Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  “The first watch is mine,” he reminded her. “I’ll stand vigil with you.” When she attempted to protest, he overrode her. “I know just how much sleep you had last night—you’re tired.”

  “As are you,” she rebutted. “You were awake just as long.”

  “Then we’ll keep each other awake.”

  He hadn’t meant it as a double entendre, but Jacqueline nevertheless had to quash the pang of lust that stabbed down through her. Alone with him in the dark, the temptation would be harder to resist, but resist it she would. “Very well, if you insist. But if you fall asleep, I will not awaken you until we are relieved.”

  A smile flashed across his face, softening the worry lines bracketing his mouth. “Fair enough, as long as you agree to the same terms.”

  The very idea of falling asleep in the same room as him almost made her laugh in spite of her grief. “It’s decided, then. Go tell Mrs. Sloane, and then meet me upstairs in the salon.”

  Jacqueline watched him walk away, her gaze lingering on his long, lean form. Stiffening her spine, she tore her eyes away and climbed the stairs.

  The salon’s window, like the children’s common rooms, faced the street in front of the school. It was an ideal location, almost directly across from the lamppost. It was also almost directly beneath Sally’s room on the floor above.

  Jacqueline doubted anyone was there now after having been spotted by Mr. Bartleby, but she nevertheless entered the salon with caution, ensuring first with a quick glance that the curtains were drawn and all was dark.

  Enough light spilled through the doorway from the lamp in the hall to guide her past the chairs, couches, and small tables placed throughout the room. It was a pretty enough place to receive visitors when necessary, but its main function was as a training room.

  Here, girls in their final year of study practiced serving tea and refreshments and learned the art of being unobtrusive—servants were expected to be ever-present but never noticed unless called upon. Every flat surface was cluttered with breakables, though there was nothing of any real value. Thus, if a student wasn’t careful and broke something, it was no great loss—but it was an unforgettable lesson. Only a careless maid bumped into tables and shattered her employer’s pretties.

  All the girls looked forward to being brought here. It was the most richly decorated room in the school, an example—albeit a mere shadow—of what they could expect to see on a daily basis once employed. It was also a mark of their teachers’ confidence in them to be allowed in. Only those accomplished in the classroom were let in to practice the finer points of service that would earn them a prized position in a wealthy household.

  If things didn’t turn out well, this lovely room would never see another young lady practice pouring tea again. It would be converted into a sick ward for a hospital or communal workroom for an orphanage.

  “See anything?” whispered Will from the doorway.

  She answered without turning. “I’ve not yet looked.” Once he joined her, she ventured a peek. “I see nothing.”

  “Yet,” he replied, finding a chair and bringing it over for her.

  Accepting it with gratitude, she watched his silhouette as he fetched another for himself. “You think he will show again?”

  “I think his mistress will be wanting to know your reaction to her message,” he breathed.

  Cold fury settled in her heart. “I would love to show her in person.”

  A chuckle sounded in the dark beside her. “Something tells me you’d shoot the woman as soon as look at her.”

  “Without hesitation. All this time, I thought her gone from England. To learn otherwise is a shock. To discover she knows my whereabouts…”

  “She’ll never touch you,” he said, a grim promise in his voice.

  Her already-weakened defenses crumbled a little more. Fighting tears, she tried to concentrate on watching the street. A flash of light just outside the glow cast by the lamppost caught her attention. Shaking her head, she looked again, wondering if it had been a trick of her tired eyes. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. Moments later, she saw another flash followed by a long pause and then three more in rapid succession.

  “Did you see that?” whispered Will.

  “Yes!” she hissed back over the sudden whooshing of blood in her ears. “Sally must be signaling him upstairs.”

  “What she says is unimportant—she cannot tell him anything we don’t already know. What I’d really like to know is what he’s telling her,” he grumbled as the flashes continued. “You’re certain she cannot get out unseen or let anyone in?”

  “Unless she has managed to get hold of a key without us knowing it—but I cannot imagine how. Agnes keeps her set tied to a girdle beneath her skirt.”

  “Except at night.”

  “I already told you, those of us with keys sleep behind locked doors.”

  “I know you and Mrs. Sloane never nap during the day, but what about your cook?”

  “Agnes could sleep through the second coming once abed, but she prefers not to sit.” She lowered her voice. “It’s the piles, you see.”

  In the dim light she saw a smile twitch the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “As I said—there is no way to access the keys without our knowledge unless one can walk through walls.”

  “Or pick a lock.”

  …

  Her eyes widened. “But you found nothing to—”

  “It’s unlikely she’d leave something that incriminating where there’s any chance it might be found,” he told her. “If she has a set of picks, she’ll keep them on her person, probably tucked into her bodice.”

  “Would you have me search her?”

  “No. Again, it’s best that she not know we’re aware of her duplicity.” He thought for a moment. “I know a locksmith—a good one. I’ll write him, tell him what we need, and he can have it done before nightfall without anyone outside the wiser. No one but those with keys need even know it’s been done.”

  “Agnes can keep Sally busy in the kitchen. As for replacing the keys, I’m uncertain how to do so without everyone knowing.”

  “Your key-holders must be brought into confidence. We need their help, especially Agnes’s. Do you think she can be told about Sally without it affecting her behavior toward her?”

  “She will be furious,” whispered Jacqueline, “but once we convey the importance of secrecy, I believe so.”

  “Good. Because I would also like to ask her to help mislead our spy.” He explained in the barest whisper what he planned. “What do you think?”

  “I think it quite clever. She won’t suspect a ruse?”

  “Not if your Agnes plays her part.” The faint lemony fragrance that always seemed to cling to her distracted him. Even more befuddling was her proximity. She’d come close to hear him, and now they were mere inches apart. He could feel the heat of her across the scant space. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of collusion, or perhaps their embrace had altered something, but her nervousness seemed to have vanished.

  His, however, mounted with each passing moment. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her again, but the time wasn’t right. She should be wooed first.

  Even so, he couldn’t make himself move away. If there was to be space between them, she would have to be the one to make it. Forcing his tongue to form speech, he broke the deepening silence. “Can you arrange a meeting in the morning?”

  “Yes,” she said, the husk in her voice sending a bolt of desire lancing through him. “I shall ask Mrs. Sloane if we can meet in her suite. No one will be able to eavesdrop on us there.”

  “Good, good.” Again, silence closed around them like a living presence, seeding the air with tension.

  The clock on the mantel softly chimed half past ten. At long last, she seemed to realize how close they were. She moved back—but not too far, he noted. “I have but half an hour left, and I’m quite awake. You really ought to go and get some sleep.
”

  He cleared his throat to ease the knot in it. It’s for the best. “Very well. I’ll send for the locksmith first thing in the morning. Mr. Bartleby can drop off my message at the constabulary. Deering will know how to reach him quickly.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, I had Mrs. Sloane put a writing desk and supplies in your room earlier today.”

  “Thank you.” He quashed a twinge of regret. Now he’d have no excuse to come and borrow hers. “Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night.” It had been spoken so softly as to be barely audible.

  He stood, but his feet refused to move. For some reason, he felt certain if they parted now the gulf between them would widen into a chasm he’d never be able to cross. The thought was unbearable. An electric pulse ran throughout his body as what he’d been denying now for weeks crystallized into sudden clarity. I love her. “Headmistress?”

  “Yes?”

  To hell with consequences that may never be. “If, after all of this has been resolved, I were to…” He struggled for the right words. “Would you consider—would it be possible for me to call on you?”

  “You are a friend to this school and all within it,” she answered at once. “You will always be welcome here.”

  “No, I don’t—I don’t mean I want to visit the school—” That hadn’t come out right either! “What I mean is, I’d like leave to call on you. Personally.” Panic filled him at her soft gasp of surprise. “Tell me I have not deluded myself into thinking you feel something more than friendship for me?”

  It took a moment before she seemed to find her voice again. “I—I hardly know what to say. We barely know each other. Until very recently, I knew you as Mr. Woodson, a teacher of mathematics. Now, you are Mr. Danbury, a Westminster constable sent here to investigate me and my school. How am I to respond?”

  “My name is Will,” he murmured, the ache in his chest almost unbearable. “And you may ask me anything you like, though you already know more of me than most.” Swallowing, he pushed past the fear of what might happen if her past was exposed. “As for me knowing you, I know enough to feel confident in asking you to consider making me the happiest of men.”

  “You don’t.” She stood and turned away.

  Dread settled over him like a black pall, followed by desperation. “Why? Is it the scars?” He had to make her understand. “I don’t care about them. I’ve plenty of my own. Really nasty ones. But they’re only marks on the vessel that holds the soul, not the soul itself.”

  Her voice was choked with tears when she spoke. “For you, perhaps. But the scars I bear are both visible and unseen. I’m not like other women. I—”

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he gently turned her around to face him. “I don’t care about your past. I care for the woman before me. She’s noble and strong, kind and generous. She’s courageous and good. Your scars are nothing to me. But you, you are everything to me. Don’t you understand? My intentions are honorable, Jacqueline.”

  “You are honorable, monsieur.” In the dim light, the glitter of tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared up at him, her expression one of both pity and regret. “But you don’t understand. My scars cannot simply be overlooked. I can never—”

  “I need to know how you feel, and you need to know my sentiments are anything but shallow.”

  “We cannot discuss this here, not now,” she said, backing up a step. “This conversation requires privacy.”

  “Then we’ll meet somewhere else. I don’t care where.”

  She shook her head. “My room is on the same hallway as the girls. As for yours, Mrs. Sloane and Mr. Bartleby—”

  “We need to talk about this!”

  “Yes, we do,” she answered quietly, her voice sounding strangely hollow. “But it will have to wait.”

  “It cannot,” he said, his heart pounding with fear. I’m losing her! His only hope lay in convincing her of his sincerity. “I want to marry you.”

  Her face contorted for a moment, as if his words had inflicted a terrible pain. “You don’t know what you are aski—”

  Gathering his courage, he bent and kissed her, pouring all his hope into that gentle pressing of lips. Joy and triumph surged through him when she didn’t immediately pull back, and he raised his palms to cup her face, deepening their contact. Her breath caught, and she opened to him, returning his kiss in full measure.

  He felt her begin to tremble, and withdrew. “You cannot tell me you feel nothing for me,” he breathed against her lips.

  “My feelings are irrelevant,” she said in a clogged voice, her hands coming up to rest over his. “Please understand—I can never marry. Not you, not anyone.”

  Grief and disappointment threatened to crush him. “I cannot force you to accept my suit. All I can do is hope you will allow me the chance to prove—”

  “This is not about proof,” she interrupted. “I believe your intentions are honest.”

  “Then what is to prevent our marriage? Do you not return my sentiment?”

  She stood there in silence for a long moment. “Come to my room at a quarter past eleven—don’t allow yourself to be seen—and I will make everything clear.”

  Bewildered, he watched as she turned, strode to the door, and disappeared. Because of him, she’d fled before her shift’s end. He’d finish it for her.

  The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness; each second seemed a lifetime. As soon as his relief arrived, Will didn’t hesitate. Heart racing, he crept down the hall and slipped into one of the empty common rooms to wait.

  He’d never been much for casual flirtation. Miss Witherspoon was purely his mother’s doing. He’d planned a long engagement not because Sir Gonson didn’t approve of distractions, as he’d told his mother, but because he hadn’t been keen to marry. That had all changed.

  The thought occurred to him that Jacqueline might not wish to leave this place. It was her whole world. Perhaps once she had a home and a child of her own, she’d be willing to leave the school’s management in someone else’s hands. He would never demand that she cease all involvement, of course, but that was a discussion for another time.

  Time. On cats’ feet he tiptoed to Jacqueline’s door. Wary of making too much noise, he scratched at it. Almost at once, it opened.

  Stepping inside the brightly lit room, he waited until she’d closed the door before speaking quietly. “I don’t want you to think me impulsive. I’ve—”

  “You need not explain yourself. Tonight is about me explaining to you why I cannot accept your offer.”

  Her back was turned to him, and for a moment he just stared. She was no longer wearing a gown, but had donned a wrapper. Her slim ankles stuck out below its hem. Anger seared him as he noticed they bore the same sort of marks as her wrists. He wrenched his eyes back up and forced his mouth to make speech. “You tell me you cannot accept me, yet you greet me in a state of undress?”

  “I greet you thusly to prove my words. When I told you of my past, I spoke no lie, but I withheld the worst of it from you.” Her voice broke. “I could not bear to reveal the full truth. Now…I must. It’s the only way to convince you to leave off your pursuit and redirect your misplaced affections.”

  “Misplaced?” Scowling, he took a step toward her just as she turned.

  “Stop!” she commanded. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears. “You said my scars mean nothing to you, but you have not seen them to judge. That is why I brought you here, and why I lit every candle and lamp in this room. I would have you fully comprehend the truth.”

  She turned away again, her back stiff as a poker, and he heard her inhale deeply. Then he watched, astounded, as she let the wrapper slip from her shoulders and slide down her back to pool at her feet.

  Neither the sight that greeted his eager eyes nor his involuntary reaction to it were expected. The breath tore from his throat in a rush, and the desire that had begun to stir in his loins vanished.

  This was no seduction—
it was a testament…to pain. Pain such as he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  Pity and rage consumed him as his gaze slowly traveled over her. A latticework of long, thin scars crisscrossed her back—the marks of a whip. Clusters of circular, rose-colored burn marks, each about the size of a pence, marred her flanks. Marching down the backs of her arms from shoulder to elbow were row upon row of evenly spaced white lines showing where her skin had been carved with soulless premeditation. Other jagged, haphazardly placed scars were the clear result of uncontrolled animal brutality.

  Jacqueline slowly pivoted to face him, her head high in spite of her trembling chin and brimming eyes, and he saw that, like her back, nearly every inch of her front had also been marked by violence. Her beautiful, shapely figure was a map of silvery-pink scar tissue.

  Only her breasts and those areas of her chest, shoulders, and upper back that would be visible in a ball gown had been left untouched. Whoever had done this to her had been precise, careful to preserve her outward beauty.

  Even as he wondered who would possibly commit such violence against another human being, his gaze fell on a large letter F branded into the flesh of her upper right thigh.

  Bile rose in his throat, and he had to close his eyes and force it back down. When he opened them again, his sight was blessedly veiled by tears. “My God,” he finally choked out. “Who did this to you?”

  “He is long dead, and his name is unimportant,” came her hollow reply. “What matters is that now you understand why I can never marry.”

  Blinking back his tears, he focused on her face. “I would never hurt you. Surely you must know it.”

  “You would not mean to cause me pain, but I would always know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I repulse you. Even if we made love in total darkness, I would know.”

  “Repulse me?” Going over to her, he gently touched her face with hands that shook as with a palsy. “I’m not repulsed by what you’ve shown me. I’m enraged by it. That anyone could do this to you is…” He swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat and drew a shuddering breath. “He was not human. But you are still you, and my feelings for you remain unaltered.”