The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  Dressed and ready, Christopher claimed his hat from Reeves’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Mr Christopher.’ Reeves glanced pointedly at his driving coat draped across the bed.

  ‘I don’t need it.’ Then he softened at the misery etched on Reeves’s face. The man couldn’t help it. He’d spend most of his employed life worrying about Christopher. They all had since he had suffered one debilitating illness after another as a child. They seemed to forget he now stood six feet in his stocking feet and had gone several rounds with Gentleman Jackson at his boxing saloon.

  ‘I’m not driving my curricle, so I won’t need a coat.’

  Reeves’s expression lightened. ‘Yes, sir.’ Christopher picked up his discarded jacket, fished out the ring and licence and relocated them into the breast pocket of the one he wore.

  Glad to be on his way, he whipped open the door. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

  He ignored Reeves’s huff of disapproval.

  Cold, soot-scented rain dampened Sylvia’s cheeks and trickled down her neck. She shivered.

  A smart town carriage clipped by at a fast pace. The horses’ hooves rang on the wet cobbles as the wheels fractured the lamplit puddles and scattered them in showers of yellow diamonds.

  Across the street, wrought-iron gates bearing a coat of arms of two fearsome-looking boars on an azure ground guarded the Duke of Huntingdon’s mansion. A circular drive beyond the gate allowed for carriages to pull off the street. It was three times as big as the Evernden house on Mount Street.

  The decision to confront her father with his crimes had seemed simple enough in Blackheath. Now, with rain running down her face and standing against the railing of the garden in the centre of the square, her feet felt as cold figuratively as they were literally.

  She didn’t belong here.

  She had lost her right to belong anywhere because of the heartless and selfish man who lived in that great house. If she wanted to sleep at night, she needed to tell him what he had done to the woman who had loved him until the day she died.

  A heavy weight rapped against her knee reminding her of the pistol she’d filched from Garth’s study. Along with a deep breath, it bolstered her courage and before she could talk herself into running away, she darted across the road. A footman, the ducal badge on his navy coat and an expression as blank as the waiting front door, emerged from the gatehouse at her tug on the bell. He pushed back the pedestrian entrance in the huge gates.

  Wordlessly, he opened his large black umbrella and escorted Sylvia to the massive front door. Rain drummed on the taut fabric. Dogs barked somewhere at the back of the house. A frisson of fear shimmered in her stomach. If any of them knew who she was, they’d set those dogs on her.

  Beneath a lamplit columned portico fine enough to make a Greek god proud, he rang the bell and stepped back smartly.

  As she clutched her cloak close to a throat as dry as three-day-old bread, her staccato heartbeat filled her ears. She suddenly felt like the child she’d been the day she had landed on England’s shores, insignificant and out of her depth.

  The door swung back and a middle-aged butler surveyed her from crown to heels. His expression changed from supercilious to puzzled. ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘Miss Boisette, to see Lord Huntingdon,’ she managed with barely a quaver.

  ‘His Grace is not at home.’

  Liar. She’d seen him arrive an hour ago.

  The great wooden door swung ponderously closed. Sylvia thrust her foot in the gap. Pain shot through her toes, but she held her ground.

  The butler peered down, then opened the door enough to allow his large silver-buckled shoe through the gap, ready to crush her foot like an earwig.

  Sylvia shoved at the door. Off balance, the butler staggered back.

  ‘It is to the Duke’s advantage to see me,’ she said.

  ‘I told you. His Grace isn’t receiving callers.’

  ‘He’ll see me,’ she said with icy determination. ‘Here’s my calling card.’ She dropped her mother’s locket into his outstretched palm.

  Indecision hovered in the butler’s expression. Taking advantage of his momentary loss of aplomb, Sylvia pushed her way into the cavernous, circular entrance hall. On the floor, black-and-white marble tiles encircled the Huntingdon coat of arms. A double staircase swept up both sides of the hall to meet at an arched balcony beneath a portrait depicting medieval knights and their ladies.

  ‘Look, miss. You can’t just barge in here. His Grace is dining en famille. No one can see him.’

  A wry smile curved her lips. Who better to join his cosy family evening than his daughter? ‘Take him the locket. He’ll see me.’

  Apparently overborne by her confidence, he gestured to an upright gilt chair against the wall. ‘Wait there.’

  He disappeared down a corridor.

  Either he intended to fetch reinforcements or in a moment or two she would face her father. As the minutes ticked away, Sylvia’s tremors turned into earthquakes. Her mind emptied second by second. Each carefully rehearsed word froze beneath the hard lump in her throat, pressed down by the smell of beeswax and old money, as if the weight of every ancestor rested on her chest.

  She leaped out of the chair when the butler returned. She was ready to leave.

  ‘Follow me, miss.’

  Her heart drummed with such force she felt sure the butler must hear it. She swallowed and nodded.

  They traversed the chequerboard marble and entered a dark passageway beneath one of the staircases. She followed him into a small room with a warm fire. He gestured to the sofa in front of it. ‘Wait here, miss. His Grace will attend you shortly.’

  The overstuffed sofa in front of the hearth looked comfortable, a walnut console stood beside the window holding an assortment of brandy and wine and at the other end of the room sat a huge desk. An untidy pile of newspapers occupied one end of the desk, a pipe rack the other. Behind it stood a glassed-in bookcase. The Duke’s private study, his inner sanctum, bared to her curious gaze.

  She moved around the room as if by touching its contents she could breathe some life into the vague and shadowy figure from her past. Her father.

  Nothing about the room seemed threatening. A couple of pictures of horses and hounds hung on the panelled walls. A portrait of a rather haughty lady with a child on her knee graced the wall above the hearth. The Duchess?

  An ordinary study.

  Drawn to the warmth of the fire, Sylvia sat down to wait. She touched her throat, stilled, then remembered. She’d given the locket to the butler.

  A clock chimed nine somewhere outside. Feet scurried back and forth in the passageway beyond the door, the rattle of dishes indicating the progression of dinner. His Grace apparently intended for her to wait until after dessert.

  She slipped her damp cloak from her shoulders and sat back, hands in her lap. Another hour or two in a lifetime of waiting to set eyes on him made little difference.

  The door opened. Expectations bowstring tight, Sylvia looked up.

  ‘Well, well. ’Tis a wet night to be out wandering the streets of London, to be sure, colleen.’

  Rafter.

  Her heart sank and she dragged the pistol from her pocket.

  ‘You better know how to use that,’ he said.

  ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’

  Christopher knew he was shouting at Bates, but he didn’t care. The idiot. He had told him categorically that she wasn’t to leave the house. Damn it all. Surely she understood the risk?

  With so little money, where would she go? He closed his eyes as he imagined her wandering the highways and byways of England. Or worse yet, the streets of London. Why the hell hadn’t he told her what he was going to do before he left? Because he hadn’t known it himself.

  He took a deep breath and got hold of his temper. She wouldn’t be alone. She would have taken Jeannie. ‘She took her maid, of course.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Blast.’ His mind churning,
Christopher sat down on the hall chair. ‘Does the maid know where she went?’

  ‘She says not, sir. She’s all set to leave for Scotland. I’m to take her to the stage in the morning. His lordship’s orders.’

  Suspicion stirred in his gut. ‘Garth’s here?’

  ‘In the study, sir. The young lady left this for you.’

  Christopher stared at the small white square of paper. She’d left him another damned note.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would know where she’d gone. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so right away?’

  He snatched it up and read it through.

  Nothing. He felt his jaw tighten. Not a bloody word about where she was going. Just goodbye and good fortune. And thank you. He felt like a flag deprived of breeze, deflated and limp. She hadn’t cared for him one jot.

  And Garth was here. He narrowed his eyes, remembering the scene he had interrupted. This was Garth’s fault. He’d scared her away with his lecherous pawing.

  ‘Send Jeannie to the study,’ he said, marching down the hall. For once Garth would pay for his idiocy.

  The door crashed against the wall and Garth raised his head slowly. He had that stupid, distant expression of a man in his cups. ‘Hello, Kit, old boy. Drink?’

  ‘You lousy, rotten bastard.’ Christopher lunged across the room and hauled Garth to his feet by his shirtfront. He raised his fist.

  Garth made no move to defend himself. Guilt shadowed his eyes.

  ‘Blackguard,’ Christopher said. ‘You know where she is.’ Disgusted, he shoved him away.

  Garth staggered back and landed in the seat. He made a feeble attempt to straighten his cravat. ‘I don’t. I gave her the money to go.’

  Christopher couldn’t think or breathe. A cold numbness enveloped him. ‘You gave her money?’ His stomach crashed to the floor, leaving him nauseous. She’d taken money from Garth. For what? His fists clenched.

  A small china bowl on the shelf at eye level filled his vision. He picked it up and flung it at Garth’s head.

  Garth ducked. The bowl hit the wall with a crash. He brushed the dusting of porcelain shards from his shoulders. ‘I never did like that bowl.’

  ‘You gave her money?’ Christopher wouldn’t believe it. His heart felt like the ornament, shattered in a million pieces. But he had to know. He had to let Garth give him the coup de grâce. ‘For services rendered, no doubt.’

  Garth’s expression turned wary. ‘No. I paid her to leave you alone. She’s a scheming little bitch. She planned to wed you. She as good as admitted she planned to have a fine time at your expense. I wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t told me herself.’

  The contents in the pocket over his heart burned a hole in his chest. His throat filled, clogged with a solid lump. He took a long slow breath, blinking away the hot sensation behind his eyes. He hauled in a shaky breath. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Garth shrugged. ‘I asked her how much she wanted to buy her off.’

  He had to know. Had to hear it. ‘How much was I worth?’

  ‘A hundred guineas.’

  The world seemed to stop spinning. He felt empty. He hadn’t for a moment thought she wanted money. It didn’t make any sense. Hell, he could have bought her off the day after the will was read. He’d been taken for a fool. A short laugh scraped his throat raw. He’d been ready to marry her, a girl from the stews, the daughter of a prostitute, a bastard.

  Somehow he’d been bewitched by her beautiful face and luscious body. But by God, he wished Garth hadn’t spoiled the dream. It took a moment, but finally he managed to speak. He kept his voice flat. ‘You had no right to interfere.’

  ‘Head of the family. Duty and all that.’

  ‘Utter rot.’

  They turned towards the opening door.

  Jeannie, more bowed than ever, crept into the room. She had a firm grip on the butler’s sleeve and a dog-eared paper clutched in her hand.

  She glowered at Garth from beneath her bushy brows, then twisted her neck to look up at Christopher, holding out the scrap of parchment. ‘She niver told me what she planned to do or I would have given her this.’ She twisted her neck to glare up at Bates. ‘All right, cully. Tell ’em where she’s gone.’

  Bates sputtered and pulled his arm out of her clawed fingers.

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Mr Evernden, I’m that worried about my wee lass.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  T he pistol in Rafter’s hand waggled and Sylvia stepped back as a fair-haired man, with distinguished grey at his temples and vivid blue eyes snapping anger, strode into the room. He halted in front of the desk and leaned against it.

  This must be the Duke of Huntingdon, her father. An ache spread through her chest, so painful her ribs hurt when she drew breath. Her mother had adored this man. She had died, knowing he didn’t care one snap of his fingers for her.

  He couldn’t be more duke-like. Regal and straight shouldered, his demeanour spoke of privilege and command, but his mottled red complexion warned of a volatile temper or some disorder of the blood. She’d waited all her life to look him in the eye. She took a deep steadying breath.

  Rafter tightened his grasp on her arm. She winced.

  The Duke swept back his black evening coat and set his hands on his hips. ‘What is going on here, Rafter?’

  ‘This woman pushed her way in, demanding to see you, your Grace. Bradford came and got me instead.’

  ‘I heard a shot,’ the Duke said.

  ‘Yes, your Grace. She fired at me.’

  Trust Rafter to tell only half the story. Sylvia glared at him. ‘He grabbed at the gun and it went off.’

  The Duke turned his haughty gaze on her. ‘When I ask you a question, young woman, you will answer. Until then, be silent.’

  Damn his arrogance. This was not the civilised conversation she had envisaged holding with him, the one where she held the gun.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Rafter said in dulcet tones, ‘allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Sylvia Boisette.’

  Sylvia forced herself not to curtsy. Instead, she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.

  Huntingdon’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red. ‘Good God. What the hell is she doing here? I am surrounded by incompetence. I thought you said you could handle this problem.’

  That was all she was to him, a problem to be swept under the carpet liked so much unwanted dust, or locked in the closet like a skeleton. She shivered. The truth of that thought came closer to reality than she cared to admit. She kept her gaze locked on his face. ‘I came here to talk to you.’

  The Duke seemed nonplussed. ‘Damn it all, Rafter. You told me I’d heard the last of her. How much more will it take to be rid of you?’ He curled his lip in distaste. ‘Between you and your mother, you’ll see me ruined.’

  His scornful words and expression gouged into Sylvia’s soul like the claws of a raging beast. ‘Do you have any idea what my mother suffered when you abandoned her?’

  A flash of pain flickered in his eyes, then his expression hardened. ‘Give her what she wants, but get rid of her, Rafter. This is the last time I give her money and to hell with the consequences.’

  What was he talking about? She’d never asked him for a penny and never would. ‘I don’t want your money. I want an apology for what you did to me and my mother.’

  Scarlet-faced, he jerked his gaze to her. ‘Apology?’ The word choked him. ‘Apologise to a woman who’s been bleeding me dry for years? A woman who sells herself to the highest bidder just like her mother did? Never.’

  Damn his arrogance. Her mother had given up her pride and her body so this man’s child could survive. ‘Cochon! She had no choice because you never came back, you heartless cur.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have another little problem, your Grace,’ Rafter said.

  Huntingdon stilled. ‘What now?’

  ‘This little ladybird has a friend. A Mr Evernden has taken her under his wing.’

&
nbsp; Heat branded Sylvia’s cheeks. Rafter had turned something beautiful into filth.

  Huntingdon shrugged. ‘Pay him off. Anything. Surely he’ll see reason.’ He glowered. ‘Warn him of the trouble it could cause for him and his family. God knows I’ve seen enough of it.’

  ‘Ah, your Grace,’ Rafter said, his hoarse voice full of warm congratulation, ‘that’s the way of it. Threaten them into submission.’

  The Duke brushed Rafter’s words away with a sharp gesture. ‘I don’t care what it costs, get her and her false claims out of England. Buy Evernden’s silence.’

  Outrage boiled in her blood. She hated her father for what he had done to her mother. Now he wanted to do the same to her and make Christopher his accomplice.

  She looked longingly at Rafter’s weapon, the one he’d pulled from his pocket after hers fired harmlessly into the wall. She wanted to put a bullet in the Duke of Huntingdon so badly she pictured the blood staining the pristine white of his shirtfront. She’d hang to feel the satisfaction it would bring.

  Sylvia wrenched her arm from Rafter’s grip. Ignoring the pistol aimed at her back, she crossed the thick patterned rug and glared into Huntingdon’s face. ‘Leave Christopher Evernden out of this game of yours. He has nothing to do with you or my mother. As far as I am concerned, I don’t want to remember I have you for a father.’

  His blue eyes blazed anger. ‘You are no daughter of mine.’

  ‘Liar. Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me, then?’

  The Duke recoiled as if struck. ‘Don’t play me for a fool, my girl.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Look. I’ve paid you more than enough to set up your own establishment in Paris, much as the thought disgusts me. You’ve got what you want. Now go away and leave me in peace.’

  Nothing he said made any sense.

  Rafter crossed to her side, grinning like some insane Celtic pixie. For once, his usually implacable grey eyes danced with unholy amusement.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, your Grace.’