The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

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      “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

      “I fear for you, Dianthe. The streets of London are fraught with danger,” Lady Sarah warned. “All sorts of unscrupulous people are waiting to take advantage of an unwary woman.”

      Dianthe stood and smoothed the skirts of her gown. “I shall be wary, Lady Sarah, and quite safe withering away in hiding. If you must be concerned, be concerned over my utter boredom,” she said with a wisp of inspiration.

       Chapter Two

       “I am sorry, Miss Smith, but I cannot let you a room,” the clerk at the desk of Emery’s Hostel for Women told Dianthe. “It is not our policy to rent to unchaperoned young ladies.”

      She glanced around the spotless lobby, which was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, and fumbled with her reticule, wondering how one went about bribing a clerk. “I assure you, sir, that my aunt will be arriving later this evening. I…I will pay extra if that will ease your mind.”

      The clerk’s bushy eyebrows lifted at that. “Later? You traveled to town alone?”

      “She…ah, sent me ahead.”

      “That is most unseemly, Miss Smith. Perhaps you and your…aunt would be more comfortable at Desmond’s?”

      He didn’t believe her! He thought she was a woman of questionable virtue. She’d never been refused admittance anywhere, and this was an insult she could scarcely suffer in silence. She’d give the man a set-down if necessity didn’t require discretion. Her cheeks burning, she lifted her valise and walked into the street.

      In truth, she’d already tried Desmond’s Hostel and had been refused there, too, and another three hostels besides. She would go back to Aunt Grace’s home on Bloomsbury Square, but returning there would be tantamount to walking into the Bow Street office and announcing her name.

      Fighting frustrated tears, she found a vacant bench in the square across from the hostel and sat dejectedly, despairing of finding a safe place to spend the night. Her empty stomach growled. She’d never had to provide for herself or depend on her wits for survival before, and she fought the creeping fear that she was doomed to failure.

      After a brief rest, she stood and retrieved her valise. Her last chance for shelter tonight was just around the corner. She prayed the little flat above Madame Marie’s shop was still vacant. If she could stay there for a few days, surely this mess would be straightened out.

      She arrived at La Meilleure Robe just as Madame Marie was locking up for the night. The modiste opened the door and admitted her before locking it and pulling the shade over the window. Dianthe glanced around the dimly lit foyer and dropped her valise on a chair to remove her gloves.

      Madame Marie peeked out at the street from behind the shade before turning to her. “Chérie! Where ’ave you been? My ’usband ’as been looking for you all day.”

      “Mr. Renquist is looking for me? Whatever for?”

      “The ladies ’ave told ’im what is afoot. But ’e already knew. Orders ’ave come down from Bow Street that all runners are to appre’end you on sight and bring you to the Bow Street station for questioning.”

      “Drat,” she muttered under her breath. “Now I shall truly have to stay out of sight. Is the room upstairs still vacant, Madame?”

      “No, chérie. It was let months ago.”

      “Then I must leave at once.” Dianthe fought tears of frustration as she began pulling her gloves back on.

      “But wait! François will not turn you in. You shall stay with us, eh?”

      She could no more allow Mr. Renquist to risk his job, family and reputation than she could have her other friends. “Thank you, Madame, but I cannot. I have just thought of a nice solution,” she lied. She was dismayed by how easy that was becoming.

      “Will you not stay and speak with François?”

      “Tell him I will come day after tomorrow. I am meeting the ladies here in the afternoon. Once I am settled I shall be able to think about how to proceed.”

      Geoff crossed Leicester Square at an angle, heading for Green Street. With dusk settling over the city, traffic was thinning. He would be home in a few minutes. Or, at least, the place he called home. He preferred the moderate home on Salisbury Street just off The Strand to his new mansion on Curzon Street.

      Yes, on Salisbury Street, his footsteps did not echo on marble floors, reminding him how alone he was. Still, even there he was haunted by the memory of Constance Bennington. Constance, the first woman he’d ever loved. Her death weighed on his conscience every day. Every night. He knew he could never put her memory to rest until he found the man responsible for her death.

      Four years ago, when he’d first begun hunting the white slaver, el-Daibul, to put an end to his kidnapping of Englishwomen, he hadn’t realized the price he’d pay—the price she’d pay—for his efforts. Before they’d put an end to el-Daibul’s scheme, more women had died. Women who could have been saved if only…what? He’d been more diligent? Uncovered el-Daibul’s henchmen sooner? But he hadn’t. And now the memory of what might have been was a constant reproach. And the memory of the others who’d died… Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about the others.

      Now he could add Nell Brookes to his growing list of regrets. He should have been more insistent with her when he realized she was sticking her nose into the business of the missing women. Locked her up until the danger was past. If he’d known for certain that she was delving into matters that didn’t concern her…

      He shook off his brooding mood. No profit in that. Only pain and remorse. He picked up his pace across the square and stopped to buy an apple from a cart. He used the moment to look around. In his experience, it was always good to take stock of one’s surroundings frequently. Less chance of being surprised that way.

      Men were bustling home from their work, women hurrying back from the greengrocer with provisions, children skipping as they hurried to keep up with their governesses. And there, on a bench with a valise at her feet, trying her best to look inconspicuous, sat someone who looked very much like Miss Dianthe Lovejoy. Enjoying her last hours of freedom, no doubt.

      He took a bite of the crisp red apple and watched her for a moment. Yes, it was Miss Lovejoy. There could not be two in London like her. God fashioned only one of those a generation—perhaps a millennium. Even Nell had been a pale copy.

      He strolled toward her, wondering if he should speak. When he was near enough, he noted the pinched look between her eyes and the slightly reddened rims of her eyes. Had she been crying?

      “Trouble, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked. Her chin snapped upward, indicating that he’d startled her. For once, it seemed, he had the advantage in their meeting.

      She crumpled her handkerchief and pushed it into the sleeve of her bishop’s-blue spencer. Shrugging, she assumed a haughty mien. “I do not see how that is your concern, Lord Morgan.”

      He grinned, finding her continued dislike of him more amusing than aggravating. He almost liked the chit, for no other reason than her dead reckoning of his character. He lifted his foot and planted one of his boots on the bench beside her yellow skirt. СКАЧАТЬ