Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  “Yes, it takes time to become accustomed to a new place,” he answered awkwardly. “It’s not as quiet as where I used to live. The neighbor keeps a dog chained out by his back door, and I’m afraid it—”

  “Bays at odd hours?” she finished for him.

  “Just so, yes.”

  “Well do I remember it.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Hayton told me you’d taken my old apartment. The bedroom window faces that neighbor’s garden. Mr. Burleigh, who owns the frightful thing, keeps it there to ward off thieves. A better criminal deterrent I cannot envisage. I certainly cannot imagine anyone desiring to pay him a midnight visit.”

  Their eyes met, and her blush deepened. Silence fell.

  After a moment, Will cleared his suddenly constricted throat. “Well, I should be getting on. Mrs. Hayton will be looking for me.”

  “Thank you for speaking to Mr. Sharpton,” she said, rising. “Please convey to him my heartfelt thanks. And, regarding our previous discussion, please know that I appreciate your understanding.”

  He waited to see if she would offer any further explanation, if she would relent and take him into her confidence. Disappointment bit hard when she remained silent and moved to stand by the door. Clearly, it was time for him to leave.

  The walk home was conducted in a sort of haze as Will tried to piece together all the bits of information into some meaningful whole. But he couldn’t make sense of it. Not yet.

  Trouvère’s missive to Mr. Sharpton was received with stammered thanks and immediately followed by a studied air of careful nonchalance. But the gentleman’s anxious anticipation was given away by the way he kept compulsively patting the pocket into which he’d slipped her letter. Sharpton remained but a few moments longer before retreating to the hearth under the pretext of needing to clean out his pipe.

  Will repressed a chuckle as he watched the man surreptitiously pull out the letter. The poor fellow’s hopes were futile, but it wasn’t his place to inform him of it.

  For a long time that night, Will sat in his chair by the window and stared out at the school. One by one, the lights in the windows were put out until all were dark. No one came or went. Finally, he took himself off to bed, only to dream of wide hazel eyes and a delicate, mystifyingly scarred wrist.

  The following morning, Will found he couldn’t look at Trouvère without thinking of the scar. His perspective had been irrevocably changed, and it was as if he now observed her with new eyes. It was damned hard not to stare at her every time they were in the same room together. The last thing he wanted was for her to panic and become paranoid. Determined to avoid her, he took himself outdoors when the post-luncheon bell rang, dismissing the children for the play period.

  “Master Woodson?”

  Looking down, he saw Janet Fairfield standing beside him. Her little face was as pale as tallow. “Yes?”

  “There is something I think you should see,” she said, a suspicious quaver in her voice.

  Mystified, he allowed her to lead him over to the cloth-draped back wall of the courtyard. Behind the cloth, he knew, was an arched opening set to become the school’s internal access point for the new annex. All the children housed near that part of the school had been moved elsewhere until the work was complete.

  “Miss Fairfield, did not Madame Trouvère warn everyone to stay away from this part of the yard?”

  She glanced up at him, guilt plain on her pale face. “She did, sir. But the men have all gone for their midday meal, and I was curious to see how far they’d gotten.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I only had a peek.”

  Will started as her small, trembling hand slipped into his, but before he could ask her what the matter was, she’d pulled back the drape with her free hand.

  “There,” she whispered, nodding. “Headmistress does not allow us to use that word. She says it’s very ugly and not meant for ladies to say.”

  Following her gaze, he looked into the middle of what appeared to be a chaos of brick, stone, and wood, and saw it at once. Propped up against a stack of masonry was a wide board with the word “WHORE” written across it in broad, black letters.

  “Go and fetch the headmistress, please,” he said, releasing the little girl’s hand. “Tell her I sent you and that she needs to come at once.” He waited until her footsteps retreated before entering the work area to examine the board. The offensive word had been crudely written using a bit of coal. A noise behind him made him turn around. She was here. “Headmistress, I apologize for having interrupted your respite, but—”

  “There is no need for an apology, monsieur,” she said, striding forward. “Why have you brought me—” The sharp intake of her breath as he stepped aside to reveal the board spoke volumes. She swallowed, her delicate face paling. “Janet warned me to expect something unpleasant. She was right.”

  “I’m rather surprised she came to me first.”

  She shot him a quick, wry glance. “She told you first only because she was worried I would come here alone.”

  “Miss Fairfield shows promising intellect for one so young.”

  “Indeed, she is most perceptive,” she murmured, her sharp eyes roving over the offensive black scrawl. “I will speak with Monsieur MacCallum about this when he returns.”

  “You think one of his men did it?”

  “I doubt it. The price being paid for their work is more than fair.” Her full lips thinned, and she shook her head. “No. If anything, I suspect Monsieur Feeny.”

  “Feeny?”

  “The mason whose position Monsieur MacCallum now occupies. Feeny and his men were caught using inferior building materials. Their poor workmanship presented a grave danger to my students and staff. I’m told the walls would likely have collapsed soon after completion.”

  “Tell me you brought charges to bear against this Feeny fellow,” he said, anger tightening his jaw.

  She nodded. “I had evidence in plenty, and several of his men gave testimony against him.” Her cheeks colored. “Feeny was commanded to pay restitution and forbidden from ever again practicing masonry on English soil.” Her fists balled at her sides. “This should not have happened.” Reaching out, she grasped the board and flipped it over, hiding the derogatory word from view.

  Will, who was now looking for it, caught a glimpse of twin scars circling both wrists before she lowered her hands. I was right. Again, the sight elicited a mixture of pity and curiosity.

  “Someone entered here to commit this act,” she was saying. “I shall stipulate that MacCallum leave a man to watch the premises during the respite.”

  “And if he does not wish to comply?”

  She surveyed the piles of brick, buckets of mortar, and stacks of scaffolding littering the area. “He will agree, if for no better reason than to safeguard his materials—especially if he suspects Feeny. They were once competitors, and there was no love lost between them. But even if it was a random act of defacement, he won’t wish it to happen again.”

  “And if the perpetrator returns to cause further mischief?”

  Her spine straightened, and she looked at him coolly. “I am not without friends or resources. I will report this incident to my superiors.”

  The sound of men’s laughter drifted in from the far entrance to the site, and Trouvère squared her shoulders. “You may attend to your class. I will address this matter with Monsieur MacCallum.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction when he didn’t move.

  Though reluctant to leave, Will could see she didn’t wish him to remain. He turned to go.

  At that moment, however, a burly, flame-haired man strode into the courtyard from the construction entrance. “Madame Trouvère,” he called out, a broad smile flashing across his bearded face. “Tell me, is this your school’s good governor?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw her stiffen.

  “No, monsieur,” she answered as the man came up, took off his cap, and swept a bow. “This is Monsieur Woodson, our mathematics teacher,” she said, her tone flat as a cre
pe.

  Despite his annoyance over being made to feel so unwelcome, Will maintained a polite expression as he nodded a greeting to the giant Scot.

  An assessing look entered the man’s sharp eyes. Just as quickly, it disappeared, and his focus shifted back to his employer. “How like ye our progress?” he said, gesturing proudly at the newly laid brickwork.

  “I think the workmanship is exemplary,” she answered. “However, that is not the reason for my visit.”

  “Oh?” Above his beard, his cheeks grew ruddy with pleasure.

  “This is why I’m here.” Reaching out, she turned the board over again, revealing the unsavory message. “One of my girls looked through the doorway and discovered it just a few minutes ago.”

  Shock suffused MacCallum’s face, followed swiftly by fury. “I swear to ye none o’ mah men did tha’,” he said, his voice lowering to a growl. “We all left together, an’ I was wi’ the boys the whole time we were away.”

  “I don’t think any of your people did this,” she assured him. “But I do think someone entered here while you were away.”

  MacCallum’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll warrant it’s tha’ Feeny fellow.”

  “That’s what she thought, as well,” Will concurred, nodding at Trouvère.

  Too late, he realized his mistake.

  She glared at him with open displeasure, and then again addressed the Scot. “Indeed. As such, from this point forward, I require that you leave behind a man to guard the worksite during the afternoon respite. I shall be happy to have our kitchen provide that man’s meal each day as long as he takes it here.”

  The brawny Scot, who’d been pulling at his beard, nodded. “Agreed. I’ll no’ have anyone meddlin’ wi’ mah work. I’ll have the boys check o’er everything before they begin again, just tae be certain all is weel.” Grimacing, he slapped a meaty fist into his palm. “An’ if I catch the bast—” Stopping, he again flushed. “If I catch the one responsible, I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll no’ soon forget.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur MacCallum.”

  “Mah pleasure, madame,” he answered with a respectful nod.

  Mirroring the gesture, she turned to go, beckoning Will to accompany her.

  Will watched, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the Scot’s eyes followed the headmistress. There was no hostility in the man’s gaze—just the opposite, in fact. He plainly fancied her.

  Why another man’s liking for her should bother him, Will didn’t understand. But it did. Quite deliberately, he placed himself between them, blocking MacCallum’s view. Unfortunately, this meant that he himself had a perfect view of her posterior.

  The gentle sway of her hips as she walked was an enticement he didn’t need. Forcing his gaze elsewhere, Will trained his thoughts on the conversation that had just taken place. MacCallum had been telling the truth—or at least he believed so. Someone else had come in and defaced that board. He added Feeny to the list of facts pertaining to the case.

  “Monsieur Woodson?”

  He came just short of running into the headmistress, who’d stopped in front of him halfway across the now-empty courtyard. “Yes?”

  “Think you that I require a keeper?”

  Frowning, he gazed at her in confusion, marking the smoldering fury in her beautiful eyes. “I beg your—”

  “Do you believe me incapable of addressing any situation pertaining to this school?”

  So much for thinking it water beneath the bridge. Time to eat a little crow. “I apologize for speaking out of turn and humbly crave your pardon, madame. It won’t happen again.”

  “Indeed, it will not,” she said, arching a delicate brow. “I appreciate that this is a man’s world—more than you can possibly know—but you need to comprehend that I’ve been making my own way in it for quite some time. I need no chaperone or guardian to speak for me or serve as an intermediary. Monsieur MacCallum is accustomed to answering to me.”

  His neck grew hot beneath his collar. “I meant only to help.”

  “And that is the only reason I am not dismissing you,” she snapped. “I cannot allow my authority here to be undermined, even by someone who means well. If you attempt to interfere again, I’ll have no choice but to make an example of you.”

  Biting back a curse, he took a deep breath and tried to speak in a calm, reasonable manner. “I was not trying to undermine you.” He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder toward the worksite. “That writing was a threat, and it cannot be ignored. Whoever left it there has all but shouted their intent to harm you.”

  Hazel eyes narrowed, and she regarded him with a sudden chilly intensity that made him squirm. “I find it interesting that you assume the message was directed at me.”

  Bollocks.

  “There are more than a dozen women working here,” she continued. “Any one of them—or perhaps none at all—might have been the intended recipient. It could also be a simple matter of uncivilized men making a crude jest, as some are wont to do, though I prefer to believe Monsieur MacCallum spoke the truth. My main concern is that my students are never again exposed to such vulgarity.” Crossing her arms, she raised her chin, silently challenging him to answer.

  “I did not mean to imply anything untoward. I was merely concerned for your safety, and reacted without forethought.” He prayed he hadn’t ruined everything. “Please accept my apology.”

  The light of battle faded from her eyes. “I appreciate your concern, but my safety is not your responsibility.” She ducked her head, but not before he saw a blush begin to tint her cheeks. “Consider your apology accepted and the matter resolved. Now, let us go to our classrooms before the students begin to worry over our absence.”

  Heart pounding as if he’d been running a footrace, Will followed in confused silence. In anger, she’d been bold and confident, but now she seemed flustered and unsure of herself. My safety is not your responsibility. The way she’d said it grabbed and held him. Was it his imagination, or had he heard regret in her voice?

  Yes, she was holding her own in this man’s world, admirably so, but was that what she truly wanted? Did she long for another sort of life? A husband and family, perhaps?

  Again, his eyes were drawn to her lace-covered wrists. Were they the reason she hid here, cloistered among her own sex? Had someone mocked or reviled her because of them, causing her to sequester herself from the world?

  It struck him then that he wanted her to know her scars weren’t repulsive to him. He had plenty of them, himself. Nearly every part of him was crisscrossed with marks. They weren’t a defect; they were a sign that the person who bore them had survived a battle. Would she believe him if he told her so?

  Why would it matter to her what I think? And why should I want her to know? The obvious answer alarmed him. Bloody hell. Not only am I attracted to the woman, I’m beginning to care for her.

  That could not be allowed to happen. She was a suspect. He was sworn to uphold the law. Even if he found her innocent, once he told her the truth, the best he could expect was immediate, hostile ejection from the premises. No. There was no hope of a relationship between himself and the lovely, mysterious Madame Trouvère.

  The sheer idiocy of even considering it almost made him laugh aloud. He hardly knew the woman!

  That never stopped you considering a union with Miss Witherspoon…

  It was true. He’d seen Miss Witherspoon fewer than a dozen times, and already he’d contemplated asking for the girl’s hand. But, unlike Madame Trouvère, Miss Witherspoon didn’t make his pulse leap when she was near. The sight of her didn’t elicit a smile or make him feel lightheaded. She certainly didn’t intrude on his thoughts every few minutes throughout the day.

  Stepping ahead, he opened the door for the lady, determined to ignore the way the autumn sunlight lit her face, setting her fine features aglow for a moment as she passed. Determined to block out the clean, lemony scent that washed over him in her wake. Determined to stifle the ache of e
mptiness that seemed to settle in his chest as he watched her receding back.

  What insanity is this?

  Sympathy, answered Logic. That’s it. Nothing more than sympathy. Seeing her scars, knowing she’d suffered in their making, had naturally evoked a strong response. It was one thing for a man to have such marks. Men were expected to bear scars, as if they were badges of honor.

  It wasn’t so for women.

  Hastening to his classroom, he took over from Suzette, who’d stepped in while he was away. Knowing the headmistress would wish it so, he made no mention concerning the reason for his late arrival. Thankfully, his tardiness went unquestioned.

  That evening when he left, Will carefully doubled back and hid in an alley from which he could see the gated rear entrance to the school and construction site. Within seconds of the last of MacCallum’s men clearing out, he saw Mrs. Sloane and another woman close and lock the strong iron gate.

  Satisfied, he made for Hayton House and dinner.

  Chapter Eight

  Jacqueline blessed the impulse that made her look through her window at the exact moment Monsieur Woodson decided to double back toward the school.

  Has he forgotten something?

  She went down to meet him, but he didn’t attempt to reenter.

  Curiosity gnawed at her. Returning upstairs, she looked through every outward-facing window until she found herself at the end of the hall overlooking the school’s rear. All the rooms in this section were unoccupied until the construction was complete, so there was no one to see her peering out into the gloom.

  Had she not caught a flicker of motion, she would never have noticed him there in the alley. What is he doing?

  Through a narrow slit in the curtains, she watched as MacCallum and his workmen filed out into the adjacent street, their boisterous talk and laughter drifting upward to echo off the buildings around them. Mystified, she remained rooted to the spot, waiting to see what Woodson would do next. A few minutes later, once all was quiet, the mathematics teacher emerged and began once again walking toward Mrs. Hayton’s.

  Warmth suffused Jacqueline, and her cheeks lifted in an irrepressible smile borne of unexpected joy. He’d meant what he’d said about being concerned for her safety. Enough to inconvenience himself by delaying the comforts awaiting him at home. Enough to potentially place himself in danger. The person who’d written that awful message today might well have been waiting in that alley.