The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (9 page)

W
hat better way could she spend an evening than hemming a handkerchief in the Everndens’ drawing room? Sylvia stifled a yawn and set another small stitch in the fine white lawn.

The theatre would have been better. She forced the thought aside. She had no reason to envy the Everndens their evening and she needed this time to get her thoughts in order after the sinking of her well-laid plans by poor Mary’s illness. Having found herself in uncharted waters, she needed to set a new course. The governess idea might well provide a welcome haven.

In the meantime, to counteract her feeling of obligation to the grudging Lady Stanford, she had offered to make herself useful during her stay. She had begun right away by fetching Lady Stanford’s shawl from the drawing room when she complained of a draught.

Christopher had encouraged her with a nod, Lady Stanford had seemed a little less frigid and Lord Stanford had raised a cynical brow. So here she sat, usefully employed on one of Lady Stanford’s indispensable scraps of lace.

A clock in the hall chimed the hour into a silent house. Ten o’clock. Preferring not to hear about the play, she folded the needlework and placed it in the basket beside her chair.

The door swung open. She started, her heart picking up speed.

In full evening dress, Lord Stanford loomed in the doorway. A quizzical smile leavened his chiselled features. ‘Miss Boisette, did I startle you? I was not sure I would find you still downstairs.’

He probably thought she should scuttle off to bed like an upstairs maid. She wished she had, given that everything about this man smacked of danger. Unlike his younger brother, who wore his sense of honour on his fair and open countenance, Lord Stanford hid his thoughts behind a mask of cynicism. ‘I did not expect you back so soon,’ she said.

He chuckled. ‘Oh, I left during the first intermission. The house was sadly lacking in interesting company. I thought I might find more amusement here.’

Dread clenched her stomach. ‘You flatter me. I can assure you I am not in the habit of amusing gentlemen and I am just about to retire.’ She rose to her feet.

As solid as any door, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. ‘Come now, Miss Boisette, I’m certain I detected a distinct unwillingness on my brother’s part to leave such delightful company at home. You have been travelling together, have you not?’

Sylvia kept her expression aloof and her gaze steady on the wickedly handsome untrustworthy face. ‘Lord Stanford, you are quite mistaken. Mr Evernden simply undertook to escort me to my destination.’

His gaze lingered on her mouth, before rising to her eyes. ‘To a friend who seems as elusive as fog, Miss Boisette. Or do I call you
mademoiselle
?’ he murmured.

The dread clawed its way up into her throat. She stepped forward, meaning to pass him, but he didn’t move. She stopped two steps away. ‘My friend’s illness was as much a surprise to me as it was to your brother. Now, if you will excuse me…’

He reached out and put one finger under her chin. His dark
gaze raked her face. ‘Unbelievable,’ he muttered. ‘You are exquisite. But you know that, don’t you? You are quite wasted on my brother. He is far too strict in his notions to appreciate your undeniable charms.’

She held her ground, resisting the temptation to slap his smiling mouth. ‘At least your brother is a gentleman, my lord.’ An honourable gentleman. She bit back the words, fearing to push him too far.

He laughed. ‘So, you’ve got claws too. I like spirited women.’

She swallowed a gasp, meeting his gaze with a silent stare.

His lips curled. ‘Oh yes, Kit is definitely a gentleman.’ He made it sound like an insult. ‘You know, I could offer you a much better arrangement than ever my brother would. I have an exceedingly well-appointed house in Blackheath and you would find me most generous. You would lack for nothing now, or later when we go our separate ways.’

Warmth stole up her neck and into her face at his callous assumption that she was available to the highest bidder. She kept her hands relaxed at her sides. She needed Lady Stanford’s help to find a position and it wasn’t the first time she had been forced to swallow her pride.

Look to the future and survive the present. In a respectable position, a situation where no one knew her history, she would not be subject to this kind of humiliation.

She kept her smile cool. ‘I thank you for your offer, my lord, but I am not in the market for a protector. I have other irons in the fire.’

He regarded her silently for a moment. When he spoke, his soft tone held a warning. ‘You’re a hard little piece, ain’t you. You know, Miss Boisette, I would not want to see my brother embroiled in any sort of…difficulty.’

Sylvia blinked. If it wasn’t so out of character, she might suspect him of trying to protect his sibling. Or had Christopher, suspecting her growing attraction, sent his brother to
warn her off? An unexpected pang caught at her heart. ‘I acknowledge my debt to your brother and I certainly would not dream of diverting him from his familial duty.’

A dark brow flicked up and he nodded. ‘Even if you are not interested in him, Miss Boisette, I am sure you have noticed his interest in you. Whether by accident or by design, it is a problem I would rather avoid. I hope you will not repay his kindness by putting him under some further obligation.’ He flashed a charming smile.

She bit back a heated retort and smiled sweetly. ‘He has fulfilled all of his obligations, my lord.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He placed one languid white hand on the doorframe, blocking her passage. ‘If you change your mind about my offer, you will let me know, won’t you?’

She lifted her chin. ‘Highly unlikely, my lord.’

Lord Stanford eased away from the door to let her pass. ‘Too bad,’ he drawled. ‘But I’m glad we had this little chat and understand each other.’

She understood very well. She had just been told to keep her unworthy claws out of his precious brother. Her foolish heart ached for something she had known all along she did not deserve. Pride straightened her spine. ‘I too prefer frankness, Lord Stanford.’

She cast him a careless smile on her way past and swept through the door. She barely avoided colliding with Christopher. He looked from her to Lord Stanford and frowned.

‘Back already?’ Lord Stanford asked.

His gaze fixed on Sylvia, Christopher nodded. ‘I have some documents to sign. My man of business wanted them first thing in the morning.’

‘Quite the businessman these days,’ Stanford said, a cutting edge to his tone.

Christopher shrugged. ‘I thought you were going to White’s tonight?’

‘Indeed I am. I came home to change and found Miss Boisette alone with her needlework. I became so entertained by our conversation I quite forgot the time.’

Christopher’s expression darkened. ‘I see.’

Sylvia stared at him. Just what did he did see? That his brother had spent the last fifteen minutes warning her off? Or that the dissipated rake had offered her a
carte blanche
? To her annoyance, fire burned her cheeks. She wasn’t the one who should be blushing—it was his horrid brother.

Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. What on earth was wrong with her? It didn’t matter a damn what either of them thought of her. She ducked her head. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to my room.’

Lord Stanford bowed elegantly. ‘Goodnight, Miss Boisette.’

Christopher hesitated as if he wanted to say something. Whatever it was, Sylvia could not stay to hear it. One more insult and she might really cry. She brushed past him.

‘Goodnight,
mademoiselle
,’ Christopher said to her retreating back.

The ironic note in his voice almost caused her to turn back. Men. They were all the same. She held her back straight and marched up the stairs.

‘I see you managed to pry yourself free of the clinging vine.’ Garth’s words echoed up the stairs.

‘Damn you, Garth, but you’re an insulting cur to our mother.’

‘So I am, dear boy.’ His sardonic laughter rang out as Sylvia reached the landing. She shivered. Bitterness seemed to hang over Lord Stanford like a shadow.

Over the past week, Sylvia had run errands for the fragile Lady Stanford to the best of her ability. Lady Stanford had generously said she wasn’t sure what she would do without Sylvia’s help when she left. But there was no doubt about it, Sylvia would be leaving.

Today, she had promised to return a novel to Hookham’s on Bond Street. After receiving directions to the famous lending library from the haughty butler, she put on the grey merino and brown pelisse she’d taken to wearing since the return of her trunk. Since her only bonnet had been stolen, she wore the high-crowned, blue confection decorated with pink rosebuds purchased by Christopher in Tunbridge Wells.

Outside, a fine drizzle slicked the streets and coated everything with damp soot. A little nervous about her first expedition in London, she stepped out smartly.

Around her, horse-drawn equipages crowded the road. Coalmen and other tradesmen filed by in a variety of creaking and rumbling wagons. Barouches trundled sedately over the cobbles and young bloods perched in their sporting curricles turned their heads to stare at her over high shirt points. She avoided their gazes.

Shouts, horses’ hooves on cobblestones, whistles and catcalls added up to an almost unbearable din. Unpleasant and unnameable smells invaded the smoky air, mitigated only by the scent of cinnamon wafting from a cheeky lass selling sticky buns and the floral perfumes worn by the well-dressed ladies she passed. The noise and the dirt reminded her too much of her childhood in Paris for comfort.

Cliff House and her hitherto secluded existence seemed hundreds of miles away. She prayed for a position with a family who resided in the country.

In Hookham’s, she returned Lady Stanford’s novel, collected the one on order, then spent a happy hour feasting on the vast selection of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. When she emerged into the street, the rain had ceased and Bond Street thronged with gentlemen and ladies sauntering along the pavement. They browsed the shop windows and chatted with acquaintances, their stylish attire and carefully coiffed hair proclaiming their wealth and status.

Sylvia studied the dressmakers’ displays as she strolled along. The array of gowns and bonnets dazzled her with their variety of fabrics and styles. An unusually fashioned morning gown in green sarsenet trimmed with points of white satin caught her attention. How cleverly the fabric had been cut on the bias. With a regretful sigh, she stored the idea away and picked up her pace.

A black town carriage drew up at the curb’s edge beside her. A footman jumped down and blocked her path.

Jolted out of her reverie, she stepped to one side.

‘Your carriage, miss?’ He nudged her towards the open door.

She shook her head. ‘You are mistaken.’

He put out an arm. ‘There’s a gentleman friend of yours inside.’

Christopher?

She peered through the open door. A man with a hat pulled low and a muffler over his face sat in the shadows.

The footman took her arm. ‘In you go, miss.’

Hot pinpricks flashed across her back. She jerked her arm out of his reach. ‘This is not my carriage.’ She turned to push past him.

His portly body blocked her. He thrust her back towards the lowered steps.

Her throat dried. ‘Take your hands off me.’

Heart hammering, she glanced around for aid. No one appeared to notice. She clutched the string of her reticule, heavy with her borrowed book, and judged the distance to his head. If she hit him hard enough and ran, even in hampering skirts, she’d easily outdistance such a fat man. She stepped closer. Her heart picked up speed.

Garth waited for a hackney to drive by, then stepped off the curb, tossing a penny to the street sweeper who cleared him a path.

Damn, but Madame Eglantine had been in fine fettle last night. He grinned to himself at the recollection.

A couple of servants arguing on the footpath caught his idle glance. The woman looked ready to assail the fat fellow. He drew in a sharp breath. What the hell was Miss Boisette doing on Bond Street brawling with a footman? This young woman collected admirers, the way he collected snuffboxes. He strode towards them.

Miss Boisette’s expression turned to relief, her colour rushing back in a flood. Perhaps he would make one of her collection after all. The already pleasant morning had just improved by leaps and bounds.

He composed his expression in a bored smile. ‘Miss Boisette, is aught amiss?’

The lackey mumbled something and retreated. He clambered on to the box of the nearby carriage. Its occupant slammed the door shut and the coach forced its way into the traffic.

Garth stared after it. ‘What the deuce is going on?’

‘He offered me a ride.’ Her voice shook. Clearly she remained upset, despite her outward calmness.

‘Someone you know?’

Distress once more clouded her expression. ‘A case of mistaken identity, I believe.’ She sounded too uncertain for him to believe her, the cheating little baggage. She must think him a fool. No one would mistake that face of hers for another.

He toyed with the idea of chasing the carriage down and getting to the truth. Rot it. It would put a damper on his plans. There was a team of bays he wanted going on the block today at Tattersalls. If he didn’t beat the rush, he’d lose them.

She gazed up at him. Never had he seen such intensely blue eyes. He flicked a glance over her and imagined her naked. His blood stirred.

No wonder Christopher wanted to hang on to her. Garth chewed on the inside of his cheek. Christopher had better
watch his step with this one or she’d have him leg-shackled before he blinked. Not a chance. His brother was far too sensible. In fact, no fun at all. Perhaps this young lady would enjoy a bit of sport. If so, Garth was more the man for the job.

He held out his arm. ‘Come, I will see you home.’

Still trembling inside, Sylvia took Lord Stanford’s arm. While the speculative expression on his face caused an unpleasant flutter in her stomach, she felt safer with him than with the man in the carriage. Had it really been a mistake, as she first thought, or did it have something to do with the man at the inn? Surely not.