The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (11 page)

‘Whose carriage?’

‘I didn’t see the man inside, though she said there was one.’

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Surely this couldn’t have anything to do with the earlier attempt to abduct her? Could it? ‘A case of mistaken identity?’

Garth looked unconvinced. ‘She said so, but the lackey was pressing her pretty hard, I thought, and she looked terrified.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this last night?’

‘I forgot.’

‘Bloody hell. It can’t be a coincidence.’

Garth shot a piercing glance from under his brows. ‘’Fess up.’

‘It’s not the first time there has been an attempt to abduct her. Someone tried to kidnap her from the Bird in Hand the night we stayed there.’

Garth’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. ‘Something you failed to mention.’

‘I thought it was a random attack. Some Mohawk looking for a ransom.’

‘Who knew you were there?’

‘That’s just it, no one as far as I know.’ Christopher strode to the chair opposite Garth and dropped into it. ‘Unless we were followed from Tunbridge Wells. There was some god-awful dandy at the Sussex Hotel. I just didn’t think anything of it.’ Mentally, Christopher reviewed the scene in Tunbridge
Wells. He’d been so embarrassed; he’d put it out of his mind. He groaned.

‘What?’

‘There was another man in the lobby that day, a dingy fellow in the shadows behind her. A man very like the stranger at the bar in the Bird in Hand later that evening. He could have followed us. I didn’t recall seeing him at the Sussex until right now.’

‘No real reason to, I suppose.’ Garth frowned. ‘Who would want to kidnap a poverty-stricken female like Sylvia Boisette?’

Christopher raised his gaze to meet Garth’s puzzled expression. ‘Uncle John said she is the daughter of an English duke by a Parisian prostitute. He’d been trying to prove her claim.’

Garth whistled through his teeth. ‘Which duke? Not one of the Prince’s brothers, I hope?’

‘He didn’t provide the name. But it doesn’t make any sense that he would want to harm Sylvia. Half the nobility have by-blows scattered around England. What difference would one from Paris make?’

Garth stilled. After a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head. ‘There’s been some public mutterings about the morals of the nobility since the French Revolution, especially Prinny. It’s not had much of an effect. The only duke I know who might have anything to lose is Huntingdon. He’s supporting the introduction of a bill against prostitution.’

‘How would you know? I didn’t think you cared for politics.’

Garth brushed the question away with an impatient gesture. ‘Huntingdon has all the passion of a crusader. I heard him speak in the House a few weeks ago. The man positively frothed at the mouth.’

The radicals would certainly have a field day if Sylvia proved to be the daughter of such a moralistic Tory, but she had been explicit in her uninterest about her father.

Christopher frowned. Where the hell was she?

‘Mr Evernden.’ The butler hovered in the doorway, offering a silver tray with his nose so elevated he might have been holding a week-old chamber pot. ‘The young person is not in the house, sir. One of the footmen recalls seeing her depart early this morning. I found these on the hall table.’

‘Depart?’ Christopher asked. A nasty sinking sensation invaded his sensitive gut.

‘How early?’ Garth asked.

‘About five, my lord.’ Merreck placed the tray on a green marble-topped table.

Suppressing an oath, Christopher retrieved the note addressed to him in fine neat script and left the one to his mother on the tray. ‘Thank you, that will be all.’ He waited until the man left before opening the sealed, plain white paper.

He read the few terse words and recalled the pain in her expression when she’d showed him the door last night. A strange sense of loss squeezed his chest. How sweetly her body had melded to his until he’d allowed jealousy of Garth to cloud his reason. He’d driven her away.

If she wanted to go to Paris that was her prerogative, provided she was safe. Every instinct told him she wasn’t.

Garth stared at the paper. ‘For Satan’s sake, Kit. What does it say?’

‘She’s left for France.’

Christopher passed the note to Garth, who grimaced when he finished reading. ‘I can’t say I blame her for not wanting to work for the Elston woman. She’s a cheese-paring hag of a female by all accounts. But why France? There are plenty of others in need of a governess.’

Now the truth of what he had done had to come out. His stomach roiling, he rested his chin on his fist. ‘I as good as called her a whore.’ And that probably wasn’t the worst of it, but it was all he was prepared to admit.

‘Oh.’ Garth sat silent for a moment. ‘That would do it.’

He didn’t need Garth’s sarcasm to tell him he’d fumbled things. She was gone and that was all there was to it. She hadn’t deserved what he’d said to her. She’d tried her best to behave like a respectable female, but she attracted trouble like jam lured wasps. She’d almost been abducted, not once, apparently, but twice.

‘You are really smitten, aren’t you?’ Garth’s question interrupted his train of thought.

He must be as transparent as glass. He tucked the note into his breast pocket. He thought about how much he liked her and swallowed. ‘Aye.’ His voice was strangely thick and gruff. His throat burned.

Garth grinned. ‘Then you had better fetch her back. Get her out of your system.’

He forced himself to recognise the truth. ‘It’s you she wants.’

Garth raised a brow. ‘Then she wouldn’t have run away. Don’t you know anything about women?’

‘Obviously not. I stormed into her room last night and practically took her right then and there without a kiss-your-hand or by-your-leave. Then I told her she was dirt beneath
my
feet.’

Sympathy flashed in Garth’s normally cynical eyes.

He didn’t need sympathy. He wanted to hit something, someone, anyone, before the anger at himself exploded.

‘Look, Kit,’ Garth said and Christopher forced himself to listen, ‘the only way to get her off your mind and out of your overactive conscience is to follow her and get her to listen to reason.’

For once Garth made sense. At least he’d be able to apologise. He would convince her to let him escort her to her destination. Or perhaps bring her back to London—and Garth. Anything to ensure her settled securely. After all, that was Uncle John’s wish. ‘Perhaps you are right.’

‘I know I am. You can offer her far more than she’d ever get as a governess.’

Christopher’s gut twisted. ‘Or you could.’

After a sharp stare, Garth nodded. ‘Before you leave, I’ll get my man to mix you up a tonic for that head of yours. He has this amazing recipe. It really works. I should know, I drink the vile stuff every day.’

Everything suddenly seemed clear. If he left right away, he might stop her at Dover before she caught a packet to Calais and Mother would not know of her departure. When she returned, she could still take the Elston position or he’d make some other arrangement. He pocketed the note to his mother. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Right, come upstairs and I’ll have him prepare it.’

‘What?’

‘The tonic.’

‘To hell with that. I’ve got to get my horses put to.’

T
he sound of each shaky breath filled Sylvia’s ears. Her heart knocked against her ribs. The pistol in the gloved hand of the hatchet-faced man on the carriage seat opposite remained unwavering, pointed at her chest. She licked her dry lips. ‘Where are you taking me?’

He had introduced himself as Seamus Rafter when he swooped down and threw her in his coach outside the Lion d’Or. After that, he’d refused to say another word. He’d snatched her up on the way to catch the early
diligence
to Paris. She had instantly recalled him from the Sussex Hotel. Worse, she’d remembered his voice. He was the man who’d crept into her bedroom.

‘You’ll see soon enough, colleen.’

She jumped at the sound of his harsh voice in the confined space. Irish, then, not French. That was the reason for his strange lilting accent. ‘What do you want with me? I demand you return me to Calais.’

His slate-grey eyes gazed unblinking back at her face. It was all she could do not to shudder. A lump welled up in her throat and prickles burned the backs of her eyes. Years of iron control threatened to desert her. She swallowed her tears. She would not let him see her fear.

As the carriage turned off the main road on to a lane, it rocked and bounced worse than the Channel packet crossing from Dover. Her heart picked up speed until breathing became a chore. She clung to the handstrap for what felt like hours. When the carriage slowed and then halted, she wasn’t sure she wanted the journey to end. Rafter gripped her wrist and hauled her down the carriage steps. He pulled her tight to his bony body. He smelled of stale cigars and sweat.

She tore at the hand around her upper arm. ‘Let me go.’

Impervious to her struggles, Rafter propelled her along a weed-infested path towards a dilapidated grey stone mansion coveredinivy.

Sharpened by the harsh sunlight, his angular profile revealed nothing of his thoughts. Grey eyes as cold as polished steel stared straight ahead. When she dragged her feet, he simply tightened his grip around her shoulders and lifted her from the ground.

‘Put me down,’ she gasped, his hard squeeze crushing her ribs.

The house loomed closer. Paint peeled from the brown front door beneath the crumbling portico. She did not want to go in there. Her heart beat so hard it drowned out the sound of his steps on the flagstones.

The door swung open at his push. He hustled her inside, down a dark, narrow hallway and into a gloomy room.

‘Why are we here?’ she asked again, more to hear the sound of her voice than in expectation of an answer.

He released her arm and closed the door behind them.

Adjusting to the dim light, she stared around the room. Red velvet curtains fully covered the windows, gilt sofas with red upholstery stood against dark green walls illuminated by candles in three mirrored wall sconces. A sickening surge of familiarity washed through her. The gaudy furnishings were shabby and worn, the edges of the curtains frayed. Her stomach
lurched. It seemed horribly familiar. ‘What is this place?’ She hauled in a shuddering breath. ‘I demand an answer.’

Light eyes observed her with cold uninterest and his thin lips curled up in a sneer. He sauntered to the bell beside the fireplace and gave it a swift tug. It clanged in the nether regions of the old house like a call to the dead.

Sylvia eyed the door. If she could reach it before he did, she could be gone before anyone arrived.

‘Don’t try it, colleen.’

She glared at him. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Nothing.’

She shuddered at the menace in his harsh indifference.

A frowsy, full-bosomed woman with red hair waddled in.

Sylvia clutched at her throat, all thoughts driven from her mind.

Madame Gilbert beamed, her full rouged lips parting in a simpering smile, her fat cheeks all but obliterating her beady, brown eyes. ‘Why,
mon petit chou
. You do remember me. I am flattered.’

Sylvia swung around to Rafter. ‘Why here?’

He leaned against the mantel, his lean face dispassionate. ‘It’s where you belong.’

‘No.’ She forced the croak from her dry throat.

Monsieur Jean had rescued her more than ten years ago, but she had never forgotten the groping, pawing hands, the pain, the bitter shame. Nor had she forgotten how Madame Gilbert paraded her before an old gentleman one evening. Young as she was, she had known what he wanted. Dread ate at her soul.

‘Now, now, little one,’ Madame Gilbert murmured, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

Sylvia’s skin crawled. She pushed the pudgy hand away, her eyes on the door. She had to get out of here.

‘You owe me, girl,’ Madame Gilbert rasped. ‘All those
years I kept your mother when she was sick—she barely earned enough to pay for her own food, let alone yours. You will pay your debt, pretty one.’

The cloying scent of attar of roses over the smell of unwashed flesh and stale breath strummed at chords of remembrance. As the obese
madame
closed in on her, all the old terrors returned, the helplessness, the suffocating fear of being caught in a passageway or in her mother’s room. Sylvia stumbled back until the backs of her legs came in contact with the edge of a sofa.

Trapped.

Madame Gilbert’s beringed, damp fingers tipped Sylvia’s face to the light.

She shuddered at the clammy touch on her skin. Bile filled her throat and threatened to choke her. Her worst nightmare had become reality.

Damn them. How dare they do this to her? A rush of hot anger released her numb mind. She jerked her head away. ‘Don’t touch me,
cochon
.’

Madame Gilbert’s smile broadened. ‘Magnificent. You are everything you promised to be all those years ago.’ She turned her head and spoke to Rafter. ‘You tell Milor’, she’ll be better than her mother. His secret will be safe.’

Rafter grunted. ‘Watch your tongue,
madame
. You say too much.’

Milor’? Secret? Sylvia gazed from one to the other.

‘Your father wants you back where you belong. Your mother was a whore. It is your destiny,’ Madame Gilbert said.

The room rocked. In all these years, she had never heard from her father. She sank on to the sofa. ‘My father wants this?’

‘You’ve said enough, old woman. If you say another word, the bargain will be broken and you will be dead.’ The Irishman did not raise his voice, but the threat hung heavy in the dingy room.

Madame Gilbert cackled. ‘It’s all right,
mon ami
. All will be well now I have
mon petit chou
again.’

‘Salope.’
Sylvia spat the word at the vile woman who had somehow reached out from her past to claim her.

Madame Gilbert grinned. ‘I see your command of French is as good as ever it was.’

She had reverted to the language of her childhood, curses and all. In those days she had fought for her right to survive. ‘I am not staying.’ She stood up and pushed past the
madame
’s solid wall of flesh.

‘Temper, temper,’ Madame Gilbert said. ‘My gentlemen like a bit of fire in my girls.’ She winked. ‘But I demand obedience.’

She ran her hand down Sylvia’s cheek. ‘So soft and fine. I wonder who will pay the highest price to be first with you?’

Heat flamed in her face and she looked away.

Madame Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your mother did protect you, did she not?’

Sylvia faced her interrogator. ‘I know well enough what trade you ply.’

Madame Gilbert grimaced and shrugged, her voluptuous breasts jiggling in her low neckline. ‘Then you know what is expected.’

Sylvia tamped down her rising panic. She must not show weakness. ‘I will not do this. I’ll scream. I’ll tell them you kidnapped me. You cannot force me.’

Rafter moved towards the door, a speculative expression on his face. ‘You have your hands full,
madame
.’

The vast body shook as she chuckled. She stroked Sylvia’s cheek. ‘Fight all you want, little one. They will love it.’

A shudder racked her from head to toe. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Ah, but not the first time,’ Madame Gilbert crooned. ‘The first time you will be gloriously accommodating, for you must learn.’

‘I’ll leave you to your business,’ the Irishman said. ‘I will
come tomorrow for the paper in accordance with our agreement.’ His expression hardened. ‘Do not forget. It must be here when I return or it will go poorly with you. My patience is exhausted.’

Panic shortened Sylvia’s breath.
‘Monsieur
, do not leave me here. I have no intention of embarrassing my father. I will disappear. I will never speak his name.’ She stretched out her hands to him.

The man paused, his hand on the door handle. He did not turn around. ‘You know his name then, colleen?’ He pulled open the door.

The terrible finality in his tone plunged her stomach to the floor. If only Monsieur Jean had not told her of his suspicions at the last, begged her to seek him out despite her objections, then she would not have made such a mistake. Frantic, she shook her head. ‘No. I do not.’

Too late. The click of the latch behind him was the slam of a prison door.

She swung around and glared at Madame Gilbert. ‘I have friends. They will look for me.’

The
madame
pulled the bell. ‘The young Englishman you ran away from perhaps,
chérie
? You left him. He will not want you back after you have been here.’ Her piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Was it he who took what was mine to sell? If he comes near you, he is a dead man. There is no love for the English in this part of France.’

How did Madame Gilbert know so much about her? Rafter must have told her. He’d been following her, watching her.

She shuddered. And Madame Gilbert was right. She would get no help from the Everndens. No doubt Christopher was celebrating her departure. ‘I have other friends.’

‘Don’t lie to me. Your so-called guardian is dead and the woman you hoped to live with is dying. There is no one.’

There was Denise. ‘You are wrong.’

Madame Gilbert pulled an envelope from her pocket. ‘Perhaps you are thinking of this?’ Madame Gilbert waved her letter to Denise. Her last hope.

Sylvia failed to contain her gasp of disappointment as all hope of rescue fled. ‘You have no right interfering with my mail.’

Madame Gilbert shook her head. ‘Ah,
mon petit chou
, now there is only me.’

Her teeth wanted to chatter in tune with her trembling body. She clenched her jaw. She might be alone. But she was not helpless against an old and weak woman.

She edged towards the door. ‘You cannot keep me here against my will.’

The
madame
raised a brow, her leering smile unwavering. She lowered her bulk onto the nearest sofa with a wheezy sigh. ‘You think not,
chérie
?’

With a swift pull, Sylvia jerked open the door and stepped into the hallway. Broad and squat, his nose flattened and a jagged white scar across one swarthy cheek, a man with a straggling beard blocked her path. A leering toad. She stopped short.

‘Alphonse,’ Madame Gilbert said, ‘meet Sylvie, our newest acquisition. She is not to go anywhere without my permission.’

Alphonse grunted and barred her path with one thick arm.

Sylvia glared down at him. ‘Let me pass, oaf.’

He grinned.

She pushed at his arm and he shoved her backwards into the room. She stumbled, but managed to prevent herself from falling.

‘Sit down, Sylvie,’ Madame commanded.

‘No.’

Alphonse lumbered forward and thrust her into a chair, then returned to his post in the hallway.

A smug smile slithered across the
madame
’s face. ‘That’s better. You will soon learn.’

Sylvia swung her head around at a noise at the door. Her heart lurched. Alphonse returning?

Instead, a hunched and wrinkled woman in a black maid’s uniform pushed her way in. ‘Gi’ over, ye great lummox.’

‘Jeannie?’ Sylvia gasped.

The maid cocked her head sideways and peered up at Sylvia from beneath bushy grey brows. ‘Aye. I heard you were back.’

Hope sprang in Sylvia’s heart. The dour Scotswoman had stayed with Sylvia’s mother through thick and thin, despite her Calvinistic disapproval of her mistress’s lifestyle. ‘You are still here?’

‘Aye, Miss Sylvie. I always knew you’d return. Bad blood always proves true.’

Jeannie meant she had her father’s blood. An old and well-remembered refrain.

Beyond Alphonse, two other women lurked in the shadowed corridor, their eyes curious, their faces painted. Not girls she recognised from the old days. No help there.

Madame Gilbert waved towards the door. ‘Jeannie will show you to your room. The other girls will be along shortly to help you prepare.’

The words and smile threatened. Sylvia shook her head.

‘I will ask Alphonse to carry you up, if you insist,’ Madame Gilbert said.

The gloating glance from the dwarf-like Alphonse crushed the thought of resistance. Jeannie beckoned with a sly little smile. In despair, Sylvia followed her out of the door and up the stairs, aware of Alphonse’s gaze at every step she took.

Jeannie led her to a chamber. Light struggling through a grimy window festooned with red velvet curtains revealed a straight-backed chair in one corner and a wardrobe in another, the whole dominated by a bed covered by white silky sheets.

The old woman pointed to the bed. ‘Sit there and wait for
madame
. It’s na more than ye deserve, let me tell ye.’

Tears blurred Sylvia’s vision at the triumph in the old
woman’s tone. ‘Why are you being so cruel? You used to be my friend. You loved my mother.’

Jeannie shuffled to the bed and turned back the sheet. ‘That I did. More than my own life. I stayed with her in this heathen country until the day she died. Never a word of complaint from the poor wee lassie. Aye, nor of blame.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘’Twas your fault, ye and the no-good man who stole her from her family, then got her with child and abandoned her.’

Jeannie twisted her head sideways on her hunched shoulders to look up at Sylvia. ‘I hate ye both. And so shall ye both be punished.’