The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (7 page)

‘Yes, I expect so.’ She sounded far from sure.

The weather had remained unusually fair and the drive had passed amicably. As they whiled away the time on the drive, he saw in her laughing replies hints of the sensuous woman who had teased him close to madness in Dover.

Strangely, his uncle seemed to have educated her more like a male friend than a female. She was well versed in the classics, Plato and Aristotle, and fond of the French philosopher Descartes. She had decided opinions on all of them.

Her fine mind would be wasted in a dress shop. She’d make a perfect companion with whom to spend the evening hours after mutually satisfying physical intimacy. The thought sliced through his idle musings. Had he lost his mind?

Awareness of her delightful feminine form scorched his hip. He shifted away and glanced around. Late afternoon lengthened the shadows between the buildings at an alarming rate. The district’s evils were well known to him from his occasional business dealings here. He pulled up in front of a
three-storey tenement house with peeling paint and an air of disreputable decay. A broken shutter hung from an upper storey. Filthy rags replaced glass here and there across the face of the building.

A frown creased her forehead. ‘This is it?’

He nodded and signalled to a skinny youth with a shorn head and enormous ears slouched against the wall. ‘Hold the bridle.’

The boy leaped forward.

Christopher climbed down. He gave the lad a stern glance. ‘No funny business and I’ll give you a penny.’

Red-rimmed assessing eyes stared back. The lad wiped his nose on a tattered sleeve. ‘Right you are, sir.’

Christopher helped Sylvia down from the carriage and across the stinking kennel running with the day’s effluence. She stared at the narrow door bearing the number they sought, took a deep breath and knocked. The sound echoed off the dank walls along the street.

Nerves of steel would avail her little in a place like this. Anger burned in his gullet. How could she possibly think of living here? It seemed too rank, too desperate for such a bright jewel. With half an eye on his carriage and the unsavoury youth at the team’s heads, he drummed his fingers on his thigh.

The door opened a crack and a dirty face and two dark eyes peered out at them. Christopher didn’t blame the occupant for caution in this neighborhood.

Sylvia took a small step back. She looked at the paper in her hand. ‘Does Mary Jensen live here?’

‘Aye.’ The door widened to reveal a man in the rough garb of a labourer, his coal-dust-blackened face pierced by a pair of wary bloodshot eyes. The man’s gaze ran over her, then took in Christopher and the carriage beyond. ‘Who wants her?’

‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. She used to be my governess.’

The man seemed slow to absorb the words, but finally he nodded. ‘I’m her brother. Mary is sick in her bed.’

‘I wonder if I might see her?’

The girl was persistent if nothing else. Christopher felt admiration well in his chest.

‘Aye, ye best come in, then.’ He glanced down at himself. ‘You’ll have to excuse my dirt, I just got in from work at the coal yard.’

An honest trade, at least. Christopher removed his hat and followed Sylvia into a dingy hall.

‘This way,’ Jensen said.

‘Who is it, Bill?’ a shrill voice called.

‘No one,’ he shouted back. ‘Visitors for Mary.’

A woman, brown wisps poking out from beneath her cap, bobbed her head around a door along the passage. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sylvia and practically popped out of her head when she focused on Christopher. She joined them in the narrow corridor.

‘This is my wife,’ Jensen said.

‘Lord have mercy,’ Mrs Jensen said. ‘You be that French girl she’s always talking about. The one that was going to help her at the shop.’

‘Yes, Sylvia Boisette,’ Sylvia said.

Christopher heard relief in Sylvia’s voice, but a chill of premonition told him that the worst was yet to come. No respectable woman would willingly live in this part of London. He couldn’t leave Sylvia here. The thought hit him like a dunk in a horse trough on a cold day.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea.’

She ducked out of reach.

‘Who’s that, then?’ Mrs Jensen asked, with a nudge of her elbow. ‘Your fancy man?’

‘He drove me here.’

Christopher wanted to throttle Sylvia. She had dismissed him as if he was some sort of lackey, a coachman no less. Well she was about to find out that he considered himself a whole lot more.

‘Mary’s in the back room,’ Jensen said.

He led the way into a cell of a room with flaking plaster walls, a truckle bed and a table beside it. On a narrow cot, a woman lay beneath the sheets, her skin like rice paper over blue veins. She opened her dark-circled eyes and slowly focused on the invaders of her cloister.

‘She’s on opium for the pain,’ Jensen announced.

Sylvia sank to her knees beside the bed. ‘Mary,’ she said, her voice husky.

Christopher felt like a voyeur in this room of suffering. The familiar smell of illness, sickly sweet and vile, hung in the air and turned his mouth sour. ‘I will wait for you outside, Miss Boisette. Don’t be long.’

Questioning, Sylvia glanced up at him, tears hanging like bright diamonds on her lower lashes, her eyes deep pools of sorrow.

‘I mean it, Miss Boisette. Ten minutes.’ He headed for the front door and the fresh air of the street. Fresh. What a joke. Thick with smoke and the stink of rotting refuse, it was a slight improvement on a room full of death waiting to claim its own.

Damn it all. This time, Sylvia Boisette would do as he instructed. He didn’t want to have to go back in there and haul her out.

Sylvia took Mary’s frail hand in hers. ‘What happened?’ she asked gently. ‘You never replied to my letters. When I went to Tunbridge Wells you had left.’

Mary’s soft brown eyes closed for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was the ague at first. Before I knew it, I could scarcely crawl out of my bed.’

Sylvia pressed her palm to Mary’s forehead. Hot and clammy to the touch, it told the story of her friend’s suffering. Sadness filled her heart. ‘Tell me what I must do to help you.’

Mary shook her head.

‘It’s a canker in her lungs,’ her brother said from behind. ‘Ain’t nothing can be done, what we ain’t already done.’

For all their poverty, the room seemed clean, the sheets smelling of soap, the floor swept. She glanced at Mary’s sister-in-law. ‘There must be something?’

‘Mary’s got a bit of money put by and we’ve been using that for the doctor and the medicines.’ Mrs Jensen bit her lip. ‘When that’s gone, I’m not sure what we’ll do.’ With a glance at the woman on the bed, she lowered her voice. ‘It may not be much longer, though.’

It seemed so unfair that someone as vital as Mary Jensen should be brought to such an end. Sorrow filled Sylvia’s heart and tears choked her throat. She picked up the skeletal white hand and stroked it. ‘You must get well,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘I’m relying on your skill with a needle. I have many new designs sketched out.’

‘John Evernden is dead, then?’ Mary whispered.

Sylvia nodded. ‘A few days ago.’

‘He left you well settled?’

If there was anything surer, Mary Jensen didn’t need to hear about Sylvia’s troubles. She smiled and indicated the door. ‘His nephew.’

Mary frowned. ‘Lord Stanford? I’ve heard bad things about that young man.’

A rush of tenderness filled her for a person who cared enough to worry about her at such a time. There had been few enough of those in her life. ‘The younger brother. He’s a good man.’ He was, she realised. For all her annoyance at his interference, he had been kind and honourable.

A cough racked her friend’s fragile form and Sylvia picked
up a glass of water from the small night table. She lifted Mary’s head and helped her to drink.

Mary gave her a wan smile of thanks. ‘I’m glad you’re settled, then,’ she said so softly Sylvia had to bend her head close. ‘You don’t belong here, Sylvia. There’s too much sickness and squalor. Don’t worry about me. Bill is a good man and takes care of me.’

‘As good as I can,’ Bill spoke gently.

Sylvia’s heart gladdened at the thought that Mary had relatives to care for her. A family’s love made all the difference at a time like this. But she and Mary had been such close friends; she did so hate to lose her.

Mary’s eyes slid closed.

‘Best leave her, miss,’ Bill said. ‘She tires easy. She’ll talk about this visit for days, she will. In between the opium, like.’

The steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the covers seemed peaceful. Sylvia stood up and smiled at Mr Jensen. ‘If you ever need anything, please let me know.’ How? How could he let her know? She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Evernden will know my whereabouts should you need to reach me.’

As soon as she settled her own affairs, she would see what she could do for Mary. She wiped her eyes on the heel of her hand.

‘This way, miss,’ Bill Jensen said.

Out in the ugly street, she stared back at the gaunt building. Poor Mary. And just when life had seemed so full of promise. How unkind the fates could be. In laying Mary low, they had twisted Sylvia’s path until she could no longer see her way.

Up and down the grimy street full of shadows and dirt, her gaze sought answers. With nowhere to go, no plan, no future, confusion washed over her. She knew nothing of London. She would have to find somewhere to live, some means of earning a living.

She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and straightened
her shoulders. She did not believe in fate. One made one’s own destiny. And who knew, perhaps she would be able to come back and help her loyal friend.

Like a candle flame on a dark winter’s night, Christopher guided her towards his carriage with gentle sympathy.

‘Where now?’ she asked, too tired to care.

‘Now we go to Evernden Place on Mount Street,’ he said and lifted her into the curricle.

T
he wall sconces remained unlit in his mother’s upstairs withdrawing room. Christopher was not surprised to see his mother stretched out on a
chaise
asleep. She liked to nap before dinner and dance until dawn.

In repose, she looked younger than her forty and some summers. The gathering gloom gave her skin a fine and delicate appearance and her pale green gown showed off her still youthful figure.

‘Mother,’ he murmured.

Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start, reaching to straighten her cap, a mere wisp of lace perched on silver-stranded blonde curls. ‘Christopher, darling. What on earth are you doing back in town so soon?’

He strode to her side and carried her proffered hand to his lips. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’

She waved her handkerchief at him. ‘Naughty boy. Of course I am. I am merely surprised. You intended to visit friends, did you not? I did not look to see you for at least a fortnight.’

‘Unfortunately, things did not turn out quite as expected,’ he replied, unable to fully obliterate the wryness in his tone.

An expression of dismay crossed her face. ‘Were things so
very bad at Cliff House? It just seemed so disrespectful for no one from the family to attend.’

Christopher sat down on the chair next to the
chaise
. ‘Aunt Imogene and Uncle George put in an appearance.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Now I’m sorry I asked you to go. It must have been simply dreadful.’

Dreadful
didn’t quite describe the past two days. Interesting, challenging, but as the face of Miss Sylvia Boisette intruded on his thoughts, he knew he would not have missed it for the world.

‘It wasn’t so bad. Aunt Imogene finally got the ormolu clock, so we’ve heard the last of it.’

‘But why did you return home?’

His face heated under her intense scrutiny. She always knew when he was keeping something from her. He had better get this over with. ‘Something happened.’

Her eyes lit with interest. ‘You met someone?’

Christopher stemmed a groan. For the past few months, his mother had been trying to match him up with one suitable female after another. He’d been running the gauntlet of gently bred débutantes dressed in white at every function he attended. Hence his planned flight to the country. Unfortunately Miss Boisette and her problems had put it all out of mind.

‘It is a little difficult to explain. You see, Uncle John left me with the care of his ward, Mademoiselle—’

‘His ward?’ his mother shrieked.

She never raised her voice except at Garth, and never in a shriek. Damn. ‘Mother, you must listen. Uncle John left Miss Boisette in my care and I offered to drive her to a friend of hers in Tunbridge Wells.’

With a small sigh of relief, she raised a languorous hand to her temple. ‘My word, child, you had me thinking you had brought that dreadful woman here.’

‘Er…actually, I did.’

She sat bolt upright. ‘You did what?’

He could not see a way to cushion the blow and readied himself for the peal she would ring over his head. ‘I brought her to London with me.’

Twin spots of colour glowed on her cheeks. ‘You brought his paramour to London?’

‘Miss Boisette is downstairs in the drawing room.’

‘Downstairs in my drawing room?’

Better she sound like a parrot than a banshee. ‘Yes, Mother, that is what I have been trying to tell you. Her friend had left the Wells. I brought Miss Boisette here because she had nowhere else to go.’

His mother reached for his hand. ‘Is it not enough for your brother to have no morals—now you, too? I always thought better of you, Christopher. You will oblige me by taking her back where she came from, at once.’

‘I can’t, Mother. The house is sold.’

‘Surely there are places for women like her?’ The corners of her mouth turned down as if she’d sucked on a lemon. ‘Your father found them easily enough in his day. Take her to one of those.’

Christopher had never seen her so haughty or so heartless. ‘She was Uncle John’s ward.’

‘Is that what she told you?’

The venom in her tone set his teeth on edge. He got up and strode to the window, staring into the street. It had been a mistake to bring Miss Boisette here. What with his father’s behaviour in his last years and Garth’s dissipated ways, how could he expect his mother to accept her? But he would not drop Sylvia off at some inn like so much rubbish.

He paced back to his seat and took his mother’s hand in his. ‘Mother, we cannot turn her out on to the street, no matter how much you dislike it. Uncle John left her in my care. If I take her to a hotel in London, surely word of it will
be all over town in a day or so. You would not like that, would you?’

She shook her head doubtfully. ‘Christopher, everyone knows about her. He brought her back from France and hid her away in that house of his. It doesn’t matter what he called her, she was his mistress. Your father said so.’

The echo of his earlier misgivings hit a nerve. Sylvia had behaved disgracefully at Cliff House. Since then, her demeanour had been exemplary, but what if she treated his mother to a taste of her wantonness? He grimaced. ‘She is less than half his age.’

His mother moaned and reached for her smelling salts on the table beside her. ‘And that’s what makes it so disgusting. Oh, Christopher, please. I can’t bear to have another scandal in the family. How could you?’

Dash it all, he was making a pig’s ear of turning his mother up sweet. ‘I don’t want a scandal either. That’s why we have to find her a position as a governess as far away from London as possible.’

She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes as ever-ready tears welled up. ‘A governess? You have run mad. I shall appeal to Garth. Lord only knows what he will say.’

Hell. He never fought with his mother. He’d seen her cry enough over his father and be driven to distraction by Garth. Gentle persuasion worked far better with her than harsh commands. Too bad his father hadn’t discovered the secret.

Absently, he leaned forward and shifted the tea tray to sit dead centre on the rosewood table. ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you haven’t met Miss Boisette and you are judging her without giving her a chance.’ Much as he had himself, for God’s sake. He glanced up at her. ‘I’m not asking you to introduce her to the
ton
; I just want you to help her find a position. It doesn’t have to be with one of your friends, just a decent family in need of a French governess.’

Lady Stanford gazed at him through watery blue eyes. ‘I don’t know anyone of that sort. What respectable family would allow a disreputable woman to educate their children?’

Mother had learned never to say no, she just found more difficulties. ‘No one has to know anything about her past. As soon as she finds a position, she will leave. That is what you want, is it not?’

She pouted. ‘I still don’t see why we are responsible for this female.’

‘I explained all that.’

Tears spilled over and coursed down her pale cheeks. ‘Oh, Christopher, how could you?’

Reaching for every ounce of patience at his command, he rubbed his palms over his knees and prepared for battle. For one brief moment, his father had his sympathy.

Above the marble mantel, a portrait of a knight in a full-bottomed wig and shining ceremonial armour returned Sylvia’s gaze with a half-smile. This Evernden ancestor must be from the last century. The way his green-flecked hazel eyes crinkled at the corners reminded her of Christopher.

Too tense to sit on one of the green-and-cream brocade sofas artfully arranged against the wainscoting, Sylvia circled the room inspecting the assorted bric-à-brac on elegant Sheraton tables. On the far wall hung the painting of a woman also from the last century. Powdered and rolled over her ears, her hair rose to startling proportions, topped off with white ostrich plumes. Sylvia vaguely remembered her mother dressing her hair that way.

‘Extraordinary hairdo, ain’t it?’

Sylvia jumped. She swung around to the man who spoke in such a contemptuous tone.

The word
satanic
leaped to her mind as she took in midnight-winging brows, a full mouth curled in a sneer and
waving black hair. Inches taller, but of slighter build than Christopher, she guessed he must be Lord Stanford. The widening of his brown eyes told her she’d surprised him also.

‘Stanford, at your service, madam,’ he said with a gallant bow. He gestured to the portrait behind her. ‘My mother, the dowager Lady Stanford.’

They had not been introduced, but she couldn’t very well ignore him in his own home. ‘Sylvia Boisette,’ she replied.

Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. He raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m waiting for Mr Evernden,’ she explained.

An appraising glance ran from her head to her toes and seemed to see right through her clothes.

Hating the surge of heat in her face, she stiffened.

A rakish smile quirked one corner of his mouth. ‘Well, good for Kit. Welcome to my abode, Miss Boisette.’

His home. She mistrusted the tenor of his scrutiny and the gleam in his dark, wicked eyes. She held herself aloof. ‘Thank you.’

‘And where is my younger brother? Hardly courteous of him to leave you kicking your heels here by yourself. Would you like some tea, or could I offer you something a little stronger after your journey? Wine, perhaps?’

Heavens, his deep lazy drawl sounded pleasing to the ear. ‘No, thank you. Mr Evernden went to speak to Lady Stanford.’

The eyebrow shot up again. ‘Bearding the lioness in her den, hmm. Christopher has more bottom than I.’

His lips twisted at her blank stare. ‘Please, won’t you be seated and make yourself comfortable?’

He placed her hand on his arm and led her to the sofa by the fireplace. She perched on its edge.

He lounged next to her, one long arm resting along the sofa’s back, his hand inches from her shoulder.

She had tried to persuade Christopher not to bring her here, but he had refused to set her down at an inn. He had
insisted she would be welcomed at Evernden Place and his mother would find a way to help her. The wolfish expression on the sinfully handsome face so close to her own reinforced her misgivings.

The silenced crackled with tension.

‘It is a very pleasant house you have, Lord Stanford,’ she managed.

‘Thank you. What brings you to London, Miss Boisette?’

The steel beneath the lazy tone demanded an answer. Damn Christopher for leaving her alone. ‘I intended to live in Tunbridge Wells, but unforeseen circumstances forced a change in my plans.’

‘How very…unfortunate,’ he murmured, staring at her mouth.

She winced at the sarcasm and the heated stare. His assumption rankled, but she had known how it would be the moment she had agreed to travel with Mr Evernden. ‘I can assure you my presence here is wholly your brother’s idea. I asked him to leave me at a coaching inn. I am quite capable of looking after my own affairs.’

Amusement glimmered in obsidian depths. ‘How refreshing.’

She had the distinct impression this was some sort of game and she played the mouse to his cat. She touched the locket at her neck, seeking its comfort.

With the grace and menace of a panther, he rose to loom over her. ‘I think I should go and see what is keeping my brother. I shall return in a moment.’

She nodded and watched him leave with an overpowering sense of relief.

Whistling softly, Garth mounted the stairs, knowing exactly where to find Christopher and his mother at this hour of the day. He paused in the doorway, a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the affected fluttering of his mother’s handkerchief and her pouting mouth, as she listened to the low voice of her adored younger son.

For once it seemed that Christopher had earned her wrath. It would do him good to receive the edge of her tongue until she found some reason to blame Garth for his brother’s fall from grace. After all, Christopher was the beloved son, the one who looked like an Evernden and not a cuckoo in the nest.

To hell with the lot of them. He held the title whether his foolish fashion-plate of a mother liked it or not.

He sauntered into the room, stretching out his hand. ‘Kit, I see you couldn’t stay away. Who is the ravishing creature in the drawing room?’

Christopher’s eyebrows snapped together and he gave Garth an intent look as they shook hands.

‘Ravishing?’ Lady Stanford cried. ‘Christopher, you never said anything about ravishing. How can I help find a governess position for someone with her reputation who is ravishing to boot?’

‘A governess, eh? What a waste,’ Garth mused. ‘She didn’t strike me as that sort.’

Christopher glared at him. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’

Garth shrugged.

‘Is she really beautiful?’ Lady Stanford asked.

‘Stunning,’ Garth replied.

Christopher glowered.

‘That settles it,’ Lady Stanford said, swinging her feet onto the floor with a rustle of skirts. ‘I will have nothing to do with her. I don’t care what you say, Christopher, I can do nothing to help the girl. Send her away at once.’

The idiot must really be smitten if he thought to foist his ladybird off on Mother. Fascinating. ‘If Christopher wants to invite Miss Boisette to stay here in
my
house, I am sure I have no objection. And if he feels obligated to find her a position as a governess, then I believe we should do everything we can to assist.’

Lady Stanford wrung her hands, but Christopher’s expression lightened and he clapped Garth on the shoulder. ‘Thank you. You won’t regret it. Despite her unfortunate…er…background, she is truly unexceptionable. You will have no reason to find fault with her manners, I promise you.’

He swung around to clasp his mother’s hands. ‘Mother, I’m sure you will be able to help her if you would just put your mind to it.’

‘Since Garth insists,’ his mother said with a sniff, ‘there is no more to be said. As he says, it is his house now.’

Garth ignored the slightly baleful stare that accompanied the words. His mother’s borderline insults no longer troubled him. While she never quite came out and spoke her mind, her dislike always simmered below the surface. As a child, he’d been mystified by her cold disapproval. As an adult, he’d seen right through her hypocrisy. Christopher, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to underlying tension filling the Evernden household. Garth could only imagine his brother’s resentment if he ever discovered the truth.