Читать книгу The Courtesan's Courtship - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 8

“I am sorry, Miss Smith, but I cannot let you a room,” the clerk at the desk of Emery’s Hostel for Women told Dianthe. “It is not our policy to rent to unchaperoned young ladies.”

She glanced around the spotless lobby, which was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, and fumbled with her reticule, wondering how one went about bribing a clerk. “I assure you, sir, that my aunt will be arriving later this evening. I…I will pay extra if that will ease your mind.”

The clerk’s bushy eyebrows lifted at that. “Later? You traveled to town alone?”

“She…ah, sent me ahead.”

“That is most unseemly, Miss Smith. Perhaps you and your…aunt would be more comfortable at Desmond’s?”

He didn’t believe her! He thought she was a woman of questionable virtue. She’d never been refused admittance anywhere, and this was an insult she could scarcely suffer in silence. She’d give the man a set-down if necessity didn’t require discretion. Her cheeks burning, she lifted her valise and walked into the street.

In truth, she’d already tried Desmond’s Hostel and had been refused there, too, and another three hostels besides. She would go back to Aunt Grace’s home on Bloomsbury Square, but returning there would be tantamount to walking into the Bow Street office and announcing her name.

Fighting frustrated tears, she found a vacant bench in the square across from the hostel and sat dejectedly, despairing of finding a safe place to spend the night. Her empty stomach growled. She’d never had to provide for herself or depend on her wits for survival before, and she fought the creeping fear that she was doomed to failure.

After a brief rest, she stood and retrieved her valise. Her last chance for shelter tonight was just around the corner. She prayed the little flat above Madame Marie’s shop was still vacant. If she could stay there for a few days, surely this mess would be straightened out.

She arrived at La Meilleure Robe just as Madame Marie was locking up for the night. The modiste opened the door and admitted her before locking it and pulling the shade over the window. Dianthe glanced around the dimly lit foyer and dropped her valise on a chair to remove her gloves.

Madame Marie peeked out at the street from behind the shade before turning to her. “Chérie! Where ’ave you been? My ’usband ’as been looking for you all day.”

“Mr. Renquist is looking for me? Whatever for?”

“The ladies ’ave told ’im what is afoot. But ’e already knew. Orders ’ave come down from Bow Street that all runners are to appre’end you on sight and bring you to the Bow Street station for questioning.”

“Drat,” she muttered under her breath. “Now I shall truly have to stay out of sight. Is the room upstairs still vacant, Madame?”

“No, chérie. It was let months ago.”

“Then I must leave at once.” Dianthe fought tears of frustration as she began pulling her gloves back on.

“But wait! François will not turn you in. You shall stay with us, eh?”

She could no more allow Mr. Renquist to risk his job, family and reputation than she could have her other friends. “Thank you, Madame, but I cannot. I have just thought of a nice solution,” she lied. She was dismayed by how easy that was becoming.

“Will you not stay and speak with François?”

“Tell him I will come day after tomorrow. I am meeting the ladies here in the afternoon. Once I am settled I shall be able to think about how to proceed.”

Geoff crossed Leicester Square at an angle, heading for Green Street. With dusk settling over the city, traffic was thinning. He would be home in a few minutes. Or, at least, the place he called home. He preferred the moderate home on Salisbury Street just off The Strand to his new mansion on Curzon Street.

Yes, on Salisbury Street, his footsteps did not echo on marble floors, reminding him how alone he was. Still, even there he was haunted by the memory of Constance Bennington. Constance, the first woman he’d ever loved. Her death weighed on his conscience every day. Every night. He knew he could never put her memory to rest until he found the man responsible for her death.

Four years ago, when he’d first begun hunting the white slaver, el-Daibul, to put an end to his kidnapping of Englishwomen, he hadn’t realized the price he’d pay—the price she’d pay—for his efforts. Before they’d put an end to el-Daibul’s scheme, more women had died. Women who could have been saved if only…what? He’d been more diligent? Uncovered el-Daibul’s henchmen sooner? But he hadn’t. And now the memory of what might have been was a constant reproach. And the memory of the others who’d died… Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about the others.

Now he could add Nell Brookes to his growing list of regrets. He should have been more insistent with her when he realized she was sticking her nose into the business of the missing women. Locked her up until the danger was past. If he’d known for certain that she was delving into matters that didn’t concern her…

He shook off his brooding mood. No profit in that. Only pain and remorse. He picked up his pace across the square and stopped to buy an apple from a cart. He used the moment to look around. In his experience, it was always good to take stock of one’s surroundings frequently. Less chance of being surprised that way.

Men were bustling home from their work, women hurrying back from the greengrocer with provisions, children skipping as they hurried to keep up with their governesses. And there, on a bench with a valise at her feet, trying her best to look inconspicuous, sat someone who looked very much like Miss Dianthe Lovejoy. Enjoying her last hours of freedom, no doubt.

He took a bite of the crisp red apple and watched her for a moment. Yes, it was Miss Lovejoy. There could not be two in London like her. God fashioned only one of those a generation—perhaps a millennium. Even Nell had been a pale copy.

He strolled toward her, wondering if he should speak. When he was near enough, he noted the pinched look between her eyes and the slightly reddened rims of her eyes. Had she been crying?

“Trouble, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked. Her chin snapped upward, indicating that he’d startled her. For once, it seemed, he had the advantage in their meeting.

She crumpled her handkerchief and pushed it into the sleeve of her bishop’s-blue spencer. Shrugging, she assumed a haughty mien. “I do not see how that is your concern, Lord Morgan.”

He grinned, finding her continued dislike of him more amusing than aggravating. He almost liked the chit, for no other reason than her dead reckoning of his character. He lifted his foot and planted one of his boots on the bench beside her yellow skirt. “It isn’t my concern. I was merely curious. You. A valise. Alone. You must admit the circumstances are rife with possibility.”

She narrowed her eyes and turned away to study the apple cart.

“Going somewhere?” he persisted.

“As you know, Lord Morgan, I am in somewhat of a pickle. I do not want my scandal attached to my friends’ names.”

“Ah, then you’re going home? Back to Bloomsbury Square?”

She sighed deeply and glanced sideways at him. “It is locked up until the Hawthornes’ return.”

“That places you in a rather awkward position, does it not? No family, no friends?”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, my lord.”

He chuckled. “Where are you going, Miss Lovejoy?”

“I intended to let a room at a ladies’ hostel.”

“Were there no vacancies?”

She hesitated, then murmured, “None, I fear.”

“So you are going back to the Thayers?”

“Of course not,” she snapped.

Although he already knew the answer, Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Are the authorities after you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“I…I imagine they are.”

Pity. The girl was in over her head and had no one to help her. His conscience tweaked him and he did his best to ignore it. Miss Lovejoy was just the sort of empty-headed little ingenue he avoided at all costs. “Then what are you doing here in the open? Shouldn’t you be looking for a hiding place?”

“Did I not tell you that I do not want my friends inconvenienced by my problems?”

The first uneasy stirrings of guilt prickled the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck. Adam Hawthorne had been one of the few men to give him the benefit of the doubt. For that reason alone, he owed the man. And then Adam had taken a bullet meant for him, which had compounded the debt. Now that Adam had married Dianthe’s Aunt Grace, could he leave Adam’s gently reared cousin alone on a bench at dusk? Not likely. But he avoided involvement in other people’s lives like the plague. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. Yes, he could give her money and be done with her.

“Vacancies can be found with enough money, Miss Lovejoy. I shall be happy to—”

“Keep your ill-gotten gains, Lord Morgan. They cannot buy me what I need.”

How like the high-minded little brat to bite the hand that fed her. “Damn it, Miss Lovejoy, they will buy you a room.”

“No, my lord, they will not.” She took a deep breath and raised her chin in proud disdain. “No one will rent me a room, because I am alone and unchaperoned.”

“I shall hire you a chaperone,” he offered.

She rolled her eyes so comically he nearly laughed. “Your money will not buy you everything.”

“It buys enough to pass for everything.”

“No doubt it is why you get away with so much. But your money will not buy me, Lord Morgan, so scoot away, if you please.” She made a sweeping motion with one hand.

“Even if I don’t please?”

“Even then,” she confirmed.

He removed his foot from the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. What was he to do with this prickly little baggage? He could find her a room easily enough, but it wouldn’t be in a part of town suitable for her, or in an establishment even remotely acceptable.

“Well, go!” she said.

He turned to do just that. But then Adam Hawthorne’s face, white from loss of blood, rose to his mind, and another idea occurred to him. Miss Lovejoy would be an excellent way for him to repay his debt to Adam. Besides, she would be child’s play to manage.

“Do you care about my name or reputation, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yours are beyond redemption,” she declared.

True, but he didn’t like hearing it from Dianthe Lovejoy. He took a deep breath and reined in his temper. “Excellent. Then you should have no objections to accepting my hospitality.”

His statement so surprised her that she coughed. “You cannot be serious!”

“Completely,” he confirmed, surprising even himself. “I have a home in the West End that is presently unoccupied. There is only a small staff, but I could hire more if needed.”

“But you—”

“I prefer my house in Covent Garden. We would not be sharing the same quarters. My housekeeper would vouch for your…ah, reputation, until I can find a more suitable chaperone for you.”

“I do not like owing you, Lord Morgan.”

“I do not like owing your cousin, Miss Lovejoy, but things are what they are. Your present circumstances place you in a position to benefit from the debt I owe him, although I rather think he will owe me after this. It is a simple proposition and will not require you to be courteous to me—or even speak with me, which would be preferable, given your general lack of civility. I’d advise you to take the offer before I think better of it.”

She blinked those gorgeous blue eyes and gave him a slightly confused look. A moment passed while she seemed to consider her options. Or lack of them. He offered his hand.

Hesitantly, she took it. Her hand was warm and strong, and it looked insignificant resting in his palm. He grinned. Miss Lovejoy made it clear how much she detested him and any necessity of dealing with him. She was a bit of a snob and considered him socially beneath her. Only his title had kept him near her social circle. Still, she had no reasonable alternative, and they both knew it.

She stood. “This…this is one of the most remarkable mésalliances I have ever heard of, Lord Morgan.”

“I could not agree more, Miss Lovejoy, but do not mistake this for an alliance of any sort. I am repaying a debt, and with very little inconvenience to myself.” He picked up her valise. “This, in fact, may be the last time we are required to speak to one another.”

A home on the West End? This was a mansion! On Curzon Street just around the corner from Half Moon Street, it boasted one of the best Mayfair addresses. Berkeley Square was a stone’s throw away and Green Park just a fraction farther. Heavens! It must have cost Lord Morgan an entire fortune—if he hadn’t won the place from some poor unwary gambler!

He opened the front door, entered unannounced, and dropped her valise with a sharp slap on the polished marble floor. The central hall, as large as a chapel, contained two curved staircases that met at the second floor landing. The doors to the right and left of the foyer were taller than any she’d seen outside a palace or a church. A balding servant scurried from a hidden hallway behind the stairs at the first sounds of Lord Morgan’s entry.

“My lord! We did not expect you this evening.” The man—a butler, Dianthe assumed—bowed and darted a glance in her direction. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“I haven’t decided, Pemberton. I’ve brought Miss Lovejoy to stay with you. She’s, ah, just come to town and neglected to secure a room in advance. I assume you will not have trouble accommodating her?”

“No, my lord.”

Pemberton turned to her and bowed deeply from his waist. He must think her someone of importance. She smiled and nodded as regally as she could manage, given her state of surprise.

Lord Morgan moved behind her, lifted her spencer from her shoulders and held it while she freed her arms of the sleeves. He handed the wrap to Pemberton and indicated one of the tall doors with a sweep of his hand. “I believe Miss Lovejoy would like a cup of tea, Pemberton. Could you ask Mrs. Mason to bring it to the library, please?”

“As you wish, my lord.” Pemberton bowed and hurried back down the hallway.

Following the sweep of her host’s hand, Dianthe went toward the room she assumed to be the library. When he opened the door, she stopped short. A bank of windows directly across the room admitted the last pinkish rays of the sun, sparkling through the crystal glasses and decanters on a long sideboard. Large, and with a high ceiling, the room contained three walls of bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes of varying sizes and thicknesses. A massive polished desk took up most of one corner. A grouping of leather club chairs before a fireplace, unlit in the summer heat, was on the opposite side of the room. Lush Turkish carpets in red, gold and deep brown tones muffled their footsteps as they went forward.

Lord Morgan indicated the chairs with another sweep of his hand. A tea cart to one side and a low table in the center of the grouping waited to hold refreshments. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Lovejoy. Tea will be along presently.”

She ignored him and turned to look at the titles of some of the books, running her finger along the spines.

“Are you a reader, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked.

She glanced at him. He was pouring a draft of deep amber liquid into a crystal glass. As she watched, he replaced a stopper and lifted the glass to his lips. With the sun behind him and the grace of his movements made so obvious by the light, she suddenly realized he could very easily be a charming man if he chose.

“Not as much as I’d like to be,” she admitted, turning back to the books. “I haven’t had much time until just recently.”

She heard the soft pad of his footsteps on the carpet as he came toward her. She could feel the heat of his body behind her when he reached over her shoulder, ran his index finger along the row of books until he found what he was looking for, and pulled the volume from the shelf.

“Since you will have time while you await your cousin’s return from the Continent, may I recommend this one? You may actually learn something from it.”

She took the slender volume from his hand and read the gold embossed title: The Taming of the Shrew, by William Shakespeare. Anger bubbled upward. She turned to find Lord Morgan mere inches away, blocking her path. Narrowing her eyes, she recalled that scarcely seconds ago she had been thinking he had a rough sort of charm! She would have to guard herself against such ridiculous notions in the future.

“Stand aside please,” she said in a cold voice.

He made no move to do so. Her temper snapped and she lifted her hands to push him away. He caught them and held them to his broad chest as he turned around with her, giving her the freedom she sought. She could have sworn a smile played at the corners of his mouth, and that infuriated her further.

A soft knock at the door drew her attention away from the insufferable lord. He released her hands and stepped back.

“Come in, Pemberton,” he called.

Clutching the volume she’d been tempted to throw at him, Dianthe went to the circle of chairs near the fireplace. Pemberton brought a silver tray laden with a tea service and plates of little sandwiches and sweets. Her stomach growled again and her mouth watered. Food! At least she would not starve.

“Mrs. Mason has instructed the staff to ready the blue room for Miss Lovejoy, my lord, and Sally is unpacking her valise. Cook is preparing partridge and vegetables for dinner.”

“I won’t be staying, after all,” Lord Morgan said with a glance in Dianthe’s direction. “Business requires my attention.”

“As you wish, my lord.” With a bow, the butler left and closed the library doors behind him.

“Help yourself,” Morgan told her with a wave at the tea service.

Oh, how she wished she could turn her nose up, but she was famished. She hadn’t eaten since leaving the ladies at Lady Annica’s earlier. She poured herself a cup of tea and, with a pair of silver tongs, placed a watercress sandwich on a fine china plate. When she glanced up from her task, Morgan was watching her, all signs of mockery gone.

“Do not hesitate to ask for anything you want or need. The servants will accommodate you. And, if you like, do avail yourself of the library.”

“Thank you. I expect to be very busy, though.”

“Busy? What have you to do but wait for your cousin’s return?”

“I am not quite so shallow as you think me, Lord Morgan. I have interests beyond reading and sitting all day.”

“What might they be, pray tell?”

“It is none of your concern. You are only affording me shelter, remember, and have no interest in my doings.”

“True, but you’d be wise to stay hidden from the authorities. That would mean staying home with your embroidery or knitting.”

Lord! The man was an absolute dunce! “I have business to tend to, Lord Geoffrey.” She couldn’t tell him about Nell’s last words. Like all the others, he’d try to stop her. But she could not help but respond to his arrogance. “I…I intend to investigate. I shall endeavor to do whatever is necessary to clear my reputation.”

Morgan’s hazel eyes narrowed. “You cannot do that, Miss Lovejoy. It could prove dangerous.”

She gave a short laugh. “More dangerous than hanging for a crime I did not commit?”

“If you simply lie low, the authorities are bound to discover the truth of the matter.”

“I had the distinct impression they’d made up their minds and would do little else but make a case against me. And the longer they waste their time chasing me, the less likely they are to find the real villain.”

Lord Morgan seemed to be struggling with the effort to remain silent. That was likely a first for the man. Finally, he stated, “If you will remain quietly here, either your cousin or your sister will arrive in a week or so, and by then the case will be resolved.”

“It is far too important a matter to remain sitting on my hands and doing nothing. If you cannot accept that, and wish to withdraw your hospitality, I shall understand.” Dianthe studied his face, waiting for his response.

“I make it my policy, Miss Lovejoy, never to interfere in the personal matters of others, nor to question their actions or motives.”

She gritted her teeth and gained control over her temper before she responded. “Excellent! As you have reminded me that you do not involve yourself in the affairs of others, I’m certain that you will wish to keep to your custom and leave me to my own devices.”

His jaw tightened. “As you please.”

The echo of the slamming door still rang in Geoff’s ears as he crossed the street and hailed a hackney. The annoying little fool! She was hell-bent on landing herself in trouble. Well, she could do as she damn well pleased. He refused to become involved. He knew from bitter experience that he could not change the way people thought or the decisions they made. He’d given up long ago.

The most irksome part of this scheme was that he was forced to acknowledge that he was just like every other man in little Miss Lovejoy’s sphere. She smiled, and his body, if not his mind, responded in the most primal way. She’d looked hungry and vulnerable, and he’d wanted to slay her dragons. Physical. It was merely physical.

He’d restricted his amorous activities to members of the demimonde for the past five years. They’d been seductive and skilled, and some had even managed to teach him a few tricks. And the last thing he needed or wanted—now or ever—was an insipid, spoiled, smugly superior debutante complicating his life. But were she anyone other than Adam Hawthorne’s cousin…

Well, she might be naively innocent, but she was right about the police. They would not look an inch farther for Nell’s killer than Dianthe Lovejoy’s door. And, as much as he wanted to, he could not prevent her from investigating Nell’s death. He doubted anyone would take her seriously, or that she’d have the least little success. It was more likely she’d get herself arrested.

And he wouldn’t care as long as she did not get in the way of his investigation. But she wasn’t going up against el-Daibul, so that was unlikely. He couldn’t stop her from asking useless questions, so he may as well prepare for the consequences.

Yes, he’d just look in on the troublesome miss daily and leave her to her own devices the rest of the time. Her cousin would be back from the Continent soon and take her off his hands. Geoff prayed that would happen before Miss Lovejoy embroiled herself in another scandal or got truly under his skin.