The Courtesan. Julia Justiss

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      AS SOON AS the final lines were spoken, Belle left Mae with her friends, who’d persuaded her to attend an after-theater party, and proceeded down the stairs, hoping to cross the lobby before the bulk of the audience exited.

      She’d just refused Egremont’s offer to escort her home when a young lady in a fashionable evening gown hurried toward them—and halted abruptly, directly in front of Belle.

      Stopping short to avoid colliding with the girl, Belle was about to edge around her when she felt Egremont stiffen.

      “Helena, what are you doing here all alone?” he said.

      “I wanted to look into her eyes when I confronted her,” the girl replied, sending Belle a glance so full of loathing that Belle’s breath caught in her throat. “And why are you with her?” Helena asked, transferring her furious gaze to the earl. “Papa’s been dead barely a month. I thought you were his friend!”

      Bellingham’s daughter, Belle realized, dread knotting her stomach.

      Egremont took the girl’s arm. “You’re upset—and no wonder, after such a shocking loss! Let me see you home.”

      Twisting free of Egremont’s grip, the girl turned back to Belle. “Is there no man you do not try to bewitch?”

      “Helena, ’tis highly improper for you to be here unescorted,” Egremont said softly, “or to speak with—”

      “My father’s whore?” the girl shrilled.

      Out of the corner of her eye, Belle noted the lobby filling with people—people who slowed, stopped, gazed with openmouthed fascination at the new scene being enacted before them. Nausea growing in her gut, Belle’s mind fled to the mental fortress from which she could watch events unfolding around her, her sense and spirit detached from whatever indignities might be inflicted on her body.

      “Given my new expectations, Lord Egremont,” Miss Bellingham said, “’tis unnecessary to be concerned for my reputation. I doubt I shall receive any respectable offers of marriage, no matter how blameless my conduct.”

      “Excuse me,” Belle murmured, edging away.

      “I’m not done with you!” the girl cried, seizing Belle’s wrist and yanking her close.

      Belle flinched, half expecting a blow. Instead, Miss Bellingham continued hotly, “Was it not enough that you lured my father from his hearth and family, embarrassed my mother before the ton and her friends? That we had barely enough to maintain a household while you were lavished with gowns and jewels? Is your greed so vast that you must bewitch father into bequeathing you the very bread out of our mouths and the roof from over our heads?”

      She’s heard about the will, Belle realized.

      As if from a distance, Belle watched herself calmly wrest her arm free. “Miss Bellingham, I appreciate how grief disorders the spirit, but you are mistaken.”

      “About what?” the girl demanded. “The extent of your avarice? The fact that you—”

      “I advise you to consult your solicitors,” Belle interrupted. “Lord Egremont will see you home.” She stepped around the girl, Watson advancing to take a protective position at her elbow.

      Ignoring the amused and accusing and censorious faces, Belle walked out of the theater and down the steps to her waiting carriage. Not until the door closed behind her, shutting out the murmurs and the avid gazes, did she relax, sagging against the cushions while nausea roiled in her belly and her heart thundered.

      She didn’t blame Miss Bellingham. Indeed, the girl had shown considerable spirit in confronting her father’s harlot in public, knowing news of the scandalous meeting would surely become the ton’s latest on-dit. Perhaps she hoped that publicizing the provisions of Bellingham’s will would make it more difficult for Belle to entice a new protector, ruining Belle’s future as she perceived Belle’s supposed greed had destroyed her own.

      Or perhaps Miss Bellingham was so filled with rage over the injustice of her situation that she no longer cared that addressing a courtesan would soil her own reputation. That Belle could understand even more readily.

      Though she tried to dismiss the disturbing confrontation, the emotions she’d repressed while the incident was taking place refused to be banished. A familiar sense of anguished humiliation made her stomach churn, heated her face, summoned tears that trembled at the corners of her eyes.

      Enough! she told herself, struggling to rein in her disorderly feelings. ’Twas just that Miss Bellingham’s unexpected attack had caught her off guard, leaving her prey to this atypical excess of sensibility.

      She had just about succeeded in squelching the reaction when, with a jerk that nearly unseated her, the carriage squealed to a halt.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      LAUGHTER AND A BABBLE of loud voices wafted toward Belle as she raised the window shade and looked out, trying to determine the cause of the delay.

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