The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (19 page)

I wish you future happiness
, it said. Not, I hope that in some corner of your heart you will always remember me.

Goodbye
, it said. Not, I’ll miss your touch all the days of my life.

Cordially yours,
it said. Not,
Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime
.

Sylvia folded the note precisely, careful to ensure that none of her foolish tears marred its pristine surface. Slowly, lovingly, she wrote his name,
Christopher Evernden
.

Je t’aime
, her heart replied.

Resolute, she propped it up against the glass inkwell where he would be sure to see it when he came the next day.

I
n the chill blast of the early morning air, Sylvia hugged the cloak she had found in the bedroom wardrobe tighter around her shoulders, then quietly pulled the side door of the town house closed behind her. Bates had left it unbolted just as he promised.

Her quick steps tapped on the flagstones as she made her way past the front of the house to the street. The iron gate, cold under her hand, swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. Grey clouds blushed rosy in the eastern sky. The air smelled of wet grass and the first coal fires of the day.

Also as promised by Bates on behalf of his master, a post-chaise waited at the curb. Sylvia forced herself to concentrate on the future, not the past, and definitely not on Christopher’s likely reaction when he returned to find her gone.

Up at the second-storey window, Jeannie’s pale face peered through the glass. Sylvia had given Jeannie enough funds to take her to her relatives in Glasgow, promising to send for her once she found a home for them both.

Taking a deep breath, Sylvia climbed into the carriage.

Anticipation hummed in Christopher’s veins on his way into Evernden Place. It had taken him all morning to finalise his business; this afternoon he’d kicked his heels in Doctor’s
Commons for hours. He couldn’t wait to get back to Blackheath and Sylvia. Why the hell had it taken him this long to decide?

He dashed past the butler, who had opened the door for him, and made for the stairs.

‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden.’

Christopher swung around, knowing he had a grin on his face and not giving a damn. ‘Yes, Merreck?’

‘Lady Stanford asked to see you the moment you returned. She is waiting in the drawing room.’

Mother. Damnation. He’d hoped to avoid her. She was not going to be pleased at his decision. His hand strayed to the breast pocket wherein nestled a small velvet-covered box and a special licence. A pang of the old guilt stirred in his chest. He didn’t want to be yet another disappointment in her life. What with his father’s temper and Garth’s dissolute lifestyle, she hadn’t had an easy time of it. Surely when she realised this was right for him, she would come around? No matter what anyone thought, he was going to ask Sylvia for her hand in marriage.

At least Garth wouldn’t turn his back. Some of his warmth dissipated as he recalled Garth’s hands on Sylvia and his mocking comments. He pushed his unease aside. Garth would be surprised to know it was the sight of him mauling Sylvia that had finally tipped the scales. Unable to stand the thought of another man touching her, Christopher had known exactly how to solve the problem.

His grin broadened at the thought of her happiness. God. His happiness too.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode to the drawing room and found Mother reclined on the sofa idly turning the pages of the
Ladies’ Magazine
. He raised her hand and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. ‘Mother. You were looking for me?’

She fluttered her handkerchief and the scent of lavender wafted around him. ‘Christopher, darling. Where have you been all day?’

‘I had urgent business matters in need of attention.’

‘You are taking me to Lady Wallace’s tonight, are you not?’

Wallace’s rout. Damn. He’d forgotten all about it. ‘I’m sorry. Something came up. I have to go out of town.’

She pouted. ‘You’re becoming just like Garth. You never have time for me any more.’

He grinned. ‘Mother, you don’t need me to escort you. You always end up abandoning me for one of your many admirers before the end of the evening.’

Her face brightened and her handkerchief stilled. ‘I’ll send a note around to Angleforth. He’s always most obliging.’

‘Good grief, Angleforth? He’s nothing but a dashed Bond Street beau. And he’s becoming far too marked in his attentions.’

‘Your language, Christopher, is quite deplorable. The Marquess of Angleforth is one of my oldest and most faithful friends.’ A pretty pink suffused her cheeks and Christopher hid his smile.

He dropped into the chair next to her. ‘Mother, you do want me to be happy, don’t you?’

A surprised expression met his change of topic. ‘Of course. I want the best for both of my sons.’

‘If I were to become involved with a person you weren’t entirely pleased with, would you cast me off?’ Coward. He should have said marry.

Wide-eyed, she sat up, her air of languor disappearing. ‘Oh, Christopher. What can you mean?’

‘You wouldn’t, would you?’

Silent for a moment, she stared at him. ‘If it’s about that female…’

He frowned. ‘Mother.’

She sighed and leaned back against the damask cushions. ‘You are far too precious for me to deny you my company. But I would strongly advise you to proceed with care. The
ton
is unforgiving. No one knows that as well as I.’

A faraway expression crossed her face and Christopher was not sure what to make of it. She must mean Garth. He didn’t want this day spoiled by recriminations about his brother. He would tell her of his own plans later, when it was too late for arguments. He got up. ‘I have to go.’

‘Think before you act, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Mistakes remain with you for the rest of your life.’

Half-forgotten memories tugged at his consciousness, bitter words and harsh voices. ‘As with you and my father?’ The words were out before he thought about them.

A glaze of tears softened her blue eyes and provided the answer. He left her to her regrets and her memories.

When he entered his chamber, he found Reeves laying out his evening wear. Still sour about being left behind on Christopher’s last two excursions, the valet went about his duties in heavy silence. Christopher ignored him. His mood was far too high to be pulled down by Reeves’s sulks and, as the valet assisted him to dress, he made no attempt to close the breach. He wanted to reach Blackheath for dinner.

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.’