Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  Now that he knew she was safe, he wanted to shake her. “Why the hell did you come here? I told you to stay away from Munro.”

  “Miss Denton’s journal said…well, I needed proof that he murdered Charlotte. He was at Thackery’s. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Miss Tucker was keeping him busy. But all I found was this.” She pulled several folded papers from her bodice and gave them to him. “Charlotte’s letter to you, Geoffrey—the letter Mr. Munro intercepted. In it, she says she was afraid of him and that he’d struck her and threatened her, and that now that she was expecting… And there are other papers that mention your name. Letters from Mr. Ramirez.”

  Geoff glanced through them quickly, but when he saw Ramirez’s name he handed the letters to Lockwood. Munro began decrying the violation of his home and privacy, demanding the return of his property as Lockwood scanned the lines.

  But when Lockwood looked up, his eyes were hard. “Where’s el-Daibul?” he shouted over Munro’s protestations.

  “I do not know anyone by that name.”

  “Ramirez, then, you bloody idiot,” Geoff said. “Do you mean us to believe you were his pawn? That you knew nothing of his machinations, his years of murders, kidnappings and white slavery?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s all here, Munro,” Lockwood said, waving the letters. “Letters from Ramirez to you, asking about Morgan, about where he was and what he was doing.” He glanced at Geoff. “I think we have the verification you needed.”

  Looking more frightened now, Munro turned to Geoff. “He knew everything already—that you thought I’d killed your sister,” he admitted. “He hinted that he knew a way to make you leave me alone.”

  “Murder me?” Geoff sneered. “Is that what he was going to do in exchange for your help? He used you to get to me, and if I know my enemy, he has no intention of leaving you alive to tell the story.”

  “No! You’re wrong!”

  Geoff stood and helped Dianthe to her feet. She swayed unsteadily and his blood burned in his veins when he thought of her at Munro’s mercy. Lockwood had been right to come. Without him there, Geoff probably would have killed Munro where he stood.

  “There’s enough here to hang you, Munro,” Lockwood said, tucking the papers into his jacket. “A pity they don’t draw and quarter anymore.”

  “It’s her!” Munro accused, pointing at Dianthe. “She’s trumped up the evidence to help her lover get rid of me.”

  Dianthe shook her head, releasing Geoff’s arm now that she was steady. “I don’t know anything about Senor Ramirez. But when Mr. Munro found me going through his desk, he thought I was Nell. He admitted that he’d pushed Charlotte down the stairs.”

  “She’s lying!” Munro screeched. “She broke into my house and was thieving. Arrest her, Lockwood.”

  Lockwood glanced between Dianthe and Munro, a look of utter disgust on his face. “Is there an ounce of truth to his claim, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “Lovejoy?” Munro squinted in the dim hallway. “Not Lizette? Not Nell?”

  “Nell is dead,” Lockwood said.

  Astonishment showed on Munro’s face as he staggered to his feet. His mouth drew back, exposing his teeth in an angry snarl. “You tricked me!” he shouted.

  Dianthe turned to look at Lockwood. “I will testify, Lord Lockwood. He won’t get away with this. I could not make him admit to killing Nell, but I’m certain he did—because she knew what he’d done to Charlotte.”

  Geoff was furious that she’d endangered herself just to help him. He could have lost her, too.

  “I didn’t kill Nell! That was Ramirez. He killed Elvina Gibson, too. They knew too much.” Munro suddenly lunged for Dianthe, and the two went tumbling to the floor.

  A flash of light reflected off an unsheathed knife alerting Geoff to the man’s intention, and he leaped into the fray, seizing Munro around the neck with one arm and attempting to grasp the hand that held the knife with his other. Dianthe screamed, and a stranger appeared, dragging her away from the struggle, then lifting her to her feet. A rush of fury surged through Geoff and he pulled back sharply when Munro tried to lunge for her again. Munro went limp.

  Dropping his adversary and leaping to his feet, Geoff pulled Dianthe from the stranger’s arms and ran his hands over her back and sides, trying to reassure himself that she was uninjured. Though she was shivering so hard that her teeth chattered, there was no trace of blood or injury. Thus assured, he held her tightly and murmured, “My God, Dianthe, what would I have done without you?”

  “Renquist from Bow Street, isn’t it?” Lockwood asked the stranger. “Did Harry Richardson send you?”

  “Aye. I am a close friend of Miss Lovejoy’s family,” he said. “Are you all right, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Dianthe nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Renquist.”

  Kneeling beside Munro, Lockwood shook his head. “Damn! His neck’s broken. Do you have any idea the paperwork this will entail?”

  Dianthe buried her face against Geoffrey’s chest. He hadn’t wanted this part of his life to touch her, but it had—in the ugliest possible way.

  Lockwood nodded toward Munro’s body. “I’ll deal with Bow Street on this. Meantime, we’ve got bigger fish getting away. You or me, Geoff?”

  He hesitated. He needed to get Dianthe home and safe.

  Renquist stepped forward. “I’ll take her home, Morgan.”

  Dianthe looked up at him and nodded. “Go, Geoffrey. Mr. Renquist will keep me safe.”

  He looked back at Lockwood. “I’ll go.” He’d been hunting el-Daibul for nearly five years now. He wouldn’t let him out of his grasp this time. He gripped Dianthe’s arms and looked down into her eyes. “I shouldn’t be too long. Wait for me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and tears welled in her eyes. “Please don’t do anything foolish, Geoffrey.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile as he scooped her reticule off the floor and handed it to her. “Not when I have you waiting,” he said. He intended to go to the holding house and see if Harry had seen el-Daibul, and failing that, home to pack a bag for Dover, where he’d wait until the man showed up. El-Daibul would have to get out of England somehow, and Geoff doubted he could swim all the way to France.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Numb from shock and fear, Dianthe couldn’t stop trembling. She begged Mr. Renquist to let her see Madame Marie before going to the house on Salisbury Street. Only another woman would understand what she needed to ask. He agreed, but told her she could not stay more than a quarter of an hour. Morgan wanted her home, and home she would be.

  When they arrived at the dress shop, they went around to the back, where the Renquists had their apartments. Madame Marie, tying a light cotton wrapper around her, joined them. “Là! Chérie, what are you doing ’ere at such an hour?”

  Dianthe hugged her friend and collapsed onto a blue damask sofa. “Oh, Marie, I needed to see a friendly face. I am still trying to sort it all out. I thought Mr. Munro was Nell’s killer, but he said it was Senor Ramirez, and now Senor Ramirez is missing and Geoffrey says he is someone named el-Daibul.”

  Madame Marie brought a cup of tea and pressed it into Dianthe’s hand. “Here, chérie. Breathe deep and think calming thoughts.”

  “El-Daibul…” Mr. Renquist repeated. “I know that name. After I take you home, I’ll go back to the Bow Street office and have a look at my files, but first I have some very bad news for you, Miss Lovejoy.”

  Dianthe groaned. The last thing she needed at the moment was more bad news. “Can it wait, Mr. Renquist?”

  “I am afraid not. You see, I’ve been looking for a connection between you and Miss Brookes, and found that—”

  “She is—was—my cousin. Afton wrote with the news. She sent my calling card to Miss Brookes and told her to contact me. That is why my card was found at Nell’s lodgings.” She sipped her tea and shuddered. Madame Marie had laced it with something strong. Brandy? Whiskey? Did she really look that
bad?

  Mr. Renquist nodded. “And McHugh has arrived in town. I told him you’d be back tomorrow, but he mumbled something about your sister’s peace of mind. I’d guess he is tearing through drawing rooms even now. He swore to be discreet, at any rate.”

  “Discreet?” Dianthe giggled. “McHugh? Well, the fat is in fire, as they say. When will he be here tomorrow?”

  “He said he’d call at noon,” Mr. Renquist said.

  “Then I shall be back at noon. I must face him sooner or later, I suppose.”

  Madame Marie gave her a sharp look and raised an eyebrow. “Shoo,” she said, making a brushing motion with her hands at her husband. “I think little Miss Dianthe wishes the private talk.” When her husband disappeared into another room, she said, “Your friends will rally ’round, petite Dianthe. You will live this down.”

  “I am not certain about that. Even if the truth is known and Geoffrey finds el-Daibul, my reputation is irretrievably damaged.” She sighed. “Madame, I have been living with Lord Morgan.”

  Marie’s eyebrows shot up. “I did not suspect this, chérie. Did you not assure us all was proper? What will your sister say? And the McHugh?”

  She finished her cup of tea and sat back with a tremulous smile. “Good riddance?”

  Marie coughed and glanced away to compose herself.

  “Madame, I was frightened. And I foolishly thought I could manage by myself. Geoffrey literally saved my life. I would be in Newgate now but for him. And, I fear, I’ve fallen rather seriously in love with him.”

  “What are you going to do about it, chérie?”

  She gave the worldly smile Miss Osgood had taught her. “If he will have me, I shall become his mistress. ’Tis all that’s left for me.”

  To her credit, Madame Marie did not even blink. “Is this what you wished to discuss, chérie?”

  “I admitted I love him, Madame, and he has not said he loves me. But when he looks at me…” She straightened her spine and sighed. “I used to think Geoffrey Morgan was beneath me, and now I realize that he is far above me. It isn’t just that my reputation is sullied, it is that he was never what I believed him to be. And now I do not know how to make it up to him, or even if I can. You see, he will never marry a courtesan, and that is what I’ve become.”

  Madame Marie lifted Dianthe’s chin with her index finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes. “But I think he wants you, yes? He just needs a little encouragement. So repeat after me, chérie. I am Salome, Delilah and Helen of Troy.”

  Dianthe choked back her tears. Madame Marie had suspected all along.

  When the coach pulled up outside the house on Salisbury Street, Mr. Renquist escorted Dianthe to the door. It was late, and she knew Giles and Hanson would have retired to their quarters below stairs. She put her key in the lock and turned it, then said goodbye, with the promise to see him at noon tomorrow.

  The open door to the ballroom spilled light into the central hall as usual, and she passed it on her way to the stairs. Voices stopped her before she had gone far.

  “Your mistress is late, Morgan. Could it be she has another lover already?”

  She recognized that voice with its faint Castilian lisp— Senor Ramirez. El-Daibul. There was a taunt in the voice, too, that warned her to proceed cautiously.

  “She is not coming, el-Daibul. Do you think I allow my mistresses to live with me? Just finish with me and go.”

  “I’ve never seen a man so anxious to die. Very noble of you. But do you think I am a fool? I followed her here several nights ago.”

  She tiptoed closer and peeked around the open door. Geoffrey, his arms tied above his head, was dangling from a rope slung over a chandelier, his feet barely touching the ground. Trickles of blood oozed down his right cheek from his temple. He’d been hit over the head! Senor Ramirez must have been lying in wait for him. If she had come home first… She drew a quiet breath and evened her erratic heartbeat.

  “She won’t do you any good, you know,” Geoffrey said. “She doesn’t know anything about this. She’s just another little demirep who has a dozen men on a string.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if she did,” Ramirez laughed. “What matters is that you want her. I intend to destroy everything of yours, just as you destroyed everything of mine.”

  “I did not fire the cannons. It was war, el-Daibul.”

  “It still is war, Morgan. Why did your government order the Bombardment of Algiers? Your urging, was it not—you and Auberville? That cannon fire killed my family. The dey exiled me, blaming me for inciting the British. I lost everything, Morgan. And so shall you.”

  “The dey was holding the British consul. What did he expect would happen?”

  El-Daibul made a sweeping motion with a curved sword. Dianthe was so consumed by fear that she could not tell if it was a scimitar or a cutlass. She ducked back behind the door, her heart pounding in her chest while her mind worked feverishly. Her every instinct urged her to flee.

  “The reasons do not matter,” Ramirez said. “My family is dead, and you will pay for it.”

  “What are you going to do? Knock Miss Deauville over the head when she comes in, too?”

  A sickening slap carried to her, and Geoffrey groaned. Ramirez—el-Daibul—was torturing him! She thought frantically, trying to sort through her options. Go for help? Not enough time. Summon Giles and Hanson? They were afraid of their own shadows. It was up to her, then. But what could she do? What weapons did she have at her disposal?

  “Nell…” Geoffrey gasped. “It was you….”

  “Yes, Nell. And Elvina Gibson. And Flora Denton, when I find her. But tonight it will be Miss Lizette Deauville. And you.”

  Dianthe straightened her spine, put an innocent smile on her face and made a fair amount of noise as she walked into the ballroom.

  “Oh! Senor Ramirez! My goodness. What are you doing here at such an hour?” She was careful to keep a distance between them as she edged toward the sword rack.

  El-Daibul was holding an odd whip with multiple short lashes, and the curved sword. There was one like it in the rack, but she’d never used it.

  Geoffrey strained against the ropes that held him, but dangled helplessly, only tightening the knots. “Run, Dianthe!”

  She did her best to look innocent and confused, but given the circumstances, she would have to be very simple indeed not to know what was going on.

  “Come here, little Lizette,” el-Daibul coaxed.

  She laughed. “You recognized me without my wig. How very clever of you, sir.”

  “How clever are you, my dear?”

  “Clever enough to realize you are very angry with Lord Geoffrey. What has he done? Won your fortune at gambling? Seduced your wife?” She edged closer to the rack as el-Daibul moved toward the door.

  He laughed. “We haven’t enough time to discuss it. I must finish up here and ride for the coast.” He closed the door and turned the lock, a look of deep satisfaction on his face.

  She glanced at Geoffrey and he nodded when she stopped at the rapiers. She drew one from the rack and kicked off her shoes.

  El-Daibul covered his surprise by laughing and gesturing at her. “How very amusing, Miss Deauville. Can you really mean to challenge me?”

  Do not allow your enemy to know your skill. Surprise will be your greatest asset, and if you follow surprise with finesse, you have a fair chance at victory. She shrugged and widened her eyes. “Have I any choice, sir?”

  “Lay down your sword and come to me.”

  She smiled. “You are teasing me. I can see by what you’ve done to Lord Geoffrey what you intend for me.”

  “But you have no hope of prevailing. It will go easier for you if you just accept your fate.”

  “Easy? Hard? All I know is that I have no chance at all if I lay down my sword.”

  He smiled, and Dianthe wondered why she had never realized how empty his eyes were. “Very well, Miss Deauville. This could be amusing. I had not thought of slicing you into pie
ces, but that could be quite effective.” He glanced over his shoulder at Geoffrey. “What do you think, Morgan? Will you enjoy seeing her pretty little head separated from her body? Shall I take select parts of her back to Tangier with me to show around as my English souvenirs?”

  Geoffrey let out a strangled growl that chilled Dianthe’s blood. She knew without a doubt that he would kill el-Daibul if he could just lay hands on him.

  But she could not afford the luxury of anger. She needed calm. She needed detachment. Perception, distance, timing and technique. She was grateful, now, for the boredom that had led to countless hours of practice.

  El-Daibul showed his contempt by approaching her with his sword lowered. He took her measure and found her lacking—no competition at all. Good. That was just what she wanted. He smiled and tried to frighten her by slashing the air between them.

  Concentration. She tried to anticipate his next move and was ready when he lunged. She stepped to the side and el-Daibul faltered when his blade only found dead air. She assumed the en garde position and he gave her a wary look.

  “You’ve had lessons, Miss Deauville. How have you fared at the ladies’ competitions?”

  “I just started lessons a short time ago,” she answered, keeping her eyes trained on his blade. “I’ve not had time to enter competitions.”

  He laughed, and this time sounded as if he were enjoying himself. “I wouldn’t have wanted this to be too easy,” he said.

  She knew she would have to launch an attack before he had time to measure her skill. Once he had, any advantage would be gone. But could she injure him? Could she kill him? “I promise you, I will not be as easy to kill as my cousin.”

  “Your cousin? Ah yes! Miss Brookes. I see the resemblance now. But you are right. She was easy to kill. No challenge at all. My knife slipped into her like butter.”

  She gave a sideways glance at Geoffrey and saw that his wrists were bleeding. He was twisting the rope, attempting to fray it. She had to keep el-Daibul from seeing him or he’d run Geoffrey through.