Mistress of Scandal

by Sara Bennett

  Francesca did consider arguing, but Aphrodite had become so formidable that she didn’t quite dare. She drank her coffee.

  The conversation turned to Yorkshire, and the weather. Banal subjects to be discussing with a courtesan. It was only as Francesca was leaving that Aphrodite clasped her hand and said, “You must come back to visit your Rosie. I will expect it.”

  “Thank you, I will. And…I am grateful, Madame.”

  “I have always been here when you need me,” Aphrodite said sincerely, her eyes bright.

  Her emotion made Francesca uncomfortable, because she could not share it. But then she had always known her mother was a woman ruled by her emotions, so there was no surprise there. However, Aphrodite did surprise her in ways she’d not expected. She was intelligent and accomplished and astute—she ran her own business in a world where men predominated. She had been generous to her daughter when she need not have been.

  Still, Francesca reminded herself, she must never forget that Aphrodite was a courtesan, a woman who used her body to gain favor and fortune, a woman whose passions were everything.

  The sort of woman Francesca had sworn never to become.

  She was grateful for her help, but it would be a relief when Rosie was settled with Vivianna.

  Lil decided to stay awhile with Rosie. “She might get frightened, the little moppet,” the maid said fondly. Francesca didn’t think much frightened Rosie, but she agreed. So she was all alone when she boarded the empty hackney waiting outside the club.

  Once she gave the driver Uncle William’s address, and settled back on the worn seat, Francesca was able to let her thoughts wander. She’d asked Aphrodite a favor, and it had been granted without histrionics, emotional blackmail, or the clinging of a damaged woman. The only thing Aphrodite asked in return was something Francesca had fully intended to do anyway!

  It was worrying that all these years she’d been under the impression that Aphrodite was one woman, and now Francesca had found she was another. That didn’t make things right, of course. She and her mother were very different, she told herself. Very different.

  But there was a doubt planted inside her—that she did not really know her mother at all.

  The hackney had come to a stop.

  Surprised, Francesca straightened and looked about her. Was there a holdup in the traffic? But no, they had veered off into a quieter, narrower street, and there didn’t seem to be anyone about. Concern fluttered her heart.

  “Driver? What is happening?”

  But the driver ignored her, and now she was really concerned. Francesca reached for the door handle, intending to get out. She could find another cab, or at the very least give the driver a piece of her mind.

  But before she could do either, the door was flung wide open and a man sprang into the compartment beside her.

  Chapter 14

  Francesca screamed.

  The sound didn’t end up as loud as it began. In the split second after she opened her mouth, she recognized him, and it became more of a squeak than a proper scream.

  “You!” she cried, and had the bizarre sensation that once again she was trapped in a novel.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Sebastian said. “You’re not going to make that infernal squawk again, are you?” he added, his brows snapping together as he frowned.

  “What did you expect me to do?” She was angry. She could feel her cheeks growing hot, and her eyes were blazing. “I thought I was about to be kidnapped! Again…”

  She didn’t really remember being kidnapped the first time—she’d been so young—but she had heard the story many times, and perhaps on some deeper level she had retained a memory of terror…of loss. Now she was all the more furious because of it.

  And because you spent a sleepless night, worrying about him, and here he is, large as life, and without a scratch.

  “I could kidnap you if you like,” he said, his wicked black eyes aglow. “In fact that might be a very good idea.”

  Damn and blast him, he’d done it again! Her imagination shot off in an entirely new direction, with images of him and her in some safe little paradise, all alone together. This paradise seemed to bear a resemblance to a sultan’s harem, and she was wearing…oh heavens, silken trousers! Francesca had come to the part in her fantasy where he was feeding her plump, juicy grapes, when she came back to the hackney cab and realized he was watching her, smiling, and waiting.

  “Are you all right, Francesca? You seemed to go away for a moment there.”

  “Of course I’m all right,” she retorted guiltily. “What do you think you’re doing, bursting into my cab like this?”

  Mr. Thorne leaned back in the seat as if this was perfectly normal behavior. “I wanted to speak to you privately.”

  Francesca tried to cling to her anger, but she felt it slipping away. In a moment she’d be giggling. “If you wanted to speak to me, you should have sent a note. Or you could have called on me at my uncle’s house.”

  “You would have torn up the note, and you would have refused to see me. Or Mrs. Jardine would have refused on your behalf. I’m not the kind of man they want sniffing around your door.”

  But she knew that was part of his attraction for her.

  “You’re in danger, and you need to understand that. I’ve just taught you a valuable lesson.”

  “A valuable lesson?” she repeated angrily.

  “Anyone who wished you ill could easily pay your driver to stop his vehicle, so that he, or she, could then accost you in some deserted street. You have no maid, no friends on hand. You’d be helpless to save yourself.”

  Her anger was definitely draining away—he seemed so sincere. And she never seemed able to sustain it for long, not when she was with him. “Thank you,” she said in a cool voice. “I’ll remember to be accompanied by someone at all times, and to carry about a—a pistol with me, so that I can shoot any persons I don’t like the look of. Now please get out of my way, Mr. Thorne, and allow me to continue on my journey unmolested.”

  He grinned as if he found her very amusing. “Not yet. I haven’t said all I came to say.”

  She closed her eyes and held her breath. Her lips moved, counting. After a long moment she opened her eyes again. “Very well, Mr. Thorne. What?”

  “Where is the girl? Rosie?”

  “I’ve taken her to my mother to be cared for until my sister returns to London.”

  He groaned.

  “What’s wrong with that?” she asked quickly, her eyes widening anxiously.

  “What’s right with it?”

  Her eyes narrowed again at the perceived insult. “I assure you Rosie will be perfectly safe with Aphrodite. She will come to no harm there.” Her voice changed, grew ragged. “I had to do something. Mrs. March, my uncle’s housekeeper, called Rosie a guttersnipe and threatened to tell my uncle. He’d make a terrible fuss, and right now the last thing we need is one of Uncle William’s rages.”

  “Of course, we mustn’t have one of William’s rages.”

  “You’re being sarcastic. You don’t understand. What would you have done in my place, Mr. Thorne? Left Rosie to her fate? I couldn’t do that, no matter how much it might inconvenience me.”

  He looked at her. There was amusement in his expression, and admiration, and desire. With his eyes as dark as night and that curve to his lips, she could have let herself look at him all day long. Despite her resolution to be indifferent to him, Francesca felt as if she was melting like ice in the sun.

  “Why were you following me?” she asked, rather breathlessly.

  His mouth curved up even more. “You are the cross I have to bear, Francesca.”

  “Nonsense. I am nothing to you, nor you to me. We are strangers who met under extraordinary circumstances. That doesn’t mean we need be friends, or even indifferent acquaintances.”

  His expression grew skeptical. “Francesca, even a stranger would be remiss if he didn’t warn you how dangerous these people are. You stole their property. I
t’s only a matter of time before they find the driver from your cab and get your address. They’ll track you down to Wensted Square without much trouble.”

  The thought was frightening. She put it aside to peruse later.

  “So you’ve appointed yourself my protector?” she demanded.

  “I want to repay my debt to you,” he said, and his smile was gone and he sounded strangely awkward. “I dislike being in debt,” he added.

  Was he lying? Was that why he sounded unsure of himself? But no, when he was lying he was much more smooth and practiced than that. He must be telling the truth. The villain was being honest.

  She turned to stare out of the window. He could see the light dappled on her cheek, her skin smooth and soft, and the curve of her mouth so tempting, he had to put a firm rein on himself. His gaze slid down over her throat to the ruffle of lace on her bodice, and the curve of her breasts, and he wanted her so much he ached.

  “I don’t think my uncle will agree to your following me about, Mr. Thorne,” she said at last, turning to face him. She looked troubled. “At the moment I have to be very careful not to upset him. He prays to the god of respectability, you know.”

  “But what about you, Francesca? Somehow I don’t think you care much about respectability. You stride about the moors like a wild Gypsy, and go out in London in disguise to places no respectable woman would venture. What would your uncle say to that?”

  Her wide, warm, kissable mouth turned up. “He would be furious,” she said with delight.

  He groaned aloud, and abandoning all common sense and professionalism, he kissed her.

  She was still for a heartbeat, and then her lips clung to his, and she pressed against him with all the wild passion in her nature. He knew then he’d wanted this to happen ever since the night in the inn. He’d felt only half alive without her—she was in his blood.

  “Let me take you somewhere,” he began, breathless, half crazy with lust. His lips trailed over her throat and she arched her neck, her eyes closed, her lips swollen. He untied the hideous bonnet and tossed it out of the window and into the street.

  She didn’t appear to notice.

  “But…where would we go?” she asked, wriggling closer, her arms sliding up around his neck.

  “I have rooms in Half Moon Street,” he said, and gave her the number. Martin could be sent off on an errand, and then they’d be alone. Be damned to everything else!

  But she was shaking her head.

  “I want you. You want me. Remember how it was…?”

  “I don’t want to remember,” she gasped, as he pressed his lips to the creamy skin revealed above the neckline of her dress. It wasn’t enough; he wanted her naked.

  “Francesca.” He was kissing her mouth again. “I’m losing my mind. Feel me…I want you now…”

  He laid her hand between his thighs and then wondered why he was torturing himself with her touch.

  “I’ve been like that since the inn.”

  She giggled, damn and blast her! “Oh dear, that must be inconvenient,” she said breathily.

  “Francesca…”

  “I’m sorry.” She drew her hand away and moved back into her seat, away from him.

  “You’re a free spirit, Francesca. Don’t let them tame you. Let me set you free of your cage.” He sounded like a madman, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t swayed.

  “No!” She was shaking her head, her eyes were wide and dark and frightened, and all humor was gone from her face. “Don’t you see?” she said, and her voice sounded raw and painful. “That’s what frightens me the most. Sebastian, I can’t afford to be a free spirit. I can’t afford to leave my…my cage, as you call it. It isn’t safe for me.”

  He didn’t understand. All he wanted to do was touch her again, run his fingertips over her soft skin, and then kiss her until she forgot about everything but being with him. Why couldn’t it be that simple? Why did they have to think about the future?

  “Go. Please.”

  “Francesca,” he tried one more time, and he sounded as raw as she.

  “No, Sebastian.” She wanted to deny the night in the inn had ever existed. He was confused by her. One moment she didn’t seem to care a hoot about Victorian respectability, and the next she was pushing him away as if she was frightened of him. Of herself.

  There was something here he wasn’t seeing properly, and perhaps if he discovered what it was, she would be his again.

  Reluctantly, Sebastian climbed down from the hackney. “Drive on,” he told the driver curtly, ignoring the man’s smirk. The vehicle began to move off, one of the iron-framed wheels rumbling over Francesca’s bonnet, still lying on the road.

  Sebastian left it there.

  “This is your mess, you clean it up.”

  He felt distaste sour in his mouth. Angela Slater was like a parasite, like something that, once fastened into his flesh, could never be gotten rid of. In a weak moment, a moment of desperation, he’d used her to escape a tricky problem, and he’d regretted that weakness bitterly ever since.

  Would he go to his grave with this creature and her cohorts?

  She smiled, and despite the changes in her, it was the same sly and wicked smile, and no doubt the same sharp intelligence behind it. She’d read his mind, and it gave him an uncomfortable shiver to know it.

  “No, no, my fine gentleman,” she crooned, “you are in this up to your neck.”

  “The girl means nothing to you. You have plenty more. Forget her.”

  “But I can’t. I have a reputation to maintain. No one steals from me, especially not one of them chits I kidnapped for you all those years ago. That’s who did it. Miss Francesca Greentree. And she’s taken the child to her mother for safekeeping. Now isn’t that a fine joke?”

  “Angela—”

  “I know the truth of what happened, and why. Oh yes, I know why. I can tell, and I have lots of friends. And I have the letter. Don’t think of turning your back on me, sir.”

  The cursed letter! What he’d like to do was take her skinny throat in his hands and squeeze. He’d never been a violent man, but she had driven him to it. But, pleasurable though it might be, killing her would do him no good. There were others to take her place, and no doubt they would see that her death was avenged. Besides, he’d never get the letter if she was dead.

  “I’m not turning my back,” he said, as if he’d never thought of it. “I have as much to lose as you.”

  “So will you see to Miss Francesca, or do you want me to do it?”

  The evil in her was a palpable thing—fascinating.

  “It may come to that, but not yet.”

  If necessary he would be ruthless and deal with Francesca Greentree, but first there was someone else to tackle. Someone even more dangerous than Francesca—someone who knew the whole truth and suspected the rest. All these years he had watched her and waited to see when she would make her move, but she’d stayed silent. Until now.

  “She’s hired Thorne to try and flush me out,” he said bitterly.

  “Has she now?” Her voice was even more slurred than the last time he’d visited, something that had become increasingly noticeable with the advance of her illness. “After all this time.”

  “She knows what’ll happen to her now. She must know. And yet still she did it. To be honest, I never thought she would. She had her suspicions but no proof.”

  Mrs. Slater chuckled. “You sound almost as if you admire her for it. She knew what would happen if she took this step, so she’s only got herself to blame. Brave of her, yes, but reckless.” Her watery eyes grew bright with mockery. “Are you still in love with her? I remember you were, once.”

  He didn’t answer. Denial would only encourage her. And anyway, there was a time when he’d been extremely fond of Aphrodite. More than fond, he admitted reluctantly. She’d filled his thoughts and his heart—she’d been an obsession that had nearly killed him.

  Now he was planning to kill her.

  It seemed li
ke revenge, but he decided it was justice.

  Chapter 15

  Sebastian strode along briskly, barely registering his surroundings. His heart was still rattling in his chest, the blood pounding through his body. Francesca tended to do that to him.

  Dobson let him into the club with a surprised frown. “Madame Aphrodite is tired, Mr. Thorne. Do you have to see her now?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s important.”

  Dobson hesitated and then gave a resigned nod. “You won’t keep her long?”

  “Barely any time at all, Mr. Dobson.”

  Once he was shown into her presence, Aphrodite seemed pleased to see him, but then she was a good actress. “Mr. Thorne, again!” She must have seen something in his face, and her smile wavered. “What has happened?”

  Sebastian explained about Rosie and where she had come from.

  “Then…this girl belongs to her?” She was obviously shocked; her hand trembled as she rested it against the chair back.

  “Yes. And Mrs. Slater will want her back.”

  “But why can’t she be arrested for such a thing? And the kidnapping all those years ago…Mr. Thorne, if you know where she is, then we must…we must…”

  “I don’t know where she is, not yet. And if, when I do, I take her to the police, that means we probably won’t be able to find her master. She’ll keep her mouth shut in the hope he’ll help her out of her difficulty—which he probably will. Madame, you do still want to find the name of the man who arranged to kidnap your daughters?”

  Aphrodite nodded.

  “Then can you send Rosie somewhere else? Just to be on the safe side? I’m sure you don’t want Mrs. Slater knocking at your door.”

  “My daughter has asked me to care for Rosie. She has asked me, Mr. Thorne. I will not break my promise to her, no matter what it costs me. And as for Mrs. Slater…if she comes to my door I will see her in hell.”