His Rags-To-Riches Contessa. Marguerite Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ this remark. ‘Would you indeed?’ Hands on hips, Becky Wickes surveyed The Procurer through narrowed eyes. ‘What in the devil’s name is a woman like you doing in a place like this? Who are you?’

      ‘They call me The Procurer. Perhaps you have heard of me?’

      Becky felt her jaw drop. ‘All of London has heard tell of you.’ She studied the intruder in her expensive wool cloak more carefully. ‘You aren’t how I pictured you. I thought you’d be much older. I certainly didn’t think you’d be a beauty.’

      ‘Then both our expectations have been confounded, Miss Wickes. Despite your own very striking beauty, you bear little resemblance to the woman I used to admire, performing in the Covent Garden piazza.’

      ‘That’s because I ain’t working the piazza no more,’ Becky said, deliberately lapsing into the harsh accent of her cockney roots. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she continued in her more cultured voice, ‘is what my appearance has to do with your appearance here?’

      The Procurer, however, did not seem inclined to explain herself. Instead she nodded approvingly. ‘I knew, from watching you perform, that you were an accomplished actress. It is reassuring to know that you have also an excellent ear.’

      ‘You saw me on the stage? I’ve not trod the boards for nearly five years.’

      ‘I was referring to your performances in Covent Garden piazza. I confess, your strong local accent was something which did concern me. I am vastly relieved to discover it is not a problem.’

      ‘That is indeed a relief,’ Becky responded in a mocking and flawless imitation of The Procurer’s own accent with its faint Scottish lilt.

      ‘I do not intend any slight or offence,’ The Procurer said. ‘Firstly, for reasons which will become clear, it is important that your voice does not betray your humble origins. And secondly, I am relieved because your facility with language indicates that you will find a foreign tongue as easy to master as the accent of those who call themselves our betters here in London.’

      Becky snorted. ‘Judging from your own accent, madam, I’d say that you are in the other camp.’

      ‘I would have thought that you would know better than to judge by appearances, Miss Wickes, for they can be very deceptive. The performer I observed executing those sleight-of-hand tricks was a very confident, almost arrogant individual. Very different from the female standing before me now. Your alter ego had a certain air about her, one may say.’

      ‘One might.’ Becky eyed her astonishing visitor with respect. Any doubts she’d had about the woman’s claim to be the mysterious Procurer vanished. ‘Most people only see what you want them to see.’

      ‘That is my experience, certainly.’

      ‘So there’s another woman behind The Procurer, then? I wonder...’

      ‘I suggest most strongly that you dampen your curiosity.’ The frigid tone made Becky take an instinctive step back. ‘The first of my terms,’ The Procurer continued, ‘is that you will neither speculate nor enquire about me. And before you answer, let me assure you, Miss Wickes, that I will know if you do.’

      Formidable, that was what the woman was. Well, so too was Becky, but she also knew there was a time for facing up to people, and a time for backing down. If she wanted to hear what The Procurer had to offer, then she’d better comply with The Procurer’s terms. ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her hands in the air. ‘No questions. You have my word. And it can be relied on, I promise.’

      She was rewarded with an approving smile. ‘I believe you. Now, to business. Do you have tea?’

      ‘I do, though I reckon you’ll think I’m serving you dishwater. If you will sit down I’ll see to it.’

      The Procurer took a seat at the table, pinching off her gloves and unfastening her cloak, making no effort to disguise her surveillance of Becky’s spartan room. That clear, frankly intimidating gaze took in every detail: the rickety bed with its cast-iron headboard and thin cover wedged into the corner; the tin kettle on the hearth and the battered teapot beside it; the mismatched china cups and saucers which Becky set out on the scarred table with the wobbly leg. ‘I had heard that until your major faux pas you were rather successful in your... Let’s call them endeavours,’ she said, as Becky sat down opposite her, ‘but I see none of the trappings of that success here.’

      ‘Major faux pas!’ Becky repeated scornfully. ‘That’s one way of putting it, and a lot more generous than some.’

      ‘I’ve seen the reports in the press. Written with a view to selling copy rather than telling the truth, of course. I prefer to rely on my own sources, Miss Wickes, and I believe I know enough of your circumstances to think that you have been, if you will forgive the pun, dealt a very poor hand.’

      ‘But one I dealt myself,’ Becky said bitterly.

      ‘Really?’ The Procurer raised one perfectly arched brow. ‘I was informed that the plan was hatched by a certain Jack Fisher.’

      Becky gave a scornful snort of laughter. ‘Your sources, as you call them, are impressively well informed. It was his idea all right.’ Her face fell, and her mouth thinned. ‘But it was my decision to go along with it, all the same. Even though I knew—but there, it’s done now, and at least I’ve had my eyes opened where Jack Fisher is concerned. I should never have trusted him.’

      ‘Console yourself with the fact that it is a mistake countless women have made with other such charmers.’

      Was that the voice of experience she was hearing? Becky opened her mouth to ask, remembering her promise not to do so just in time. ‘Well, I won’t be making that mistake again,’ she said instead. ‘Once bitten twice shy, as they say.’

      ‘I prefer my own mantra. Onwards and upwards.’ The Procurer took a dainty sip of her tea, her face registering mild distaste.

      ‘I did warn you,’ Becky said, surprised to discover that she could be embarrassed over a stupid thing like tea. ‘Dishwater, like I said, not whatever exotic blend you’re used to.’

      She expected a polite denial. She was surprised when The Procurer smiled ruefully. ‘My apologies. I am fortunate enough to have a friend in the tea trade who indulges my passion for the beverage.’ She set the cup to one side. ‘Tell me, have you always resided here in St Giles?’

      Becky shrugged. ‘Here and hereabouts. It’s the safest place to be, for those of us born and raised here, and the most dangerous for unwelcome visitors who were not. How did you find me? Was it Jack who tipped you off?’

      ‘I have not had the misfortune to meet your paramour. In fact I’m reliably informed that he is en route to the New World.’

      ‘I would rather you’d been reliably informed that he was on his way to the underworld,’ Becky said sharply. Flushing, she covered her mouth. ‘I don’t really mean that.’ The Procurer raised an enquiring brow. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lying, cheating—’ She broke off, digging her nails into her hands. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on him. I fell hook, line and sinker for his handsome face and his charming ways and his lies. He played me like a fish, and I was gullible enough to believe every sweet nothing he whispered in my ear.’

      Becky forced herself to unfurl her СКАЧАТЬ