Читать книгу The Courtesan's Book Of Secrets - Georgie Lee - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Rafe strolled into the Dowager Countess of Daltmouth’s salon, taking in the number of ladies in white, high-waisted gowns scattered between the furniture. Their presence on every sofa and chair gave the long room the look of a conservatory filled with pregnant Greek marbles. The women huddled in groups around the thin intellectuals, twittering like birds at the men’s flashes of brilliance. The husbands took up more sober positions near the tables of wine and food, fortifying themselves against any taint of intellectual or poetic leanings.

Rafe moved down the centre of the long room, passing a group of dandies in blue silk coats, their waistcoats cinched so tightly, he could count the pence in their pockets. As if on cue, they lifted their lorgnettes and scrutinised Rafe’s plain black coat and tan breeches, sneering down their powdered noses at his understated dress. He ignored them as his gaze skipped over a few nymphs surrounding a consumptive-looking youth extolling his latest drivel.

‘Lord Densmore, what a pleasure it is to have you here tonight.’ The Dowager Countess of Daltmouth glided up to him in a cloud of rosewater perfume. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

Rafe took her extended hand, nearly folding himself in half to offer a greeting of substance. She’d aged gracefully, her blonde hair arranged to favour her regal nose and high cheekbones. The deep-purple dress flowed over her still enviable curves, revealing a touch of the bosom which had once been the envy of all the ladies. If the lights were lower, Rafe might have mistaken her for a much younger woman. ‘There’s nowhere else in London I’d rather be.’

‘Liar,’ she chided, her thumb brushing the underside of his palm before she let go.

Rafe straightened, cautious of the mature coquette. ‘You’ve assembled an impressive gathering tonight.’

‘Not as impressive as the pillar of the Densmore family.’ Her eyes stroked the length of him, pausing at the buttons of his breeches before rising to meet his eyes. ‘I believe you’ve surpassed even your father in height.’

‘And wit and charm.’ As well, it seemed, as respectability and love for his country.

‘Yes, I greatly admire your charm.’

‘Careful, Lady Daltmouth, or I might mistake your flattery for flirting.’

She laughed like a newly married girl impressing her unmarried friends with her recently acquired experience. ‘I assure you, Lord Densmore, nothing could be closer to the truth.’

‘I’m flattered,’ he lied, more amused than aroused. The woman wasn’t without appeal and if he were eighteen, he might be tempted, but not at eight and twenty. ‘I must warn you, I’m a rogue and not worth trifling with.’

‘I like rogues, they’re so much more interesting than ordinary gentlemen.’ She adjusted the creamy strand of pearls looped around her neck, making the beads rattle together as she settled them against her voluptuous bosom. ‘I hope to see more of you at my card party next week. Perhaps we can knock hands and you’ll find me above you.’

‘I look forward to the challenge.’ He bowed again, but not quite so low. It wasn’t the first time a woman long in the tooth and even longer in the purse had tossed him an offer. He wasn’t about to become a kept man, but he wasn’t about to make an enemy of the Dowager Countess either. Whatever her hungers and family reputation, she possessed connections and he valued them as much as the sovereigns in his pocket.

Her offer delivered, she whirled with the grace of an empress and made for a group of sombrely dressed matrons surrounding a thick-waisted poet. The Dowager Countess tossed Rafe one last suggestive glance before taking her place at the centre of the semicircle. Rafe struggled not to laugh at her imperiousness and her brazen suggestion before another sight knocked the humour out of him.

Cornelia.

She stood just beyond the old crows, near the open window. The evening breeze rustled the sheer gauze of her embroidered blue overdress and the white under-dress hugging the lines of her round hips. Her dark hair was drawn up in a mass of loose curls wound with a black-satin ribbon, leaving the arching line of her neck exposed to tease him. He opened and closed his hand, eager to slide his fingers up the warm skin, dislodge the hairpins and send the tangle of ebony ringlets cascading over her shoulders. There was nothing more beautiful than her dark curls hanging just above the tips of her pointed nipples, the pink buds eager for his touch, her rich, blue eyes wide with anticipation.

He tightened his fingers into a fist before releasing them one by one. Tonight wasn’t about some dalliance from his past. It was about protecting his future and he couldn’t allow the tightness in his breeches to distract him from his goal.

He strolled around the outside of the gathering, watching Cornelia’s gaze slide from one guest to another, sizing up her prey like a wolf waiting to pick off the weakest lamb.

At last her eyes met his, dipping down the length of his body before she flashed him a dazzling smile. Rafe stopped as if he’d hit a wall. He knew this smile. It was a warning, not a welcome.

She settled herself on a nearby sofa as he approached, arranging her skirts over her legs before laying her hands in her lap to greet him like a queen. His ego chafed at her arrogance. How dare she take airs with him? He knew her history, both the real one and the one they’d invented the night she ran away with him from Sussex. Pride demanded he cut her, but he forced himself forward.

‘My dear Cornelia, what a pleasure it is to see you back in London.’ He swept into a low bow, noticing a small stain on one of his stockings before he straightened, careful to keep his smile wide and gracious.

‘I’m the Comtesse de Vane now, or have you forgotten?’ She held out her hand, a large diamond glittering on her middle finger.

‘How could I forget?’ He slid his fingers beneath hers, squeezing them as his lips brushed the knuckles, catching more of the large stone than her skin. The clear gem danced with small rainbows and jealousy cut through him. Even before Paris, he didn’t possess the means to offer such tokens. No wonder she’d abandoned him for the Comte. ‘Especially after the trouble you took to secure it.’

‘It was hardly any trouble at all.’ Cornelia slid her hand out of his grasp, tilting it to view the stone, as if checking to make sure it was still in its setting. ‘The Comte didn’t possess the necessary vigour to fulfil his conjugal duties.’

The ever-so-subtle tightening of her full lips didn’t escape Rafe’s notice. So, the marriage hadn’t been all bliss. He should have taken delight in the subtle revelation, but he couldn’t, nor could he believe she’d sold herself to the old man for a few thousand francs and a title. The idea of the Comte’s gnarled hands pawing at Cornelia made his meagre dinner roil in his gut, but he hid it as he would a disappointing hand in a tight game.

She’d chosen the hunched old man as her bedmate. No one had forced her into it.

‘And now you’ve returned, the happy, wealthy widow.’ He sat down next to her, the cushion beneath him sinking and making her lean closer.

Her full lips eased into a gloating smile as bright as the diamonds dangling from her ears. ‘I couldn’t have imagined a more delightful way to come home.’

He motioned to an exceptionally tall footman carrying a tray of champagne and selected one of the offered flutes. He took a sip, allowing the tart liquid to cool the acid remarks dancing on his tongue. ‘And you’ve also stumbled upon an inventive way to increase your widow’s portion. Tell me, who do you intend to threaten for money?’

He’d never thought her cruel enough for blackmail, but after the clever way she’d duped him with the Comte, he wouldn’t put anything shady past her now.

She tilted her head to one side, placing a small amount of distance between them. Pulling open her fan one stick at a time, she revealed the painting of Venus lounging nude in Mars’s arms. He knew the fan. She always carried it when on the hunt for a lucrative and less talented opponent. ‘What makes you think I purchased the register for such a sinister reason?’

‘What other reason could you have? It’s hardly pleasurable reading.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised at how much fun it is to peruse.’ She fanned herself with three quick flicks, making the candles on the pillar behind them waver. ‘The full list of every titled man Mrs Ross ever paid to betray our country during the colonial revolt. Some of the names are quite shocking.’

‘For instance?’

She cast him a sideways glance, her eyes skimming the length of him, focusing on his foot before rising to meet his face. For a moment he didn’t think she’d tell him, then he saw the sense of satisfaction widen her eyes. He inwardly cringed. She wasn’t just going to tell him about the register, she was going to torture him with it.

‘For instance, the Dowager Countess of Daltmouth.’ She lowered her arms, levelling her fan at the imperious woman. ‘It appears her late husband accepted quite a generous amount from the French to turn coward at the Battle of Saratoga.’

Rafe let out a low whistle. ‘Which means all the old rumours are true.’

She sat back, adjusting her diamond bracelet. ‘Given her massive efforts to reform the Daltmouth name, she can hardly afford to have any evidence of his treason come to light.’

‘Which she’ll avoid by paying for your silence.’

‘It is but one possibility.’

She flicked the top edge of her teeth with her tongue as she always did at the end of a well-played hand. He eyed her mouth, bitter desire twisting his insides. He wanted to brush his lips across the delicate blush of her cheek, take one small earlobe in his teeth and remind her of everything he could do to her, to make her want him beyond reason. Then he could leave her the same way she’d abruptly left him.

He straightened and set his champagne glass on the side table. There would be time for more pleasurable business later. ‘An interesting plan, but incredibly flawed. She’s weathered worse storms than you. Threaten her and she’ll crush you.’

Cornelia’s eyes flashed with irritation before she took a deep breath and they softened to their usual languid blue. ‘Ah, Rafe, ye of little faith. I have no plan to blackmail the Dowager Countess.’

A loud laugh from the far end of the room silenced the gentle murmur of conversation and everyone turned to watch the current Earl of Daltmouth, the dowager’s pudgy son, throw back his head so far, he nearly stumbled into the sharp-jawed footman passing behind him. The Earl straightened himself with a great deal of effort and the footman’s assistance. ‘I’m going to blackmail him.’

Rafe studied the stout fellow. The Earl’s eyes were nearly lost in the large cheeks underneath them and his round chin was beginning to disappear into the second one forming just beneath it.

A chill shot through Rafe as Cornelia leaned in close to his ear, her verbena perfume as shocking to his senses as her warm breath on his neck. ‘He isn’t as astute as his mother and much more inclined to pay.’

Rafe nodded, hating to admit even to himself the logic of her choice. The Earl was known in society for many things. Astounding feats of genius were not one of them. ‘You’ve improved a great deal since Paris.’

‘I learned from the best.’ She flicked her fan over her chest and the memory of her in his bed, the white sheets wrapped around her naked body as she curled herself around him, flashed through his mind. His manhood tightened and he shifted on the sofa, determined to maintain a steady course.

‘Since I taught you so much, allow me one favour.’ He leaned in to her and she looked up at him through her dark lashes. The beautiful blue irises surrounded by clear white fixed on him, sending another jolt of need through his body. Curse the minx for this hold she had over him. ‘Give me the page with my father’s name on it. I have no money to pay you and you can gain nothing by hurting me. Consider it a thank you for everything I taught you.’

‘My dear Rafe.’ She laid one gloved hand along the side of his face, her lips moist, parted and so temptingly close. ‘I see poverty has not robbed you of your sense of humour.’

She patted his cheek, then rose, the sweet sway of her hips not lost beneath the high-waisted dress as she strolled away. A cold dunk in a pond couldn’t have done more to wilt his need and he drummed his fingers on the velvet cushion, the bitterness he’d tasted in Paris filling his mouth again.

* * *

Cornelia struggled to walk a smooth, straight line as she left Rafe, her whole body shaking with excitement and rage. She hadn’t been this close to him since their last night together in France. The tart scent of tobacco smoke and wine clinging to his coat from a long night in the hells had nearly been her undoing. It reminded her of too many evenings with him in the card rooms of Paris, and then in their apartment afterwards, his hard chest pressed against her breasts, his skilful touch making her insides ache.

A shadow wavered in the corner near a heavy sideboard, reminding her of the dark hallways of Château de Vane and the cold bite of Rafe’s betrayal. She shivered, all desire to rush back across the room to him gone. Instead she continued forward, savouring the memory of Rafe’s surprised eyes. She’d struck a blow, even if it had taken every ounce of self-control to remain calm while he sat so close and to not break her fan over his head for abandoning her in Paris.

She eased her grip on the delicate accessory to keep from crushing it. How dare he brazenly approach her after what he’d done and expect her to hand over the register pages. She was no longer the naive daughter of a country Baronet in need of his guidance. She was the Comtesse de Vane, even if the title was worth little more than the tin heraldic shield hanging above her mantel.

Joining the circle of women surrounding Lady Daltmouth and a poet, Cornelia shifted back and forth in her slippers. She tried to focus as the poet extolled the virtues of womanhood, nodding along with the other ladies, but his words were a meaningless jumble. Rafe’s mere presence in the room made her jittery. If this continued, she’d be unable to put together a coherent thought by the end of the poet’s stanza. Taking a deep breath, she focused as she exhaled, settling herself the way Rafe had once taught her to do before engaging in a high-stakes card game.

Curse him, he seemed to be everywhere in her life.

As she exhaled the second breath, Cornelia focused on the Dowager Countess. She sat like a petite queen on a low gilded chair, scrutinising the people around her, the small lines at the corners of her eyes relaxing or hardening depending on whom she took in. Cornelia followed her gaze around the circle, noting the lesser nobility who flocked to her salon. After the late Earl’s cowardly retreat at the Battle of Saratoga, there were few in the ton willing to show the Daltmouths favour. This collection of people was the Dowager Countess’s answer to their snub, an attempt to create an alternate society of mushrooms and nobles of questionable lineage. Cornelia had counted on this cultivation when she’d left a card at the Dowager’s Mayfair town house yesterday morning. Her effort was rewarded when tonight’s invitation arrived with the Dowager’s gold engraved card.

Lady Daltmouth’s haughty, scrutinising look fell on Cornelia, dipping down the length of her sheer blue overdress. One sculpted brow rose a touch, but the lines of the Dowager’s face remained smooth. Like many of the other matrons, Cornelia imagined the older woman disapproved of her choice of dress so soon after the Comte’s passing. Let the Dowager think what she wanted, Cornelia refused to mourn the old dog.

Her silent judgement given, Lady Daltmouth turned to the poet and cut him off mid-sonnet.

‘I think you’ve extolled the virtues of your work enough for one evening, Mr Keans.’ She rose and crossed to Cornelia, sending the flock of ladies surrounding her scurrying out of her way. She stopped in front of the younger woman who offered a deep curtsy before rising.

‘Comtesse, I see you have a preference for French fashion,’ the Dowager announced.

So, it wasn’t the lack of black, but the tighter cut of Cornelia’s dress the Dowager disapproved of. ‘Oui, madame.’

The Dowager’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘I hope you did not bring back too many other French customs such as papist beliefs.’

Cornelia looked down at the short woman, careful to keep her face free of any emotion. ‘No, my lady. I kept my Protestant faith. It wasn’t my beliefs which interested my late husband.’

A surprised gasp escaped from someone behind the Dowager, whose mouth twitched up in one corner. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Good evening, Comtesse.’

She swept past her and across the room in the direction of her son, who watched her pending approach with dread. His face drooped in relief when his mother passed him to speak to one of the many tall footmen stationed around the room. It was then Cornelia noticed the impressive height of the liveried young men. They were all exceptionally tall, almost as tall as Rafe, and scandalously handsome.

Well, well, well, it seemed Lady Daltmouth wasn’t such a strict Protestant after all.

Cornelia opened her fan, her amusement fading. It was time to focus on less appealing sights.

She sauntered into the Earl’s line of vision, offering him a coy smile when his eyes met hers. His face rumpled in confusion and he turned to look over first one shoulder and then the other.

She curtsied, tilting forward a touch to give him a better view of her chest and drive home her invitation. His piggy eyes flicked to her breasts with the same greed she remembered lighting up the Comte’s watery eyes from across many card tables. Despite the queasy roll of her stomach, she maintained the look of pleasure as he approached, his girth making him waddle more than walk.

‘Comtesse, we’re honoured to have you grace our little gathering,’ he gasped, winded with the exertion of crossing the room.

The hypocrite. He wouldn’t have deigned to speak to her if she was still the Honourable Cornelia Trofton.

‘It’s I who am honoured to be at such an intellectual gathering.’ She fluttered the fan over her breasts, drawing attention to them and the sensual painting. ‘You’re so clever to bring together so many intelligent men.’

‘Yes, of course.’ His thick fingers ruffled the lace of his cravat. ‘I’m quite the cultivator of the intellect and the arts. How I enjoy Mr Langello’s poetry.’

‘I believe Mr Langello is the composer,’ Cornelia corrected, lowering her fan a touch to reveal more of her décolletage.

‘Yes, of course,’ Lord Daltmouth said to her breasts. ‘It’s Mr Keans who writes poetry in praise of womanhood.’ His tongue slid over his large lower lip and she squelched the urge to slap the greedy look from his face.

‘I’m not very familiar with Mr Keans’s work. Please, tell me more about it.’ She lowered the fan another inch, slowly reeling him in.

While he blathered on about the poet, guilt blackened the edges of her triumph. Blackmail wasn’t her preferred game, but she had no choice. Another letter from Fanny had arrived today, demanding the tuition for Andrew’s school fees at once or she’d write to her brother in Barbados about sending Andrew there in the autumn. There wasn’t time to trust Andrew’s safety to the fickle chance of cards. If all went as planned, she’d soon have enough to keep him at school and away from the West Indies for good. She knew she shouldn’t take advantage of the Earl, but he was one of the few people with a relative in the register who could pay her demand without jeopardising his estate or his legacy. Besides, she would do anything to save Andrew. He was the only person who mattered to her now.

* * *

Rafe tapped the table and Lord Brixton laid another card on top of the first. After the disaster of the Dowager’s salon, he’d hoped to find more success in this hell.

So far, both events had proved disappointing.

‘Twenty-three. Tough luck Densmore.’ Lord Brixton scraped up Rafe’s cards, then moved on to deal an equally poor card to Lord Sewell.

Rafe narrowed his eyes at the young buck, noting the large diamond glittering in his cravat pin. The thought of losing at ving-et-un in front of this fop made his mouth burn more than the cheap wine the proprietress served.

A woman moving along the periphery of his vision caught his eye and he turned, thinking for a moment it was Cornelia. Expectation filled him before he realised it was only a molly searching for a new client among the players. She seemed young, though every soiled dove in this gaming den did, and with her blonde hair and small chest, she looked nothing like Cornelia. Only the way she stopped along the edge of the tables, observing everything and revealing nothing, reminded him of his former partner. He shifted in his chair, the weight of Cornelia’s absence from his side heavier than he wanted it to be.

Lord Brixton dealt himself another card. ‘Twenty-one. Looks like I win again.’

He collected the stacks of money from in front of each player, adding them to the large pile of notes and coins already piled in front of him.

Rafe took another swig of the hell’s sour wine, blanching at the swill. The only game he’d won in the past three months was the game of life when he’d escaped from a Parisian moneylender who’d threatened to kill him over a sizeable debt and sell his corpse to an anatomist. The rogues were not as civilised in Paris as they were in London. He smiled wryly as he remembered giving the greasy Frenchman the slip in Madame DuMonde’s. He’d even managed to collect his paltry winnings before sliding out through the ground-floor window of an obliging putain. His brief spate of luck ended when he’d returned to their lodgings to see Cornelia driving away in the Comte de Vane’s carriage.

He downed the rest of the bitter wine, then tossed the empty goblet to a passing server.

‘What do you say, Densmore? Up for another round?’ Brixton asked with a smile Rafe wanted to punch from his round face.

‘Come on, Brixton, give poor Densmore a break,’ Lord Sewell chided, removing notes from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’ll play again.’

Rafe fingered the few remaining notes from the sale of the silver spoons and his lips curled up in a wicked smile. It wasn’t for nothing he’d followed his father through the card rooms of London, learning how to play. It was the only education his father had seen fit to provide him.

‘Deal,’ Rafe demanded, laying the notes on the table.

The two men exchanged stunned glances before Brixton took up the deck, shuffled twice, then dealt the first round of cards.

He laid a five of clubs in front of Lord Sewell.

The young man frowned. ‘Not a good way to open.’

Brixton turned the next card over and laid it in front of Rafe.

The king of hearts.

Rafe didn’t say anything as Brixton laid a ten of diamonds in front of himself.

A loud cheer went up from the table across from theirs. Rafe looked over as Lord Edgemont collected a pile of bills from the centre of the green baize, a smug grin on his chiselled face. He folded two notes and held them out to the harlots flanking his chair, his dark eyes raking their ample assets like a dog eyeing a bone. Across from Edgemont sat Monsieur Fournier, a refugee who’d once served as a geologist under Louis XVI and enjoyed the king’s generosity. Rafe had hired the man three years ago to search Wealthstone for the lead vein his grandfather went to his grave believing existed. As they’d wandered the fields, the aged Frenchman had told Rafe stories of women and parties from before the Revolution, each marvellous enough to make a man long for Louis XVI’s court. He’d also told Rafe of horrors to chill a man, but neither Robespierre nor Bonaparte had succeeded in knocking the life from Monsieur Fournier.

The laughing old man was gone now, his face long, his eyes sunken. He rose, broken defeat weighing down his steps as he left, unnoticed by the others.

Cold passed over the back of Rafe’s neck as if the spectre of his own future had just slid by.

He rubbed away the chill and focused on his game.

Lord Brixton laid a card face up on top of Rafe’s. The queen of hearts.

Rafe kept his face impassive, eyeing Lord Sewell and Lord Brixton’s cards, none of which were face cards. Rafe could stand and hope neither of them reached twenty-one, or he could separate his cards and double his wager.

Brixton dealt two more cards to Sewell, pushing him over twenty-one.

‘Rats, out again,’ Lord Sewell complained, propping his elbows on the table.

‘What about you, Densmore? Another card or are you happy with what you’ve got?’

‘Split.’ He moved the queen next to her king.

‘Haven’t lost enough tonight, eh, Densmore?’ Brixton taunted.

‘Then let’s make this even more fun.’ Rafe narrowed his eyes at the fop. ‘Two twenty-ones say I take the entire pile of winnings sitting in front of you.’

‘You’re mad,’ Brixton scoffed.

‘No, just man enough to take a risk. Are you?’

‘He has you now,’ Lord Sewell heckled, goading his friend.

Rafe knew it would force Brixton into the wager. He was counting on it.

A faint flicker of fear rolled through Brixton’s eyes before he regained his courage. ‘All right. I’ll take your wager, but you’re going to lose what’s left of your blunt.’

Rafe didn’t answer. He didn’t smile, flinch or move. ‘Deal.’

Brixton’s bravado dimmed as he dealt the first card.

‘Oh, ohh!’ Lord Sewell clapping. ‘The ace of diamonds. He has you now, Brixton.’

‘Shut up,’ Brixton spat.

‘Deal,’ Rafe demanded.

Brixton’s lips screwed tight in frustration as he slid the top card off the deck and laid it over the queen.

The ace of clubs.

‘Well played, Densmore.’ Lord Sewell applauded.

Brixton collapsed back in his chair, one hand over his eyes.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Rafe rose and scraped up Brixton’s substantial pile of notes and coins. ‘It was a pleasure playing you.’

He tucked the money in his waistcoat pocket and stepped outside.

Two sad lamps flanked the front door, their dancing flames casting a faint glow across the pavement, but doing little to pierce the darkness of the street. Rafe stood in the flickering light and inhaled. Mould and rot hung heavy in the damp air, burning his nose more than the stink of stale wine and old cologne from inside.

Perhaps my luck is changing for the better.

‘Did ya ’ave a good night in there, Lord Densmore?’ A familiar voice slid out from the shadows across the street.

Or perhaps not.

Mr Smith, the moneylender, took shape in the twin circles of the lamps. Two henchmen perched on either side of him, one burly with wide shoulders, the other lean and lanky like his employer.

‘My luck was tolerable.’ Rafe shifted his foot to feel the weight of the knife hidden in his boot.

Mr Smith stopped a few feet from Rafe and flipped opened a slim toothpick case. ‘I was beginning to think ya didn’t want to see me.’

Rafe dropped his hands to his side, ready to reach for the knife. ‘How could a gentleman not want to see a man of your esteem?’

Mr Smith pointed his toothpick at Rafe and the two thugs rushed forward. Rafe snatched the knife from his boot, held it up and the two men jerked to a halt.

‘Rough handling isn’t necessary. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?’ Rafe waved the men back with the knife and they dutifully moved closer to Mr Smith.

He ran his thumb down the length of the ivory handle, painfully aware of the thin bit of metal standing between him and real trouble.

‘Please excuse our lack of manners.’ The hammer clicked back before Rafe noticed the gun in Mr Smith’s hand. ‘But I want to impress upon ya the importance of repaying the money ya owe me.’

Damn.

Mr Smith stepped closer, the stench of his garlic breath rising above the manure in the street. The moneylender slipped the toothpick between his teeth, letting it dangle on his chapped bottom lip as he reached into Rafe’s pocket and pulled out the folded notes. Rafe didn’t lower the knife, but kept it raised between them, the blade shining orange in the lamplight. If Mr Smith pulled the trigger, the bullet might tear through Rafe, but not before he got a swipe at the cockroach. He might have lost the advantage, but he wasn’t about to roll over and die in the dirty street like his father had done.

Mr Smith’s dull eyes flicked to the blade. Even with his limited intelligence, he seemed to grasp the threat. He danced back out of Rafe’s reach before his dirty thumb flipped through the notes, calculating their worth. ‘It won’t pay your debt, but it’s a start. Ya can keep the coins.’

‘You, my good man, have an astounding lack of respect for your betters,’ Rafe spat, hoping the man hadn’t left any greasy fingerprints on his waistcoat. He couldn’t afford to replace it.

Mr Smith stuffed the bills into the pocket of his dark trousers, careful to keep the pistol pointed at Rafe. ‘I don’t care who ya father was or what hoity-toity title you have. Ya owe me and I know your estate ain’t worth a brass farthing. All of London knows it, so ya’d better hope Lady Luck slips into your bed because I want me money by next week. If I don’t get it, I’ll sell your hide to the anatomists.’

Rafe took one large step forward, pressing his chest into the hard end of the barrel and staring down at the slack-jawed rat. The metal quivered with Mr Smith’s surprise. One slip and the moneylender would send a ball tearing through him.

‘You may remind me of my debts,’ Rafe hissed in a voice as hard as chipped flint. He wasn’t about to back down or be cowed by the rodent, no matter how much money he owed the man. ‘But you will do so in full remembrance of your station and mine.’

The toothpick dropped from Mr Smith’s open mouth before he clamped it shut. He staggered back, his eyes wide as he stuffed the pistol in his belt and, without a word, scurried off. His thugs hurried after him, the clomp of their footsteps fading into the misty darkness.

Rafe slid the knife back into his boot, ignoring the slight tremble in his hand. Brandishing the weapon might have startled the rat tonight, but it wouldn’t stop him from scurrying out of the dark again and making good on his threat.

It seemed fashions weren’t the only Paris trends to have crossed the Channel.

He looked down at the faint black circle on his waistcoat. ‘Hell.’

He shouldn’t have let his pride goad him into taking such a risk with Mr Smith. He brushed at the spot, relieved to see it fade. He’d already lost his winnings, he didn’t need to lose his life like his father had done and leave his mother to starve.

‘You were very brave, mon ami.’ The weathered voice with a thick French accent drifted out from the shadows behind him.

Rafe whirled to see Monsieur Fournier pulling himself up off the front step of the house next door. ‘Or foolish.’

Monsieur Fournier raised his arms with a wide shrug, his limbs as thin as wrought iron. ‘It appears we’re both down on our luck.’

‘Yes, Lady Luck is proving a most inconsistent mistress.’

‘They’re all inconsistent, les belles femmes.’ He smiled, the glint of his spirit evident beneath the heavy weight of his lot.

‘Then let’s hope we both meet a more willing vixen tonight.’ Rafe took the Frenchman’s hand and pressed the remaining coins from his waistcoat into the palm, feeling the man’s bones through the flesh. ‘Good luck, mon ami.’

The older man’s eyes brightened with gratitude and hope as he shook Rafe’s hand. ‘Bonne chance, Seigneur de Densmore.’

Rafe nodded, then headed off down the street, hearing the laughter spill out of the hell as the Frenchman pulled open the door and hurried back inside.

Rafe quickened his pace, eager to reach the safety of his rented rooms and avoid any more unfortunate encounters tonight. He would need all the luck Monsieur Fournier offered. Mr Smith was right about the state of his finances: there wasn’t a creditor or friend in England likely to lend Rafe enough to repay the moneylender. All the rents from Wealthstone tenants went to pay the mortgages and, despite his luck in finding the spoons, he didn’t think he’d be so fortunate as to find another valuable missed by his father.

Curse the fool. Even the windfall from selling out his country to the French hadn’t been enough to save his father from debt, and death.

Rafe stomped in a puddle of water. It splashed up the side of his boot and dripped in to wet his stocking. He hadn’t escaped becoming an anatomy lesson in France only to end up in a medical theatre in London. Nor was he about to lose what little remained of the Densmore legacy, to see his mother evicted from her home and cast on the charity of some distant relative who’d do nothing except sneer at her misfortune. His father might have lacked the presence of mind to secure a future for his wife and child, but Rafe would, even if it meant crawling into bed with the enemy.

If Cornelia planned to increase her widow’s portion using the register, then it was time for him to share in the wealth. If she thought she could ignore him and their past, she was mistaken. She needed him as much as he needed her and he would make her see it.

He had no choice.