The Rake's Inherited Courtesan Read online

  She flung her arms around his neck, abandoning her lips to the pleasure of his for an all-too-brief moment.

  Tomorrow she might not be here.

  Unease churned in Christopher’s gut as he took his hat and coat from the imperturbable Bates. Beneath Sylvia’s impassioned kiss, he’d sensed tension.

  Fear of her father? He stepped outside. Not fear, she was too full of courage for that, yet he sensed a brittleness, like a delicate vessel ready to break at a touch, the way she’d been the first day he had met her at Cliff House.

  Something prodded him to turn back.

  Bates raised his brows.

  ‘Please see that Miss Boisette has everything she needs.’ Christopher flicked the man one of the guineas he’d borrowed from Garth.

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  A tension gripped him. Twice now she’d tipped him the double. He didn’t want to risk her leaving again. ‘Bates, I would prefer it if Miss Boisette did not leave the house. Not for any reason.’

  The door hesitated in its swing. A frown puckered Bates’s forehead, then smoothed. ‘As you wish, Mr Evernden.’

  Christopher turned and strode to the waiting post-chaise.

  Chapter Fifteen

  L ight blazed from every window at the Mount Street house. A carriage disgorged a couple in evening attire. Christopher frowned. It seemed that Mother had gone all out for this birthday party. Damn lucky he’d remembered once he arrived in town. His brain still wasn’t working right. Anxiety about Sylvia had haunted him all the way to London and through most of his meeting with his man of business. Something about his leavetaking felt wrong.

  With a roll of his shoulders, he handed his rumpled driving coat to the butler on his way past. He headed for the stairs. Garth cast a laconic glance at him through the open drawing-room door, then looked pointedly at his watch. Things really had gone to hell if Garth needed to remind him about the time.

  Studiously ignoring Reeves’s darkling glances and tongue-clickings over the state of his raiment, he bathed, shaved and changed at breakneck speed and went downstairs. He joined a bored-looking Garth.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d leave her,’ Garth murmured out of the side of his mouth.

  His sly wink added to Christopher’s sense of unease. ‘I must have more control than you.’

  Garth laughed.

  ‘Christopher, darling.’

  His mother bore down on him like a frigate about to deliver a broadside. He gave Garth a don’t-you-dare-say-a-word stare and went to greet her.

  ‘Here you are at last, dear,’ Lady Stanford announced, clearly in high spirits and her best looks. ‘I was beginning to think you had forgotten.’

  Somehow she made him feel guilty even when he wasn’t. Perhaps Garth was right to be so offhand. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was delayed on the road.’

  ‘Blackheath, wasn’t it?’ Garth put in with a grin.

  His mother fluttered her handkerchief in question.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where,’ Christopher said.

  ‘No, indeed,’ his mother said. ‘You are here now and that is what is important.’ In a swirl of silk and a waft of lavender, she sailed away to greet the Molesbys. Even from here Christopher could hear Aunt Imogene protesting about the rudeness of the hackney driver who had brought them from their friend’s house in Golden Square and grossly overcharged them.

  Over her shoulder, George Molesby raised an eyebrow. Christopher could guess the question on his mind. Sylvia. Damn the man. Still, he was glad to have his mother’s attention diverted. He glowered at Garth. ‘Can’t you be serious for a moment?’

  Garth’s brow shot up, but a smile lurked in his eyes. ‘Apparently not.’

  Christopher took a good look at him. ‘You’re foxed.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Garth replied with utter good cheer. ‘Soon, I hope.’

  The gentlemen gathered around their ladies, who reclined on sofas or perched on chairs. The butler circulated with glasses of madeira.

  Garth stepped forward and raised his glass. ‘To Mother.’

  ‘Lady Stanford,’ the company chorused.

  With a gracious incline of her head, Mother accepted their good wishes. It warmed Christopher’s heart to see her so happy, something that had not occurred when their father lived. Christopher’s earlier irritation dissipated.

  He grinned when he saw Garth’s thunderstruck expression as first one guest, then another presented a gift: handkerchiefs from the Molesbys, a miniature from Lord Angleforth, her latest flirt, some perfume from one of the other couples. Garth had obviously only just realised gifts were expected.

  Christopher took pity on him and sauntered to his side. ‘I bought something from both of us when I first learned she planned this party.’ It seemed like aeons ago. Before he had gone chasing off to Dover, when his life had been ordered and organised and totally in his control. Strangely he didn’t miss it at all.

  ‘I’m in your debt again,’ Garth muttered under his breath. ‘I will pay you back.’

  Christopher slapped him on his broad shoulder. ‘Indeed you will.’

  He pulled a slender red velvet pouch from his pocket and placed it in his mother’s lap. ‘From your sons.’ She squealed and fumbled with the ribbon around its throat.

  A general gasp greeted the glittering diamond-and-emerald bracelet as it spilled into her hand.

  ‘Gad, young Kit. Where’d you get the ready for a piece like that?’ Garth asked.

  ‘Investments.’ Christopher couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. It might not be quite the thing for a noble gentleman, but his head for business had its uses.

  ‘I’ll have to take some advice from you.’

  The respect in Garth’s face gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. ‘Any time, brother.’

  ‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ the butler announced and opened the double doors to the dining room.

  ‘Looks like we are on parade, old chap,’ Garth murmured. ‘Who has she got you tied to this evening?’

  Christopher groaned. ‘The old Fanshawe trout.’

  ‘Hah. Well, as head of the family, I’ve got Mama.’ He didn’t sound any more pleased than Christopher. Whatever lay between Garth and their mother, it ran deep and always left Christopher with a vague sadness.

  But as always, they presented a united front and turned to their respective duties. It was not until dinner was over and the ladies had withdrawn, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, that Christopher contrived a quiet moment alone with Garth on the dining-room balcony. While the other men lingered at the table over their wine, they ignited their cigars in the comfortable dark.

  ‘So, did you get your little ladybird all nicely set up?’ Garth asked, blowing a ring of smoke at the sky.

  It sounded so bloody tawdry. ‘Miss Boisette is not my ladybird.’

  ‘You could have fooled me, dear boy. The Sea Witch practically keeled over after you went to the stateroom, not to mention the cries of delight. There I was, thinking of you enjoying yourself.’

  Palms moist and cheeks heated, he held off from strangling Garth. ‘Take a damper. I’ll have her out of your house in a day or so.’

  ‘What a bloody hypocrite you are.’ Deceptively lazy, the mocking tone lashed Christopher in a place he had not known was sensitive. ‘She’s a lovely armful. Keep her there as long as you want.’

  ‘The house is too close to London and, with all the traffic buzzing down to visit Princess Charlotte, someone is sure to recognise me.’

  The cigar glowed in the dark and Garth leaned one elbow on the balustrade. ‘The truth now. What is this all about? What happened in France?’

  ‘I don’t think I should discuss it. It’s bad enough that I’m embroiled in it. It seems Miss Boisette has powerful enemies.’

  ‘Her father?’

  ‘Likely. Anyway, I am taking her to my house in Kent, just as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements with my man of business.’

  A low whistl
e emanated from the dark. ‘You’re inviting a scandal. Even I wouldn’t install a woman like that in a family home.’

  The hot rush of anger in defence of Sylvia surprised him. ‘She’s not a woman like that.’

  ‘Good God. Have you lost your mind? She was Uncle John’s paramour. Everyone said so.’

  ‘I can assure you, she was no such thing.’ He tossed his cigar on the stone floor and ground it out with his heel. ‘I’m taking her out of sight for a while.’

  ‘Take it from one who really knows women,’ Garth said with a harsh laugh, ‘she’ll bleed you dry and move on to the next victim. Don’t risk your precious reputation for a tumble in the hay.’

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder. ‘Sylvia would never do that.’

  ‘You are a fool if you think so.’

  ‘Your cynicism is ill founded.’ Christopher reached for the door handle. He knew Sylvia, and she was nothing like the women Garth favoured. Just a few more hours, his business finished, and he would be back in her welcoming arms. ‘What is more,’ Christopher said. ‘I don’t give a damn what you or anyone thinks.’

  The realisation burst like champagne bubbles in his blood, lifting him to dizzying happiness. He strode out of the room and left Garth to think whatever he pleased.

  Sylvia pulled back the rose-coloured damask curtain from the window. The fading daylight revealed only a sky threatening rain, a few passers-by on the pavement beyond the wrought-iron railings and the open common, where a small boy attempted to fly a yellow kite. No sign of Christopher.

  With a sigh, she dropped the curtain and strode to the fireplace. A swift tug on the bell brought the butler within moments. She pressed her lips together, quelling the urge to say something cutting about him lurking outside the door.

  Since it was Christopher who had earned her wrath, he would hear her opinions, not his instrument. ‘Tea, please, Bates.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Cook has prepared an early dinner for you. It is set out in the dining room, if you would care to partake?’

  The thought of food nauseated her already churning stomach. Where was Christopher? She wanted to advise him of her decision to leave for Harrogate immediately.

  The answer had come to her at dawn. She would not stay here or anywhere else as his mistress, always anticipating her congé. She’d steel herself and make the break, right away, before she became accustomed to having him near. No one would ever look for her in a so unfashionably remote northern watering place.

  The butler remained in the doorway, awaiting her answer. If her plan was to be successful, she didn’t need to faint from lack of nourishment. ‘Thank you. Something light would be most welcome.’

  She followed him into the dining room. This household’s idea of a light repast exceeded expectations. A silver tureen filled the centre of the round walnut table. On the sideboard, several meat pies were set out along with a roast fowl, a large bowl of fruit and an assortment of cheeses and breads. Sparkling silverware on the white linen cloth, adjacent and intimate, waited for two people.

  ‘Are you expecting Mr Evernden?’ she asked.

  The butler’s expression remained wooden. ‘The table is always set for two. Lord Stanford’s orders, miss.’

  She winced, stung by the butler’s assumption she was the same as all the other females who inhabited this house under Lord Stanford’s protection. What else would he think, since she had arrived here on Christopher’s arm? She clenched her jaw. She had to leave here while she still had a shred of self-esteem.

  He pulled out one of the Sheraton chairs. ‘Please be seated.’

  He filled the bowl in front of her with cream of mushroom soup. The delicate, delicious aroma filled her nostrils. He set a slice of wild pigeon pie on a plate beside it. When she refused his offer of burgundy, he filled her goblet with water.

  ‘Will there be anything else, miss?’

  ‘Just the tea, please.’

  He bowed and left her in solitary state.

  The soup was delicious, hot and creamy with a peppery tang. Lord Stanford employed an excellent chef for his filles de joie. Everything in this house was of the finest quality. He treated his women well. No doubt Christopher would follow his example. Her heart squeezed.

  One mouthful of soup and her appetite fled. She poked at the pie with her fork, suddenly indecisive. This elegant existence would be hers with Christopher. A strange twist of fate had brought them together. Perhaps she should not fight it.

  But she had always sworn she would not make her mother’s mistakes. If only he would offer more. Marriage? How could she ask him to stoop to her level? In the end, he would hate her and abandon her.

  No. She had made the right decision. She had to disappear from his life. She would control her own destiny.

  But would Christopher let her go right at this moment?

  She set the fork down. Her heart ached too much to allow food to pass down her throat.

  Behind her, the door opened with a creak.

  ‘Leave the tea on the sideboard. I’ll help myself,’ she said.

  An amused chuckle made her swivel in her seat. ‘Lord Stanford.’

  Hands raised and a wicked smile on his lips, he bowed. ‘Sorry. No tea.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were the butler.’

  ‘Really? I told Weston this jacket fit me not at all well.’

  She couldn’t resist a smile at his barb against one of London’s most fashionable tailors.

  As lithe as a predator on the hunt, he sauntered to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of red wine. He spoke casually over his shoulder. ‘No Kit today?’

  ‘Mr Evernden has not yet returned. He had some business in town.’

  A dark eyebrow winged up as he turned to face her. ‘Mr Evernden, is it?’ The appraising gaze that travelled from the top of her head to her bosom expressed his opinion. Once more, she felt the heat of embarrassment in her face and fought to remain calm.

  ‘I am expecting your brother soon, my lord.’

  ‘Please, call me Garth.’

  He slid into the other chair. Beneath the table, his knee touched hers and she jerked away.

  His mouth curled in a sardonic smile. ‘I expected him to dash straight back here to your welcoming arms last night. I can’t think why he would stay in town.’

  He was trying to bedevil her for some reason. Beneath his insouciance, he seemed to care about his brother. But did he care enough to try to extract him from an unfortunate alliance? ‘He is making arrangements for us.’

  ‘Us?’ For once, his face reflected his serious tone of voice. ‘Just what sort of arrangements are you expecting, Miss Boisette?’

  It took all her self-control not to throw his suspicions back in his face. Instead she curved her lips in a smile. ‘Your brother is an honourable man. I am sure he will provide everything I ask.’

  ‘And what will you request?’

  She cocked her head to one side, tapping a finger against her lips. His eyes followed the movement. ‘A very permanent arrangement, I think.’

  His eyes darkened and his brows drew together. ‘Christopher is not such a fool.’

  This man despised her.

  ‘Your tea, miss.’ The butler had entered silently.

  Garth rose to his feet, towering over her. ‘Miss Boisette will take it in the rose room. And,’ he said, leaning close and murmuring into her ear, ‘then you will tell me everything.’

  This might be her only chance for escape. She rose to her feet and placed a trembling hand on his arm. She allowed him to escort her into the drawing room.

  They chatted idly as the butler set the tea tray on the table in front of the sofa. Sylvia kept up a flow of bright chatter, anything to hide the rapid beating of her heart as she prepared to play her role in what she hoped was the final scene.

  ‘No interruptions, Bates,’ Garth said.

  Her stomach tightened.

  The butler bowed and closed the door behind him.

&nbs
p; Seated next to her on the sofa, Garth laid one arm along the back. With only a slight tremor in her hand, she poured tea for herself. She recalled the first time she had played this part with Christopher. She hadn’t felt nearly so nervous. Despite his sternness, he hadn’t frightened her. This man emanated darkness.

  Garth twisted the stem of his wineglass in long strong fingers, gazing into the depths of the ruby liquid as if it were a crystal ball. She had never seen him quite so serious.

  ‘Now, Miss Boisette. Tell me your story.’

  Sylvia assembled her thoughts. ‘I don’t know how much Christopher, Mr Evernden, told you about my…my history.’

  He sent her a sharp glance. ‘He told me enough. I know you are in some kind of danger from your father, who is not interested in claiming parentage. I also know that you have my brother firmly in your toils.’ He hesitated, pausing as if to select his words with care. ‘Christopher is not like me, Miss Boisette. He led a sheltered life as a boy. Practically cloistered.’ Garth’s lips twisted in a mirthless smile. ‘He’s no fool, but he’s always been too softhearted when it comes to a sad story.’

  The chill, so recently gone from her heart, spread through her chest. His suspicions wounded far more than she expected. Even this unmitigated rake realised a woman with her past didn’t deserve an honourable man like Christopher. He was right.

  She took a deep breath and slanted him a glance through her lashes. ‘How much do you want to rescue your brother?’

  A slow, lazy smile curved his lips. His arm dropped from the sofa back and slid around her shoulders. ‘How much would it cost and what else would I get in return?’ He trailed a finger suggestively up her neck, along her jaw and brushed across her lips. His warm breath tickled her ear. A predator on the prowl.

  Emptiness engulfed her. Christopher would never forgive her for this piece of work.

  She leaned back and turned on a brilliant smile.

  Garth drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘One hundred guineas,’ she said. ‘And you get the satisfaction of knowing your brother is out of my toils.’

  The easy, confident smile disappeared. ‘I would offer you much more to stay here with me.’ He stared at her mouth and leaned forward. His voice thickened. ‘Jewels, clothes, whatever you desire.’ The scent of his cologne, acid lemon mingled with musty bay, stifled her.