A Most Unconventional Courtship. Louise Allen

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      Chance lay back against the pillows, tried to get comfortable and contemplated taking a nap. That felt like a good idea—unless he snored, which would most certainly draw attention to his presence. Presumably Alessa was expecting ladies with intimate items of apparel for laundering, or perhaps she did dressmaking alterations. A strange man would most definitely not be welcome in the midst of that feminine activity.

      No one had ever complained about him snoring; perhaps he could risk dropping off. The knock at the door cut across that train of thought and he listened to Alessa’s hurrying feet as she went to open it.

      ‘Kalíméra, Alessa.’

      ‘Kalíméra, Spiro. Ti kánis?’

      Chance sat up abruptly. A man? He made himself lie back, wondering at his own reaction; presumably there were men without wives or servants who needed laundry and mending services. Alessa was speaking in rapid, colloquial Greek that he could not follow beyond the initial greeting, but something about the tone, intimate and concerned, disturbed him. And they were going towards the bedroom. The door opened, shut, and the sound of their voices became a murmur.

      Chance sat up again, now unashamedly listening. The conversation had stopped and all he could hear from the bedroom was a sort of rhythmic thumping. Visions of bed heads knocking against walls, and what might cause that, came to mind only too vividly. She is…no! His instinctive revulsion startled him. What was the matter with him? She had every right to earn her living as she pleased. Who was he to judge? And yet he was. Which made him a hypocrite.

      Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this Spiro had come to mend a broken bed frame. And perhaps I’m the Duke of York, Chance thought grimly, waiting for the thumping to stop, which it did after a few minutes. The murmur of voices reached him again and after an interval the bedroom door opened.

      By twisting painfully Chance could catch a glimpse of the room through the join in the screen. Spiro was a stocky middle-aged man, just now rather flushed in the face. No tool bag. Whatever he had been doing in there, he had not been mending the furniture.

      Alessa was a trifle pink in the face as well. He watched grimly through his spy hole as she smoothed back her hair. There was another knock at the door. This time it was a younger man, favouring his left leg with a slight limp. Again the greeting, the rapid flow of conversation, the firm click of the bedroom door latch.

      This time there was silence from the room. Chance realised he was straining to hear and shook his head sharply in self-condemnation. He was furious with himself for listening, furious with Alessa for putting him in this position—furious that she had shattered his illusion of the hard-working, virtuous young widow.

      A tap on the door was followed by it opening. Chance missed being able to see who had entered beyond a glimpse of a man’s coat, but the creak of a chair seat told him that the new visitor was waiting.

      How many more, for heaven’s sake? The sound of a man’s voice raised in a gasping cry penetrated from the bedroom. Chance lay down, put a pillow over his head and waited grimly for it all to be over.

      He was roused from his uncomfortable doze by the sound of the screen being pulled back. Alessa was regarding him, hands on hips, an expression of amusement on her face. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

      ‘Attempting not to eavesdrop.’ Chance hauled himself up into a sitting position.

      ‘Eavesdrop?’ Now she looked thoroughly confused. Just how brazen was this woman?

      ‘Yes, on your business transactions.’

      They stared at each other for a long moment, then Alessa asked slowly, ‘Just what, exactly, do you think I was doing in there?’

      Chance said nothing, but she could read the message in those expressive brown eyes as though he had written her a placard. He thought she was prostituting herself and he was struggling to find a way to avoid answering her direct challenge.

      Alessa felt sick. Then angry, both with herself and with him. She should have realised how it would look and said something first. But why should I have to explain myself in my own home? I did not invite him here.

      ‘You think I was having sex with them? For money?’