The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  Garth swallowed a cutting remark as his mother simpered. She wasn’t worth the effort.

  ‘Thank you, dearest,’ Lady Stanford said. ‘However, I am sure she would like to freshen up after her journey. Have Merreck take her to a chamber on the fourth floor. I will see her in the drawing room in one hour.’

  Christopher frowned. ‘The fourth floor?’

  His mother raised a haughty brow. ‘A governess, Christopher, not family.’

  Garth silenced a chuckle at Christopher’s obvious displeasure. What had the lad expected? That his uncle’s paramour would be treated like a long-lost cousin? Even Christopher couldn’t be that naïve. ‘Best trust Mother in issues of protocol, old chap.’

  Christopher grimaced and strode out.

  Garth strolled to his mother’s side and kissed her hand, barely grazing her white skin. He glanced into her clouded blue eyes with a laconic smile. As usual, she fretted about her darling younger son. Had she ever looked that anxious about himself? He kept his expression bland. ‘So, our Kit is finally breaking the rules. And what a sublime creature she is, to be sure.’

  ‘Oh, never say so, Garth. You can’t be serious. Tell me the truth now—is she really lovely?’

  ‘Devastating.’ He sank into the chair beside her.

  ‘As head of the family, you must do something, Garth. You must put a stop to it, not encourage him in this madness. He says John left her in his care. But to bring her here…Think of the scandal if people should learn of it.’

  Always the scandal, always afraid what others would say. And it had rubbed off on to Christopher, poor idiot. Anyone would think Mother had walked with the angels all her life. He allowed himself an ironic smile. ‘As to that, my dearest mama, my advice is to let things run their course.’

  Lady Stanford pouted her pretty lips. ‘I never thought Christopher would turn out like you.’

  He curled his lip and inclined his head a small degree. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  Her cautious glance gave him a modicum of satisfaction. Since he now held the purse strings, she occasionally realised just how obliged to him she was.

  ‘Christopher,’ he said, ‘is too sensible to embroil himself with someone so far beneath him in any serious way. Don’t worry, he will come to his senses.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘I intend to give him a little help. I find myself quite charmed by her.’

  ‘Not you, too,’ she cried.

  Did she have to be so obtuse? ‘The worst thing you can do is try to set Christopher against her. The more you oppose it, the more likely he will be to dig in his heels. You know how stubborn he is.’

  ‘Just like his father.’ She sighed. ‘Well, if you truly think so.’

  Just like his father. She said it so innocently, so sweetly, and buried the knife a little deeper. As usual he shrugged it off. ‘I do. Someone of her ilk is bound to give him a disgust of her in short order. You know how particular he is in his notions of propriety. And perhaps I can provide some assistance.’ He looked forward to it.

  Thoughtfully, she gazed at him. ‘I suppose so. I am relying on your help, Garth.’

  If it suited Mother to believe he was helping her, he saw no reason to object. He had his own game to play and the thought of toying with this particular morsel pleased him exceedingly.

  He took her hand and patted it. ‘Always your willing servant, dearest Mama.’

  Sylvia unpacked her few belongings in the sort of room one would give to a poor relation or an upstairs servant. In addition to the bed, it provided a wardrobe, a washstand and mirror and a writing desk. Dull cream-painted walls and a small window looking out on a noisy London street made it a far cry from her apartments at Cliff House. She pushed the past firmly back where it belonged.

  Sighing, she dropped her bonnet on the bed. She poured cold water in the white china bowl on the washstand and washed her face and hands. A glance in the mirror showed her that the day had taken a toll on her hair. She repinned it in a severe bun, an appropriate hairstyle for a governess. Her new life.

  Tomorrow, she would seek her lost trunk at the coaching office at the George in Southwark where the Tunbridge Wells coaches arrived in London. On the short journey from the Jensens’, Christopher had suggested she consider applying for a governess position. Taken aback at first, the more she thought about it, the more viable it seemed. Certainly, opening a dressmaking business with only the few guineas from the sale of Cliff House and without the help of a skilled seamstress was out of the question. Working in an attic or basement as an unskilled needlewoman held little allure. Unless there was no other option.

  A governess. Her eyes stared curiously back at her from the glass. She knew too few children to know if she had the patience or the skill, but surely it could not be too difficult? It was certainly a respectable occupation. Take it, embrace it, no matter the cost to her pride, her mind encouraged. If she could find a suitable position with a wealthy family, she would save all her earnings and open a dress shop some time in the future.

  She strolled to the window and looked down into the busy street. There were numbers of people going about their business in the early evening: carters, fruit sellers, flower girls, and rich folks beneath umbrellas. A well-dressed boy skipped through puddles on the pavement, trailed by a woman in sombre grey. His governess? It did not look so bad.

  Other people, shabby and aimless, wandered down the street. A man in a long black coat and a black hat pulled down low leaned against the lamppost on the distant corner. He looked oddly familiar, but every street corner in London seemed to attract loitering males and beggars like the bedraggled old woman hunched against the railings opposite. Sylvia shivered. She would not become that woman.

  A knock on the door broke her thoughts and she hurried to open it.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Christopher asked, flashing her the charming smile that sent her heart beating a little too fast.

  She nodded and forced a smile. Everything depended on her interview with Lady Stanford. Sylvia had been the object of enough disapproving glances during her life with Monsieur Jean to know not to take anything for granted. A recollection of the instant assumptions in Lord Stanford’s dark eyes reminded her to be cautious.

  Once more, she wished Christopher had not bought quite such a fashionable gown. Her own clothes would have presented a much better appearance for someone seeking work.

  She rested her hand on Christopher’s arm and he led her downstairs.

  The dowager Lady Stanford, with her oldest son standing behind her, sat in state on a sofa in the same drawing room where Sylvia had waited earlier. She instantly recognised Lady Stanford as the woman in the portrait, even without the elaborate wig. The blush of youth captured by the artist had long since faded, but she remained a handsome woman dressed in the first stare of fashion in a Pomona crepe morning gown over a white satin slip from beneath which matching green slippers peeped. The cashmere shawl covering her shoulders must have cost a fortune.

  An intense desire to make a good impression swept over Sylvia in a wave, but the dowager’s frigid expression chilled her hopes. She resisted the urge to turn tail and run. She needed this woman’s assistance. She would endure anything if it provided her with the means of becoming independent. She kept her expression remote and curtsied deeply on Christopher’s introduction.

  ‘I am so sorry to hear of your misfortune, Miss Boisette.’ Lady Stanford’s cold tone disheartened Sylvia further.

  By misfortune, did she mean John Evernden’s death or the loss of her trunk? Sylvia looked to Christopher for some explanation, but Lady Stanford waved a wisp of lace and continued. ‘I understand from Christopher that the friend you were relying on to help you is ill and you would like me to help you find a place with a suitable family.’

  No doubt the ill luck referred to Sylvia’s presence. She maintained her calm expression. ‘Yes, my lady, if it pleases you. I am skilled in watercolours and drawing. I speak fluent French.’

  A wry expression twisted
Lady Stanford’s face. ‘I am glad my husband’s brother provided you with such a good education.’

  Despite her quaking limbs, Sylvia forced herself to speak calmly. ‘Mr Evernden was exceedingly generous.’

  The words sounded dreadful and Lady Stanford’s face froze into a mask of indifference.

  Sylvia winced at the upward slant of Lord Stanford’s mouth.

  His lazy drawl broke the stiff silence. ‘Miss Boisette, allow me to seat you.’ He sauntered to her side, took her hand in gallant style and led her to the sofa opposite his mother.

  He lounged next to her, his long legs brushing her skirts. Christopher frowned at his brother.

  Lord Stanford glanced across at Lady Stanford. ‘Mother, it is good of you to offer Miss Boisette your assistance. It is certainly not something where I could be of any value.’

  Lady Stanford’s expression became horrified and she twisted her handkerchief around her fingers. ‘Good heavens. I should think not indeed. Just imagine the reaction of any of our acquaintances if you were to recommend Miss Boisette to them.’

  Christopher’s face darkened and he glared at his brother. ‘No one suggested he would.’

  Lady Stanford gave a long-suffering sigh and forced a stiff little smile. ‘Since Christopher is so insistent, I will do what I can. To be frank, I know very few matrons with young children, Miss Boisette.’

  Sylvia glanced at Christopher. Her heart squeezed painfully at the discomfort in his eyes. When he said nothing, her stomach dropped to the floor. She should never have let him persuade her to come here.

  His earlier kindness had lulled her into thinking he no longer held her in contempt. She began to reconstruct the wall of ice around her heart, her defence against a world that despised her. ‘I do not wish to put you to any trouble, my lady. I believe I might easily find a position through advertisements in the newspapers.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, is it, Mother?’ Christopher said.

  Lady Stanford sighed again. ‘Of course not.’

  Sylvia didn’t believe a word of it and nor did Lord Stanford from his sardonic smile. He seemed entertained by the discord permeating the room.

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ Christopher said, sitting beside Lady Stanford. ‘I know Miss Boisette is grateful for any help you can provide.’

  Sylvia gritted her teeth. She would be grateful if the promised position materialised; until then all she could do was hide her resentment at Lady Stanford’s disapproval. ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  ‘Well, now that’s settled,’ Lady Stanford said. ‘Christopher, I do hope you will accompany Garth and me to Covent Garden tonight. Mr Macready is quite the latest rage. I know you hadn’t planned to go, but Garth never stays until the end and I would so appreciate your company on the drive home.’ She smiled expectantly.

  Christopher nodded, a trifle unwillingly, Sylvia thought. ‘As you wish.’

  Lady Stanford, it seemed, used a mixture of delicate nerves and guilt to get her way. By now, Christopher must thoroughly regret bringing Sylvia to meet his mother.

  ‘Perhaps Miss Boisette could accompany us?’ Christopher said, his expression brightening. ‘I am sure you would enjoy the play.’

  His open smile sent Sylvia’s heart leaping into her throat. He wanted her to go with them. Against her will, a glow of joy melted a brick in the chilly wall around her heart.

  Covent Garden. An unlooked-for courtesy. For a moment, Sylvia imagined attending one of London’s fashionable playhouses in the rose-silk gown Christopher had purchased until she caught the horrified expression on Lady Stanford’s face.

  She packed ice into the chink. ‘No indeed, Mr Evernden. Your acquaintances would think it very odd for a woman seeking a place as a governess to attend the theatre as your guest.’

  Not to mention her disreputable background. That thought raced across Lady Stanford’s face.

  Christopher’s mouth thinned to a straight line. Disappointment that his mother was right? Lord Stanford engaged himself in removing a piece of lint from his sleeve. Embarrassment charged the air.

  Her face blank, Sylvia dared them to utter what was on their minds.

  A deep chuckle from Lord Stanford broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you,’ he drawled, ‘but I am sorely in need of my supper.’

  ‘And so unusual of you to join us, Stanford dear,’ the dowager said, with a downward curve to her mouth.

  ‘I would not miss it for the world,’ he replied with a small bow. ‘After all, it is not every day we have such a charming guest for dinner.’ His hooded gaze left Sylvia with the impression she was the main course.

  She acknowledged his supposed compliment with a stiff nod.

  Lady Stanford’s expression would have soured a bowl of cream.

  Giving his brother a sharp stare, Christopher rose and strode to Sylvia’s side. ‘Good Lord, yes. You must be ravenous after all the travelling today, Miss Boisette.’ He took her hand and brought her to her feet. ‘Allow me to escort you into the dining room.’

  ‘Mother,’ Lord Stanford said, rising and holding out his arm.

  Christopher gave Sylvia a little grimace as they followed Lord Stanford and his very proper mother.

  Unsure of his meaning, she felt only relief at surviving the interview, if not in good order, at least with her dignity intact.

  Chapter Eight

  W hat better way could she spend an evening than hemming a handkerchief in the Everndens’ drawing room? Sylvia stifled a yawn and set another small stitch in the fine white lawn.

  The theatre would have been better. She forced the thought aside. She had no reason to envy the Everndens their evening and she needed this time to get her thoughts in order after the sinking of her well-laid plans by poor Mary’s illness. Having found herself in uncharted waters, she needed to set a new course. The governess idea might well provide a welcome haven.

  In the meantime, to counteract her feeling of obligation to the grudging Lady Stanford, she had offered to make herself useful during her stay. She had begun right away by fetching Lady Stanford’s shawl from the drawing room when she complained of a draught.

  Christopher had encouraged her with a nod, Lady Stanford had seemed a little less frigid and Lord Stanford had raised a cynical brow. So here she sat, usefully employed on one of Lady Stanford’s indispensable scraps of lace.

  A clock in the hall chimed the hour into a silent house. Ten o’clock. Preferring not to hear about the play, she folded the needlework and placed it in the basket beside her chair.

  The door swung open. She started, her heart picking up speed.

  In full evening dress, Lord Stanford loomed in the doorway. A quizzical smile leavened his chiselled features. ‘Miss Boisette, did I startle you? I was not sure I would find you still downstairs.’

  He probably thought she should scuttle off to bed like an upstairs maid. She wished she had, given that everything about this man smacked of danger. Unlike his younger brother, who wore his sense of honour on his fair and open countenance, Lord Stanford hid his thoughts behind a mask of cynicism. ‘I did not expect you back so soon,’ she said.

  He chuckled. ‘Oh, I left during the first intermission. The house was sadly lacking in interesting company. I thought I might find more amusement here.’

  Dread clenched her stomach. ‘You flatter me. I can assure you I am not in the habit of amusing gentlemen and I am just about to retire.’ She rose to her feet.

  As solid as any door, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. ‘Come now, Miss Boisette, I’m certain I detected a distinct unwillingness on my brother’s part to leave such delightful company at home. You have been travelling together, have you not?’

  Sylvia kept her expression aloof and her gaze steady on the wickedly handsome untrustworthy face. ‘Lord Stanford, you are quite mistaken. Mr Evernden simply undertook to escort me to my destination.’

  His gaze lingered on her mouth, before rising to her eyes. ‘To a friend
who seems as elusive as fog, Miss Boisette. Or do I call you mademoiselle?’ he murmured.

  The dread clawed its way up into her throat. She stepped forward, meaning to pass him, but he didn’t move. She stopped two steps away. ‘My friend’s illness was as much a surprise to me as it was to your brother. Now, if you will excuse me…’

  He reached out and put one finger under her chin. His dark gaze raked her face. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered. ‘You are exquisite. But you know that, don’t you? You are quite wasted on my brother. He is far too strict in his notions to appreciate your undeniable charms.’

  She held her ground, resisting the temptation to slap his smiling mouth. ‘At least your brother is a gentleman, my lord.’ An honourable gentleman. She bit back the words, fearing to push him too far.

  He laughed. ‘So, you’ve got claws too. I like spirited women.’

  She swallowed a gasp, meeting his gaze with a silent stare.

  His lips curled. ‘Oh yes, Kit is definitely a gentleman.’ He made it sound like an insult. ‘You know, I could offer you a much better arrangement than ever my brother would. I have an exceedingly well-appointed house in Blackheath and you would find me most generous. You would lack for nothing now, or later when we go our separate ways.’

  Warmth stole up her neck and into her face at his callous assumption that she was available to the highest bidder. She kept her hands relaxed at her sides. She needed Lady Stanford’s help to find a position and it wasn’t the first time she had been forced to swallow her pride.

  Look to the future and survive the present. In a respectable position, a situation where no one knew her history, she would not be subject to this kind of humiliation.

  She kept her smile cool. ‘I thank you for your offer, my lord, but I am not in the market for a protector. I have other irons in the fire.’

  He regarded her silently for a moment. When he spoke, his soft tone held a warning. ‘You’re a hard little piece, ain’t you. You know, Miss Boisette, I would not want to see my brother embroiled in any sort of…difficulty.’