The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Marie stepped back to study her critically. “Never!” she said.

      Dianthe pulled one curl down and watched as it sprang back into place. She rather liked the way she looked, and she certainly felt safer.

      Madame Marie arranged the style in an artful manner and stood back to observe her work. “I did not think you could be more beautiful, chérie, but I was wrong. You look so…à la française.”

      Just the thing she wanted. Her French was very good, and she knew she could fake a believable accent. She’d worn a veil to Marie’s shop but she wouldn’t wear one when leaving. She wouldn’t need it.

      Best of all, this disguise would be perfect for her new plan. With the wig, an accent, a sophisticated attitude and a new name, she would be worlds apart from Dianthe Lovejoy of Little Upton, Wiltshire. Soon. Very soon.

      “Là!” Madame Marie exclaimed. “I do not like that look, chérie. You are ’atching some plot, are you not?”

      Dianthe blinked. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame. I am just pleased that I will not have to go about veiled and shrouded. ’Twill be nice to see where I am walking. Would you have a few cosmetics to further disguise me?”

      Madame Marie rummaged in a small kit. “You do not need it, chérie, but I ’ave a powder that will warm your pale complexion and lip rouge and kohl for the eyes and lashes.”

      A knock at the door drew Madame Marie’s attention away. “That will be François,” she said. “’E said there are matters to discuss with you.”

      Francis Renquist opened the door a crack and called in. “Are you decent, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “But of course she is decent, François.” Madame Marie smiled at her husband. She let him in and went around him, speaking over her shoulder. “She looks just like ma mere, Lizette Deauville. I ’ave an appointment, chérie. I shall see you tomorrow when the ladies come, eh?”

      “Oui,” she called, turning from the mirror to face Mr. Renquist. “Do you have news?” she asked.

      Mr. Renquist looked dumbstruck. His eyes widened and he stared at her with his mouth agape. “I, ah. You…are Miss Lovejoy?”

      She smiled. “Then you do not think I’d be recognized on the street?”

      He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her. “But do not let that make you reckless, Miss Lovejoy.”

      “And once I shed the disguise and go back to being Dianthe Lovejoy?”

      “No one would link the two of you together,” he confirmed.

      Thank heavens. Now she was free to proceed with her plan. But first, she asked, “Did you learn anything, Mr. Renquist?”

      He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. The men I interviewed are well-respected family men. All have alibis for the night of the murder.”

      Dianthe wondered how any man who’d dallied with a courtesan and had been fond enough of one to attend her funeral could be a “family man.” “And the others?” she asked. “Did you learn their names?”

      “Yes, miss. Nigel Edgerton and Lord Geoffrey Morgan among them. I have not interviewed them yet.”

      “As it happens, Mr. Renquist, my cousin and aunt are well acquainted with Lord Morgan. If you will speak with Mr. Edgerton, I shall interview Morgan.” The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Renquist to question Geoffrey Morgan. If he should slip and give her whereabouts away, Mr. Renquist would call him out.

      “I am not certain that is a good idea, Miss Lovejoy. Lord Morgan has a reputation as the worst sort of rake.”

      “But he owes my cousin a favor. He will not harm me in any way. Set your mind at ease on that, sir. But I wonder if you might indulge me in a few questions. You see, there is no one else I can ask.”

      Mr. Renquist frowned. “What sort of questions?”

      “About the demimonde, sir. And their…well, practices.”

      “Here now. You ought not to be concerning yourself with such things.”

      “I fear it is too late for that. Miss Brookes was of the demimonde, and therefore certain elements of it are of grave concern to me. They may have bearing on her murder. Perhaps her killer was a patron, or a jealous competitor.”

      Considering her words, Mr. Renquist went to the door and peeked out. He shut it again and turned the lock. “If Marie catches me talking about such things, I’ll be hard-pressed to find supper or a bed tonight.”

      Dianthe nodded in understanding.

      “Ask, then,” he instructed with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

      “I think it would be helpful to know how a woman of the demimonde goes on.”

      Mr. Renquist looked bewildered. “Goes on?”

      “Conducts herself,” Dianthe clarified, covering her embarrassment. “I assume that, if she has a protector, he would escort her places and see to her business and needs. But what if she does not have a particular protector, as Miss Brookes did not? Did Miss Brookes go to events alone? In groups with other ladies of the demimonde? Or would she always have an escort? The possibilities are bewildering, you see, and they could make all the difference in why Miss Brookes was where she was, and in what happened to her. I would ask you to investigate that for me, Mr. Renquist, but I know Madame Marie would have your…hide pinned to a wall should you spend time with that sort of woman.”

      A hint of fear passed through Mr. Renquist’s eyes. “I quite agree, miss. Well, not that I am knowledgeable about such things, but the rules of polite society do not apply to the demimonde. Miss Brookes could have gone wherever she wanted, excepting in society.”

      “Alone?”

      “If she chose.”

      “What sort of places would she have gone?”

      “Public places, mostly. The theater. Vauxhall Gardens. Her escort the night of her murder was never found. Likely she went alone to meet friends.”

      To meet her, Dianthe thought. But the theater? That was an idea. She could purchase a ticket and observe the goings-on. “Where else would a courtesan go?” she asked.

      “Where she could meet men. Where ladies do not. Such women would not be admitted to Almack’s or balls and soirees.”

      Then what of hells and public houses? Hells. A woman could expect to meet a better sort there than at a public house. Men who had enough money to gamble would be men who could buy an expensive woman’s favors. Nell Brookes had seemed the sort who would prefer men with money, and she’d been pretty enough to attract them. Her friends would have frequented the same places and have known the same men.

      And they were the women whose trust Dianthe must win. Only then would she get the answers to her questions. You would have to be one of us….

      Precisely what she had in mind.

      Dianthe СКАЧАТЬ