Читать книгу The Courtesan's Courtship - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 11

D ianthe curled up in the overstuffed chair in her room and unfolded Afton’s letter. She wanted to read slowly and savor every word. The letter had been written weeks ago and would be full of ordinary news and everyday observations. Oh, how she longed for something ordinary.

She took a sip of her tea and began reading.

My dearest little sister,

I write to you with some good news and some of a curious nature. First the good news. I am bearing a little McHugh. I have known for quite some time but have delayed telling anyone until I was certain all was well. Rob is completely overjoyed. I have never seen him so doting. We expect the blessed event to occur just before the New Year.

Dianthe counted backward on her fingers. Heavens! Afton was five months along. How wonderful. Oh, but a doting McHugh would never allow Afton to travel over rough Scottish roads in a delicate condition. Nor should he. Afton should stay safe at home. And that meant McHugh would come himself. That thought made her more than a little uneasy. McHugh was not a patient man, and he would rush into the Bow Street office demanding to see any evidence against her, and that any charges be dropped. He’d likely end up in Newgate alongside her.

Oh, but she wouldn’t think of that now. Afton was having a baby! What joyous news. If Dianthe could just get clear of this mess, she would hie to Scotland to be with her. She blinked her tears away and returned her attention to the letter.

And now for the curious news. The postmaster in Little Upton forwarded a letter to me here. To say I was surprised, even shocked, is an understatement. Do you recall that Mama had a sister, Aunt Dora, who emigrated to Australia? Well, it appears that was a lie to cover a more scandalous event.

A visiting dignitary seduced Aunt Dora, and Grandfather turned her out when he discovered her transgression. She did not go as far as Australia, however. She went to London and took up with a wealthy merchant. He was married, but kept Aunt Dora comfortably. She had a daughter, Eleanor. Just think! We have a cousin. It was she who wrote to us.

Aunt Dora died a few years ago, and would never discuss her family, so Eleanor only recently found out about us. Her father preceded Aunt Dora in death, and his family turned their back on Eleanor, refusing to acknowledge her or contribute to her support.

Here lies the difficulty, Dianthe, and I pray you will be gentle and not judge her. Lacking both family and fortune, Eleanor was left to her own devices when Aunt Dora died. Untrained for any useful occupation, she had little choice but to enter the demimonde. She now wishes to leave that life behind, and begs that we will help.

Toward that end, dear sister, I have sent her your calling card, along with the Thayers’ address, and I have urged her to call upon you. When you hear from Miss Eleanor Brookes, please assist her in any way possible, and send her to us at Glenross. We shall take care of her and help her build her life anew.

I know I needn’t caution you to discretion. This sort of news would provide grist for the gossip mill for years to come, and the damage it could do the Lovejoy name is immeasurable. Think of your future prospects, Dianthe, and of our brother’s future.

I hope to hear from you soon, and urge you to come spend the Christmas season with us at Glenross.

Your loving sister, Afton

Stunned, Dianthe could only stare at the letter in her lap while her mind reeled. Eleanor. Nell. Nell Brookes had been her cousin. She had held her cousin and watched her life seep away. And Nell had known—had probably followed Dianthe to Vauxhall to meet her rather than come to the Thayer house. Thank heavens ’tis you, she had said. And, as difficult as it had been, thank heaven Dianthe had been there so Nell would not die alone.

Tears stung her eyes and blurred the words on the page. Dianthe silently renewed her promise to find and stop the man who had murdered her cousin. Of course she would not breathe a word of this to anyone. Whether her own future had been irretrievably lost or not, her brother’s must be protected at any cost.

Geoff left his horse in the care of a stable boy and let himself in the kitchen door of the manse on Curzon Street. He’d departed the gaming hells early this evening for the express purpose of dealing with Miss Lovejoy but he wanted to get back to the hells for the deepest play. The risk of a high stakes game was the only thing that gave him relief from the endless monotony of life. Only then did the dark loneliness inside him ease. Only then could he forget his failure to Constance. And, dear God, his sister, Charlotte. But that pain was still too raw to bear thinking about. Now he had to add Nell to his list. He was no good for women.

He encountered Mrs. Mason as she came below stairs bearing a tray with a half-eaten meal of lamb chops and roasted potatoes. “Oh, Lord Morgan! I did not expect you tonight. Will you be wanting dinner?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be wanting Miss Lovejoy. Is she about?”

The woman flushed and Geoff realized how his words must have sounded.

“I mean I’ll be wanting to speak with Miss Lovejoy.”

“Of course, milord. But I am afraid she has just retired for the evening.”

“I’ll be in the library. Please ask her to accommodate me. I will take only a few moments of her time.”

Without waiting for a response, Geoff made his way to the library. He’d just poured himself a brandy when Mrs. Mason appeared at the door.

“My lord, I…Miss Lovejoy begs that you return tomorrow at a…” the woman colored again and took a deep breath “…at a respectable hour.”

It took him a full minute to comprehend the enormity of that insult. It was his house, by God! And she was living on his charity! How dare she refuse to see him? Had she no manners at all?

“Thank you, Mrs. Mason,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He dismissed the woman with a wave of his hand and finished his brandy in a single gulp.

Another brandy followed the first as he considered how to respond to her haughtiness. In the end, he was confounded. There was only one way to handle Miss Lovejoy.

He took the stairs two at a time, seething with indignation. Two sharp raps on her door were all the warning he gave before opening it and stepping through. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair with her legs curled beneath her and the pages of a letter in her lap. She looked up in surprise.

“Miss Lovejoy, when I request an interview with you, I expect to be accommodated.”

She blinked those wide blue eyes. “As you can see, Lord Morgan, I am scarcely in a condition to receive visitors.”

There was nothing wrong with her condition as far as he could see. Her pale blond hair, most often done up in a formal style or tucked beneath a bonnet, was loose and fell over her shoulders, to tumble down her back. A wealth of midnight-blue fabric swathed her form, leaving a deep V open from her neck to a spot midway between her breasts, where a film of white lace peeked through. No, her “condition” was quite acceptable. At least to him.

“I do not care what condition you are in. Common courtesy would dictate that you receive me.”

She unfolded her legs, revealing bare feet. The deep blue fabric shifted to drape over her form most alluringly as she stood. He recognized the garment as his dressing robe. The cuffs had been rolled back several times, and the hem made a little puddle at her feet. The sight gave him such a sudden visceral reaction that he instantly stiffened with desire. He was jealous of his damn robe! He wanted to wrap himself around her, fall heavily over the soft swells of her breasts, get tangled between her long shapely legs.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

She stood, the pages of her letter drifting to the carpet with a soft whisper, and performed a mocking curtsy. “My pardon, Lord Morgan. I had thought your offer of shelter was given without pain of favors. Now that I know better, I shall, of course, leave.”

“The hell you will,” he cursed. “Where do you think you could go? You will simply treat me with due courtesy and respect. In short, as you would treat anyone else in the same circumstances.”

“You are not ‘anyone else.’ You are a reprobate who gambled to win my friend in marriage. Your quarrel nearly got my cousin killed. And because of you, Mr. Lucas is dead. You care for nothing but yourself. I only accepted your help because I do not care what happens to you, and, to be frank, all your money will not buy you respectability.”

“There were reasons for that wager, Miss Lovejoy.”

“You take other people’s fortunes on the turn of a card,” she accused.

“I force no one to risk so much as a farthing. ’Tis their choice, and if I do not take it, someone else will.”

“You nearly got my cousin killed!”

“Your cousin, of his own accord, lunged between me and a dishonorable shot from my opponent’s second when my back was turned.” She looked so like an avenging angel that Geoff felt guilty, though he couldn’t have said for what. He’d be damned if he was about to explain anything further to this piece of fluff who thought him guilty of all sorts of misdeeds.

She lifted her pert little nose in high moral indignation. “I’ve no doubt at all that you can explain everything away, Lord Morgan, but I’ve no interest in hearing excuses. Now, why have you come to my room?”

She had him in such a state that it actually took him a moment to recall why he’d come. “Miss Brookes’s funeral, Miss Lovejoy. I saw you there.”

He detected a crack in her hard veneer. She turned and walked slowly toward the fireplace, speaking over her shoulder. “Why should I not have gone? After all, I was the one to find her.”

“And the one the authorities are looking for. I thought you were smart enough to stay out of sight.”

“I thought I had. I was swathed in black mourning and heavily veiled. How did you recognize me, Lord Morgan? I doubt my own sister would have.”

He could hardly tell her he had recognized her figure and the way she moved. It would never do to let her know the effect she was having on him. She was already too sure of herself. He would have to settle on something more vague. “Perhaps you are not as clever as you thought.”

She halted and her spine stiffened. “Then I suppose I shall have to be more careful.”

“I’d advise it, Miss Lovejoy, though staying out of sight entirely would be preferable.”

“I believe we’ve had this discussion before, Lord Morgan. Do I not recall you saying that you ‘make it your policy to never interfere in the personal matters of others, nor to question their actions or motives’?”

“That was before you were being so widely sought.”

“Nevertheless, giving me shelter does not grant you the right to dictate my actions. Disavow yourself of that notion. If you are unable to do so I shall have to leave, because I do not intend to sit docilely by while the police make a case against me. Since no one else has come forward to do it, I shall champion myself.”

Was she suggesting that he should champion her? Surely not. She’d made it obvious that she could not even bear the sight of him. Perhaps he could reason with her. “Did you learn anything new today, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Well, no. I only spoke with one person, and she was not at liberty to…that is, she—”

“Wouldn’t tell you anything,” he finished for her. “And what does that tell you?”

“That people are afraid to talk.”

“That people are unwilling to talk to you,” he corrected. “You cannot expect those close to a murder to simply begin blurting every little detail they might recall. Investigation requires a little more finesse than that, Miss Lovejoy. You are far too naive to know how to go about this sort of thing.”

She finally turned toward him and smiled. “I have a new plan. One that will open doors for me and answer whatever questions I have. And, by the by, what were you doing at Miss Brookes’s funeral?”

Damn. “Where I go and what I do is none of your concern, Miss Lovejoy. Just stay out of my way.”

“Nor is what I do or where I go yours, Lord Morgan. And I shall be quite pleased to stay out of your way. Now, are you going to toss me out of your house on my ear?”

“You know I won’t,” he growled. “And you’re counting on that. But once your cousin is back—”

“All bets are off,” she finished for him with a wicked little quirk of her lips.

Oh! That impossible man! He leaves me alone for days, then simply appears in the middle of the night, demanding to see me, and telling me what to do!

Dianthe tossed her brush aside and stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. What was it about her that brought out the worst in that man? What was it in him that brought out the worst in her? She made a little moue in the mirror.

If forced to the truth, she would have to admit that Geoffrey Morgan had been as kind to her as she had allowed, and she hadn’t made even that easy for him. There was just something about him that set her on edge. Was it that he didn’t fawn over her like other men? Or that most of the time he just seemed annoyed by her?

She stood and glanced at the massive canopy bed. Had Lord Morgan ever slept there? She tried to imagine him lying tangled in the pristine sheets of satin-weave linen, his intense hazel eyes closed in slumber. Her breathing deepened and her heartbeat skipped. His lordship had an intangible air of danger and darkness about him that made her other beaux seem almost effeminate. She’d certainly never pictured any of them in a bed.

But this was foolishness! She had no intention of allowing herself to waste time in such utter nonsense as dreaming of that scheming devil. She untied the belt of her robe and shrugged out of it. A whiff of masculine shaving soap floated up to her from the discarded heap on the floor, and her knees weakened. What was wrong with her?

Geoffrey Morgan was everything she disliked in a man. He was arrogant, unscrupulous, ill-mannered, ruthless, cold, demanding and autocratic. Everything about him set her teeth on edge.

Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

She closed her eyes and saw his face as he’d stood in her doorway. His eyes had burned into her and caused an answering heat to rise from somewhere near her belly. When he’d taken three steps into the bedroom, she’d wondered if he’d come to ravage her. And she was distressed to realize that thought did not trouble her much.

Or was it guilt that gnawed at her? Yes. That had to be it. Willingly or not, he’d given her shelter when she’d been desperate. He’d made certain his staff would see to all of her needs, and had given her relative independence. And she had repaid him with churlishness. Though he wouldn’t know it, she really had better manners than she’d shown him.

Yes. Henceforth, she’d give him no cause for complaint. She’d show him the respect he’d asked for. She’d be as civil to him as she would to any polite stranger. She’d be the very model of decorum and ladylike calm. She wouldn’t allow him to rankle her, no matter what he said or did.

Dawn was spreading a pink glow over rooftops and chimney pots when Geoff finally arrived at his house on Salisbury Street. The day servants had not arrived yet, and only his valet, Giles, and Hanson, the cook, lived in. Although the house was certainly large enough to warrant a live-in staff of five or so servants, he did not like the intrusion upon his privacy. Giles and Hanson, though, had come with him from his estate in Devon, and their absolute loyalty and discretion could be trusted.

He let himself in, tossed his jacket and vest on the foyer table and headed for the ballroom, rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he went. He was too restless to sleep. First there’d been that absurd confrontation gone awry with Miss Lovejoy, and then he’d actually lost at vingt-et-un. It wasn’t the loss of the money that bothered him—he’d lost more in an evening. It was the fact that he hadn’t been able to concentrate. His mind had been too full of blond hair and blue eyes—and an edge of transparent lace peeking from the V of his dressing robe.

Clearly, he needed to get rid of Dianthe Lovejoy as quickly as possible. Was there any point in sending a letter to her cousin in Italy? No. Certainly someone else had done that already.

Instinctively in tune with Geoffrey’s moods, Giles had left chandeliers alight in the ballroom, and the fireplaces lit at each end of the room. Light glittered off the mirrored walls and the crystal prisms of the chandelier, setting the room ablaze with reflected brilliance. Geoffrey walked the length of the room, trailing his index finger along the rack holding everything from lances to swords. He selected a claymore, savoring its weight and length. He needed something taxing tonight. Something to banish the memory of his robe draping a delicate frame.

He hefted the claymore and sliced vertically, then horizontally through the air. The whoosh of the blade satisfied something deep in his soul, and he smiled. He worked through a routine of standard moves, then offensive moves, then defensive ones. The echo of his boots on the marble floor and his heavy breathing from the exertion were the only sounds to rupture the silence. By the time he was done, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his white shirt, but he was not yet fatigued enough to sleep. He replaced the claymore in its slot and picked a deadly rapier—light in weight, sleek in build, treacherous at its point. Ah, yes. This blade sang as it slashed the air.

With an edge vertically to his forehead, he saluted his reflection in the mirrors. Working through a different routine, watching his form for mistakes or openings that an opponent could pierce, he found the lighter, more familiar blade almost became an extension of his arm. Only when the rising sun penetrated the French doors along one wall did Geoff replace the rapier in the rack. He hesitantly caressed the hilt of his cutlass, but turned away in exhaustion.

Now, perhaps, he’d sleep. Spent as he was, the guilt, the memories of Constance, Charlotte, Nell and the other women he’d failed, would not rise to haunt his dreams. Worse, he might dream of Dianthe Lovejoy. Her steadfast defiance amused him. Her beauty drew him. Her instinctive intelligence intrigued him. And his hunger for her was reaching a fever pitch. If he started seducing her in his dreams, would he be able to resist her in his waking moments?

Ah, but he’d have to claim Dianthe in his dreams, because he’d never claim her anywhere else. He’d make love to her there because, awake, he’d never risk loving her. He’d hold her close in his dreams, because he’d never allow her to rely upon him in life. He’d never take that risk of failing again. Never.

And when the isolation and solitude became too much to bear, he’d shut himself away with Flora Denton or one of the other lovelies of the demimonde again, for a few days or weeks, until that particular monster had been tamed enough to lock away for another term of penance.

He climbed the long curve of the staircase to his room, hardening his heart, reducing his hunger and need to a mere physical act. That’s all it was. That’s all he’d ever let it be.

The summons from Harry Richardson several hours later came as a surprise. Geoff hadn’t expected to hear from him for several days. Information packets from Tangier were slow in coming—at least during the summer months.

When he opened the door of the rented room, Harry jumped to his feet. “Glad you could come so quickly, Morgan.”

Geoff glanced at the small wooden table where charts, maps, pen and ink were laid out in waiting. “El-Daibul is on the move?” he guessed.

“We think so,” Harry replied.

“Think? You don’t know?” Geoff crossed to the table and looked down at the charts. Tangier, Gibraltar, Spain, Portugal. What was going on?

Harry shrugged. “We’ve lost him.”

Geoff fastened the man with an asking stare. How could an experienced operative lose a man of el-Daibul’s infamy and importance?

“He has disappeared,” Harry explained, looking a bit pale from Geoff’s study.

“When?”

Harry went to the small table beside the cot where the whiskey bottle was waiting. He poured himself a glass and quirked an eyebrow at Geoff.

Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.

After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”

“Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”

“Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.

“No one has reported him moving overland.”

“Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”

“Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”

“Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”

“They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it took us so long to realize that el-Daibul himself had not been seen for quite some time. It looks as if he went to considerable trouble to lull us into complacency.”

Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing a stray lock. Damn! What could the man be up to? Geoff could only hope this latest development was not a prelude to increased activity. Unless… “Harry, what’s the news from the docks? Any increase in reports of missing women?”

“Not in London.”

“Send men to Liverpool, Portsmouth and Dover. Contact Culver in France, Groton in Hamburg and Peters in Venice. Verify with them that the traffic is quiet. If there’s an increase, no matter how small, and no matter where, I want to know immediately.”

“What are you thinking?” Harry asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I’m not certain. Just…verify. He’s up to something, Harry, I can feel it.”

Harry shook his head. “We’ll need evidence to get help from the Foreign Office.”

He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”

Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”

Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.

But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.

“So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”

Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.

Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.

“What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”

Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”

“If you were to guess?”

“I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”

“You make it sound personal, Morgan.”

“It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.

Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.

What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.

“Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.

“Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”

Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”

Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”

“To warn Auberville.”