by Becky Lower
A British Courtesan in America
Revolutionary Women Book Two
Becky Lower
A British Courtesan in America
Copyright© 2020 Becky Lower
Cover Design Livia Reasoner
Prairie Rose Publications
www.prairierosepublications.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
CHAPTER ONE
Off the coast of England, 1777
Anjanette Shelby nibbled on her lower lip as her homeland finally faded into oblivion. The last bit of rocky coastline disappeared from the horizon, and she cast her gaze in the opposite direction, to the unending ocean in front of her. She had now successfully put England behind her, literally and figuratively. She breathed a sigh of relief, inhaling the salty air as she pondered what name she should give herself now. It was time to take on yet another identity, and one did what one must. The waves, and the wind, were propelling her toward a new future, and she had an entire voyage across the expansive Atlantic Ocean in which to come up with a new name.
The slogan of her new homeland—Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness––resonated. She was entering a new life in the pursuit of happiness, so maybe she should call herself…Liberty? The name careened around in her head much like the ship bouncing around in the vast ocean. Liberty. Libby. Bertie? She’d give it some thought. She stared at the waves and contemplated her name choices.
“Excuse me, miss, but you dropped your handkerchief.”
A man joined her at the railing, holding a scrap of cloth between his fingers. She glanced at him, and the hankie in his hand, before returning her gaze to the waves slapping against the side of the ship. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, early thirties, to her trained eye. His finely tailored clothing told her immediately he was a first-class passenger. However, his expensive attire did nothing but highlight his shortcomings. She had no need of a trained eye to discern that much. His opening salvo had been as ordinary as the scrap of cloth he was holding.
Not at all the type of man to whom she’d become accustomed.
“You must be mistaken, sir. I did not carry a handkerchief on deck.” She took a step away from the railing. “I must get back to my room, if you’ll excuse me.”
He quickly placed a hand on her arm. Swallowing her panic, she gently removed his hand. “I must return to my room, sir.”
He lowered his hand but stared at her. “There’s no need to run off so quickly. I merely wish to become acquainted with you. After all, we’re of a similar age, we’ll be aboard this vessel for six weeks or so, and we may as well find some way to liven things up, don’t you agree? You’re alone, it appears, as am I.” He cocked an eyebrow as his gaze wandered down her body.
“I’m looking forward to being alone, sir.” Anjanette stared back at him. She’d dealt with worse in her lifetime. He was no match for her, although her stomach quivered, nonetheless.
“So, you are headed to a new life as a single lady, eh?” He shrugged. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to shed your past as easily as you’ve shed me.”
“You have no knowledge of my past, sir.”
He shrugged again. “You are correct. Except we all have one. And my guess is, if you’re traveling alone to America, you must be running from yours.”
She pivoted on her heel and left the deck, striding quickly to her room in the second-class accommodations. Why wouldn’t men just leave her alone? She didn’t need to be told she was taking a huge risk, traveling without an escort, but she had no choice in the matter. She no longer had anyone. She removed the pins from her hair and combed it through. Glancing in the small mirror at the table, she held a hand to her slightly reddened cheek which had been kissed by the sun before she was so rudely interrupted. Perhaps staying in her cabin during the day would be a good idea. It would not do to lose her porcelain complexion during this journey.
Finally, she had the means to chart her own path without having to rely on the largesse of a man who currently found her attractive. Nor did she have to constantly fear having a bit of a wrinkle develop on her face, or that her breasts were losing a bit of their firmness. But, in order to truly escape her former life, she’d have to evade any first-class passengers who might be aware of what she was leaving behind. The encounter tonight brought home to her how close she was to a perilous situation.
She’d confine herself to her room during the day and prowl the deck at night. That man, and others of his ilk, would be in first class, so, with any luck, she could avoid running into him again. Her blood ran cold at the thought there might be someone on board who was aware of her background and reputation. Yes, it was best to stick close to her room by day, venture forth only at night, and pray for a swift passage.
• ♥ •
Anjanette’s body finally unclenched after six weeks aboard ship. She took a long, cleansing breath as the last of the first-class passengers departed the ship. It would soon be her turn to leave. She’d kept a low profile during the entire voyage and successfully traversed the Atlantic without her identity being uncovered. Her dresses, though well-made, were modest and serviceable. She kept her hair in a chignon with no adornments. If anything, she had become a chameleon, imitating the other second-class passengers to better blend in.
She gathered her possessions and placed them back into her satchel. She fingered her favorite necklace, the last piece of jewelry her final benefactor, Atticus Wexford, had given her.
“Thank you, darling, for giving me the gift of my freedom.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and took a deep breath. Atticus had given her far more than a necklace. He had given her the ability to reset her life. To begin anew. They’d been making plans to leave England behind, just as soon as he completed his final mission for the government. Neither ever imagined his final mission would be his last, ever. Fortunately, he had revised his will, leaving her his entire fortune. She wiped her final tears away.
She packed away the necklace along with her old identity. Anjanette Shelby, the most coveted courtesan in all of London, was no more. Liberty Wexford was about to disembark and live out the rest of her days in colonial America. Suddenly, the cabin was too confining, the ship was too small. She needed to breathe in the free air of America.
The ship steward stood next to the ramp, ticking the names of the passengers off the manifest. He glanced at her and smiled. “Miss Shelby, I didn’t see much of you during the voyage. Did you fare well, or were you suffering from seasickness?”
She returned his smile. This steward had been kind to her during her trip. “Some, at the beginning of the voyage, but I had a lot of reading to do. Thank you for asking, James.”
“Well, you’re free to go. Enjoy your stay in Boston, Miss Shelby.”
Free to go.
She glanced at the steward. “Can you recommend some accommodations?”
“Yes, there’s a really nice hotel, The Hartford, just up the street a few blocks.” He motioned to the cobblestoned street leading away from the busy dock. “I can arrange to have your trunks delivered there.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” This young man had done his best to assure she had a good trip. She poked her fingers into her reticule and brought forth some bills, which she handed to him. His s
mile grew even larger.
He called after her. “Goodbye, Miss Shelby.”
She glanced back at him and waved as she whispered, “It’s no longer Miss Shelby. I’m Liberty Wexford now.”
Her steps were light as she touched the cobblestones, although it took her a few minutes to adjust to being on land again. Were it not for the spectacle she would cause, she’d fall to her knees and kiss the street. Even though the cobblestoned streets and the buildings hugging the sides of the road gave the appearance of any of a number of cities in England, this was America. She had a clean slate here. She straightened her hat, shifted her bag from one hand to the other, and set off for the hotel the steward had suggested. After she found lodging, she’d find a job. Boston should look out. Libby Wexford just landed.
• ♥ •
The proprietor of the stately hotel, a short man with a large nose, raised an eyebrow in her direction when she appeared in the lobby alone.
“I’ll have a room, please.” Libby offered him one of her solemn smiles, which she had perfected over the years. A slight downturn at the edges did the trick.
“You’re alone?” He brushed the scraggly hair back from his eyes.
Libby nodded. “Yes.” The way the proprietor eyed her made her aware she needed to embellish her story a bit. “Through a set of unfortunate circumstances, I was forced to make the journey from England by myself. The ship steward recommended your hotel. And, if I could arrange for extended accommodations, that would be most helpful. My trunks are being delivered shortly from the ship.”
The gleam in the man’s pale blue eyes when she mentioned a long-term arrangement made her almost certain she would clear this hurdle. He ran a hand down his linen shirt and cleared his throat.
“Your name, please.” He held out a quill pen for her to sign the guest book.
You are Liberty Wexford now. Liberty Wexford.
She took special care to put a Mrs. before her new name. The man spun the book around and peered at her signature.
“Mrs. Wexford, eh? Will Mr. Wexford be joining you anytime soon?”
Libby manufactured a tear, which she made a show of brushing away. “I’m afraid Mr. Wexford recently passed.”
He mumbled an apology, handed her a key, and took her money for the first week’s rent. Libby placed her fingers on her fluttering stomach. She’d told the truth, sort of. Mr. Wexford had recently passed.
She thought she’d have a bigger battle on her hands, but evidently, widows were aplenty in Boston. The scuffle with Britain had been simmering for some years and was about to turn into a full-blown war. Just the kind of distraction she needed. If the Revolution against Britain was consuming the interest of all the men in Boston, she could live here peacefully, even with her British accent. Since America was a British colony, she suspected hers would not be the only British accent in Boston. She had no wish to mingle with her fellow countrymen, though, especially not if they had spent time in London. She was here to carve a new path for herself, yet again.
After splashing water on her face and placing a dash of her favorite rose attar perfume at the pulse points on her neck, she placed the key to her new dwelling in her reticule and prepared to head out to explore her new city. She stopped at the doorway and glanced back at her room, comparing it to the lavishness of her old life. The room was quite simple, but it also delivered a promise. She could be anyone she wished to be now. An ear-to-ear grin accompanied the thought.
The streets were bustling with people, all busy with their lives. Libby melted into the throng and wandered from one street to the next, dipping into the various shops she found intriguing. She stopped at one of the street vendor carts and purchased some chocolate, hoping it would be as good as what England had to offer.
As she wandered, she nibbled on it. Not bad chocolate. Not bad at all. Creamy, not waxy. It didn’t quite compare to the kind of chocolates England imported from Belgium, but then, not much did.
Her next hurdle was to find employment. She glanced at the various shops and tried to picture herself working in one of them, but nothing so far captured her fancy as a place of potential employment. The street noise, a combination of people, animals, rolling carts, and vendors hawking their wares, overpowered her senses. The cobbles were uneven, so she shifted her gaze to the street and lurched to a sudden stop as the heel of her expensive brocaded silk shoe wedged between two of the stones. In her haste to explore her new city, she’d forgotten to change out of her favorite pair of shoes, another gift from Atticus. She leaned over to dislodge the shoe, or to unbuckle it and take it off.
She had just released the buckle when shouts, and then, thundering hooves, finally resonated. Libby glanced up in time to see a horse barreling right at her, but she couldn’t free herself from her shoe. A scream formed in her throat.
What a pity, to die on her first day of freedom.
Then, the breath got knocked out of her, as hands grabbed her and yanked her off her feet. She landed hard on the cobblestones, with an equally hard body on top of her. She fought for air as the man quickly rolled off her, helping her to a sitting position, while the citizens of Boston bustled around her. Evidently, getting mowed down by a runaway horse was a common occurrence in this town.
When she finally caught her breath again, gulping in huge chunks of air, she opened her eyes and stared at the person who had saved her life. Dark reddish-brown skin, long black hair that fluttered around a chiseled face, broad shoulders, and brown eyes that narrowed as she perused him. If she hadn’t had the wind knocked out of her already, this man’s appearance would have stolen it. She’d never seen anyone remotely resembling him. And, he still held onto her hand. Her fingers tingled in his grasp. Perhaps she was merely reacting to her near-death situation. She brushed her hair from her face and took a few more gulping breaths before she tried to get to her feet.
The man who had propelled her out of harm’s way helped her rise. When she put weight on her left foot, her ankle throbbed and she winced, biting back the scream.
“Have you been injured?” the exotic stranger asked in a voice honeyed with a French lilt.
“It’s my ankle. I twisted it, evidently. And lost my shoe.” Libby glanced around, hopping on her one good leg, searching for her missing footwear.
The man scoured the area where she had been and tugged the remains of the shoe from the cobbles. He handed it to her. “I hope you were not too fond of them. Mighty fancy footwear for the wild streets of Boston.”
She stifled the moan and blinked rapidly, not letting the tears fall. She would not shed a tear over damaged footwear. “Thank you, kind sir. Now, if you can direct me to my hotel, I’ll let you get back to work.” She took a step forward but latched onto the man’s arm for support as she finally cried out in pain.
“You cannot go anywhere in your condition, mon amie. I can take care of you.” He picked her up in his brawny arms and carried her through the streets.
“I can take care of myself, sir. Please, put me down.” She struggled, which made him grip her tighter.
“Not until I take care of your ankle. The longer it is left unattended, the greater the swelling will be.” He glanced down at her and smiled slightly. “It is the least I can do. That horse escaped from my stables.”
“Should you not be chasing after the animal, then?” Libby continued to struggle against him.
“Non. My apprentice was responsible for letting the horse escape, and he is doing his best now to catch him.”
Libby settled into his arms. “Well, in that case…” She took a moment to study him. “I’m sensing a French accent, but something else, too.”
“Oui. I am both French and Passamaquoddy Indian.”
Libby bit her lip, not at the revelation she was in the arms of the first native Indian she’d ever met, but rather at the pain in her ankle. Even though this giant man’s touch was gentle, her ankle’s throbbing had begun to register. “Are there many Passamaquoddy Indians in the region?”
The man’s smile widened, showing an even row of sparkling white teeth. “Not so many in Boston.”
He carried her into a stable. His stable, evidently. He set her down carefully on a tabletop.
“Je suis désolé, mon amie, but I must take a look at your ankle.” He placed a hand on the hem of her skirt.
She placed her hand over his, stopping him. “I don’t let just any man look at my ankle, sir.” She put a bit of starch in her voice, but with a hint of humor. “May I at least have your name first, please?”
His gaze snagged hers. “Only if I can have yours.”
She held out a hand to him. “Liberty Wexford.”
He took her hand and squeezed her fingers gently. “Hawk Gentry. Nice to meet you. Now, let me see to your ankle.”
CHAPTER TWO
Hawk raised the hem of Mademoiselle Wexford’s fine satin gown carefully, uncovering only the ankle in question and not an inch more. Well-bred English ladies, especially those with cultured accents such as Miss Wexford’s, were very protective of their virtues, and a naked foot and bare ankle could place her reputation in jeopardy. As would being sprawled out on the top of a table in his workroom. He would have to tread lightly. He brushed his fingers over her delicate silk stockinged ankle. Even with the stocking covering her flesh, he could feel her warmth while he studied her face for signs of distress. Her breath hissed and her eyes narrowed with his lightest touch, but the swelling was minimal.
“If I bind your ankle tightly, it will control the swelling.”
She nodded at him. “Shall I remove my stocking, then?”
“If you do not mind. I will find some fabric.” He strode to the other side of the room, his back to her to offer some privacy while she unhooked her stocking and placed it in her reticule.
“You may return, Mr. Gentry.” The lady’s fine, cultured voice carried a hint of humor.
Hawk took a length of fabric and wrapped it around her dainty appendage. He brushed her foot and could feel her tremor. Clenching his jaw, he repositioned the gown to hide her ankle again. “There you go. If you leave the binding on for a few days, you should be good as new in no time. Now we just need to get you back to your lodging, so you can find a different pair of shoes.”