‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.

Hell. Apparently the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.

His breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.

As if she read his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile. She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.

Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up again. A lingering question lurked in her eyes.

Eve biting the apple.

He enjoyed the warmth of a willing woman, but had no need of a professional courtesan. And, no matter how beautiful or sensual, he had no interest in a woman who had brought scandal to the name of Evernden.

Author Note

I adored Christopher the moment he walked onto the page, because I knew only a strong, determined woman like Sylvia could lead him on a merry chase. The story is set in places dear to my heart: Dover, where my father was born; Tunbridge Wells, where I downed a few pints with my husband in our courting years; and France, which brought back memories of crossing the channel by ferry one summer. And then, of course, there is Regency London. I love poking around in St James and Mayfair, where you can find traces of the Regency in the buildings if you look very carefully.

I had so much fun writing Sylvia and Christopher’s story. I do hope you enjoy it. I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at my website, www.annlethbridge.com, where you can find all my latest news and where you can reach me directly.

Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.

Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN is the first novel by Ann Lethbridge for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance

THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this first book for Harlequin Mills & Boon to my two beautiful daughters, Angela and Fiona. Their support of my writing means the world to me.

Chapter One

Dover, Kent—1816

Safe behind her black veil, Sylvia Boisette steeled herself to confront those who, because of her birth, were a part of her world, but who would never accept her as part of theirs.

Dusty fingers of gold streamed through the bank of windows along the library’s west wall, highlighting the room’s comfortable shabbiness. On the threshold behind her, the eager servants murmured in anticipation of the reading of the will.

‘I believe Mr Tripp wishes you to sit there, mademoiselle,’ the butler muttered over her shoulder. He gestured to the far end of the room.

In front of the bewigged, craggy-faced lawyer, ranged the backs of three seated figures, a black-clad bastion of stiff respectability, and beside them, one empty chair.

‘Who are they?’ Sylvia whispered to the butler. Isolated in painful solitude at the funeral, she could only guess the identity of the strangers in attendance and the servants always knew everything.

‘Imogene Molesby, the master’s sister, to the right,’ Burbridge murmured. A large-boned woman, she wore an outdated black bonnet and sat closest to the windows. ‘Her husband, George.’ Molesby’s bulk seemed to overflow his straight-backed chair.

Beside him sat the handsome young man whose height and breadth had overshadowed the pitifully small group of mourners at the graveside, his aloof, patrician countenance full of disapproval. She nodded towards him. ‘And the other?’

‘Mr Christopher Evernden, Lord Stanford’s younger brother.’

A buzz of anger in her veins chased off the numbness that had held her in thrall all morning. Lord Stanford, the head of the Evernden family, hadn’t even bothered to come to his uncle’s funeral. And Monsieur Jean had always spoken so well of his nephew.

Pauvre Monsieur Jean. How she would miss reading to him in this very room, his smiling face lit by the glow of a fireplace now as cold and empty as her heart. Sometimes, moisture glinting in his tired eyes, he had told her how much she resembled her beloved mother. Icy fingers clenched in her stomach. She might carry the burden of her mother’s beauty, but she would not follow her path to ruin.

A deep breath steadied the beat of her heart. With a solemn swish of black silk skirts, she trod the bars of light and shade on the faded Axminster rug as if they formed the rungs of a ladder to her future, or an escape from her past.

Mr Tripp acknowledged her presence with a nod.

Fighting the sudden trembling in her knees, she sank on to the empty chair beside Mr Evernden. His sharp, sideways glance projected his distaste with the sureness of an arrow, while a chill disapproval emanated from his companions. She forced her spine straight. From this moment on, she would forge her own destiny.

Behind the ancient walnut desk, the lawyer glanced down at his papers. ‘That is everyone, I presume?’

The straight-backed chair beside her issued an impatient creak and, from behind her veil, she risked a glance at its occupant. Polished Hessian boots planted flat on the floor, his muscular thighs extended well beyond the chair seat. Gold glinted in his dark-honey, wind-tousled hair. Fair skinned, with a chiseled jaw and high forehead, he bore the stamp of English nobility. His expressive mouth, set in a straight line, spoke of firmness of purpose.

Her stomach tumbled over in a strangely pleasurable dance.

Caught midbreath, she froze. She never allowed herself to notice men. One glance and the lascivious greed in their eyes sent her diving for the cover of cold disdain. She tried not to see them at all. Her interest stemmed from curiosity, nothing else. She focused her gaze on the lawyer.

Mr Tripp began to read. ‘Being of sound mind…’

Beyond the window, fleecy clouds scudded across a robin’s-egg-blue sky, their shadows gambolling like lambs across the familiar green, rolling hills. She would miss walking those headlands between here and Folkestone.

Tripp droned on and she forced herself to listen. Monsieur Jean left small sums of money to his butler and the housekeeper. He left a guinea to each of the other servants. How like the gentle man to remember them. His prized books, already boxed and waiting for transportation, went to an old friend too ill to travel to the funeral.

‘To my sister, Imogene, I leave the ormolu clock which belonged to our mother,’ Tripp intoned.

The clock Mrs Molesby and monsieur had fought over for years. How he had chuckled over that tale. She repressed a smile.

‘Cliff House will be sold to pay my debts,’ Mr Tripp read.

Monsieur Jean had promised her something for her future. She needed very little. Sylvia held her breath.

Pausing, Mr Tripp looked over his pince-nez at the assembled company. He cleared his throat. ‘I leave my ward, Miss Sylvia Boisette, in the charge of my nephew, Mr Christopher Evernden.’

Sylvia gasped at the same moment Christopher Evernden smothered a startled oath with a cough.

The lines etched in Tripp’s face deepened. ‘He will receive whatever funds remain from the sale of Cliff House for her future care. The balance, when she marries, is to be used for her dowry.’

The room rocked around Sylvia as if Cliff House had toppled from its chalky perch and now floated on the wave-tossed English Channel. Sylvia closed her eyes against a surge of nausea, holding her body rigid until her head ceased to spin. She would not let them see her distress.

What had Monsieur Jean done? The dagger of realisation stabbed through her whirling thoughts. By trying to protect her from beyond the grave, he had ruined her plans.

‘Disgusting,’ Imogene Molesby exploded. ‘How dare he foist his ladybird on to a respectable member of this family? It’s disgraceful. There ought to be a law against it.’

Heat scorched her face at the damning tone. She clamped her mouth shut against the desire to cry out against the woman’s injustice. Not for her own sake, but for sullying her beloved Monsieur Jean’s memory.

At the back of the room, the servants moved restlessly and low mutters broke out. She turned and shook her head to stem their loyal defence. She wanted no public outcry marring this day.

Mr Tripp mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. ‘That concludes the reading of the last will and testament of Mr John Christopher Evernden. A cold collation is offered to the family and mourners in the blue drawing room.’

The ormolu clock on the mantel ticked into the silence.

Hopelessly kind and a dreamer to his dying day, Monsieur Jean had buried her dream of starting a new, respectable life.

The chair arms solid beneath her shaking hands, Sylvia pushed to her feet.

Mr Evernden, shock and horror reflected in his hazel eyes, rose with her and executed a stiff bow. He wanted this as little as she. What English gentleman wouldn’t be horrified at such a dreadful imposition? To be required to care for a woman of ill repute went beyond the pale of family duty.

Tears scalded the backs of her eyes and her mind unravelled at the speed of a spool of wool batted by a cat. She hadn’t felt this lost since, at the age of eleven, she learned she would never see her mother again.

The tattered remnants of her composure her only shield against their censorious faces, she sketched a curtsy to Mr Evernden and the irate Molesbys. She nodded to Mr Tripp and, head held high, strode for the drawing room. The servants parted to allow her through the doorway. She acknowledged their murmured words of support as she passed.

She would not allow this to happen. There must be some way to be rid of this grim young Englishman.

Christopher, appalled and astonished, stalked towards the lawyer. He needed this error corrected immediately.

A hand clutched at his arm. ‘I say, Evernden, we didn’t expect to see you here today.’

Damn. The presence of the Molesbys added another layer of complication to the situation. He reined in his impatience. ‘Mother insisted one of us had to attend. Unfortunately, Garth had another engagement.’

His chubby face shining and his gaze greedy with anticipation, Uncle George slid him a grin. ‘That really is doing it rather too brown, don’t you know. Leaving you saddled with his…’ He coughed delicately into his hand and glanced at the affronted expression on his wife’s horsy face. ‘Well, I mean to say, his ward.’ He winked. ‘I hear she’s ravishing.’

Christopher’s heart sank. Garth’s exploits, along with those of his infamous uncle John, were bad enough. When this news hit the clubs, Christopher’s name would also be dragged through the Evernden mire. No doubt Uncle George would dine out on the story for weeks.

‘Don’t beat about the bush, George,’ Aunt Imogene said with her habitual snort. ‘We all know what sort of female she is.’

Knowing Aunt Imogene and her tendency to take the bit between her teeth, Christopher held his tongue. George stared at his boots, a penitent in purgatory.

In a travesty of a grimace, Imogene bared her protruding yellow teeth. ‘And that is why your father banished him from the family. A young fool, he turned into an old fool. Can you imagine? He left all his money to her. All I got was the ormolu clock.’ Her indignant voice rattled the ill-fitting windows.

Christopher kept his expression bland and his growing ire under firm control. No one could require him to inherit his uncle’s mistress.

‘Excuse me, Aunt Imogene, Uncle George. I need to speak to Tripp.’ He bowed to the old couple and followed the lawyer into the drawing room.

While its cream walls and furnishings gave no indication of its designation as blue, at least this room looked more like a gentleman’s home than the drab library.

At the window, stiff and forbidding in her deep mourning, Mademoiselle Boisette stared out across the English Channel. Outlined against the light, her high-collared black gown revealed shapely curves and a narrow waist. A deliberate ploy to display her charms to advantage, no doubt.

He wasn’t interested.

Tripp hovered beside the sturdy Queen Anne sideboard piled high with pastries and platters of sliced roast beef, fruits and cheeses. Red tulips and sunny daffodils in a crystal centrepiece splashed colour into the muted room.

A glass of red wine in one hand and a fat meat pasty in the other, Tripp had the expression of a well-fed bloodhound. Apparently, reading wills sharpened the appetite.

‘Help yourself,’ Tripp said, spraying Christopher with crumbs. ‘Oh, dear me. Excuse me, sir.’ He dabbed at Christopher’s coat front with his napkin.

Aware of the Molesbys’ entrance into the room and their curious stares as they joined the vicar near the hearth, Christopher smiled and waved Tripp off. ‘No, really. Don’t be concerned.’

Tripp stopped flapping and gestured to the butler. ‘Drink?’

For once, a drink sounded like a good idea. Perhaps several, after this got sorted out. Christopher selected a glass of burgundy from the butler’s silver tray. He sent a swift glance towards Mademoiselle Boisette and turned his shoulder to the room at large. ‘Now about this will,’ he murmured. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Tripp replied. ‘I helped Mr Evernden draw it up myself last month.’

‘Last month?’ Christopher reeled at the implication. Twelve years ago, Christopher’s father had given his younger brother the cut direct and deemed him persona non grata. Christopher never saw him again.

Until six weeks ago.

He’d run into Uncle John in London and while he’d barely recognised the gaunt, old fellow, he didn’t have the heart to cut a man whom he remembered for his generosity to him and Garth in their childhood.

Tripp took another bite of his pasty, chewed and swallowed. ‘That’s right. The moment he returned from London, he insisted I come right around to change his will.’

Dismay plunged Christopher’s stomach to the floor. He recalled Uncle John leaning on his silver-headed walking stick on St. James’s Street, his eyes twinkling as he asked after Garth and his mother. They’d chatted in a desultory way about Princess Charlotte’s forthcoming wedding. The old man bemoaned the slump in trade since Waterloo and Christopher expressed concern about the Bridgeport riots. And that was it. Not a word of a personal nature crossed their lips and they had shaken hands and parted company. Apparently, simple common courtesy had landed him in a dreadful coil.

Christopher groaned inwardly. He suddenly wished he had cut off his right hand before allowing the old man to shake it. ‘There must be some way to change it. Pay her off.’

‘Mademoiselle Boisette, you mean?’

Who else would he mean? ‘Yes.’

After a wishful glance at the sideboard, Tripp said, ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in the study?’

Christopher glanced around the room where the smattering of local gentry paid their respects by eating everything in sight. In the far corner, Aunt Imogene held court, complaining loudly about the poor state of the ormolu clock to the vicar’s plump wife and casting dark glances at Mademoiselle Boisette’s rigid back. He nodded. ‘Lead the way.’

Full of old, broken-down furniture and other rubbish, the crowded oak-panelled study smelled of camphor and dust. Moth-eaten feathered and furred trophies leaned against every available upright surface in the gloomy room. Boxes and papers spilled off the shabby desk and cluttered the chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.

‘He used to hunt,’ Tripp observed.

Ignoring the lawyer’s attempt at delay, Christopher frowned. ‘What can I do about this will?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Bloody hell. What do you mean, nothing?’

Tripp pursed his lips and lowered his brows.

‘I’m sorry,’ Christopher said. ‘This all comes as rather a shock.’ He took a swig of his burgundy. At least Uncle John had kept an excellent cellar.

‘I imagine Mademoiselle Boisette is also surprised,’ Tripp said, his jowls drooping to his cravat. ‘A pleasant young woman. Always a very gracious hostess.’

The revelation of unsavoury secrets held no appeal and Christopher pressed on. ‘Can I just sell the house and give her the money?’

Tripp appeared to consider the question carefully. ‘Your uncle thought her too young. She needs a guardian.’

‘Too young?’ The words exploded from Christopher’s mouth. His uncle must have been nigh on sixty. He wanted to throttle Tripp. ‘How old is she?’

Tripp stiffened. ‘Twenty-three. Your position of guardian is to continue until she’s twenty-five.’

Dear God! Twenty-three and she had lived with his uncle for twelve years? No wonder the old man had locked himself away from society all these years. His stomach churned. The normally solid ground beneath him seemed to turn into a quagmire.

‘I must decline,’ Christopher said.

Tripp sighed. ‘I feared as much. I told Mr Evernden the family wouldn’t like it. He set great store by you, Mr Christopher. He would have been sorry to learn of his mistake.’

‘At the risk of being rude, Mr Tripp, I must be brutally frank. I don’t care what you think or what my uncle thought. I refuse to be imposed upon. I want it sorted out. Now.’

Tripp looked as affronted as Aunt Imogene. Christopher didn’t care.

‘The terms of the will are quite explicit, sir,’ Tripp said.

‘What about her mother’s family, or her father?’

‘She has no family of which I am aware. Her mother died in France. Mr Evernden did not reveal the name of her father. Anyway, since I gather her father refuses her recognition, it is of no consequence.’

The thin straw of rescue drifted out of Christopher’s grasp. ‘Then there must be something I can do with her. Some institution where she can learn a skill, somewhere a woman like—’

Tripp harrumphed. His eyebrows jumped on his crumpled forehead like rabbits on a ploughed field.

‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.

Hell. Apparently, the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.

Mr Tripp rushed between them. ‘Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Boisette, Mr Evernden.’

Still veiled, Mademoiselle Boisette held out a small, black-gloved hand. She curtsied as he took it, a fluid movement with all the easy grace of a self-assured woman.

She turned to the lawyer. ‘Would you be good enough to leave us to speak alone, Mr Tripp? We have some issues of mutual concern to address.’

To his relief, her tone sounded clipped and businesslike. No tears. At least, not yet.

Tripp rubbed his hands together. ‘Certainly.’

He had food on his mind, Christopher could tell.

Tripp pulled out his calling card and handed it to Christopher with a flourish. ‘Mr Evernden, if it would not be too much trouble, I would appreciate it if you would call at my office later today. I have some documents requiring your signature.’

Damned country solicitors. Why the hell hadn’t he brought the documents with him? Christopher tamped down his irritation. First, he had to depress any hopes Mademoiselle Boisette might have about continuing the connection with his family.

The murmur of distant conversation and the clink of glasses briefly wafted through the open door as Tripp left and closed it behind him.

Mademoiselle Boisette glided to the desk. Her graceful movements, her calmness, reminded Christopher of a slow and gentle river. Her impenetrable veil skimmed delicate sloping shoulders and he ran his gaze over her straight back and trim waist. An altogether pleasing picture.

The wayward thought stilled him. He leaned his hip against a rickety table and sipped his wine. Nothing she could say would make him change his mind.

With her back to him, Mademoiselle Boisette set her wineglass amid the clutter of papers. A lioness’s head leaned against one corner of the desk and her hand brushed reverently over its tufted ears.

She spoke over her shoulder. ‘I feared these creatures so much when I first came to live here, I asked Monsieur Jean to remove them from the walls.’ A breathy sigh, as light as a summer wind, shimmered the secretive veil. ‘We both know there are far more dangerous creatures than these in the world, don’t we?’

Reaching up, she pulled the pearl-headed pin from her bonnet. Her slender back stretched as she removed the hat in a fluid motion. She placed it on the desk.

A crown of braided gold encircled her head. Curling tendrils at the nape of her long neck brushed her collar.

As regal as a queen, she revolved to face him, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘And that is why we need to talk.’

Christopher’s breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel.

Fringed by golden lashes, forget-me-not blue eyes gazed out of a heart-shaped face. Not a single blemish marred the perfection of her creamy complexion or peach-blushed cheeks. His mouth longed to taste the lushness of full ripe lips. A banquet offered to a starving man.

Like a callow youth faced with his first view of a woman’s bare breast, his palms dampened. He resisted the temptation to wipe them on his pantaloons. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.

Since when did his appetites control his reactions?

As if reading his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile, the small space in the centre of her pearl-white top teeth an enchanting fault amid celestial perfection.

She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.

Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up again. A lingering question lurked in her eyes.

Eve biting the apple.

He swallowed.

She tugged the tip of her glove free and then released it.

An indrawn breath lifted the swell of her bosom beneath her close-fitting gown. He imagined rose-tipped globes peaking to his touch.

His collar tightened. Sweat trickled down his spine.

Transfixed, he stared as she repeated the manoeuvre with each remaining slender finger. In all his years on the town, he’d never seen such wanton sensuality. Blood stirred and pulsed in his loins. He shifted, spreading his thighs to ease the burgeoning pressure.

Head tipped to one side, she focused her gaze on his mouth and licked her bottom lip with a moist, pink tongue.

An unendurable desire to echo that touch on his mouth, to trace the path of her glance, tingled his tongue.

As graceful as a ballet dancer and with agonising slowness, she drew off the glove, baring the white skin of her wrist, her knuckles, her slender fine-boned fingers.

Visions of white, naked flesh writhing beneath him shortened his breath. Sensations of silky skin, slick and wet and hot for him, closing around him as he drove them both to mindless bliss, tightened his groin. He fought the deep shimmer of pleasure.

She laid the wisp of black silk across the big cat’s tawny muzzle.

He curled his lip. A brazen wanton indeed.

He enjoyed the warmth of a willing woman, but had no need of a professional courtesan. And no matter how beautiful or sensual, he had no interest in a woman who had brought scandal to the name of Evernden.

A dimple appeared at the corner of her curving mouth.

Taste her. Caress her full lips with his mouth, duel with her moist, soft tongue and press her slender form hard against him. Take what she offered with brazen abandon. Here. Now. The words matched the rhythm of his pulsing blood.

Damn. This little witch wouldn’t play him for a fool as she had his dotard uncle. Lust never controlled him.

He slammed his glass amid the documents on the table, ignored the red stain spreading over the jumbled papers and folded his arms across his chest.

Seconds felt like minutes as, one finger at a time, she freed the other glove and slid it off. She ran the garment through her fingers, a torturous stroking of silk against bare skin. She dropped it beside its partner.

He remembered to breathe.

‘Mr Evernden.’ Her husky, accented voice caressed his skin the way a lioness rubbed in adoration against her mate. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

Yes, his body roared in feral triumph.

Chapter Two

Disgust roiled in his gut, both at his unprecedented lack of control and the thought of his ancient uncle with his hands on this delicate creature. ‘There is no proposal you could offer that would interest me, madam.’

Raising an eyebrow, she perused his person from heel to head, her gaze lingering on his chest before sliding up to meet his eyes. She smiled approval.

Molten lava coursed through his veins at the studied invitation.

Damn her impudence. Even the most audacious of the demi-monde made their desires known with more discretion. He didn’t deal in money for flesh. The few women with whom he’d established mutually enjoyable relationships preferred gifts of jewellery, subtle tokens of appreciation and respect.

A seductive sway to her hips, she drifted to the centre of the room, her modestly cut gown intriguingly at odds with her aura of raw sensuality.

Once more, her gaze rested on his mouth and she moistened her lush lips. ‘You sound quite sure of yourself.’

The only thing he knew for certain was his body’s demands in response to her blatant allure. He forced his expression to remain impassive. ‘We are discussing you, not me.’

She inclined her head to one side. ‘Really? What is it to be then, Mr Evernden? Not an orphanage, for I am too old. A parish workhouse, perhaps?’

Her husky, French-laced voice called to him like a siren’s song. He clenched his jaw.

Tapping one slender, oval-nailed finger against her rather determined chin, she nodded slowly. ‘You will take your uncle’s money and leave me to the tender mercies of the town.’

Bloody hell. She made him sound like a thief. Only he had no need of his uncle’s pitiful estate and no reason for guilt. He knew where his duty lay. It did not include taking his uncle’s bit of muslin home. ‘Nothing of the sort. You have to live somewhere suitable.’

Something hard and bright flashed in her eyes. Swept away by fair lashes, it was replaced by a mischievous gleam. ‘Anywhere except your home, of course.’

The deuce. Could she read minds? ‘Exactly.’

She dropped her bold stare to the floor and her imperfect top teeth nibbled her lower lip. ‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden. I do not wish to be at odds with you, but I do request a fair hearing before you reach a final decision.’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘There is your family name.’

A lump of lead settled on Christopher’s chest. More scandal. His mother had enough misery to contend with as Garth debauched his way through life, without this female causing her anguish. ‘My family is nothing to do with you.’

She turned and picked up her gloves and hat. ‘Perhaps this is not the best place to discuss such a delicate matter.’

He followed the direction of her gaze around the cluttered, dirty room and shrugged.

‘We would occasion far less remark in my private apartments, once the other guests have departed,’ she urged.

Blast. He’d forgotten the reception. And Aunt Imogene. She would chew his ear off if she learned he’d been alone with this female. Not to mention what she would report to his poor, benighted mother. ‘Very well.’

‘I will ask the butler to bring you to my drawing room at the first possible opportunity.’

Christopher nodded.

Her hat clutched against her bosom, she peered out of the door, then slipped out.

Christopher raised his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling. He’d fallen into a madhouse.

He followed her into the hallway in time to see a swirl of black skirt disappear up the servants’ narrow staircase at the other end of the passage. At least she showed a modicum of decorum.

Christopher straightened his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception. The company had thinned in his absence and Tripp was nowhere to be seen. Nursing his wine, Christopher wandered over to the window and glanced out. A privet hedge bordered the lane leading to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the sweeping drive where a knot of coachmen smoked pipes and chatted at the head of the four waiting carriages. Beyond them, a down-at-heel fellow in a battered black hat perused the front of the house. A prospective buyer?

The ramshackle condition of the property would not attract a wealthy purchaser despite the magnificent view of alabaster cliffs, the English Channel and, on a rare fine day like today, the faint smudge of the French coast on the horizon. Small vessels, their white sails billowing, scurried towards Dover harbour behind the headland. Mid-channel, larger ships plied their trade on white-tipped waves. No wonder his uncle had hermited himself away here with his fille de joie.

A picture of her face danced in his mind. He shook his head. No one could be that beautiful. The dim light had fooled him.

‘Christopher?’

Damn it. What now? He swung around. ‘Yes, Aunt?’

Excitement gleamed in his aunt’s protuberant eyes. ‘I am so glad George brought me today. Lord and Lady Caldwell were my brother’s closest acquaintances.’

She motioned in the direction of the well-dressed couple engaged in conversation with chubby Uncle George. ‘They have invited us to stay with them for a day or two.’

‘How delightful for you both.’

Aunt Molesby dropped her penetrating voice to a whisper. ‘Caldwell says that John actually used that woman as his hostess. Can you credit it?’

A veritable charger in the lists, nothing would stop his aunt at full tilt. Fortunately, she did not seem to expect an answer.

‘Yes, indeed,’ she continued. ‘The shame of it. Lady Caldwell never attended, of course. Only men friends were invited for the gambling parties.’ Her expression changed to disgruntlement. ‘That woman didn’t attend the gentlemen in any of their gambling pursuits. She always disappeared after dinner.’

Thank heaven for small mercies.

‘You really should greet the Caldwells, you know,’ she said, urging him in their direction. ‘They were acquainted with your father.’

* * *

By the time Christopher had accepted the Caldwells’ words of sympathy, said farewell to the Molesbys and spoken to the vicar, most of the food was gone and the guests had departed.

The butler approached with a low bow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir, Mademoiselle Boisette will see you now.’

Quelling his irritation at the pompous tone, Christopher followed the butler up the curved staircase to the second floor. Ushered into what was obviously an antechamber, he surveyed the delicate furnishings and the walls decorated with trompe-l’oeil scenes of what he assumed to be the idyllic French countryside.

Rather than risk the single fragile, gilt chair collapsing under him, Christopher declined the butler’s offer of a seat.

‘If you would wait here a moment, sir, I will inform Mademoiselle Boisette you are here.’

Hell. Did she think he was here for an interview? He would make his position clear from the outset.

The butler knocked on the white door beneath a pediment carved with cherubs. It opened just enough for him to enter.

More moments passed and Christopher paced around the room. This situation became more tiresome by the minute. Finally, the butler returned and gestured for him to enter. ‘This way, sir, if you please.’

A gaunt, middle-aged woman, her well-cut, severe gown proclaiming her to be some sort of companion, bobbed a curtsy as he passed and Christopher stepped into the lady’s bower, a room of light, with high ceilings and pale rose walls. A white rug adorned the centre of the highly polished light-oak planks. Mademoiselle Boisette, seated on the sofa in front of an oval rosewood table, glanced up from pouring tea from a silver teapot.

Stunned by the full effect of her glorious countenance, Christopher blinked. His mind had not played tricks downstairs. With hair of spun gold and small, perfectly formed features, she seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Unfortunately, she had spoiled the effect by applying rouge to her cheeks and lips since their first meeting.

He took the hand she held out.

She smiled with practised brilliance. ‘Mr Evernden, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Denise, you may leave us. Mr Evernden and I have business to discuss.’

The woman twisted her hands together. ‘I will be in the next room should you need me, mademoiselle.’

Mademoiselle Boisette inclined her head. ‘Merci, Denise.’

She indicated the striped rose-and-grey upholstered chair opposite her. ‘Please, do be seated.’

Like the pieces in the antechamber, the delicate furniture seemed unsuited to the male frame. Careful to avoid knocking the table with his knees, he lowered himself onto the seat.

Despite the damned awkwardness of the situation, Mademoiselle Boisette seemed perfectly at ease. She might not have attended his uncle’s card parties, but this young woman managed to hide her thoughts exceedingly well. Determined to remain impartial, he eyed her keenly. He would hear her out.

Pouring tea into a white, bone-china cup, she moved with innate grace. Her fine-boned fingers were as white and delicate as the saucer in her hand.

He didn’t like tea. He never drank it, not even for his mother. He took the cup she held out. ‘Thank you.’

She peeped at him through her lashes. ‘What an amusing situation to find ourselves in, Mr Evernden.’ Her husky laugh curled around him with delicious warmth.

He steeled himself against her blandishments. ‘I would hardly call it amusing, mademoiselle.’

After slowly stirring her tea, she replaced the spoon in the saucer without the slightest chink. She arched a brow. ‘Mais non? You do not find it entertaining? A farce. The son of anoble English milor’ and a courtesan’s daughter, trapped together by a dead man’s will? My mother was une salope. A prostitute, I think you say in English?’

Startled, Christopher swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. Damn. It burned the back of his throat on the way down.

He struggled not to cough for several seconds. By God, he hadn’t come here to listen to this. She might look like an angel, but she used the language of the Paris gutters. ‘Your frankness, madam, is astonishing.’

To his satisfaction, she looked slightly nonplussed.

She tilted her head in enchanting puzzlement. ‘I thought it would be better if we did not, how do you say it…mince our words?’

Did she think he would be taken in by such contrived gestures? Christopher glared at her. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If it is plain speaking you want, you shall have it. My uncle’s will leaves me in a damnable position. I have no alternative but to place you somewhere you can do no further harm to my family’s good name.’

‘Do you have any idea what will happen to me in a workhouse or some other charitable institution?’ Despite her smiling expression, desperation edged her voice. ‘Oh, no, Mr Evernden. I will not allow it.’

Christopher glanced around the elegant drawing room. She was right. Wherever she ended up, it would not be like this. Her beauty would leave her vulnerable to all kinds of abuse. The thought sickened him.

Damn it. She’d been his uncle’s mistress for years. What difference could it possibly make to a woman of her stamp? ‘You have no choice. Cliff House must be sold to pay my uncle’s debts. You must go somewhere you can learn a respectable occupation.’

A shadow darkened her eyes to fathomless blue. Fear? Anger? Golden lashes swept the expression away, leaving her gaze clear and untroubled. He was mistaken. Women like her did not know fear.

Except that looking at her, he couldn’t quite give credence to the gossip. Or did he simply not want to believe something this beautiful could be so depraved?

She surged to her feet in a rustle of stiff silk and skirted the table between them. The heavy scent of roses wafted over him. He didn’t recall her wearing so much perfume in the study.

As light as a butterfly, her hand rested on his upper arm. She slanted him a teasing glance. ‘The key is respectable, non?’

Heat prickled up his arm. How would that hand feel in his? Soft? Warm? Before he could discover for himself, she floated to the window. A vague sense of loss swept him.

Her hair molten gold and the profile of her perfect face and figure haloed by the glow of the afternoon sun, she paused, looking out.

Another pose designed to drive a man to lustful madness. He tightened the rein on his self-control and waited in silence.

She pressed a hand to her throat, fingering the trinket suspended at her beautiful throat, then turned to face him full on.

He squinted against the light, straining to see her expression.

‘Your uncle made no complaints,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to take his place?’

Once more, unruly blood stirred at the suggestion in her husky voice. For a moment, he considered her blatant offer. Blast her. He was no cup-shot, idle rake like his brother. ‘Quite sure.’

She remained silent for a moment, thoughtful, then smiled and raised one hand, palm up. ‘Then give me two hundred pounds from the sale of Cliff House and I swear the Evernden family will never hear from me again. Nor will I ever mention my connection with your uncle.’

Blackmail. A brief pang of disappointment twisted in his chest, instantly obliterated by a flood of relief. Two hundred pounds was a pittance to rid his family of this blot on their good name. If he could only trust her word. ‘Where will you go?’

The sultry coquette evaporated, leaving a haughty young woman staring down her nose. ‘That, sir, is none of your concern.’

If she thought to bleed him dry a few hundred pounds at a time, she’d come to the wrong door. ‘If you want money from me, I will make it my concern.’

She hesitated, then dropped her gaze. ‘I am going to Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Tunbridge Wells?’ The nearest town of any significance to the Darbys’ estate where he planned to spend the next fortnight. He’d arranged to pick up his curricle at the Sussex Hotel and send the town carriage back to London. ‘And how do you intend to support yourself?’

While her face remained a blank page, storms swirled in the depths of her eyes. ‘A friend owns a small, but exclusive, ladies’ dress shop in the town. I plan to invest in her business.’

With short sharp steps, she returned to her seat. The heavy scent of roses thickened the air. ‘Would you care for some more tea?’ She picked up the teapot. ‘I have grown fond of the English thé.’

Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’

She began to fill her cup.

A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’

Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’

Not quite so self-assured, then.

‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’

She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.

God, his lungs ceased to work every time she did that.

‘You wish to make sure I speak the truth?’ she asked.

He inclined his head. ‘As you say.’

She returned the teapot to the tray. Her low husky chuckle filled the silence and she cast him a sly glance. ‘Are you sure that is your only reason for wishing to remain in my company?’

Smouldering annoyance flared to anger. The little hussy delighted in tormenting him. ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, the sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I will like it.’

Her gaze dropped from his, her hand creeping to touch her gold locket. When she replied, her smile seemed forced. ‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Evernden.’

She rose and he followed suit. The top of her golden head barely reached his shoulder.

‘I assume we have nothing left to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I would like to leave for Tunbridge Wells in the morning.’

‘I will let you know my decision after I have spoken to Mr Tripp.’

She hesitated, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I am going to join my friend tomorrow, Mr Evernden, with or without your escort. I expect two hundred pounds to be delivered to me before I leave. If not, I will apply to Lord Stanford or perhaps your mother, Lady Stanford. Your uncle promised me that money.’

Next she’d be claiming a child by the poor old man. Well, Christopher would damned well make sure she never troubled any member of his family again. She might not yet realise it, but she had met her match.

Tripp had one more task this afternoon, drawing up a settlement. ‘You will have my answer after dinner, mademoiselle. I wish you good day.’

He executed a courteous, shallow bow and headed for the door. An urgent craving to rid the cloying scent of roses from his lungs lengthened his stride.

From the arched window on the landing, Sylvia stared down at the athletic figure in the swirling greatcoat as he climbed into a shiny black coach emblazoned with the Evernden coat of arms.

The sharp point of her locket dug into her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she tried to still her trembles and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Had he believed her? Why would he not? The thought curdled in her stomach.

He seemed to be the solemn, honourable Englishman described by Monsieur Jean on his return from London. The disgust curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.

Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.

She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.

A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.

Non. The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.

She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.

‘Mademoiselle?’ Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.

With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.

‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’

An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I will become a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’

Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’

A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.

On the wharf, he skirted heaps of cargo, coils of old rope and clusters of merchants arguing in noisy groups. A group of seamen pushed past him with rolling gait, each brawny shoulder loaded with a barrel. Their curses rang in his ears. Nothing cleared the head like sea air, unless, like here, it was befouled with the smell of rotting fish and heated pitch. He grimaced. It really was a noisome, filthy place.

His long stride carried him swiftly past the waterfront where bare-masted ships speared the cloudy sky. The events of the day pounded at his mind in tune with the sea dashing itself against the cliffs.

Clear of the busy docks, Christopher strolled along the front, savouring the sharp breeze on his skin and the tang of salt on his tongue. Exposed by low tide, the yellow pebble beach sported seaweed and blackened spars. Nothing about Dover appealed to him.

Damn it all. It had been a simple task. Stay one night at the Bull, attend the funeral and the reading of the will, then be on his way to the Darbys’ in Sussex by nightfall. Only now, he had to deal with the problem of Mademoiselle Boisette.

Why not give her the money and let her go her own way? Because he hated to leave anything dangling.

He frowned. The interview with Tripp had confirmed his fears that there was little to be had from the sale of Cliff House. A half-pay naval officer had offered to purchase it for a pittance and Uncle John’s creditors wanted a quick sale. Tripp thought there might be a few pounds left, perhaps between ten and fifty, after the creditors received their share. Mademoiselle Boisette would be hard put to manage on so small a sum.

To top it all, Uncle John had reached out from the grave and planted Christopher a facer. A letter, to be delivered if he refused to take Mademoiselle Boisette under his wing.

Curse it. New rage flared up to heat his blood. He dropped on to a wooden bench looking out over the harbour. Sullen, foam-crested waves tumbled up the beach and rattled the stones. On the horizon black clouds heralding yet more rain. A dousing would make a perfect end to the day.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and broke open the red wax seal. Ripe with the smell of seaweed, the stiff breeze fluttered the paper as he peered at the spidery handwriting.

Dear Nephew,

I write in haste, for I have little time left to me. If you are reading this letter, you have rejected my request to care for my little Sylvia.

Request? More like a bludgeoning over the head with a gravestone. Christopher fought the urge to ball the paper in his fist and toss it into the surf rolling around the rotting timber breakwater.

She has been a daughter to me all these years.

Then why hide her away?

Her mother was my first and only love. She chose another, but my feelings remained constant. Now, all I can do for my beloved Marguerite is take care of her little girl, Sylvia. My poor Marguerite, so tender in her emotions, dragged down into the pit of hell by viciousness and vice.

These were words a Gothic novelist like Mrs Radcliffe would have been proud to write. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to read on.

Understand, my dear Christopher, her father deserted his child and continues to deny her. I have spent my life and most of my money trying to prove her claim.

You must succeed where I have failed. The duke must pay for his crime.

Please, do not let me down. You are Sylvia’s only hope.

John Christopher Evernden.

The word hope had been underlined several times.

He was supposed to guess the name of this duke? He turned the paper over to see if it contained the answer on the back. Nothing. Was he supposed to walk up to each of them in turn and accuse them of siring a French bastard?

Damn. His uncle must think him some sort of knight on a white charger, riding around the countryside rescuing damsels in distress. Questionable damsels at that.

It was the sort of thing Garth would have jumped at when they were boys. And Christopher would have followed behind, cleaning up the mess. A fool’s errand. The old man had to be addled in his pate. Sylvia Boisette had been brutally clear about her mother’s occupation.

But not the daughter? For some obscure reason, he wanted to believe Uncle John’s assertion she was his ward and nothing more. In the face of a statement made by a man facing death, Christopher ought to believe in her innocence as a matter of family honour, despite her wanton behaviour earlier today.

A sudden image of her siren smile, the languorous removal of her gloves, fired his blood. Hell, did he have no self-control where this woman was concerned? Was desire mingled with disgust colouring his judgement?

Whatever the case, the almost nonexistent funds for her support left the workhouse as the only solution unless he succumbed to her blackmail.

He stared blindly at the tumbling surf and grating pebbles.

She needn’t know how much would be left after the sale of the house. He could add to the balance, just be rid of her. He certainly had enough blunt left from the tidy profit he’d made on the last cargo of silks from the Orient. Even after purchasing a half-share in a ship bound for America, there was more than enough left to see Mademoiselle Boisette comfortably settled.

It would solve the problem. If he could be sure she would leave his family in peace.

He stuck the note in his pocket alongside the agreement drawn up by Tripp, pushed to his feet and headed towards town and the comfort of his inn. He’d think about it some more over dinner.

Taking hasty decisions on an empty stomach only resulted in trouble.

Chapter Three

At the crunch of wheels on gravel, Sylvia turned her gaze from her beloved cliffs to the Evernden carriage rolling through the gate.

Thirsty for one last memory, she wheeled in a slow circle, the coarse fabric of her plain, grey wool travelling cloak twisting about her legs. Above her, white against grey, crying seagulls hovered on a breeze alive with the boom of crashing surf and a smattering of rain. Weighed down by the lessons she’d learned as a child, she drank in her last view of the rambling mansion’s warm red brick framed by windswept larches. One could never go back.

The matching chestnuts slowed to a halt at the front door. All loose-limbed athletic grace and conservative in a black coat, Mr Evernden leaped down. The wind ruffled the crisp waves of his light brown hair. His handsome face brightened when he caught sight of her.

Warmth trickled into her stomach. Her mind screamed danger.

He waited as she strolled across the drive to his side, then glanced at her green brassbound trunk beside her valise on the steps. ‘Is this everything?’

She had packed only the most practical of her clothing. She nodded. ‘All I need.’

The coachman tied her luggage on the rack at the back and Mr Evernden swept open the carriage door. ‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle Boisette?’

He held out his hand to assist her in. A small, polite smile curved his firm mouth and green sparks danced in his eyes.

Awareness of his size and strength skittered across her skin. She stilled, frozen by the odd sensation. Last night, his note had indicated his agreement to take her to Tunbridge Wells. After performing the harlot yesterday, dare she trust him? Prickles of foreboding crawled down her back.

She ignored his proffered aid. ‘Quite ready, Mr Evernden.’ Maintaining a cool expression, she stepped into the well-appointed carriage and settled on the comfortable black-tufted seats.

He followed her in, his musky sandalwood cologne heady in the confined space. Lean long legs filled the gap between the seats as he lounged into the squabs in the opposite corner. He gave her a sharp glance, then rapped on the roof and the carriage moved off with a gentle sway.

The window afforded glimpses of white sails skimming the spume-capped grey waves of the English Channel, an impenetrable moat around the castle of her past.

‘Another wet day,’ he said.

She kept her gaze fixed outside. ‘Indeed.’

‘Having caused us to freeze all winter I understand there are predictions that the Tomboro volcano will also ruin our spring.’

The masculine timbre of his voice resonated a chord deep inside her. For no apparent reason, her breath shortened as if his size and strength and even his cologne pressed against her chest. She clenched the strings of her reticule in her lap. ‘So I have heard.’

An awkward silence hung in the air.

He cleared his throat. ‘We will stop at Ashford for lunch and arrive in Tunbridge Wells before the supper hour.’

‘Thank you.’

Tunbridge Wells and Mary Jensen and her future. Her heart swelled with optimism and she touched the locket at her throat. Everything would be all right.

An impatient sigh gusted from his corner. He shifted, stretching out his long legs until his shining black boots landed inches from the edge of her skirts.

For all his outward appearance of ease, tension crackled across the space between them. Determined to ignore it and him, she focused her gaze out of the window.

He eased his shoulders deeper into the corner. She glanced at him from beneath her bonnet’s brim and cast a professional eye over his attire. After all, a successful modiste kept au courant with the latest styles, male and female, and she had met few members of the ton hidden away in Dover.

His buff unmentionables clung to his well-muscled legs, a smooth second skin over lean, strong thighs. Her pulse quickened.

Unable to resist the tempting sight, she let her gaze drift upwards past narrow hips to his broad chest, the close cut of his black coat, unmistakably Weston. Above an intricate, snowy cravat, she followed the column of his strong neck to his patrician profile, then to his hair arranged à la Brutus. A stray lock fell in a wave on his broad forehead. No dandy, just the quiet elegance of a man comfortable with himself.

As if he sensed her perusal, he turned his head and glanced at her from beneath half-lowered lids.

Cheeks burning, she flicked her gaze to the view.

Not another glance would she spare for her escort. Mary and her shop must be the focus of all her attention. Their shop. She hugged the thought to herself, a glimmer of warmth in a chilly world. Although small, according to Mary it was situated one street from the centre of the spa. No longer as popular as Bath, the Wells continued to attract older members of the ton because of its proximity to London. But Mary’s last letter had arrived six months ago. Her business must be thriving if she could not find the time to write.

‘Mademoiselle?’

Her stomach lurched.

Merde. She had all but forgotten him. Taking a deep breath, she willed her heart to stop its wild fluttering and forced frost into her tone. ‘Miss Boisette, Mr Evernden, since I plan to make my home here in England.’

He raised a brow. ‘Boisette is hardly an English name?’

He was right. It was the name her English mother had used in her new life in Paris, a life where she preferred not to shame her family name. Sylvia had simply adopted it. ‘It is how I wish to be addressed.’

A furrow formed above his patrician nose, but he inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’

‘I prefer to be addressed as Miss. Both of my parents were English. Also, there is no need for polite conversation, since after today we will never meet again.’

His firm mouth tightened and his nostrils flared as if he held back angry words. ‘As you wish, Miss Boisette.’

The carriage turned north away from the coast and he gazed out the rain-spattered window at the passing hilly countryside.

She let go of her breath. She infinitely preferred the heat of his anger to the other warmth she’d sensed deep in his eyes. Yesterday, he had been furious as she removed her gloves. Furious and fascinated.

Therein lay the danger. While he might have convinced the softhearted Monsieur Jean as to his honourable nature, she knew better than to trust any man.

Painful pinpricks ran over her shoulders. At any moment he might press her to make good her offer from the previous day. The dangerous game she played might yet be lost. She squeezed tighter into her corner of the carriage.

They reached Ashford around mid-day and lunched at the King’s Head. There, in clipped sentences he explained the document setting out the terms under which he agreed to provide her with the promised funds. Sylvia signed it and he produced a velvet purse containing twenty-five guineas, the rest to be forwarded from his bank within two weeks. With new horses put to, the carriage jolted its way across country to their final destination and at long last, the coach bowled into Tunbridge Wells. Sylvia leaned forward for a better view of the High Street and the famous spa at the bottom of the hill. The town was smaller than she expected. It didn’t matter. The infusion of funds from her uncle and the two of them sharing the work—and she would work night and day—it could not help but be a success.

The coach eased into a narrow lane and pulled up outside a timbered, bow-fronted shop with swathes of cloth draped in the window. Mr Evernden reached for the door handle.

Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. She did not want him to realise the unexpected nature of her arrival. She placed a hand on his sleeve.

The hiss of his indrawn breath shivered to the pit of her stomach.

She drew back, startled. Shaken by her response to that faint breath, she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘If you would request your coachman to put my luggage on the road, I will not put you to any further inconvenience, Mr Evernden.’

He turned the door handle. ‘It is no trouble at all, Miss Boisette.’

Stubborn man. She raised a brow. ‘I prefer not to arrive here blatantly accompanied by a young gentleman of the ton.’

His expression turned grim and he dropped his hand. ‘It is impolite to leave you in the street, but it shall be as you desire.’ He sat back. ‘I wish you all the best in your new life, Miss Boisette, and bid you good day.’

His stern remoteness appealed to her far more than effusive politeness. He’d acted the perfect gentleman in all their dealings, while she had treated him to an outrageous display of hot and cold. No doubt he thought the worst of her. A pang of regret held her rigid for the space of a heartbeat. She must not care about his opinion. She reached for the door. ‘Thank you.’

She stepped out on to the slick cobbles.

At Mr Evernden’s order, the coachman heaved her belongings down beside her and climbed back on to his perch.

Shocked to discover her hand shaking in trepidation, she knocked on the door, all the while aware of Mr Evernden’s intense gaze on her back. She turned, raised her hand in farewell, and the carriage moved off, affording one last glance of Mr Evernden’s stern profile in the window.

The door opened to reveal a freckle-faced girl of about ten. Behind her, a passage led into the depths of the first floor and a narrow set of stairs wound upwards. Mary had never mentioned a child. She must be the maid.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ the girl asked.

Sylvia took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Is Miss Jensen home?’

‘There ain’t no Miss Jensen at this address.’

Sylvia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. I live here, don’t I?’

‘Who is it, Maisie?’ a voice called from upstairs.

‘A lady looking for a Miss Jensen, Ma,’ Maisie yelled back.

A plump, dark-haired matron in a chintz gown, a chubby baby on her hip and a question on her face, clattered down the stairs.

Foreboding quaked in Sylvia’s chest. She took a shaky breath. ‘My name is Sylvia Boisette. I’m here to see Mary Jensen.’

The woman shook her head. ‘She’s gone, miss. The landlady said she fell ill and her brother fetched her back to London more than five months ago.’

The entrance to the Sussex Hotel at the back of the promenade hummed with activity. Coaches rumbled in and out, grooms struggled with frisky teams, ostlers ran to and fro and passengers, rich and poor, milled around in controlled confusion in a yard rich with the smell of horse manure and stale ale.

Sylvia tried to make sense of the bustling chaos. She dug into her meagre store of small coins and gave a ha’ penny to the boy who had carried her trunk from Frog Lane.

He touched his cap and dashed off, whistling a merry tune.

Oh, to be so youthful and carefree. Sylvia couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t been anxious about something. She clutched her reticule to her, where the slip of paper with Mary’s new address, which the plump matron had given her, resided. And right now she was about to embark on an exceedingly risky course. Respectable females rarely travelled by common stage. But then she had never been considered respectable.

She had no option. She would not waste her small store of guineas on expensive modes of travel. Nor could she afford to lose them to footpads or pickpockets. Since no one in the yard appeared to notice her, she unlocked the trunk and hid the purse of guineas in its battered depths. Rising, she caught the eye of a passing lackey in brown livery.

‘Can I help you, miss?’

‘Please take my trunk inside.’

He moved aside to allow a gentleman and his lady to pass through the entrance into the lobby. ‘Have you a room bespoke, miss?’

‘I just need one small chamber.’

‘I dunno. You best check with the master. Your luggage will be safe enough with the porter while you go and see what Mr Garge has to say.’

He hefted her trunk on his shoulder and staggered to the stable entrance with Sylvia marching behind. He dropped it beside an elderly porter seated on a wooden box outside the mail-coach ticket office and storeroom. Another carriage rattled into the yard and the lackey raced off to meet it.

Sylvia smiled at the porter. ‘I plan to catch the first coach to London tomorrow morning. If you would be so good as to see my trunk is placed on it, I would be most grateful.’

A pair of twinkling brown eyes looked at her from beneath straggly grey brows and the weathered face creased into a smile. ‘I’ll be more than pleased to oblige, miss,’ he said. ‘You gets your ticket in there.’ He jerked his head towards the office.

‘Thank you.’ She gave him a penny and went inside to pay for her ticket. By the time she had completed her purchase and come outside, the porter had dispensed with her trunk. The door to the storeroom seemed sturdy and there were bars at the window. Hopefully, her money and her small cache of jewellery would be safe enough. Valise and hatbox in hand, she entered the inn.

One side of the wide entrance hall housed a counter. Across the way, a confusing array of doorways and passages led off in various directions. A bell sat next to the guest book on the counter. She rang it.

Moments later, a short, fat, florid-faced landlord in a black coat and striped waistcoat bustled out of the dining room door. ‘Good evening, miss. Can I be of assistance?’

‘Good evening. I will be catching the six o’clock stage tomorrow morning and require a single room for the night.’

‘The name, miss?’ he asked, running a stubby finger down the list in his book.

‘I do not have a reservation.’

He looked behind her as if he expected someone else. ‘How many in your party, miss? We are very busy today. I am not sure I can accommodate you.’

‘There’s no one else in my party.’

He frowned. ‘Didn’t you just arrive with this gentleman?’

Sylvia glanced over her shoulder. A young sprig of fashion in a many-caped driving coat and stiff shirt points swept through door.

‘I am travelling alone. I… My maid took ill at the last moment.’

The landlord lowered his beetle brows. ‘This inn’s for Quality and their womenfolk don’t travel alone. You’d best take yourself off to the Two Aitches.’

She blinked. She must have misheard. ‘Where?’

‘The Hare and Hounds, on the London Road. It has rooms for the likes of you. Now be off.’

The likes of her? Was her past somehow written on her forehead or branded on her cheek? Heat scorched through her veins. He had no right to treat her like some low-class female because she travelled alone and the last thing she wanted to do was wander the town looking for a room. ‘My good man—’

She drew herself up to her full height and pierced him with a cool stare. ‘You must have something. A small chamber will suffice.’

The landlord tapped a sausage of a finger on his reservation book. ‘Well, I might have something,’ he allowed. ‘Not a very big room and no private parlour. I’ll have to check with the missus.’

The gentleman behind her coughed and the harried landlord looked past her. ‘If you’ll just stand aside, miss, I’ll look after this here gentleman and then I’ll see what can be done.’

A hot admonition jumped to her tongue, instantly quelled. Forced to be patient or lose her only chance of a room, she drew back into the corner and watched as the innkeeper folded his stout body in half. ‘Lord Albert, how good to see you again. What will it be today, a private parlour? We’ve got a nice bit of roast beef on the spit that might take your fancy for dinner.’

The fashionably attired young dandy with an elaborately tied cravat and rouged cheeks caught Sylvia’s scornful glance over the landlord’s bowed head. He winked.

Her stomach dropped. Foolhardy indeed, if she attracted the attention of this young fop. She schooled her face into chilly disdain and stared at the opposite wall.

Undeterred, the dandy gestured in her direction. ‘Why, Garge, I believe this young, er…lady was here before me.’ He spoke with a pronounced lisp.

Garge’s face darkened. ‘I’m looking after her, sir. She has to wait until I have some time.’

From the corner of her eye, she watched Lord Albert’s gaze rake her from head to toe. Damn him for his impudence. Tapping her foot, she favoured him with her iciest stare.

His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance, miss? I’d be delighted to be of service.’ He giggled.

He actually giggled. Sylvia opened her mouth to give him a set-down, but the landlord’s scowl did not bode well and she pressed her lips together.

The landlord’s colour heightened. ‘I’ll have none of them goings-on under my roof, Lord Albert. I run a respectable house, I do.’

‘I was only offering to share my room, Garge.’ The dandy smirked.

Mortified, she stiffened her spine and raised her chin. ‘I have a room.’

The landlord glowered. ‘Not here you don’t.’

Oh, no. He couldn’t have changed his mind, not now. ‘You said—’

‘I made a mistake. We’re full up.’

‘As I said,’ Lord Albert interjected, with a flourish of his silver-headed cane and a sly smile on his thin lips, ‘I would be more than willing to accommodate you.’

Couldn’t the mincing puppy see the trouble he was causing? Sylvia wanted to shake him. ‘Sir, I would be obliged if you would mind your own business.’

The landlord turned his broad back on her as if she no longer existed.

For goodness’ sake. She wasn’t asking for the moon. All she wanted was a room for the night. She picked up her valise and sidled around him, preparing to argue.

A hand touched her sleeve. ‘If you wish,’ a faintly lyrical voice murmured in her ear, ‘I could guide you to the Hare and Hounds Tavern. It’s not such a bad place. I am sure they have a decent room.’

She swung around and found herself hemmed in by a man of medium height and a wiry frame, who must have entered the entrance hall from one of the passages. His dark green coat had seen better days and the brim of his black hat shadowed all but his lean jaw and a flash of crooked teeth.

She shook his hand off her arm. Another gallant gentleman with less than honourable intentions, no doubt. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

He touched her shoulder. ‘You won’t get any change out of Garge, here. You will no doubt fare better at the Hare.’

In a flurry of capes, Lord Albert strode over and pointed his cane at the newcomer’s chest. ‘Stand aside, sir,’ he lisped. ‘Garge, this young lady is under my protection. I insist you provide us with a room immediately. Isn’t that right, my dear?’

He caught her fingers and pressed them to his moist lips. Sylvia pulled away, but for all his fragile posturing, his grip held firm. He drew her closer.

Nausea rose in her throat and her skin crawled at the touch of his hot, damp fingers. A violent urge to flee, a fear she hadn’t known in years, quickened her pulse. But she needed this room.

‘Unhand me, sir.’ With a jerk, she freed herself. Disguising her panic with a chilly glare, she took a deep breath.

‘The young lady is with me.’ A quiet, but firm voice came from behind her.

Sylvia whirled around. One hand resting on the door-frame, his shoulders filling the entrance to the dining room, Christopher Evernden glowered at Lord Albert.

A warm glow rose up her neck and warmed her cheeks. The shabby man uttered a muffled oath and seemed to fade into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared.

The landlord thrust his jaw and pendulous chins in Mr Evernden’s direction. ‘Now don’t you start, sir. This young person ain’t spending the night at this inn with any of you randy gentlemen.’

Heat raced from the tips of her ears to her toes. An irresistible urge to slap the landlord’s fat face clenched her fist.

Mr Evernden shot out a large hand, grasped her wrist and dragged her out of Lord Albert’s reach.

She gasped and pried at his fingers. She wasn’t a bone to be fought over by men acting like curs. ‘Let me go.’

‘I say, old chap,’ the dandy drawled. ‘I saw her first. Find your own ladybird. Or get to the back of the queue.’

His high-pitched giggle scraped her nerves raw. She prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Or, better yet, for lightning to strike the simpering popinjay.

Merde. How had things come to this pass?

‘The lady is with me.’ Suppressed violence filled Mr Evernden’s tone. All semblance of reserve gone, he radiated anger. Eyes the colour of evergreens in winter, he took a menacing step towards the mincing dandy.

Things were definitely growing worse. How typically, brutally male. She pressed back against the wall.

Cursing, Garge inserted his bulk between the two men eyeing each other like fighting cocks. He placed a heavy hand on each man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll have no brawling in my house, gentlemen.’

Lord Albert recoiled, dusting off his coat as if Garge’s touch had soiled it. ‘I’m sure I don’t care that much for the gel.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You shouldn’t leave her loitering about in public houses, if you don’t want her accosted.’

‘Exactly,’ Mr Evernden replied with an exasperated glance at Sylvia.

Did he think to blame her because Lord Albert was a despicable rake? She returned stare for stare.

Lord Albert drummed his fingers on the counter’s polished wood.

Mr Evernden glared at his back, then turned to the bristling innkeeper. ‘Now, landlord, a room for Mademoiselle Boisette, if you please.’

Garge grunted. ‘You ain’t welcome here, sir, not you or your bit o’ muslin, not nohow. I’ll have your carriage brought around and your bags brought down.’ He shook his head and muttered, ‘Mademoiselle indeed. Whatever next? This is a respectable house, this is, and Frenchies ain’t welcome, nor their fancy men, neither.’

He turned to Lord Albert and bowed. ‘I apologise for that, my lord. We don’t usually get riff-raff in here. Now we’ve got that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, Lord Albert, I assume it’s your usual room?’

A dull red suffused Mr Evernden’s lean cheeks. He didn’t speak. He grabbed the valise and hatbox from Sylvia’s hand and strode outside.

Head held high, Sylvia trotted after him. No matter what he thought, she had done nothing wrong. If he dared say one word of criticism, she would provide her opinion of the whole male population.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

Long strides carried him across the cobbled yard. Neatly dodging a liveried lackey running at full tilt with a tray of tankards to a waiting tilbury, he disappeared into the stables.

Nonplussed by yet another startling change in her circumstances, Sylvia waited as instructed. Gradually, her thoughts took some order. It seemed she would have to try this Hare and Hounds after all.

Nearby, a gentleman assisted a woman in a red-plumed bonnet into a shiny black barouche. A terrier, chased by two scruffy urchins, barked at the wheels of a departing coach. As it rattled beneath the archway into the street, she thought she glimpsed a figure flat against the wall. She peered into the gloom, but saw nothing but shadows.

More to the point, she needed a plan. She darted a swift glance around the courtyard, seeking inspiration. With nowhere to stay and Mr Evernden once more in command, she seemed to have come full circle.

‘Miss Boisette.’

She stared in astonishment. The voice came from Christopher Evernden, but instead of his comfortable town coach, he perched high on a maroon-bodied curricle pulled by two ebony horses. An ostler dashed up to hold the nervous team and Mr Evernden leaped down.

She backed away. ‘Where’s your carriage?’

‘I sent it back to London with my servant.’

Gallivanting around the countryside in an open carriage with a strange man reeked of danger. ‘I’m not riding in that.’

He stalked to her side. ‘Either you get in or I’ll pick you up and put you in. Your choice, but make it quick.’

The set of his jaw and the angry glitter in his eyes said he would have no compunction about throwing her into the horrible thing. And yet, for all that he towered over her, she felt not the slightest bit afraid.

‘Very well. I will ride with you as far as the Hare and Hounds.’ At least the rain had ceased.

He handed her up. The fragile equipage rocked precariously on its long springs. While she settled herself with care on the seat, she admired the high-priced cattle in the traces. Mr Evernden obviously knew horses.

The team tossed their heads and stamped their feet. The rackety thing lurched. She grabbed for the side. It was worse than any ship.

The moment Mr Evernden climbed into his seat and took up the reins, the groom released the bridles. Solely in charge of the spirited pair, Mr Evernden glanced around him. With a dexterous twist of his strong wrist, he flicked his whip and set his horses in motion.

She’d heard a great many tales about young blades who drove like the wind in their sporting carriages. More often than not, they broke their necks. She curbed the desire to hang on to his solid-looking forearm.

In moments, the carriage eased its way through the archway. No sign of the man she thought she’d seen loitering in the shadows and yet the hairs on her neck prickled as if someone was watching. Oh, for goodness’ sake. Now she was imagining monsters on every corner. The events of the afternoon must have rattled her nerves. Her biggest problem sat at her side.

They turned out on to the road.

‘I assume you know where to find this Hare and Hounds?’ she asked, pulling her cloak tight against the chilly air.

‘I didn’t say I was going to the Hare and Hounds.’

She stared at the hard line of his profile. He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the flickering muscle in his strong jaw boded ill.

‘Then where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

Once more, something uncomfortable writhed in her stomach. Alone with this man, she had nothing but her wits to defend her and half the time they seemed to go begging where he was concerned. ‘I expect I shall see, but I would prefer to know.’

He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘What difference does it make? You’re going, whether you wish it or not.’

Chapter Four

‘If you are wise, you won’t cause any more trouble,’ he said and pulled out to pass a slowly moving town coach.

Sylvia gripped the side of the curricle and shot him a glare designed to freeze ‘Without your interference, there would have been no trouble.’

‘I suppose you didn’t almost cause a mill back there, cosying up to some namby-pamby, titled puppy with more hair than wit.’ He fired her a hard glance. ‘And just what were you doing there, anyway?’

The mill, as he called the altercation, was entirely his own doing. ‘My affairs are not your concern.’

A muscle jerked in his jaw and his anger sparked across the space between them. ‘Really? We’ll see about that.’

Prickles raced down her back. Until his resentment subsided, she risked more than sharp words from the bristling male at her side. And if he overturned this ridiculous vehicle, it would be the perfect ending to a perfectly awful day. She sat back, determined not to say another word.

The carriage bowled along at a smart clip, his strong hands grasping the ribbons with practised assurance. The spirited team ate up the road, passing everything in its path.

The traffic thinned. Signs of habitation dwindled to the occasional farm along the road. The clouds rolled away and the horizon disappeared into hazy dusk, while sunset gilded the tops of distant trees. She nibbled her bottom lip. Just how far did he intend to travel? If they went too far, she would not get back to Tunbridge Wells in time to catch the morning coach.

Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.

A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’

‘I left my luggage behind.’

‘You can collect it in the morning.’

The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’

‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again… I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.

She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’

He scowled.

She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.

‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.

A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’

Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.

‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’

‘As we found to our cost.’

He smiled. ‘Indeed.’

Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.

The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.

At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’

Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.

Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.

The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.

Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bess in the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.

A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.

A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.

‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.

‘Yes.’ Christopher rolled his stiff shoulders. ‘And I can guarantee we won’t be turned away.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Strain edged her voice.

The paleness of her countenance startled him. Now she felt nervous? She should have been a little more concerned back at the Sussex, a great deal more worried, based on his judgement of Lord Albert’s intentions. The prancing ninny had his hands all over her. His gut churned.

But she had stood up to him, held her ground. He couldn’t but help admire her courage, when it would have been so easy to flee, or to give in to the lordling’s blandishments. And beneath the courage, he’d sensed a very real fear.

Thrusting the recollection aside, Christopher climbed down and reached up to help her alight. He caught her by the waist. Slender and lithe beneath his fingers, the heavy wool of her drab gown and grey cloak did little to disguise her womanly curves. The urge to bring her close and let her slide down his body shortened his breath.

Hell. He was no better than the popinjay at the inn.

Arms rigid, he placed her on the ground away from him, once more surprised by her small stature. For some reason, he imagined her taller. Something about her innate dignity and solemn demeanour added to her height. She had more pride than a duchess when she wasn’t playing the wanton.

‘Mr Christopher.’ Gladness rang in the voice calling out through the door and Christopher turned to greet the generously proportioned matron who burst into the courtyard. She wiped her hands on her snowy apron and held them out in welcome.

He winced. Heaven knew what she’d say about him turning up with an unchaperoned female. He smiled. ‘Mrs Dorkin. How are you?’

‘Why on earth didn’t you write and tell us you were coming?’ she said in mock-scolding tones and her forefinger wagging. ‘I would have aired the sheets special, just like your mother always ordered at the big house.’

Bloody hell. As if he needed more tender care than he’d suffered already. ‘Mrs Dorkin, this is a friend of the family, Miss Sylvia Boisette.’ He turned to Sylvia. ‘Mrs Dorkin cooked for my grandparents at their estate near here.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Sylvia murmured with a smile.

Relief washed through Christopher. At least she wasn’t giving dear old Mrs Dorkin her frosty face. In the old days, the cook had been his only ally against the army of doctors who insisted he eat nothing but gruel. Fortunately, she believed a lad needed his nourishment.

‘We were supposed to lodge at the Sussex Hotel tonight,’ he said, opening his arms in a gesture of regret. ‘But somehow they let our rooms go. I do hope you can accommodate us?’

Mrs Dorkin placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘The Sussex Hotel, is it? And you no more than a stone’s throw from the Bird? I’m surprised at you, Mr Christopher. Come in, do. It’s late and you must be tired.’

She waved a hand in the direction of the front door. ‘I’ve a nice bit of roast pork on the spit and there’s some cottage pie and I think a capon or two—cold, mind—left over from Sunday. Now then, Mr Christopher, I know that finicky appetite of yours, I’ll expect you to let me know if none of it takes your fancy.’ She shook her head. ‘Mercy me, I am sure to find some cheese somewhere and I baked bread this afternoon.’

The warm chatter eased his tension, the way it had calmed him as a boy racked by fever. He gestured for Miss Boisette to step inside. Shadows like bruises lay beneath her huge cornflower eyes. She looked exhausted and scared.

Damn it. The wench had been bold enough an hour ago in the face of the innkeeper’s rudeness and Lord Albert’s obviously dishonourable intentions.

Christopher clenched his jaw. He couldn’t entirely blame the young rakehell. He’d acted like any other hot-blooded male faced with an irresistible opportunity. And Miss Boisette certainly was all of that. Why the hell had she not stayed with her friend? Suspicion reared an ugly head. Perhaps she had followed him, thinking him an easy mark after his generosity.

Mrs Dorkin pitched her voice into the back of the house. ‘Pansy! Dratted girl, never around when you need her.’

A scrawny wench came at a run, her cheeks as red as if she’d been roasting her face instead of the pork.

‘Show the young lady up to the second-floor bedroom.’ Mrs Dorkin smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll find that’s the best room, miss. Quiet.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

Christopher grinned at the plump matron, much as he had when he had lived at his grandmother’s house. ‘Mrs Dorkin, we are starving. Anything you could do to hurry dinner along will be much appreciated.’

‘Dinner in half an hour, don’t be late.’ Mrs Dorkin’s voice faded away as she travelled into the depths of the old inn. ‘Maybe I have some of the nice fruitcake I baked for the vicar last Sunday. You always liked fruitcake…’

Shoulders slumped, Sylvia started after the maid.

Christopher put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have warned you. She’s a dear, but she loves to talk.’

‘She seems very kind. I hadn’t realised just how famished I am. All that talk of food…’

The faintness of her voice, weary posture and attempted smile caused him a pang of guilt. Curse it. No wonder she looked ready to wilt, she’d eaten almost nothing at lunch.

Unwelcome sympathy stirred in his chest. This was the first time today he’d seen her control slip. His questions would wait until after dinner.

He caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle as she followed the maid up the stairs. Even worn to the bone, she radiated female sensuality. No wonder men rushed to her aid, lust burning in their eyes.

The low-beamed room with overstuffed chairs and easy country atmosphere comforted Christopher like hot punch on a cold night. Half-empty serving dishes cluttered the sideboard against the wall.

Pleasantly full, he set down his knife and fork and stared at the woman across from him. The warmth of the fire and her few sips of red wine had dispelled her earlier pallor. The faint glow in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes rendered her utterly lovely.

Mrs Dorkin hadn’t asked him any pointed questions about Miss Boisette’s presence under his protection. No doubt she’d seen and heard enough about the Evernden men and their dissolute ways not to be surprised at Christopher’s arrival with one of the world’s most beautiful women on his arm.

Despite her assertions, Miss Boisette needed proper male protection. The scene at the Sussex proved it.

He ran an appraising glance over her and frowned. Her severe brown gown couldn’t be drearier. Come to think of it, the nondescript grey cloak and black poke bonnet she wore to travel in were also exceedingly dowdy. To all intents and purposes, she dressed like a governess or lady’s maid.

Christopher wanted to see her in something more elegant, lighter, perhaps the colour of sapphires to match her brilliant eyes. Something lacy and filmy that left little to the imagination. Something like Lady Delia, Garth’s last fling, had worn when Christopher had dropped in on their love nest one afternoon.

The image of Sylvia Boisette’s curvaceous form clothed in a wisp of silk stirred his blood.

Her small white teeth, with their adorable tiny space in the centre, bit into a petit-four. What would that moist, soft mouth feel like against his lips or on his…?

Bloody hell. He didn’t need this. He pushed his plate away.

Her wanton behaviour yesterday and in Tunbridge Wells had his thoughts in the gutter. If she had stayed where he had left her, they wouldn’t be in this fix. If she had dressed like a lady, the young lordling might not have been so ready with his insults and the landlord might have given her a room without question.

‘Don’t you have something smarter to wear?’ he asked.

Blue heat flashed in her eyes. Quickly repressed, it hinted at higher passions beneath her cool distant beauty. His groin tightened. Mentally, he cursed.

‘Why would I?’ she asked. ‘I plan to become a shopkeeper, not a courtesan.’

Her flat tone delivered a dash of cold water to his lust. He watched an expression of satisfaction dawn on her face. She intended to disgust him. What game was she playing?

He’d been billed enough for expensive clothes by the last woman in his life to know quality when he saw it. ‘The mourning gown you wore to my uncle’s funeral was well cut and in the height of fashion. Made from the finest silk, if I’m not mistaken.’ He waved his glass in her general direction. ‘I’m sure my uncle preferred you in something more attractive.’

Pain shadowed her eyes before she shuttered her gaze. ‘That part of my life is over.’

He took a deep swallow of wine. ‘Really? Then what were you doing at the Sussex Hotel?’

‘Seeking a room for the night.’

‘With Lord Albert, no doubt.’

Outwardly unruffled, she did not shrink from his gaze, but her hand clutched the locket at her throat. ‘No.’

A low blow, he silently acknowledged, remembering the panic in her eyes when Lord Albert slobbered over her hand. Damn it, every time he thought about it, he wanted to throttle the snivelling fribble.

What the hell was the matter with him? He never let a woman distract him. Miss Boisette had caused him nothing but anxious moments. ‘While we are on the subject, perhaps you would like to explain why you tipped me the double?’

‘Tipped you the double?’ She wrinkled her nose.

The urge to kiss away the furrow on her brow swept through him. He wanted to do more than that. Even with a frown, her incredible beauty numbed his mind and shortened his breath. His blood thickened. Never had a woman tempted him like this one.

He drew in a deep breath, crushing his desire. Dalliance with his uncle’s ward or mistress—which he no longer believed—remained out of the question if he wanted to preserve a grain of family honour.

Hell. He needed to get rid of her and continue on his way to the Darbys’. He set his glass down, the chink loud in the quiet room. ‘Come clean, Miss Boisette. Why did you not stay with your friend? You took money to go into business and within an hour of my leaving you, I find you at a common inn hanging on the arm of some young coxcomb.’

Arctic chill frosted her gaze. ‘Are you implying that I took the money under false pretences?’

‘I demand an explanation.’

‘You have no right to demand anything. You brought me here against my will and if you try to touch me, I will scream bloody murder.’

It seemed he now had her full attention. This beautiful young woman, who behaved like a trollop one moment and an ice queen the next, needed a good shaking. ‘Do you really think the Dorkins will pay any attention?’

Stark terror leaped into her eyes, bleakness invading their clear, cold depths like a plea for help. Fear hung in the air as thick and choking as smoke.

What did a woman like her have to fear from him? She had tossed more lures at him than a falconer to an ill-trained hawk. And he’d almost come to her fist, jessied and hooded.

Enough. He would do his duty and see her settled and he would see it done his way. Calmly, logically. The methods he used in his business dealings.

He poured a glass of wine from the decanter at his elbow and schooled his face into pleasant cheerfulness. ‘I must apologise. My anger is directed at Lord Albert and that damn innkeeper.’ Hell, the recollection caused his blood to simmer all over again. ‘However, we did have an agreement, one you proposed and appear to have broken.’

She didn’t speak, but stared at her empty plate as if trying to weave some new web of lies.

He pushed a plate of comfits in her direction. ‘Here.’

A pathetic peace offering, yet it eased the palpable tension.

Sylvia gazed from the heaped pink-and-white sugared almonds on the blue dish to his face. Emerald fires burned deep in his hazel eyes, not the usual blaze of a lusty male, but a deep slow burn that fanned the embers in the pit of her own stomach to flame.

A tremor she could only identify as fear quivered in the region of her heart. Without him she was stranded. All her money, apart from the few coins in her reticule, had been left behind in Tunbridge Wells.

Trapped. A shiver shot up her spine. And he was right. She did owe him an explanation. She took a deep breath. ‘My friend, Mary Jensen, moved her business to London.’ She hoped he did not hear the hitch in her voice at her lie.

He frowned at his glass, then stared her straight in the eye. ‘I thought she expected you?’

She sighed. Obviously, he had paid attention. ‘There was some error in our communication. She left a forwarding address with the new tenant. The woman forgot to mail on my letters, therefore Mary did not know about your uncle’s unexpected demise.’

His intense scrutiny made her shift in her seat. She had the strong sense he did not believe her.

‘And?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I must now go to London.’

‘You have her address?’

‘I do.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t see why—’

His mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure you don’t. But you are mistaken if you think I am going to drop you off at a coaching house in the morning without knowing your proposed destination.’

‘You agreed to drive me to Tunbridge Wells. Your obligation ends there.’

‘I offered to drive you to the bosom of your friend and that is where my duty ends.’

The quiet emphasis in his voice made it clear he would not listen to further argument. She hesitated. It would do no harm to give him Mary’s directions. Once she reached London, she would never see him again.

‘Very well.’ She dived into her reticule and handed him the dog-eared paper with Mary’s new address.

He gazed at it silently for a moment. ‘Dear God. The Seven Dials. Do you have any idea what sort of place that is?’

Her stomach plummeted. ‘Not good, I assume.’

‘I wouldn’t worry if it were just not good, as you put it. It couldn’t be worse. It houses London’s worst slums and most dangerous criminals.’

‘Mary Jensen is of a perfect respectability,’ she flashed back. Incroyable. She’d lost her grip on her English.

‘Not living in that neighborhood, she isn’t.’ He tossed the paper on the table next to a hunk of fruitcake.

His innuendoes wearied her; the whole day had tried her patience, and the strange, nerve-stretching awareness between them exhausted her most of all. She was an idiot for leaving Tunbridge Wells in his carriage. She would have been much better off at the damned Hare and Hounds.

‘What does it matter? I am not of a respectableness enough for you or your most esteemed family. The sooner we make our own directions, the better, n’est ce pas?’

‘Do not raise your voice to me, mademoiselle.’

‘And do not dictate to me.’

She stood.

He followed suit with easy grace, looming over her, green pinpricks of anger dancing in his eyes. ‘I would not have to dictate to you, if you had been more forthright in your dealings with me. It is my duty to see you safely established somewhere and I will not brook an argument.’

Golden in the firelight, he stood like a knight of old surrounded by the armour of righteousness. Trust him, her heart murmured with a little skip. Let him enfold you with his strength, urged her body with a delicious shiver. An urgent warning clamoured in her mind. You are no better than your mother.

‘I do not accept your right to give me orders.’

He bowed. ‘I suggest you go to bed. We will discuss what is to be done in the morning, when your nerves are less overset.’

She almost laughed in his face. Monsieur Jean must have lost his mind putting her in the hands of this dutiful and stuffy Evernden nephew.

‘Nerves, Mr Evernden, are for pampered darlings with fathers and husbands to protect them while they lie about on chaises with vinaigrettes and hartshorn complaining of headaches. I don’t have the luxury of nerves.’ She headed for the door. ‘We will certainly discuss this further en route to catch the mail in the morning.’

She turned in the doorway. ‘We will need to be up at five. I hope that is not too early for you?’

His open mouth gave her satisfaction enough as she swept out of the room and up the stairs.

Chapter Five

Christopher paused on the front step of the inn and lit his cigar. The night air cooled his cheeks after the Bird in Hand’s blazing fire and his argument with Miss Boisette. Abstracted, he ran a hand over the thick wooden door, the raised studs and black iron bands rough beneath his fingertips. Hard to imagine that the man who had built this door had died more than two centuries ago and the tree from which he carved it had probably grown for two centuries before that. Those were times of knights and lords and deeds of daring. What would those men think of this world now?

The faint haze of his smoky breath drifted in front of his face. He drew on his cigar and savoured the acrid burn on his tongue and the mellow aroma in his nostrils. He needed a walk to restore some sort of order to his body and his mind before he retired for the night.

He left the warm light of the inn and strode down the tree-arched lane, stretching muscles cramped from the journey. Amidst the sparse spring leaves of the canopy above his head, stars winked their steel-bright messages in a stygian sky.

A wooden stile broke a gap in the dense hedgerow and he leaned against its rail. The full moon hovered yellow, fat and lazy above the horizon. Scattered lights twinkled along the dark slash of river valley meandering through rolling meadows.

He’d wandered this countryside as a boy while quarantined from disease-ridden London and his family. They had visited him here at his grandparents’ estate from time to time, but his father had insisted on residing in London.

He stared into the gloom, trying to identify boyhood haunts. He and Garth had ridden this country hard during school holidays. He grimaced. More often than not, Garth had been flogged for some of their more daring exploits, always taking the punishment for leading Christopher astray. He hadn’t needed much leading. But deemed too sickly to receive his share of the blame, Garth had taken it for both of them. Garth never seemed to care, but he had ceased to spend much time at Hedly Hall once he went away to school and Christopher hadn’t visited it in years. Too busy keeping on top of his business interests.

An owl hooted. Distant hooves beat the familiar rhythm of a gallop on the hard-packed earth. The drumming stopped, heralding a late-night visitor to the inn.

His mind flew back to Sylvia, the gorgeous vision of sensual womanhood he had seen in Dover, the frightened, but determined, girl at the Sussex Hotel. He smothered a curse. Stubborn woman. She had him out here pacing in the night air while she no doubt was tucked up in bed, dreaming of London, with a gown of the sheerest muslin covering every lithe inch of her. He grimaced. He didn’t care what kind of gown she wore; he wanted to see it on her. He wanted to slide it from her alabaster skin the way she’d stripped off her gloves. He wanted what lay beneath.

His arousal, a low controlled thrumming during dinner, spiked with urgent need. What the hell was the matter with him? He never had any trouble controlling his base urges when confronted with members of the opposite sex. Not even the most famous of London’s courtesans had heated his blood to the point he could think of nothing but slaking his lust inside her delicious body.

No matter how dull the attire covering her enticing curves, the longer he spent in her company, the more he wanted to explore her swells and hollows.

He groaned. He’d have more success knocking out Gentleman Jackson than battering his loins’ demands into submission. Damn John Evernden for foisting the wench on him.

No one need know if she became his mistress. The idea lit in his mind like a beacon. In London the news would make the rounds in a heartbeat, but tucked away at his country house in Kent, their liaison would be discreet enough. No one would know he’d taken his uncle’s ward under his protection.

He would know. And Garth would accuse him of hypocrisy the moment he guessed. He closed his eyes in silent contempt. Was he as bad as the rest of the Evernden men when it came to loose women?

Damn. There had been enough scandal in the Evernden family and he had sworn not to add to it.

He dropped the remains of his cigar, a smouldering red spark in the night, and ground it beneath his heel as if quenching the fire in his veins. If only it were that easy. He turned and strode for the inn.

What the hell should he do with her, then? The thought of a bordello chilled his blood. A lady’s maid? A seamstress? Apparently, she had some talent in that direction.

Idiot. She was French. A married friend had complained bitterly about the cost of his French governess. If, as Christopher suspected, this friend in London proved to be a hum, why not palm her off on some country squire seeking to elevate the prospects of his hopeful brood?

Because he wanted her.

Hell fire. A wry smile twisted his lips at the way his mind bent towards the urgings of his body.

He rounded the bend. A lantern lit the sign of the Bird, a clenched fist with only the head of a bright-eyed robin visible. The door lay open, but the parlour window was dark and blank.

What would Mrs Dorkin say if he requested a tub of cold water to be sent to his chamber? She’d likely think he’d run mad and predict his death from pneumonia.

Tension locked his spine and he rubbed the back of his neck. A good strong brandy before bed would relax him and take the edge off the want clawing at the heart of his resolve.

Maybe two.

A brown gelding lifted its head from the trough on the stable wall. A nice beast, perhaps a little long in the leg, it had been ridden hard judging from the steam rising from its flanks.

Christopher ducked his head beneath the lintel and made his way through a narrow passage to the back of the house and the dimly lit taproom. Behind the long bar, Jack Dorkin, jolly and fat on his wife’s cooking, greeted him with a nod.

Dorkin put down a pewter tankard and his drying cloth. ‘Something for you, Mr Evernden?’

‘A brandy, please. Make it a double.’

Dorkin lifted a bottle and shook it. ‘I’ll have to go to the cellar,’ he muttered. ‘Won’t be but a moment, sir.’ He swung up a trapdoor in the floor and clattered down the steps.

Christopher leaned one arm on the battered oak bar. A couple of country labourers in traditional smocks, clay pipes clamped in whiskered jaws, clacked domino tiles in swift sure movements. An occasional chuckle or mutter indicated the state of play. A shepherd, his dog at his feet, nursed a tankard on the settle beside the red brick medieval hearth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement in the shadows at the far end of the bar. In a pool of light cast by an oil lamp, a square strong hand, the wrist covered by the cuff of dark green coat, lifted a mug. The horseman.

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