The Courtesan's Book Of Secrets. Georgie Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ the solicitor rubbed his chins, the look gone. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t arrive a hair sooner.’

      Fear snaked up his spine, all thoughts of gambling or what the puffy man might know about the register gone. Obtaining it was almost the only thing he’d thought about since landing in Dover. He’d torn through Wealthstone Manor in search of anything left of value to sell to obtain it. The delightful set of silver spoons he’d discovered in the attic, wedged in their wooden box between two trunks and somehow missed by his father, had just been sold this morning.

      Rafe shifted forward in the chair, his hand tight on the arm. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘It seems you weren’t the only one Mrs Ross wrote to about the register. Judging from her papers, she’d been in straitened circumstances for some time and was forced to part with a number of possessions. There are still outstanding debts and I’ll have a hard time settling them with what valuables are left.’ He grabbed a crinkled paper with each hand, flapping them in the air. ‘Though it would be a might easier to sort through it all if she hadn’t called herself Mrs Ross at one time, Mrs Taylor in later years and now Mrs Ross again. I wish she’d made up her mind about who she was.’

      ‘And the book?’ Rafe tensed, eager for him to get on with it.

      ‘A young woman arrived just before you did, a French Comtesse, though she didn’t sound French. I sold it to her.’

      ‘Hell.’ Rafe jumped up and ran to the door. He flung it open and raced down the hall, sending balls of dust whirling out of his way. At the morning room he stopped. Only the wilted white flowers greeted him. ‘Blast.’

      ‘Lord Densmore.’ The solicitor came down the hall behind him as Rafe rushed to the front door and pulled it open. Outside, everything was the same as before, except for the hackney. It rolled down the street, a familiar face watching him through the back window before the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared in the traffic on Gracechurch Street.

      Cornelia, Comtesse de Vane.

      What’s she doing here? Rafe slammed his fist against the doorjamb and a small splinter slid beneath his skin. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in France, rotting away with her crooked old husband at Château de Vane, counting the silver or ordering the servants about, not stealing the register out from under him.

      ‘Lord Densmore, I’m truly sorry for your inconvenience.’ The solicitor puffed from behind him. ‘Had I known the book was so important to you—’

      Rafe held up one hand to silence the man, in no mood to be polite. ‘Thank you, Mr Nettles, but I’m no longer in need of your services.’

      Rafe stormed off down the street, the slam of Mrs Ross’s front door echoing off the buildings.

      He moved into the bustle of Gracechurch Street, his toe sliding through the now-widened hole in his stocking. If it weren’t for the crush of people, he’d pull off the boot and toss the offending garment in the gutter. Instead, all he could do was keep walking, the wool grating with each step like the memory of Cornelia watching him from the back of the hackney.

      He passed a wagon loaded with apples and plucked one from the pile without the seller noticing, turning the smooth fruit over and over in his fingers. What’s she doing here?

      She couldn’t have convinced her husband to abandon his native shore. The Comte wasn’t likely to leave after everything he’d done to regain his ancestral home. It meant the old man had either given up the ghost in a fit of ecstasy over his nubile young bride, or Cornelia had spent her time at the château plotting to run out on him just as she’d so cleverly plotted to run out on Rafe.

      His hand tightened on the apple, the hard skin pressing against the splinter and making it sting. If it hadn’t taken him so long to raise the money to purchase the register page, he might have beaten her to it today.

      Now she had it and the ability to destroy him.

      He took a bite of the apple and cursed, spitting out the mushy piece and flinging the whole rotten thing under the wheels of a passing carriage.

      Damn his luck. Nothing was working out as he’d planned.

      * * *

      Cornelia leaned back against the squabs and let out a long breath, relief flooding through her as if she’d faced a man at dawn and prevailed.

      Her fingers tightened on the register, the leather cracking a little under the pressure. If she’d dallied a few minutes longer this morning or walked instead of hiring the hack, she might have lost the register to Rafe. Then all her plans to protect Andrew, her half-brother, would have come to nothing.

      She eased her grip on the book and closed her eyes, struggling to see Andrew’s dark hair tousled over his small head, to remember the warmth of his little hand in hers as they’d explored the river behind Hatton Place, their father’s slurred and roaring voice blocked out by the rush of water over the rocks. However, one image remained stubbornly fixed in her mind.

      Rafe.

      His deep tones had rolled into the town house ahead of him, drawing her back two years ago to their first nights together in the tiny room in Covent Garden. The image of him standing over her as she’d lain in the narrow bed, his shirt open at the neck, his dark breeches tight against his hips, made her heart race as fast as it had when he’d smiled at her from across Mrs Ross’s entrance hall.

      Except today it wasn’t desire quickening her pulse, but fear. If he’d recognised her through the veil or noticed the register clutched against her like a shield, who knew how he’d have reacted. Thankfully, more carnal thoughts had distracted him from seeing what was plainly in front of him.

      She opened her eyes and shifted against the worn leather, irritated at the way her traitorous body warmed with the memory of Rafe’s dark eyes caressing her like a fine shift. She swept her fingers across her neck, the light gauze covering her breasts suddenly as heavy as wool. After the Comte’s waxy hands, even Rafe’s gentle touch would be a welcome relief.

      Emptiness slipped in beneath the desire. She rubbed her cheek, still able to feel the scratch of Rafe’s shirt against it as he’d held her in their Paris apartment two months ago. She’d been so terrified that night, clinging to him as she’d repeated the rumours of British men being arrested once war was declared. She’d feared for him and their future. As a woman, she would have been free to go, but he faced the threat of being caught and left to linger in some disease-ridden prison.

      If only he’d received such a deserving fate.

      She clenched her hands, the black gloves pulling taught over her knuckles. Like a fool, she’d trusted him, sending him off to the card room with the last of their money, believing his promise to return with enough to buy their passage home. Instead he’d fled like a coward, saving himself and leaving her to her fate.

      She banged her fists against the worn-out squabs. After all he’d done for her before, how could he have been so cruel?

      The hackney made a sharp turn and she gripped the strap above the door. In the rattle of the wheels, she could almost hear Fanny, her stepmother, laughing at her change in fortune. Thankfully, her father would never learn of it. When the letter from Fanny had finally reached her, she hadn’t cried. She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the man who’d felt nothing for her his entire life.

      Out of the window, СКАЧАТЬ