A British Courtesan in America (Revolutionary Women Book 2)

by Becky Lower

  But it was best to work her way up to him and his business. She began her morning with what she thought of as an easy sale. Entering a clothing store for women, she stopped to touch the fine silk gown in the window. Yellow had never been a flattering color on her, but this gown was more gold than yellow, so quite possibly…

  No. She had no place to wear such finery anymore, nor did she wish to spend her money on such foolishness.

  “May I help you, madam?” The seamstress of the fine gown glanced up from her work.

  “You do have some beautiful gowns.” Libby wandered further into the shop.

  “And you have a fine eye.” The woman smiled as she rose from her worktable. “Are you in need of a gown?”

  “I’m Libby Wexford, from the Gazette, and I am here to drop off some information regarding advertising in the paper.” Libby’s sales pitch faltered when she spied the red shoes. She picked up one of them, caressing it as if it were alive. “Oh, how lovely!”

  “As I said, you have a fine eye, madam. These just arrived from England.” The woman drew alongside Libby. “I have a few more pairs in the back if you’d like to see them.”

  “No, if these fit, I’ll take them. No need to tempt myself with more. I’m sure these are the finest ones of the lot, since you put them on display first.” Libby hadn’t let go of the shoe. Instead, she unbuckled the shoe she wore and slipped the right red one onto her foot. “Perfect. May I pick them up later in the day?”

  “Yes, of course.” The proprietor of the shop gave a cursory glance at the advertising information Libby handed her, before she eagerly took her money for the shoes. “I am Diana Radcliffe, by the way. I hope to see more of you, Mrs. Wexford.”

  “I’ll return this afternoon to retrieve my new shoes. Thank you for holding them for me. Have you any interest in placing an ad with the paper?” Libby motioned to the flyer.

  “Perhaps. But money for advertising is hard to come by. I’ll have to give it some thought.” She placed Libby’s money in a drawer. “I did have an unexpected sale of a pair of fine shoes this morning, though…” She smiled at Libby. “So perhaps a small ad would be appropriate.”

  Libby nodded her agreement and returned the woman’s smile. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the office later then, Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  She left the store and wandered down the wooden sidewalk, rubbing elbows with the men and women of Boston, bustling through their busy days.

  After visiting several more of the ladies’ establishments, she stood outside the door of Sampson’s general store. She hoped Mr. Sampson would be more amenable to advertising. Her clever sales pitch so far had fallen on deaf ears, since the ladies who ran the businesses thought their clientele had no time or desire to read the paper. All she had succeeded in doing was to part with some of her own quid. Her new shoes were a bold red color, with a short chunky heel, and a big sparkly buckle adorning each one. She’d pair them with her simple grey gown with the beads on the bodice. The gown where Hawk had popped one of the beads at her neckline while she held her breath, hoping his hand would slip lower and caress her breast. Her footwear fascinated Hawk, and she wished to give him a surprise when he lifted her skirts.

  And she sincerely hoped he’d lift her skirts soon.

  With her head full of images of Hawk and his magnificent body, she entered Sampson’s general store. Mr. Sampson was finishing up with a customer, so Libby stood to the side, waiting for him to complete his sale. She cleared her head of Hawk and studied the man in front of her. Tall for an Englishman, nearly two meters, she guessed. Not matching Hawk in height, but close. And he was burly. His dark brown hair was thinning, his pale blue eyes were shifty, and his teeth were stained from tobacco, she guessed, if the odor emanating from his clothing was any indication. Even from this distance, she could smell him. She wished to return to the image of Hawk, to make this whole experience more appealing, but the other woman hurriedly left with her purchases after casting a wary glance at Libby, so she took a step forward.

  “Mr. Sampson, I’m Libby Wexford from the Gazette.” She extended a hand to him.

  He glanced briefly at her outstretched hand before his gaze roamed over the upper half of her body. She gritted her teeth and controlled the full body tremor. She’d stared down similar gazes before. She could handle this.

  “No, you ain’t.”

  She placed her still outstretched hand on the top of the counter for balance, since her knees threatened to buckle. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, you ain’t no Libby Wexford. Yer Miss Spectacular Bosom. I’d recognize your rack anywhere.” Mr. Sampson leered at her and stepped out from behind the counter.

  “You must be mistaken, sir.” Libby took a step toward the door and gasped when he caught her wrist and yanked her toward him. His other hand landed on her breast.

  “Mr. Sampson, please let me go.” She stared into his pale, steely eyes.

  “There’s no chance of that happening this time around, missy. When we were both in London, you spurned me in favor of another gent with more money. Well, I have enough quid now to buy your favors, and I plan to make up for lost time.” He yanked her closer, and kissed her, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth as his hand circled around the back of her head, imprisoning her face. She gagged on his tongue, her stomach churning. Then she clamped down with her teeth, hoping to make him howl in pain. He broke from the kiss and tugged her further into the store. She fought him, but he held her in an iron grip. The bell over the door rang again, and she cried out, hoping for help. Mr. Sampson clamped a hand over her mouth to quiet her before he called out to the customer. “Be right there.” And threw her into a dark room.

  “I’ll be back for ya, missy. Can’t wait to get my hands on all yer goods this time.”

  The door slammed shut and Libby gasped at the knick of the lock before Mr. Sampson’s footsteps receded. A thick coil of dread slithered up her spine, robbing her of breath. She spat out the bad taste of him and took deep breaths to control her panic. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and she glanced around the room, searching for a way out. No windows from which to escape. She would have to fight. She attempted to recall the man who harbored such animosity towards her. Obviously, he was from her past, but she didn’t recollect him. There had been so many who had begged for her attention, and she had been most careful with her selections, gently letting down the men she hadn’t chosen.

  Evidently, not gently enough.

  Should she just let him take his pleasure now? But, if she did, he’d come back for more. Her carefully crafted American image would be tarnished. Bloody hell, it would be tarnished anyway, since her past had come back to haunt her. Mr. Sampson would make certain everyone found out about her former occupation. Her dreams of a future with Hawk Gentry by her side vanished in an instant, like the morning fog.

  There was only one way out of this nightmare. Get out of the dark room he had stashed her in, and then leave town. She’d head to New York town. At least she had some knowledge of the place, but she had no idea in which direction to run.

  First things first, though. She had to escape from here. Panic wouldn’t work. Planning would. Taking a few deep breaths to slow her heart rate, she brushed away her tears with a quick swipe. It was no time for tears.

  She needed a solid plan of attack.

  • ♥ •

  As Libby waited in the small and dark storeroom, the dim light creeping under the door diminished, and the room filled with more shadows. It must be near to closing time, which meant Mr. Sampson would soon be coming for her. But she hadn’t made the perilous journey across the tumultuous Atlantic Ocean to become a courtesan again. She bit the inside of her cheek and searched the room for a weapon. If Mr. Sampson had his way with her, she wouldn’t even be a courtesan. She’d be a slave. His slave. Her arms erupted in gooseflesh. She had to fight, right here and right now, for her freedom. Heavy footsteps were heading in her direction.

  Her heart pounded
as hard as it had the night her mother slipped that red gown over her head, smoothed her hair, and patted her cheek.

  And now, she was alone in the world and could only depend on herself. She swallowed the raw burning in her throat as the bolt slid back.

  And she was ready when the door opened.

  “Finally, yer all mine.” Mr. Sampson took a step into the small storeroom, blinking to adjust to the dark.

  “I will never be yours, Mr. Sampson.” Libby raised the heavy crock she’d been holding and swung at his head.

  Mr. Sampson’s brawny arm rose and deflected the hit. “Ah, so you are a little spitfire. Good. I like my women feisty.” He grabbed her arm, and the crock crashed to the floor, breaking into a hundred pieces. He slammed her up against a wall and pinned her there with one arm across her neck. Flailing her arms, she grabbed for whatever was closest. She threw a jar of spiced peaches at him, which hit the man in the shoulder before it fell to the floor and broke open, adding the odor of sweet spicy peaches to Mr. Sampson’s tobacco odor and her panicky sweat. He flinched and loosened his hold on her for a moment. She yanked a spittoon from the shelf and slammed it into his head. The bulky man fell to the floor.

  Libby didn’t stop to find out if he had just been knocked unconscious or if he were dead. Stepping over his crumpled body, broken crockery and the sweet peaches, she dropped the spittoon and ran. Her past had followed her, even across the ocean. Would running to another town make a difference? Libby had no other choice.

  Hawk had left her when she most needed him, to fight in the war. He’d told her he never wished to have a woman rely on him when he couldn’t be there to defend her. But even though he wasn’t here, she’d take advantage of their friendship.

  He had horses in his stable.

  She needed a horse to get away from Boston.

  Libby dashed to her room above the Gazette and gathered a few of her belongings, and what little money she had on hand. It would have to suffice. She couldn’t wait until morning and go to the bank. When she got to the street, her gaze darted in both directions before she set foot on the cobblestones. Mr. Sampson must have been knocked out cold, otherwise he’d have already come for her.

  Libby hoped her blow hadn’t killed the man. She had enough to run from without adding a murder, even if it would have been in self-defense, to the heavy burden she already carried. She darted down the street to Hawk’s stables, hoping the young man he had hired to watch over his business while he was away had fallen asleep. Or maybe it would be better if he were awake, since she had no idea how to saddle a horse.

  Much less how to ride one. It had been years since she’d been on the back of a horse. Yet, she had to. She hadn’t given herself the name Liberty for nothing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “What’s your big hurry, Hawk?” Patterson’s horse wheezed as it tried to keep up with Hawk’s mount.

  “Nika said Libby was in trouble, and I learned long ago to never question my mother’s visions.” Hawk slowed his horse slightly so Patterson could catch up.

  “Running your horse into the ground won’t help her.”

  Reluctantly, Hawk slowed his horse even more. But he glared at Patterson, nonetheless.

  “Maybe Little Wren is wrong this time.” Patterson shrugged.

  Hawk shook his head. “No. I feel it, too.” He blew out a breath. “But you are right about the horses. Let us find a place where they can take a drink, and we can rest for a few minutes.”

  They soon found a stream and slid off the horses so they could drink their fill. Oats were taken from a saddlebag and the mounts greedily gobbled up handfuls. Hawk and Patterson sat with their backs up against a tree.

  “Let’s sort through this, Hawk. Is there any person in Boston who might feel the need to cause Libby harm? Did the mere fact she helped you make bullets put a target on her back?”

  Hawk shut his eyes, scenarios running through his head. “The only people who were aware of her activity were Ben Edes and you. So, no, I cannot see that being the reason.”

  “What about other women? Could she have made someone jealous?” Patterson punched Hawk in the arm. “Plenty of Bostonians witnessed the two of you together at the Independence Day celebration. Did you spurn the advances of another woman in favor of Libby?”

  “No.” Hawk ran his hand over his eyes. “There has only been Libby.” He glanced around. “We must be close to Boston. Another hour or so. Then, we will have an answer.”

  Patterson got to his feet and offered his hand to Hawk, who rose alongside him. “Let’s pray your mother is wrong. But if she’s right, I’ll help you find her.”

  “Wolliwon, Pat. You are a good friend. Let us get moving.” Hawk tightened the parfleche bags of grain and pemmican to the sides of his horse and leapt onto his back. He waited while Patterson tightened the cinch of his saddle and got settled into it. As Hawk had predicted, within an hour, they were inside the city limits of Boston. The noise and the stench of the city assaulted his senses after being in the pine-scented woods of Maine, and he had to slow his horse to a walk, to avoid running into people as they went about their morning’s work.

  They got to Hawk’s stable, and he and Patterson slid off their horses, handing them over to Jeremiah, the young black man Hawk had hired to watch the stables and tend to the horses.

  “Bonjour, Jeremiah. How did you fare while we were gone?”

  Jeremiah’s smile beamed. “I enjoy being around horses, Mr. Hawk, so I had a good time.” He removed the parfleches from Hawk’s horse and took the saddle from Patterson’s while he talked. “There was one thing, though...” His gaze clouded, and a furrow developed between his eyes.

  “What?”

  “I hope I did the right thing. A lady ran in here late last night. Said she needed to borrow a horse, that it would be all right with you.” Jeremiah made eye contact with Hawk.

  Hawk’s stomach pitched. He asked the question to which he already had the answer. “Can you describe the woman?”

  “Yellow hair, a nice smile. English accent.” Jeremiah gave his employer a slight smile. “She wasn’t dressed for riding, though, so I got Old Sam ready. Figured he’d be the best horse for her. I helped her into the saddle and noticed what lovely shoes she wore.”

  Hawk and Patterson shared a glance. “Did the lady mention where she was headed?” Patterson inquired.

  “That was the odd thing. She asked me which road she should take to get to New York town. She had a small bag with her, and she hooked it over the saddle horn. She had a hard time getting the horse to take a step. It was almost like she’d never been on a horse before.” Jeremiah shrugged.

  Patterson placed a hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “Before you go running off, let’s check in with Ben. Maybe he asked her to deliver something.”

  Hawk shook his head. “If he had, she would not have started out at night. But he may know something.” Hawk gave Jeremiah a pat on the back. “Nice work, Jeremiah. I may need you to stick around a few more days.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  The two weary men hustled to the newspaper office. Ben Edes was standing in the main office, where Libby normally worked, dealing with a customer. A pair of red shoes sat on the counter near him.

  Hawk shuffled his feet as he waited. Picked up one of the red shoes and fondled it. New shoes, he noted. Libby’s size. What were they doing here?

  Ben raised his gaze to the two men as the customer left the office. “Libby certainly is a good salesperson. The orders for ads are coming in.”

  “Where is she?” Hawk barely contained his growl.

  “I don’t have any idea, Hawk. She never showed up for work today. I even knocked on her door upstairs, assuming she was ill, but got no answer.”

  “What businesses did she call on yesterday?”

  Ben waved his hand toward the shoes. “Judging from the orders I received this morning, she visited two ladies’ shops and bought herself a pair of shoes. She told the shop owner she wo
uld pick the shoes up in the afternoon, but she never showed up. The owner delivered them here when she placed her ad.”

  “Something must have spooked her, since she took a horse from my stable and asked Jeremiah which road led to New York.” Hawk spun toward the door.

  “Just a minute.” Ben smacked his forehead. Hawk waited.

  “When we talked about where she should go to solicit advertisers, I cautioned her away from Sampson’s general store, but she said she could handle it.” Ben picked up one of the red shoes. “This establishment is right next door to Sampson’s. We should start there.”

  Hawk stepped toward the door. “You start there, Ben. Libby’s on her way to New York on one of my horses. I will track her down.”

  Patterson followed Hawk out. “I’ll come with you.”

  Hawk hurried back to the stables. “There is no need, Pat. You have been away from your family for too long as is. Go, mon amie, to the arms of your wife. I can track Libby on my own.”

  Libby had almost a full day’s head start. She could be halfway to New York by now. If she got there ahead of him, she could blend into the townspeople and he would have a really hard time tracking her. But he had no doubt he would find her.

  • ♥ •

  Hawk followed the road Jeremiah had steered Libby to, searching for her. He did not expect to find anything until the houses thinned out and large expanses of fields and woods hugged either side, so he urged his horse to a gallop once the traffic on the road cleared. He would be able to pick up on clues to her whereabouts in an hour or so, despite the encroaching dusk.

  As he rode, his mind raced back to the conversation with Ben. He’d had some run-ins with Peter Sampson over the years, and did not care for him, even before the Sons of Liberty painted a big ’T’ on his front door. What had he done to make Libby bolt from Boston? To make her feel so unsafe she’d risk riding on an unknown road to an unknown city on an unknown horse, and in the dark? The fury in Hawk grew with each passing mile.