Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  Flora stood and lifted her valise. “I believed precisely what Mr. Munro said. Take that as you will.”

  Dianthe looked at the torn scrap of paper again and then back at the building. Yes, the address was correct. She had not expected it to look so, well, respectable. Only its location in a back street off St. James proclaimed it a place for disreputable women. But, knowing the address was nearby, she had wanted to finish this much at least before unburdening herself on Geoffrey.

  She had to do it now, before she told Geoffrey the whole sordid truth about Nell’s death and what she’d said before she died. Confessing that she and Nell were cousins would risk losing his regard. But she wouldn’t tell him what she’d learned about Charlotte until she could offer him proof.

  She climbed the three steps to the door and wondered if she should knock. As she hesitated, it opened and a young man exited, straightening his cravat. He gave her a grin and left the door open for her as he skipped down the steps. Thank God for her disguise. She’d never have found the courage to come here without it.

  She entered a dim hallway with doors along both sides, each labeled with a number. After a brief search of the main floor, she hurried up the stairway, hoping she would find numbers thirteen and fourteen quickly.

  The doors were midway down the corridor and across from one another. Her first key, marked with a tag that said “Miss Denton,” unlocked number thirteen. She closed the door behind her, went to the window and opened the draperies to admit the late afternoon light. The room was clean and neat, but unremarkable. Another door opened to a bedchamber, and the decorations made Dianthe blush. Paintings hung in a tidy row all around the room, each depicting a different sex act or position. Each was flagrantly explicit, and Dianthe wondered if the collection had served as a sort of “menu” from which clients could choose. They were quite similar to the engravings Miss Osgood had shown her to explain her lectures.

  A search of the bureau drawers told her that Miss Denton had taken some personal belongings in her valise and left the rest behind. Dianthe opened the single drawer of a writing desk and found a small leather-bound book about the size of her palm. It contained handwritten names followed by dates and short notations regarding preferences. Dianthe grew warm as she scanned the lines.

  She knew some of these men! Would she ever be able to face them again? She was about to return the book to the drawer when the thought occurred to her that this was what Miss Denton had meant her to find. Dianthe slipped it into her reticule and closed the drawer.

  A quick search of the other room revealed nothing out of place. No one would know that Flora Denton was gone, nor would the landlord miss her until her rent was due.

  Dianthe locked the door behind her and stepped across the hallway. The sound of raucous masculine voices carried from the ground floor, and she slipped through Nell’s door quickly, turning the latch and leaning her forehead against the wood panel. She held her breath until the voices diminished, as the men continued up the stairs to the next floor.

  When she turned, she was shocked at the condition of the room. Belongings were scattered everywhere, as if the place had been searched many times. How would she ever find anything in this mess? The draperies were open, and sunlight flashed off broken shards of colored glass and blue-and-white porcelain. She felt the shock as a violation of Nell’s very memory. How intrusive! How degrading to have one’s belongings gone through and strewn about like garbage.

  Dianthe knelt and began sifting through the mess, but the chime of a distant clock reminded her that she would have to be home before dark. As she started to rise, she caught sight of a small enameled frame beneath the settee. When she turned it over, she caught her breath in surprise. The frame enclosed a miniature portrait of two young girls, both blond, both beautiful—and one was Dianthe’s mother. Tears sprang to her eyes to think of these two sisters, both gone now, who had been torn apart by circumstances. Dianthe had no doubt that Nell’s claim was true, but this was hard proof.

  She pushed the miniature into her reticule, knowing it had been left behind because it had no significance to the investigation. Dianthe’s calling card had been found in this mess, and other evidence that had been taken away.

  She went to the bedchamber, though she doubted there was anything left for her to find. Clothes and personal items were strewn across the bed. The contents of Nell’s bureau had been dumped on the floor, and her jewelry box lay empty and overturned on top of the heap. So little was left as testimony to so heartbreaking a life.

  The room was directly lit by the setting sun, which illuminated a portrait of Nell on the far wall. As she turned to go, Dianthe caught sight of herself in the dressing table mirror, the portrait of Nell behind her. Yes, without her dark wig and beauty patch, they’d looked startlingly alike. They’d had the same taste in clothes, had both been poor, had loved the same man, but Nell had not had the advantage of family and love. They had not known she existed, and she had found them too late. How impossibly tragic.

  Clearly, Dianthe would have to tell Geoffrey that Nell had been her cousin. But, oh, how she hated the thought. He had been so tender, so considerate, last night. And once he knew the same blood that ran through Nell’s veins also coursed through hers, that tenderness would vanish, along with any notion that they could have a future together. Someday, Geoffrey Morgan would need to marry for the sake of his title, and a woman tainted with scandal and low family connections would never do as a wife.

  The sun had dropped beneath the horizon and dusk was falling rapidly. Dianthe tucked her reticule under one arm, locked the door and hurried down the stairs.

  Geoffrey seemed preoccupied on the ride to Thackery’s, though he sat beside her, holding her hand and stroking her palm with his thumb in an absent manner. She was content to sit in silence, still trying to comprehend the things she’d discovered earlier at the lodging house. And the things she’d read in Miss Denton’s little book, still tucked safely in her reticule.

  “Geoffrey?” she ventured.

  He glanced at her and smiled the same way he’d smiled at her last night. Her body remembered the feel of him and responded instantly with a longing to be touched. She glanced away and cleared her throat. “I have Miss Denton’s, um, client book. There is something I think you should see. I trust you will be discreet?”

  He stroked the line of her cheek and an invasive languor seeped through her. “Where did you come by it, Dianthe?” He leaned down to nibble her earlobe, and yearning kindled low in her belly.

  “I went to Nell’s apartment and…”

  “You are in more danger than you know, Dianthe. You will not go there again, will you?” he whispered against her lips. “Because if you do, I shall have to lock you up. And do not doubt I would do it, my dear.”

  “Never,” she conceded as he deepened the kiss.

  “Then I will look at it tomorrow morning. I have other plans for tonight.”

  “I must talk to you, Geoffrey. Now. I haven’t been completely honest, and I—”

  “My dear,” he said as he smoothed a dark curl back from her cheek, “at the moment I don’t care if you assassinated the king.”

  She opened her reticule and removed Afton’s letter. Dianthe hesitated, trying to justify not telling him the truth. But her conscience won, and she unfolded the paper and handed it to him.

  He leaned toward the window, catching the light of passing streetlamps, and began scanning the lines. She held her breath and watched his face for any sign of anger or disgust. When he finished, he returned to the first page and read again. Finally, he refolded the letter and gave it back to her.

  “This explains your resemblance to Nell and how she came to be in possession of your calling card. It also accounts for what she told her friends about discovering something that could set her up for life, and why she went to Vauxhall Gardens that night. She was looking for you. She must have intended to take your sister up on her offer of a new life.”

  “There i
s more,” Dianthe said, returning her gaze to her lap. “Nell was not dead when I found her. She talked to me.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke again, his voice considerably cooler. “What did she say, Dianthe?”

  “She knew who I was. She knew my name. She was very weak, and I could not decipher what she was saying.” Dianthe stopped and cleared her throat, dismayed by the break in her voice. “I cannot recall her exact words. I was so frightened I could not think straight.”

  He reached across the distance and took her hand in his. “If this is too difficult, we can wait—”

  “I want you to know everything, so that if something happens to me—”

  “Hush! Nothing will happen to you.” His voice was brusque.

  But Dianthe was caught up in her story, her gaze fixed into the darkness, remembering. “She said thank heavens it was me. She entreated me to stop ‘him’ and made me promise not to let him get away with it—with murdering her. And she warned me to be careful, because he had seen me, and that I’d be next, and that he had killed others. But when I asked her who ‘he’ was, she…she died.”

  Tears were rolling down Dianthe’s cheeks and her hands were trembling. “No wonder you’ve been so driven to find the murderer. Enough, Dianthe. That’s enough.”

  “There was a man on the path. He was wearing an absurd scarlet cloak and I could not make out his face, but he seemed startled to see me. Then he was gone and a few moments later I stumbled over Nell. Then…I forgot everything else.”

  Geoff gripped her shoulders. “A man in a scarlet cloak? That was how he slipped through the gates. He was the man who broke into the house and attacked you on Curzon Street. What did he look like, Dianthe?”

  “I didn’t see him clearly,” she repeated. “The hood shrouded his face in Vauxhall Gardens, and it was dark in the library. Is he the killer? Do you know such a man?”

  “Let me worry over the man on the path. I shall find him and deal with him. But you must go home, out of harm’s way. I do not want you putting yourself in jeopardy again.”

  “I cannot stop now. I promised Nell.”

  “You are as stubborn as your cousin. Why didn’t you tell me all this? How long have you known?”

  She lowered her eyes, unable to watch his face and see his disgust. “I learned the night on Curzon Street, when you came to my room. I couldn’t tell you because…well, I am from a courtesan’s family. I…I have become a courtesan. Knowing that, do you wish me to leave your house?”

  Geoffrey lifted her chin with the edge of his hand and whispered, “Later, Dianthe. We shall discuss this later when there is time enough for me to show you just what I want of you. Tonight I have business. And perhaps you will be safer where I can keep an eye on you.”

  The coach drew up at Thackery’s and, when Geoffrey exited and offered his hand, she took it and laughed at his frown at her décolletage.

  “Di—Miss Deauville, I believe you are wearing your gowns too low. Shall we ask Miss LaFehr to add trim?”

  “If you think it necessary,” she said.

  “It is. To my sanity, at least.” Inside, he took her wrap and handed it to a footman. “I must have a private word with someone, my dear. Stay close until I am done.”

  She turned to him and straightened his cravat, wondering why he still wanted to add trim now that he knew that courtesan blood ran through her veins. “Mais oui, chéri,” she whispered. “I will find Miss Tucker.”

  “See that you stay to the main rooms,” he warned.

  She smiled and patted the folds of the cravat as she stepped back. “Oui, chéri.”

  She glanced around to take her bearings, and a slight movement near the staircase drew her attention. Ah, it was Senor Ramirez. Geoffrey had said he’d never met the man, and this might be the time to introduce them. It would not hurt Senor Ramirez to know that her protector was not a phantom.

  She caught Geoffrey’s hand and whispered, “Just a moment. I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Munro’s friend.”

  As they approached, Senor Ramirez turned his back and began to climb the stairway. Was he trying to avoid her? But with Flora’s warning fresh in her ear, she thought it would be best if Geoff knew the man.

  “Senor Ramirez,” she called, putting on her French accent. “’Ow nice to see you this evening.”

  He paused, one hand on the banister. She could tell by his stiffened posture that he did not want this meeting. He turned, his expression impassive, his eyes flat.

  Though standing on the stair below, Geoffrey was still taller than Senor Ramirez. His hand tightened around her arm, but he said nothing.

  “Senor Ramirez, may I present Lord Geoffrey Morgan? Lord Geoffrey, Senor Ramirez comes to us from Barcelona.”

  The silence between the two men dragged out a fraction too long to be comfortable. Did they already know one another? Neither man offered his hand or even the courtesy of a perfunctory bow. Seeking to fill the void, she murmured, “Senor Ramirez is a friend of Mr. Munro.”

  “How…interesting,” Geoffrey finally said. “Have you known him long?”

  “Since my arrival,” the other man stated.

  “When was that?”

  Ramirez shrugged. “A month ago.”

  “When last we met, Senor Ramirez said he will be returning to Spain before long,” Dianthe prompted, wondering what it would take to start a conversation between the two men.

  “Have you completed your business?” Geoffrey asked.

  “I do not believe I said I was here on business.”

  Dianthe frowned. What was behind their antagonism? It was palpable.

  “Pleasure, then?” Geoffrey persisted.

  She looked up at him. She’d never seen him quite so intense. Quite so focused.

  A thin smile lifted the corners of Senor Ramirez’s mouth and a hint of a challenge edged his voice. “I always find pleasure in my business, Lord Morgan, and business in my pleasure.”

  She felt the muscles in his Geoffrey’s arm tense, and wondered in horror if he was going to hit the man. This meeting had gone considerably beyond her intentions.

  Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. Senor Ramirez nodded and continued up the stairs. The moment he disappeared, Geoffrey turned to her.

  “Stay away from him, Dianthe. I’ll have the coach brought ’round to take you home.”

  “But I must talk to Miss Tucker. If it will ease your mind, I promise not to speak with him further. Before tonight, he has always been quite attentive to me.”

  “How much have you had to do with him? What have you told him about yourself or me?”

  “I…you have not been a topic of conversation. And Miss Denton already warned me against him before she left town.”

  “Damn! I should have left you home. If I didn’t have to meet— Avoid the man at all costs. If he bothers you, or if you even think he might, find me at once.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Lockwood should be here tonight, and Richardson. One of the private rooms downstairs. Just keep looking until you find me or scream and I’ll find you. It is urgent that I speak with them at once. When I’m done, I’ll take you home.”

  She nodded and waited until he disappeared down one of the dim corridors before continuing up the stairs. She said a silent prayer that Miss Tucker would be in attendance.

  All the rooms were crowded tonight, and the windows stood open to catch errant breezes and to allow the smoke from cheroots and the smell of overheated bodies to escape. She nearly missed Miss Tucker in the crush. She was standing in conversation with a mixed group, and Dianthe drew her aside and linked arms with her.

  “Come walk with me, Miss Tucker. I ’ave to ask you something.” When they had woven their way out to the mezzanine, Dianthe broached the subject that had been on her mind since reading the journal.

  “Is Mr. Munro a regular with the ladies, or does ’e ’ave the mistress?”

  Miss Tucker chortled. “Mr. Munro is too penur
ious to support a mistress, Miss Deauville. He would rather buy his pleasures on a transient basis.”

  “Oui? And are ’is needs great?”

  “Of late,” she said. “Flora left him dangling last night. He came to me, but I had made other arrangements for the evening. I am to meet him later tonight, though. Why do you ask? Are you not Morgan’s woman?”

  Morgan’s woman. But for how much longer? “Oui. But I ’ave been warned ’is attentions are short, and if that is so, I would like to know the lay of the land.”

  Miss Tucker fell silent for a time as they strolled along, looking down over the main salon. Finally she heaved a sigh and replied. “Miss Deauville, I would recommend against Munro. I have already discerned that you are new to the sisterhood, but you appear to be fairly canny. A few of us have learned to deal with Munro. Those who haven’t have suffered for it.”

  “But you told me ’e is the gentleman. And ’ow respectable ’e is. I misunderstand, yes?”

  “No, Miss Deauville. I believe I also mentioned that discretion was important to survival. And, once you learn to manage the man…”

  Ah, then Miss Denton had been telling the truth, and had meant her to find the little journal as a warning. The demimonde had engaged in a conspiracy of silence because their income depended upon it. “C’est vrai? ’E killed ’is wife?”

  Miss Tucker glanced around as if afraid they might be overheard. “Hush!” She dropped her voice to a soft whisper. “Yes, I believe it is true. He has a violent nature with women, and a temper. I cannot say if the murder was planned, or simply the result of the heat of an argument, but I am certain he was responsible.”

  “Do you ’ave proof?”

  “Heavens! What would I need proof for?”

  “To…per’aps to keep ’im from ’urting you?”

  “Blackmail Munro?” Miss Tucker laughed. “I am not that desperate, Miss Deauville. Such a thing would invite his wrath, not temper it.”