The Secrets of a Courtesan (4 page)

knot in her stomach and almost gasped aloud.

“What an interesting variety of items you must take in here,” Rowarth said, a rough undertone to

his voice. He shifted, clearing his throat. “These, I would guess, are the property of Mr. Tom

Fortune. I hear he has an extensive library of such books.”

“I never divulge details about my clients,” Eve snapped. She pulled herself back from the brink

of sensual awareness. If Rowarth could exercise such control against the ghosts of the past then

so could she.

Rowarth’s gaze had moved on to a rather fine ruby bracelet that was nestling in a cut glass bowl.

“That is pretty.”

“It’s made of paste,” Eve said quickly and untruthfully. The bracelet was not in fact a fake, but

Eve was desperately hoping that the Dowager Duchess of Cole, who had brought it in, would

find the funds to buy it back. She had seen the look of despair on Laura Cole’s face when she

had pawned her jewelry and had guessed that it was of great sentimental value. She had given the

Dowager Duchess a very generous sum for she knew that Laura Cole and her little daughter were

poverty-stricken.

Rowarth permitted the rubies to slide through his fingers before looking up at her. “You seem

reluctant to sell.”

“I was not aware that you were buying,” Eve said. “I thought you were here to threaten me

instead.”

“Touché.” He smiled at her suddenly. It was devastating. “You fight damned hard, Eve.”

“I always did.”

“I know.”

For one short, achingly fragile moment their eyes met and held and Eve’s heart tumbled to see

the tenderness in his, and then it was gone, swept aside by a coldness so bitter that she felt

shrivelled and frozen. Rowarth broke the contact, stretching in his chair, muscles rippling

beneath the blue superfine of his coat. “Hawkesbury’s intelligence is that you are extremely

liberal in the sums you offer to clients, sometimes giving far more than an item is worth,” he

said. His voice had chilled, too. “Apparently if you know a client is attached to a particular item

you will keep it safe for them to reclaim when they can afford it, rather than sell it. If you know

some of your clients are pawning their last stick of furniture in order to buy gin to drink

themselves into a stupor, you will try to persuade them off the bottle.”

“And your point?” Eve asked tartly. “I thought that you were the prosecution not the defense.”

“My point,” Rowarth said with an edge to his voice, “is that such generosity would make you

vulnerable to blackmail. You do not have the skill to make your business profitable by legitimate

means and so it seems you have resorted to illegitimate ones in order to keep afloat. Perhaps

Sampson was able to blackmail you into his bed and his business because of your poverty?”

“That is entirely false,” Eve said, stung by the harshness of his judgment. “I bought the shop, but

I could not buy the business acumen to go with it. I have tried my best and yes, you are correct, I

struggle because I tend to be too kind to my clients. Nevertheless, I would never resort to

criminal means for my livelihood.”

She could feel Rowarth’s gaze search her face, shrewd, perceptive and as tangible as a physical

touch.

“I know you are determined to believe the worst of me,” she said bitterly, “but you should at

least get your accusations straight. Either you suspect me of being Sampson’s mistress—in

which case I would hardly be flailing around in poverty watching my business fail but rather

enjoying his vast wealth in comfort and privilege—or you think me a blackmail victim. Neither

is correct.” She snapped a pencil fiercely between her fingers. “You can take your base

suspicions and put them in your ducal—” she broke off, in danger of reverting to the street slang

of her childhood “—pipe and smoke it,” she resumed. “You can prove
nothing,
for there is

nothing
to
prove and so you may tell Lord Hawkesbury.”

There was another silence and then Rowarth shifted, stretched. “What you have told me may

well be true, Eve, but at the very least, you have committed a crime and that is proven. You have

stolen goods sitting in your shop.” He gestured toward the hairbrush. “This piece here, and the

candlesticks I saw in the window will, I suspect, match an inventory of goods taken from

Broughton Castle two weeks ago. You could be hanged for that alone.”

Eve’s heart started to thud. She wondered for how long and how often Warren Sampson had

been using her shop to launder his stolen goods. His associates had brought the items to her and

she, in her ignorance, had paid for them, giving money for items taken by theft. She had been so

naive and now her entire life teetered on the edge of extinction. Once again Rowarth’s gaze

appraised her and Eve had the strangest sensation that he was probing her soul. Would he really

condemn her to death? She could not, would not believe it. Yes, he had changed—he had a

harder edge than the man she had once known—but surely that would be beyond him.

“Then have me arrested,” she challenged him. Their gazes clashed, blue eyes and dark. “Send me

to the executioner if you can.”

There was a long and painful silence and then Rowarth shook his head slowly. “I have another

purpose in mind for you,” he said, and again his tone was so cold that Eve shivered to hear it.

“There is a particular piece of jewelry, a necklace of sapphires, that was taken in the same

burglary as the silver. If we can prove it is still in Sampson’s possession then we will have him.”

“I fail to see how that concerns me,” Eve said.

Rowarth looked at her. “I will tell you,” he said. “There is a party at Sampson’s house at Juniper

Hill tonight. You will attend with me. You will seek Sampson out and hint that you know he is

using your shop to sell his stolen goods. You will suggest that the two of you go into business

formally together in order to make more profit. That should appeal to him. You will ask if he has

other items he could pass on to you, jewelry perhaps…” His gaze swept over and seemed to

linger on the line of her mouth. “And you will sweeten the offer…”

“With the additional promise of myself?” Eve wrapped her arms about her to ward off the chill

that was invading her very bones. “You are blackmailing me to make me prostitute myself to

him just so that you can catch him?”

She saw a flicker of expression in Rowarth’s eyes that she could not read, and then it was gone.

“That is putting it a little harshly,” he said, “but yes, you have it precisely.”

Eve felt sick that he could not have made it clearer that she was nothing to him now other than a

means to an end. “I would rather that you sent me to jail,” she said bitterly.

“I doubt that,” Rowarth said.

“I will not do it,” Eve said defiantly.

“You will.” Rowarth was implacable. “You have no choice.”

Eve knew she did not. She was trapped. And she knew Rowarth did not trust her. This was a

trial; he was testing her as well as using her, for if it appeared from Warren Sampson’s reaction

to her that the two of them were already in league, Rowarth would denounce her without a

thought. The bitterness turned to ashes in her mouth. Once they had been so much to one

another. Now there was nothing left. She supposed that she should not feel so harsh a

disillusionment, for she was the one who had betrayed him originally, after all. She had

deliberately pushed him away, believing she had no choice, knowing they could have no future.

Even so, his ruthlessness shocked her.

She got up and moved toward the door. “I would like you to go now,” she said.

Rowarth stood up, too. Suddenly he was very close to her, so close that she could hear his

breathing and smell the scent of his skin and see the stubble that darkened his chin and jaw. The

light grip of his hand on her elbow sensitized her entire body. Heat scorched her like a flame,

making her shake. She felt stunned, trapped and a little dizzy.

“I am sure that you understand,” Rowarth said, in a measured tone, “what Warren Sampson’s

parties entail?”

Eve’s mind reeled. She had indeed heard rumors of the scandalous parties at Juniper Hill but she

had forgotten about them in the turmoil and shock of seeing Rowarth again and in the horror of

his accusations. With a sick lurch of the heart she realized that this would be no respectable

dinner or ball. Not only would she be making Warren Sampson an indecent proposal in order to

trap him, by her attendance she would be proclaiming to the whole of Fortune’s Folly just what

sort of woman she was. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked up into

Rowarth’s face.

“If you make me do this you will ruin me as surely as if you tell the world of my past history,”

she said. She hated the pleading note in her voice but could not avoid it. “Rowarth…” She

looked at him but his expression was as unyielding as granite. “If word gets about the town that I

am the sort of woman to attend such entertainments,” she said desperately, “then you might as

well brand me a courtesan in public.”

She knew even as she spoke that her words were falling on deaf ears and she felt desolate.

“We shall have to display a certain amount of…pleasure…in each other’s company since we

shall be attending together,” Rowarth said, quite as though she had not spoken. “I trust that you

will once again fulfill the role of my mistress with all the experience at your disposal.”

Pain twisted in Eve that he could dismiss their past loving as something so tawdry. She could

feel him watching her, seeing too much with those dark eyes. Her feelings felt exposed, naked.

Could he tell how vulnerable she felt, still so aware of him as a man despite all that had

happened to divide them?

She took a deep breath, knowing that the die was cast and there was no escape for her.

“I never was a very good actress but I suppose I can pretend to an affection for you for a short

time,” she said.

Rowarth laughed.

“Pretense, is it? Why, I could swear that you are not indifferent to me, sweetheart.”

He kissed her with no warning and no chance of refusal. Eve’s hands closed into tight fists

against the smooth material of his jacket, only to open and slide over his chest as she was

instantly seduced by the memory of what had once been between them. Hot, sweet, wicked and

wanton…He did not plunder but teased, the subtle pressure of his lips tempting hers to open. His

tongue caressed hers and her knees weakened and the pleasure curled down to her toes and

spread through her whole body as though she was melting.

His arms locked tighter than steel about her and she leaned into him, opening to his kiss, her

body quivering like an instrument that recognized a familiar touch. He tasted the same and yet

the experience was so different; it shook her, making her shiver, and he held her closer still even

as he took her mouth with the same thorough possession that he had once taken her body. Her

mind was full of memories and deep, dark desire. She could feel the need in him, held under

tight restraint, and suddenly she wanted to push beyond that control and make him feel with the

same powerless intensity that she was feeling.

But then Rowarth released her abruptly, stepping back. His eyes were almost black with lust,

desire distilled.

“Pretense,” he said again. “If that was counterfeit, then you are a damned fine actress after all,

Eve.”

And then he was gone, leaving her staring blankly at the panels of the door as he slammed it

behind him.

Rowarth watched Eve as the carriage rolled up the drive toward Warren Sampson’s mansion at

Juniper Hill. It had been easy enough to procure an invitation to one of Sampson’s notorious

parties. The man was an inveterate social climber and when he heard that the Duke of Welburn,

no less, was interested in attending he had been expansive in his welcome. Whether or not

Sampson would be equally easy to trap into revealing his crimes was a moot point, but in that

Rowarth did at least have the support of two of the Home Secretary’s finest men, his old friend

Miles, Lord Vickery and Nathaniel, Lord Waterhouse. Both would be attending that evening and

both were part of Lord Hawkesbury’s mysterious and elite group of counterspies, the Guardians,

who worked to keep the country safe.

Rowarth could tell that Eve was nervous as the coach traveled up the long drive. She was sitting

forward, her gloved hands clasped tightly together, her eyes anxiously scanning the road ahead

as though she were dreading the moment they actually arrived and was hoping that fate would

intervene in that short time and save her the ordeal. Rowarth felt a treacherous pang of

tenderness to see her anxiety. He knew that he should not care a rush for her feelings after the

way that she had deserted him but his emotions, it appeared, were not susceptible to rational

argument. He had come to Yorkshire determined to fulfill his commission, certain he would feel

nothing for Eve and that he could lay the ghosts of the past. Yet almost as soon as he had seen

her, his feelings had started to change. It had been unconscionably difficult to force her to fulfill

Hawkesbury’s demands with the callousness the situation required. Instead he had felt protective

of her, which was the last thing he had either expected or wanted. When he agreed to work for