Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  “What of Mulgrave and Gonson? Ought I to ask them?”

  A cold frisson of fear raced down his back. “If you do, I’ll be pulled from this assignment before I have the chance to help you discover who is threatening you and put a stop to it.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she shot back. “I know who is behind it, and I’m prepared to defend both myself and my students.”

  “Our students,” he said, looking her squarely in the eye. “Do you think I don’t care about the girls? Am I so heartless a blackguard that I’d want to leave them at risk, knowing their plight? If anything happens to you”—his stomach knotted—“they will be left without their chief help and solace. What will happen to them if you’re killed? London’s orphanages are already overburdened.”

  “My benefactor—”

  “Will go down with you! Were you not listening when I told you I was deliberately led here? Someone knows, and they want revenge on both you and whoever is helping you.”

  Her eyes filled with fear, and her face crumpled. “If Boucher finds out, she will have him murdered! We must warn him, but I don’t know how to do it without risking his exposure. If anything were to happen to him…”

  Again, his heart lurched. Is she in love with him? “If it’s as you say and the message you sent tonight is destined to pass through many hands before reaching him, then he may yet remain safe. I need to know who else in your acquaintance might be able to contact him with minimal risk.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Boucher knows where I am.

  A tremor ran through Jacqueline. It had to be her. Even if the messages weren’t a dead giveaway, there was no one else who had cause to hate her so. Because of her, Boucher was a hunted woman.

  Tavistoke had made it his personal mission to bring down the madame who’d sold her to Fairford. But it wasn’t for her sake alone that he’d vowed the woman’s destruction. If Emma, Rose, and several others among the school’s students were to be believed, Boucher was no mere brothel proprietress. She was the owner of the infamous Temple of Aurora, an establishment that catered specifically to clientele with a taste for underage flesh.

  For nearly three years, Tavistoke had relentlessly worked to shut down the place once and for all. But every time he came close, it had vanished, and Boucher had gone into hiding. A month later, the Aurora would reopen somewhere else in the city. By some mysterious means, its elusive clients always seemed to know its new location. Skilled at concealing their terrible vice, they were almost as hard to find as the Aurora itself—unless they got careless.

  Thus far, Tavistoke had managed to ferret out four of the bastards. The information they’d yielded before being dispatched had twice brought him close to catching Boucher. However, it had been nearly three months since her last escape, and he’d heard nothing.

  “Headmistress?”

  She stared at Woodson. It’s Danbury. His real name is Danbury. Anger—not at him, but at herself—threatened to overwhelm her. As untrusting and careful as she’d been at the outset, she’d still been fooled. Had Providence been any less kind, it might have been a very different sort of man standing before her. “Lady Montgomery can get a message to him,” she answered, dread overtaking her anger. “It’s no secret she’s a personal friend of mine. I visit her frequently. My doing so now would not be seen as irregular.”

  “Every person you come in contact with will doubtless be watched,” he replied. “Are you certain this is the best means of communicating with him?”

  “I am,” she said in spite of sudden fear on behalf of Sabrina and her family. “I will go tomorrow and behave as if my visit is something planned in advance. One of the older girls can come with me. Anyone watching will think it’s an interview.”

  He nodded. “I’ll come, as well.”

  “No,” she objected. “That would certainly look suspicious.”

  “I disagree. After last night, whoever is watching will expect you to be on your guard against further threats.”

  Whoever is watching… Something nagged at the back of Jacqueline’s mind, and she decided to voice the thought aloud. “If Boucher is the one behind these messages and the reason you were sent here, I cannot understand how she discovered this school. Surely not because of me? I’ve not shown my face in public since before I opened it, and I always wear a veil when I go out.”

  “You stayed at Mrs. Hayton’s for a time. What of her servants? What of those at Lady Montgomery’s or in the homes of your other acquaintances? Did you keep your veil on at Lady Dibley’s?”

  She felt the blood leave her cheeks. “I did not wish to seem impolite and thought those places safe enough to remove it. Surely you don’t suspect anyone at Mrs. Hayton’s? She has had the same servants for years.”

  “All of them?” When she failed to answer, he shook his head. “It’s irrelevant anyway. Even if a servant is loyal to his or her employer, that loyalty would not necessarily extend to said employer’s guests or friends. If your Madame Boucher is indeed seeking revenge, it’s likely she circulated a description of you with a promised reward for information regarding your whereabouts. All it would take is one sighting. Tell me, have you received any threats prior to the message written on the board?”

  “Well, there was that business with Feeny, but—”

  “What business?”

  “He threatened to ruin me after he was convicted.”

  “Has he ever seen your face?”

  “Yes. As did everyone who saw me give testimony against him—I was not allowed to wear my veil.” Another thought occurred to her. “So has MacCallum—and a few of his men.” Her spirits sank. “Now that I think on it, a good many strangers have seen me.”

  A muscle leaped in his jaw. “And what of the staff here? Are there any new faces—besides my own, I mean?”

  “Other than Dr. Horton, only one. Sally, a kitchen maid—you’ve met her. She spoke to your students about bargaining for goods. Mrs. Sloane hired her a few days before you came about the teaching position.”

  “That’s around the same time we received the letter telling us about this place. What do you know about her?”

  “It cannot be Sally,” Jacqueline told him, shaking her head. “She came here seeking refuge after being beaten nearly to death by her stepfather. Her mother had died shortly before the incident.”

  “Are you certain she was telling the truth?”

  Irritation made her response sharp. “Her body was covered with bruises—she had marks around her neck from where he’d tried to choke her to death. She survived only because he passed out from drink. I hardly think her a spy for Boucher.”

  “I don’t doubt her condition—but the marks might have been put there by anyone. Money is certainly not the only means of bending someone’s will.”

  “I will not accuse her of duplicity,” she insisted. “Nor will I question the motives of any other member of my staff.”

  “I’m not saying you should interrogate her—or anyone else—but under the circumstances you should at least question anyone whose behavior has deviated from their customary conduct.”

  Though it rankled, she knew he was right. “I cannot fault such logic—but I will not undermine the trust that has been given to me.”

  “I’m not asking you to. There are many ways of gleaning information without being obvious. For instance, does Sally go out into the city at all?”

  Reluctantly, she answered, “Agnes sends her to the market on occasion, yes.”

  “Did the girl request this task or was it assigned?”

  “I don’t know,” she said tightly. The look he gave her made her squirm inside. He means well. “I suppose I could ask Agnes.”

  “Do so in confidence, and make sure you’re not overheard,” he advised. “I’ll be interested to hear the answer. If someone has been getting information from within, we need to know how.”

  The wobbly feeling in her belly solidified into a lump of dread. “And if your suspicion is confirme
d, what should I do?”

  “Nothing. If you send her away, you risk your enemy knowing you’ve become aware of her plan. Instead, we’ll feed the spy misinformation, and then we’ll set a trap.”

  “The Archangel has tried to capture Boucher many times to no avail,” she warned. “She’s devious and has many underlings to do her bidding. What makes you think you can draw her out?”

  “Until now, your Archangel has been working alone. Not anymore.”

  Dread transformed into panic. “You cannot tell Westminster, not without exposing everyone—”

  “Gonson need only know that we were deliberately led astray. I’ll say it was because we were getting too close to the real Covent Garden killer. I’m going to venture a guess and say the Archangel did not commit those murders.”

  “No, he did not.” She decided to reveal what she knew. “But we know who was behind them—Boucher.”

  Twilight-blue eyes pierced her. “Tell me everything and leave out no detail, I don’t care how small.”

  She nodded. “Emma and Rose were brought to me shortly after those bodies were found. All of the dead women were from the brothel their mother had worked for—one of Boucher’s. When their mother died, Boucher tried to force Emma to take her place. Emma fled that night with her sister, but Rose was recaptured. When Emma went back the following morning to try to bargain for her sister’s freedom, Rose and Boucher were gone. No one knew where. Another girl from a neighboring brothel told Emma to go to the Archangel for help.”

  “It’s as I thought,” he said, his eyes lighting. “The night birds have been helping him.”

  Acknowledging the assertion with another nod, she went on. “After weeks of searching, he almost gave up. Then he learned the identity of a man who had purchased a little girl matching Rose’s description. On confronting him, the man confessed he had procured her from the woman who owned the Temple of Aurora. He did not know her name, but Emma and Rose both described her to us. It was Boucher.”

  “The owner of the Aurora is a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  The stream of invective that poured from his mouth following the revelation was impressive. “We’ve been trying to close down that place for years,” he rasped, running hands through his hair and mussing it. “Every time we thought we’d succeeded, a few months later we learned otherwise. And now I learn it’s owned by a woman. You’re certain Boucher is the owner and not just an underling?”

  “Yes. And I was recently informed she has gone into deep hiding. As far as my friend can tell, she has not reopened any of her brothels, including the Aurora, since Rose’s rescue. If she has, it is a most carefully guarded secret.”

  “She’s frightened.”

  “Indeed,” she confirmed. “The Covent Garden killings were her doing—a means of ensuring none of her former girls could betray her to the Archangel. But it was too late.”

  “Emma and Rose.”

  “Yes. When the man who bought Rose was killed and she then disappeared, Boucher must have guessed the Archangel was behind it. Knowing his reputation for going after those who exploit children—”

  “She decided it was in her best interest to cut ties and lie low.” He shook his head. “I still think we’re missing something.” His eyes narrowed. “Until Emma and Rose came under your care, you did not know Boucher was the one running the Temple of Aurora, did you?”

  “No. When I first met her, it was in a…” She forced herself to say it: “normal brothel. According to my friend, she was until recently using intermediaries to conduct all business transactions involving children. Not so with the man who bought Rose. When she was rescued and questioned, Rose described Boucher, but said she’d grown thin and unkempt. She has fallen on hard times. Dealing directly with a client was an act of desperation.”

  He uttered another oath. “I think I might have been wrong. This is not about you. I think it all started with Emma and Rose.”

  “What makes you say so? The messages were clearly meant for me.”

  “You knew nothing of Boucher’s connection to the Aurora until they came, and the trouble here started only after their arrival.”

  “But how could Boucher even know they were here?”

  “What if she did not send out a description of you—what if it was the girls she was searching for, and she learned about you only after they were found?”

  “No one outside this place knows about them except the Archangel, and he conveyed them here himself.”

  “The kitchen maid, Sally,” he murmured. “How long had the girls been here when she arrived?”

  “Sally was here first. They arrived about two days after she’d been hired.”

  He pulled at his chin, and in the silence she heard the soft rasp of his fingertips against the stubble. “Boucher knows the Archangel is after her. She knows he’s been hiding the rescued children somewhere. This school is no secret. Many know of its existence, that it’s a charity run by anonymous donors, and that its students and teachers are all female—well, until recently,” he amended. “It’s an obvious place to look.”

  Jacqueline didn’t bother hiding her dismay. “But that would mean—”

  “Yes. You must ask your cook how often Sally has been leaving the grounds and if there has been any suspicious behavior on her part.”

  Fear pulsed through her. “I shall do so right now.” She turned, but was stopped by a hand on her elbow. The warmth of his touch sank through the silk of her sleeve.

  “I’m sorry this has happened,” he said softly, remorse shining in his eyes. “I know you don’t want to attract attention to this school, but it may be unavoidable.”

  “You are not to blame. If what you say is true, trouble would have come whether or not you were here.” She suddenly felt very small and afraid. “Having said it, I’m glad you are here.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “Despite the fact that I’m not really a mathematics teacher?”

  “Quite the contrary.” The lump in her throat grew. “You may have arrived at the enemy’s bidding and under false pretenses, but your presence is ultimately the work of Providence. As a constable, you are far better suited to protect the children than any mere teacher.”

  “Only the children? What of you?”

  “Me?” As she watched, his blue eyes darkened to midnight. She suddenly became aware that they were standing a little too close. But nothing could’ve made her take a step back. A flush heated her cheeks. “I…I’m quite capable of defending myself.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, drifting a little closer. “But you’re not alone anymore.” Reaching out, he brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her face. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you and the children safe.”

  He cares for me! The knowledge, combined with the featherlight touch of his knuckles against her skin, elicited an almost irresistible yearning to lean in to him and toss caution to the wind. She forced herself to look down, away from temptation. “Thank you,” she managed, taking an unsteady step toward the door. “Mrs. Sloane will be wondering what to do next. And I must speak to Agnes. You had best go to Mrs. Hayton’s—take the carriage. Constable or not, I think it unwise to walk the street alone at this hour, especially with the person who killed that animal still loose.”

  …

  Will bit back a sigh. His frustration was purely with himself. This day had run afoul on so many levels already, and he’d just added to the trouble by letting his burgeoning sentiments get the better of him. “I would prefer to stay.” Her eyes widened, and he could’ve kicked himself for the way it had sounded, coming at the end of such awkward intimacy. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you and the girls here on your own tonight.”

  “I assure you no one will be able to gain entry,” she reasoned, her manner flustered. “The rear gate has been secured again, and all the doors are secure. There is no way in.”

  “Not on the ground, no.”

  “The outward-facing wind
ows are covered in ironwork, and the nearest trees are across the street. We are perfectly safe now.”

  “Where does Sally sleep?”

  She frowned. “Above the dining hall with the other kitchen staff. You really believe her a spy?”

  “I don’t know, and that makes me nervous,” he admitted. “I’ll want to check her window tomorrow to be certain it’s not been tampered with.” Casting about, he spied the padded bench he’d sat upon during his first visit. “I can sleep there until dawn, run to Mrs. Hayton’s to change clothes, and be back here before the morning’s first class begins.”

  Though she looked doubtful, she nodded. “I can see there is no persuading you to do otherwise. Allow me to fetch a pillow and some blankets.”

  “Thank you.”

  It seemed forever before she returned with a sour-faced Mrs. Sloane. Despite recent events, the woman clearly disapproved of him staying the night. The tension in the air was palpable as they made up the narrow couch. The older woman kept darting furtive glances at him, while her mistress appeared determined to pretend he wasn’t there. When at last all was ready, Trouvère bade them both a brisk good night and departed, leaving him alone with Sloane, who all but bolted for her own quarters a moment later.

  He bit back a chuckle as the snick of the bolt sliding home sounded faintly through Sloane’s door. The temptation to shout that a lock was unnecessary to secure her virtue was a strong one, but he refrained. Voices carried, and nerves were already stretched taut enough around here.

  Weariness made his lids heavy as he laid aside his jacket and pulled off his shoes. Thoughts flitted in and out too rapidly to seize upon any one for more than a few seconds. Suspicions, concerns, and an overabundance of emotions too complex to untangle in his current state threatened to overwhelm him.

  I care for her—far more than I should. But their situation wasn’t favorable for a romance. In fact, it was all wrong.

  She was once a courtesan, a prostitute.

  Granted, she wasn’t one now, and in his opinion she hadn’t ever really been one to begin with. But who else would see it thus? No one. Not his family, certainly. Mother would die of mortification.