muslin with a generous amount of lace in the neckline and pretty puffed sleeves, it must have cost a fortune, it and the rest of the items he’d brought back from Tunbridge.

  Spine straight, she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the front parlour Mrs Dorkin reserved for her most favored guests.

  Newspaper in hand, Mr Evernden rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Boisette. I hope you are feeling more the thing?’

  The deep timbre of his voice and his concerned expression drove all thoughts from her mind, except how handsome and large he looked framed in the bow window. This man had saved her life last night. A fluttering warmth danced in her veins. ‘Thank you. I feel much better.’

  Afraid her eyes would give her away, she dropped her gaze to the table. ‘My goodness.’ A basket of bread, a cold ham and platters of fruits, cheeses and other delicacies lay spread out on the table in front of him.

  His warm chuckle reverberated from his chest. ‘I hope you are ravenous.’ He gestured to the banquet. ‘I certainly can’t eat all this myself and Mrs Dorkin will be most put out if we do not do it justice.’

  He went around the table and pulled out the chair for her. ‘Please, sit down.’

  The calm easy manner soothed her jangled nerves and, as she settled into the chair, the scent of his sandalwood cologne filled her senses. She risked a smile.

  His eyes widened a fraction and a heat flickered in their green depths.

  A fire ignited beneath her skin. Her pulse tripped and quickened. She felt warm and shivery all at once. She stared down at her hands folded in her lap and noticed their tremble. The blow to her head had affected her more than she thought.

  He returned to his seat.

  She wove her fingers together, stilling them. ‘Thank you for purchasing this gown, Mr Evernden. I am sorry to put you to so much expense.’

  His gaze travelled over her, appreciation in their depths. ‘It certainly fits well enough and the colour matches your eyes.’

  The urge to smile back, to simper like a schoolgirl, tugged at her lips. She caught it and held it at bay. ‘I would have preferred something a little less fashionable, but I do thank you.’

  His mouth twisted in a wry smile and he raised a brow. ‘There was little else to choose.’

  She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. ‘It’s a lovely colour.’

  He grinned, cheerful and boyish. Her foolish heart skipped a beat.

  ‘I hope the other items were to your satisfaction?’ he asked.

  A laugh rose in her throat at his smug expression. Never had a man charmed her like this. Razor-sharp claws of fear tore at her stomach. Fear of her own weakness. She kept her expression and smile cool. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He cocked his head to one side as if puzzled, then shrugged. ‘Allow me to help you to a slice of ham.’

  She unclenched her stiff fingers and passed him her plate. ‘Thank you.’

  On it, he placed a roll, some wafer-thin ham and three asparagus spears, bright green against the white china.

  ‘That is enough,’ she murmured.

  ‘You must keep up your strength after last night, Miss Boisette.’ He added a slice of chicken.

  He returned her plate and filled his own.

  They ate in a comfortable silence.

  ‘May I pour you some coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Please.’ He pushed his cup and saucer towards her and she filled it. The earthy aroma wafted up. It was as if they were a married couple. A painful yearning ached in her chest. She would never have a husband.

  ‘You are very attached to your locket, Miss Boisette.’ A small jerk of his chin brought her to realise she clutched the heart-shaped gold at her throat.

  ‘It is the only thing I have left of my mother. The only thing I brought to England from Paris.’

  A muscle flicked in his lean jaw at the mention of her origins and pain stabbed her heart. No gentleman would want to be reminded of her background.

  After a mouthfu
l of coffee, he placed his cup on the saucer and gave her a long steady stare. ‘I’m afraid we must discuss last night. Do you have any idea why this man might want to abduct you?’

  Nausea rolled in her stomach. The reason that had occurred to her was not something she wished to discuss with any man, particularly one as straitlaced as this one. ‘I have no idea at all.’

  ‘Did you recognise his voice? Can you describe anything about him?’

  A hoarse low whisper echoed in her ears and a bitter taste touched her tongue. ‘As I said before, he spoke French, but the accent was odd.’ She shook her head and winced at the ache. ‘He seemed familiar. Someone I’ve met.’

  He stared at her, eyes narrowed, intent. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’ The recollection of enveloping darkness rolled over her. She touched a hand to the lump behind her ear.

  ‘Dorkin is of the opinion we should call in the local magistrate. I’m not so sure.’

  The thought of the authorities made her shiver. Her blood froze the way it had when she had been a child on the streets in Paris at the sight of the National Guard. She strove to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I prefer to leave for London immediately. There must be a later stage I can catch.’

  He frowned. ‘Quite honestly, I also would prefer not to become entangled in a lengthy enquiry. The circumstances of our travelling together are rather unfortunate. However, I cannot allow you to continue your journey by public transportation. After last night, surely you must see the danger?’

  Unwelcome warmth glowed in her heart at the genuine concern in his eyes. She made one last-ditch attempt to stave him off. ‘People travel quite safely that way every day, Mr Evernden. Last night’s events were perpetrated by some rogue trying to rob the inn. I was the unfortunate victim.’

  He gave her a long searching look. ‘I wish I felt sure it was a random act. I think I saw the fellow in the bar last night. He struck me as a man with a purpose.’ Determination shone in his eyes and hardened the set of his jaw. ‘Whatever the case, I will see you safely to London.’

  Christopher eased his team around the tight turn on to White Lyon Street. He narrowly avoided a marauding band of sailors propositioning a group of tawdry trulls flashing their wares like exotic birds in the moulting season. Ragged men and women huddled in doorways. The dreary rookeries of London’s East End crowded in on them.

  He glanced at Miss Boisette’s wooden expression. ‘Your friend must have her business in a different part of town.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’ She sounded far from sure.

  The weather had remained unusually fair and the drive had passed amicably. As they whiled away the time on the drive, he saw in her laughing replies hints of the sensuous woman who had teased him close to madness in Dover.

  Strangely, his uncle seemed to have educated her more like a male friend than a female. She was well versed in the classics, Plato and Aristotle, and fond of the French philosopher Descartes. She had decided opinions on all of them.

  Her fine mind would be wasted in a dress shop. She’d make a perfect companion with whom to spend the evening hours after mutually satisfying physical intimacy. The thought sliced through his idle musings. Had he lost his mind?

  Awareness of her delightful feminine form scorched his hip. He shifted away and glanced around. Late afternoon lengthened the shadows between the buildings at an alarming rate. The district’s evils were well known to him from his occasional business dealings here. He pulled up in front of a three-storey tenement house with peeling paint and an air of disreputable decay. A broken shutter hung from an upper storey. Filthy rags replaced glass here and there across the face of the building.

  A frown creased her forehead. ‘This is it?’

  He nodded and signalled to a skinny youth with a shorn head and enormous ears slouched against the wall. ‘Hold the bridle.’

  The boy leaped forward.

  Christopher climbed down. He gave the lad a stern glance. ‘No funny business and I’ll give you a penny.’

  Red-rimmed assessing eyes stared back. The lad wiped his nose on a tattered sleeve. ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Christopher helped Sylvia down from the carriage and across the stinking kennel running with the day’s effluence. She stared at the narrow door bearing the number they sought, took a deep breath and knocked. The sound echoed off the dank walls along the street.

  Nerves of steel would avail her little in a place like this. Anger burned in his gullet. How could she possibly think of living here? It seemed too rank, too desperate for such a bright jewel. With half an eye on his carriage and the unsavoury youth at the team’s heads, he drummed his fingers on his thigh.

  The door opened a crack and a dirty face and two dark eyes peered out at them. Christopher didn’t blame the occupant for caution in this neighborhood.

  Sylvia took a small step back. She looked at the paper in her hand. ‘Does Mary Jensen live here?’

  ‘Aye.’ The door widened to reveal a man in the rough garb of a labourer, his coal-dust-blackened face pierced by a pair of wary bloodshot eyes. The man’s gaze ran over her, then took in Christopher and the carriage beyond. ‘Who wants her?’

  ‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. She used to be my governess.’

  The man seemed slow to absorb the words, but finally he nodded. ‘I’m her brother. Mary is sick in her bed.’

  ‘I wonder if I might see her?’

  The girl was persistent if nothing else. Christopher felt admiration well in his chest.

  ‘Aye, ye best come in, then.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘You’ll have to excuse my dirt, I just got in from work at the coal yard.’

  An honest trade, at least. Christopher removed his hat and followed Sylvia into a dingy hall.

  ‘This way,’ Jensen said.

  ‘Who is it, Bill?’ a shrill voice called.

  ‘No one,’ he shouted back. ‘Visitors for Mary.’

  A woman, brown wisps poking out from beneath her cap, bobbed her head around a door along the passage. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sylvia and practically popped out of her head when she focused on Christopher. She joined them in the narrow corridor.

  ‘This is my wife,’ Jensen said.

  ‘Lord have mercy,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘You be that French girl she’s always talking about. The one that was going to help her at the shop.’

  ‘Yes, Sylvia Boisette,’ Sylvia said.

  Christopher heard relief in Sylvia’s voice, but a chill of premonition told him that the worst was yet to come. No respectable woman would willingly live in this part of London. He couldn’t leave Sylvia here. The thought hit him like a dunk in a horse trough on a cold day.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea.’

  She ducked out of reach.

  ‘Who’s that, then?’ Mrs Jensen asked, with a nudge of her elbow. ‘Your fancy man?’

  ‘He drove me here.’

  Christopher wanted to throttle Sylvia. She had dismissed him as if he was some sort of lackey, a coachman no less. Well she was about to find out that he considered himself a whole lot more.

  ‘Mary’s in the back room,’ Jensen said.

  He led the way into a cell of a room with flaking plaster walls, a truckle bed and a table beside it. On a narrow cot, a woman lay beneath the sheets, her skin like rice paper over blue veins. She opened her dark-circled eyes and slowly focused on the invaders of her cloister.

  ‘She’s on opium for the pain,’ Jensen announced.

  Sylvia sank to her knees beside the bed. ‘Mary,’ she said, her voice husky.

  Christopher felt like a voyeur in this room of suffering. The familiar smell of illness, sickly sweet and vile, hung in the air and turned his mouth sour. ‘I will wait for you outside, Miss Boisette. Don’t be long.’

  Questioning, Sylvia glanced up at him, tears hanging like bright diamonds on her lower lashes, her eyes deep pools of sorrow.

  ‘I mean
it, Miss Boisette. Ten minutes.’ He headed for the front door and the fresh air of the street. Fresh. What a joke. Thick with smoke and the stink of rotting refuse, it was a slight improvement on a room full of death waiting to claim its own.

  Damn it all. This time, Sylvia Boisette would do as he instructed. He didn’t want to have to go back in there and haul her out.

  Sylvia took Mary’s frail hand in hers. ‘What happened?’ she asked gently. ‘You never replied to my letters. When I went to Tunbridge Wells you had left.’

  Mary’s soft brown eyes closed for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was the ague at first. Before I knew it, I could scarcely crawl out of my bed.’

  Sylvia pressed her palm to Mary’s forehead. Hot and clammy to the touch, it told the story of her friend’s suffering. Sadness filled her heart. ‘Tell me what I must do to help you.’

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘It’s a canker in her lungs,’ her brother said from behind. ‘Ain’t nothing can be done, what we ain’t already done.’

  For all their poverty, the room seemed clean, the sheets smelling of soap, the floor swept. She glanced at Mary’s sister-in-law. ‘There must be something?’

  ‘Mary’s got a bit of money put by and we’ve been using that for the doctor and the medicines.’ Mrs Jensen bit her lip. ‘When that’s gone, I’m not sure what we’ll do.’ With a glance at the woman on the bed, she lowered her voice. ‘It may not be much longer, though.’

  It seemed so unfair that someone as vital as Mary Jensen should be brought to such an end. Sorrow filled Sylvia’s heart and tears choked her throat. She picked up the skeletal white hand and stroked it. ‘You must get well,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘I’m relying on your skill with a needle. I have many new designs sketched out.’

  ‘John Evernden is dead, then?’ Mary whispered.

  Sylvia nodded. ‘A few days ago.’

  ‘He left you well settled?’

  If there was anything surer, Mary Jensen didn’t need to hear about Sylvia’s troubles. She smiled and indicated the door. ‘His nephew.’