The Secrets of a Courtesan (7 page)

Miles sighed. “I knew it was a mistake for Hawkesbury to recruit an amateur.” He caught sight

of Rowarth’s expression. “Oh, very well. If you must know, I called on you at Welburn House a

few days before Eve left you. There was an urgent matter I needed to discuss with you…Well, it

is of no consequence now. I did not realize that you were out of town—the servants made no

mention of it—so naturally when you were not at Welburn I assumed you were with Eve.” He

sighed. “I was about to knock on the door of the house in Birdcage Walk when it opened and Dr.

Culpepper came out.”

“The
doctor
?” Rowarth felt suddenly cold, the fear creeping down his spine.

“Yes, the doctor,” Miles said. “Must you repeat everything that I say?”

“Go on,” Rowarth said.

“As the maid was showing him out I heard him instruct her to look after her mistress,” Miles

said. “So I assumed Eve was ill. That’s all.”

Rowarth took a deep breath. “Why did you never tell me this before?” he demanded.

“I’d forgotten about it until tonight,” Miles said simply.

The sharp click of the library door opening and closing again snapped them back to attention.

There was the sound of voices.

“That is Tom Fortune,” Miles said, listening intently, “not Warren Sampson.” He spun around as

Rowarth let out an oath and, opening the balcony doors, ran back inside the house.

“I say, old fellow, you can’t intervene now,” Miles protested. “You’ll ruin everything!”

“No, I won’t,” Rowarth said harshly. “I’ll be doing what I should have done long ago, devil take

it.” He was already slamming out of the room, his footsteps echoing across the floor as he

headed toward the stairs.

“As I said, I knew it was a mistake to recruit an amateur,” Miles said, but he was smiling as he

followed Rowarth out.

Eve had found the library in near darkness, lit only by a single stand of candles that cast long

shadows up the wall. It was also empty and for a moment Eve was relieved, for Warren

Sampson’s absence at least gave her a moment to collect herself. She drew a deep breath, leaning

against the long central table, which bore a breathtakingly tasteless vase of lolling lilies. Misery

and regret beat through her body as she thought of the bitter words she had exchanged with

Rowarth.

It was so pointless, so foolish, to want to go back, to wish to change the past. She had run from

Rowarth in the first place because she had had no choice and nothing had changed. Five years

ago she had turned her back on all that they had had because he had wanted to wed her and she

had known that it was utterly impossible.

When first Rowarth had proposed marriage to her she had been astounded but he would entertain

no opposition nor accept any refusal from her. He had rejected all her objections that she was

unsuitable, that she had been born out of wedlock, that she had no education, that she had been

his mistress and so it was utterly unacceptable for her to be his wife and even more inappropriate

for her to be a duchess. He had swept it all aside, confident and happy, buoyed up by his love for

her. He was a duke—he could do as he wished. And for a while Eve had been swept along, too,

believing that they could be happy.

But then she had found out that she was pregnant and had lost the baby almost in the same

instant. She had been ill, dreadfully ill, and Dr. Culpepper had told her that she would never bear

another child. The news had been the bitterest blow that she had ever had to accept in her life.

Even now she could not think about it without the pain expanding in her chest and stealing her

breath and making her want to weep. She had thought herself hardened to every misfortune that

life could throw at her. She had dealt with more than her share. But this grief was a different

matter. It was a black, aching emptiness, a jagged pain that caught her at unexpected moments

like a thief in the dark. It sapped her soul until she was so tired and worn that sometimes she had

not known how she had carried on.

Rowarth had been away on business, visiting his estates in Kent, and by the time he had returned

to London Eve had packed up and gone, knowing that she could never be his wife now, that it

was all at an end, that fairy tales did not happen to the likes of little Eve Nightingale. Even if a

duke was unconventional enough to marry his mistress he needed a son to carry on the title and

inherit the estates that he had cared for so dutifully all these years. But she would never, ever be

able to give Rowarth children and it had broken her heart and it would break his, too, if he ever

knew…

Eve straightened, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with impatient fingers.

Fool to cry
. She had always known that everything that had once been precious and sweet and

true between them was long gone. She had always known there could be no going back for them.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs. Nightingale.”

Eve had been so wrapped up in her grief that she had not heard the door open but now she saw

not Warren Sampson, as she might have expected, but Tom Fortune bearing down upon her, a

glass of wine in one hand, a wolfish smile on his lips. She straightened quickly, masking her

distress.

“I am sorry,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “I thought that Mr. Sampson was joining me.”

Fortune smiled again. “He will be here presently.” He came so close to her that she could smell

the stale sweat on his body and the wine on his breath. Eve’s nerves tightened. There was

something feral about Tom Fortune, something dangerous. She had met men like him before and

knew precisely what they wanted. She looked around for something with which to arm herself

but the fire irons were out of reach, as were the heavy china figurines on the mantel. She

wondered where Rowarth and his colleagues had stationed themselves in order to witness her

springing the trap on Sampson. She hoped they were close enough to intervene. But of course

they would not do so. Her heart plummeted as she thought about it. Since Rowarth was happy

enough for her to seduce Warren Sampson in the interests of eliciting a confession, no doubt he

expected her to seduce Tom Fortune as well if the situation required it.

“Now then, Mrs. Nightingale,” Fortune was saying, “I believe that you had a business

proposition you wished to discuss?”

Eve gave him a cool look. “For Mr. Sampson’s ears only,” she said politely.

Fortune laughed. He ran one finger down Eve’s bare arm and she tried not to flinch away. “You

can tell me,” he murmured. “Mr. Sampson trusts me to handle his business affairs.”

“Does he indeed?” Eve said, raising her brows. “Was it Mr. Sampson’s business that brought you

to my shop?”

Tom Fortune’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a very sharp look. “No indeed,” he said. “That

was a personal financial embarrassment, I fear.”

“Selling off your brother’s silver to pay your debts?” Eve said. “A pity. I had

thought…hoped…that there might be more business potential in the situation than that.”

Tom was very still, watching her like a snake watching a mouse. “What exactly are you

suggesting, Mrs. Nightingale?”

“As I said,” Eve said, turning away and feigning boredom, “that is for discussion with Mr.

Sampson only.”

Tom laughed. “Then if you will not talk to me,” he murmured, “I suggest that we pass the time

until Mr. Sampson’s arrival in more pleasurable ways.” He lingered suggestively over the words.

“You must know, Mrs. Nightingale, that in your case Mr. Sampson would deem it a positive

delight to mix business with pleasure.”

“And you expect a share in that…pleasure, too, I suppose,” Eve said, trying to edge away from

him. Tom Fortune followed her until they were in danger, Eve thought a little hysterically, of

chasing one another around the table.

“I always try the goods out myself first,” Tom agreed. He moved quickly, grabbing her arm and

pressing a damp kiss on the curve of her neck. Suddenly his hands seemed to be everywhere,

down the neck of her gown, grasping for her skirts. It was intolerable and suddenly Eve knew

she would rather be dead than succumb to him, Rowarth and Hawkesbury be damned. She tried

to free a hand to strike him, but Fortune was strong and determined. She managed to reach for

the huge phallic vase in the center of the table and brought it down on his head. Fortune swore.

Water cascaded everywhere. Lilies flew in all directions. And in the same moment the door of

the library was flung open and Rowarth, all urbane elegance gone, charged across the room,

grabbed Tom Fortune by the neck cloth, dragged him away from Eve and struck him so hard and

so scientifically that the man seemed to arc across the library before landing in the fireplace with

a crash.

“Damned scoundrel,” he growled.

Miles Vickery, who had followed Rowarth into the room, went across to check on Fortune. “Out

cold,” he said. “You always did have a dangerous left hook, Rowarth.”

“Rowarth,” Eve said, her hands pressed to her cheeks, torn between laughter and tears, “I do

believe you have completely sabotaged your own commission.”

“To hell with my commission.” Rowarth scooped her up in his arms and strode to the door. His

expression was set and hard. “To hell with Sampson. To hell with Hawkesbury. I should have

told him to go hang from the start. You and I are going home, Eve. We have matters to discuss.”

Outside in the hall it seemed that all hell had broken loose as well. The ice sculpture of Poseidon,

partially melted and drooping now, had been toppled onto the floor and was spreading water all

around. A very pretty young girl of about eighteen in a peacock-blue mask was struggling in the

arms of one of Warren Sampson’s guests, who, inebriated and lecherous, was trying to kiss her.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the maiden shrieked, pushing him hard. “Unhand me at once, you

dolt!”

The man reeled backward and in the same moment Nat Waterhouse erupted across the hall,

caught him by the cravat and hit him across the room in much the same way that Rowarth had

despatched Tom Fortune. Waterhouse turned on the girl.

“Lizzie,” he said, in tones that made a chill trickle down Eve’s spine, “what the
devil
are you

doing here?”

Despite the mask, Eve had recognized the girl now as Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, half sister of Sir

Montague Fortune and of Tom, the very man who had just tried to seduce her in the library. It

was evident from Lady Elizabeth’s very expensive but demure debutante’s raiment and the look

of the startled virgin on her face that she could not quite hide, that for all her bravado she was in

completely the wrong place.

“I heard there was a party,” Lady Elizabeth proclaimed, “and I wanted to see for myself.” She

sounded ever so slightly drunk.

Her gaze swung around the hall, taking in the seminude women, the couples in various states of

debauchery and the overendowed ice sculpture, and Eve saw her gulp. She had heard that Lady

Elizabeth was wild but the poor girl had, Eve was sure, overstepped the mark this time.

“I’m taking you home,” Nat Waterhouse said to her, still sounding furious.

Across the hallway a couple of drunken young bucks had decided that if there was going to be a

mill then they would join in. Half-dressed women ran shrieking for cover as they ploughed

enthusiastically into the fight. Before long the servants had joined in and the entire room was a

heaving mass of men planting random punches. Miles Vickery was doubled up with laughter.

“A marvelous end to Mr. Sampson’s entertainment and to our endeavor,” he said cheerfully.

“Rowarth—would you like to be the one to explain this to Lord Hawkesbury?”

“We need to talk,” Rowarth said. He and Eve were alone in the carriage, having delivered Lady

Elizabeth Scarlet secretly and safely back to Fortune Hall and received her incoherent and tearful

thanks. Waterhouse and Vickery had bidden them good night and retired to their lodgings at the

Morris Clown Inn, mocking Rowarth for the fact that he was so rich that he was staying at the

Granby Hotel while their miserable pittance of an income from the Home Secretary condemned

them to less salubrious surroundings.

“I don’t want to go to the Granby,” Eve said. “I have had a sufficiently disreputable evening as it

is without creeping into a gentleman’s hotel room. That would finish my reputation for good.”

Rowarth took her hand. “Then where shall we go?” he asked. His gaze compelled her and a curl

of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew that there could be no avoiding a final

confrontation now. She had felt it from the moment Rowarth had scooped her up into his arms in

Sampson’s library.

“There is no one at the shop,” she said reluctantly. “Joan has rooms at her sister’s house in the

village.”

She saw the flare of satisfaction in Rowarth’s eyes and something else, heated and intense. “Just

to talk, Rowarth,” she reminded him, though her pulse fluttered.

“Absolutely,” Rowarth said smoothly.

The tiny room above the shop seemed even tinier with Rowarth in it, his presence dominating the

space. Eve stirred the embers of the fire to a bright burning glow and lit a candle that she could

ill afford. The soft light gave the room an illusory warmth but she felt cold and on edge inside.