“We’ve always been at sword-point in one way or another.”

“I did not love you before.”

He held his breath. “Do you…love me…now?”

She shivered and her voice caught on a sigh. “Yes.”

She loved him? But how could she? He’d flaunted her as a courtesan, warned her she could not trust him. But he’d never told her that she had taken his breath away the first time he’d ever seen her.

“Dianthe,” he said, his voice cracking over the force of his emotions. “I…not a single one of your relatives would thank me for loving you, and a few would call me out. And they’d be right. I want nothing more than to despoil you.” He held her closer, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her scent.

“Do not try to be noble,” she said. “Finish what you’ve begun…!”

Praise for Gail Ranstrom

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

The Missing Heir

“Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end…”

—Romantic Times

The Courtesan’s Courtship
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Once again, with love, to my family.

Thank you for all the years of love, laughter and friendship. I couldn’t ask for more.

My gratitude and love to Rosanne, Margaret, Cynthia, Lisa, Eileen and Suzi, who always tell me the truth, even if I don’t like it. And especially to Sandi F., through thick and thin.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

August 18, 1820

F ragmented shadows skittered across the dark pebbled pathway in Vauxhall Gardens, confusing in their quickly changing patterns. A sigh. A moan. The wind? Even the shadows menaced. Dianthe was not timid, but she had never liked being alone in the dark. Objects seen or imagined disappeared with the next shift of the wind. She stumbled, certain her friends had come this way to watch the fireworks over the river just moments ago. Had she made a wrong turn in the dark?

The bushes nearby rustled and a prickle of fear raced up her spine. Was it the breeze off the river, or were Hortense and Harriett doubling back for her? Or could it be that strange man shrouded in a scarlet cloak who’d run into her earlier? She hadn’t been able to see his face, but he’d seemed surprised when she’d turned to glare at his hand on her arm, as if he had thought she was someone else.

She stubbed her toe again and seized the trunk of a tree to keep her balance. Eerie dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves and branches cast another kaleidoscopic mix of shadows and light, but this time there was no mistake. The object she’d stumbled upon was a woman. She looked like a forgotten doll lying facedown and partially hidden beneath a fragrant honeysuckle bush.

Dianthe recognized her—the girl’s white dress, actually. It was almost identical to her own, right down to the pink satin ribbon that trimmed the neckline and hem. She’d seen the young woman earlier in the evening, near the entrance.

Hortense, who had been returning from the privy, had stopped and stared. “My goodness, Dianthe, she could be your twin. Even her hair is your light blond,” she’d said. That had been hours ago.

Dianthe knelt beside the girl and touched her shoulder. “Miss? Are you ill? Do you need help?” she asked, fighting rising alarm.

“Miss?” she asked again, shaking the girl’s shoulder gently. A faint moan sped Dianthe’s heartbeat. She tugged at the woman’s shoulder and turned her over, her hands coming away wet and sticky. A dark gleaming stain spread in a ragged pattern over the bodice of the young woman’s gown. Dianthe was shocked by the look of panic and despair on the girl’s face.

“Oh…’tis you. S-stop…him,” she whispered in a faint, wavering voice. “Don’t let…him get away with…this. Promise me.”

“What?” Dianthe asked. “Get away with what, miss?”

“M-murder. Promise….” The woman was agitated, though her voice was growing weaker by the moment. “Be careful, Dianthe…he saw you and will come for you next.”

“Do I know you, miss? Who will come? And who was murdered?” she asked.

“The others…and…me,” she said with a soft sigh. “Stop him…before…”

A chill of fear and dread raced along Dianthe’s nerves. No, that didn’t make sense. The girl expelled another sigh and seemed to settle into her arms.

Dianthe shook her again, and her head lolled to one side. “Miss!” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I promise, miss! I promise! Just say something. Please!”

The girl’s eyes were open. Why wouldn’t she answer? “Miss?” Dianthe asked again, louder this time, and fighting the onrushing panic.

She leaned forward, her hair tangling on the branches of the honeysuckle bush and coming loose from her coiffure. An object lay on the ground beside her and, without thinking, she picked it up. Moonlight flashed off the edge. A knife!

Aghast, she recoiled and fell back on her bottom, growing dizzy with disbelief. No, it wasn’t true. The young woman’s eyes were still open—she couldn’t be dead!

Dianthe gulped in a lungful of air, then another, fearing she was about to faint. She couldn’t gather her wits or comprehend the horror of what lay before her. Still dizzy, still holding the knife, she drew her knees up and placed her forehead on them, breathing deeply and fighting her rising nausea.

“What the deuce—”

She looked up to find a stranger staring down at her in horror. “Someone bring a lantern!” he shouted.

A moment later, the small clearing sprang to life and a sea of faces surrounded her. Hortense and Harriett pushed forward, staring down at her with mouths agape. Their father knelt on the other side of the dead girl and felt for a pulse.

“What happened, Miss Lovejoy?” Mr. Thayer asked.

“I don’t know,” she squeaked. “Miss Banks went home and left me to search for you alone. I was trying to catch up for the fireworks and I tripped over…” She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. Blood. There was blood on her gown and her hands. And on the knife she still held.

A gentleman dressed in sober black pressed forward and appraised the scene. She recalled meeting Dr. Worley at parties and soirees, and had even danced with him once or twice. Surely now that he was here everything would begin to make sense.

He looked across the body at her. “Why, ’tis Nell Brookes. What is she doing here? And what are you doing with her, Miss Lovejoy? She’s hardly the sort I would expect to see you with.”

What could he mean? What sort? “I found her here,” she said, pushing her tangled hair out of her face.

The doctor knelt beside Mr. Thayer, touched the dead girl’s neck and shook his head. “She’s only been dead a few minutes,” he said. “The knife punctured her heart. That’s why there’s so much blood. Her killer will be covered in it.” He looked back at Dianthe and frowned. “What happened, Miss Lovejoy?”

Uncomprehending, she glanced from the girl to Dr. Worley and back again. “She… I found her…” She glanced around at the growing crowd surrounding her. They were looking at her in fascinated horror. Good heavens! Could the murderer be among them? Could he be staring at her even now? Would she be next, as the girl had warned? “I…I fell over her,” she said weakly.

“The weapon?” he asked, gesturing at the knife in her hand. “Where did you get it?”

“On the ground. B-beside her.”

“How did you come to have so much blood on you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Here now!” Mr. Thayer interceded. “What are you suggesting? Miss Lovejoy is a proper lady. She does not get herself into trouble.”

Hortense and Harriett nodded in agreement.

Mr. Thayer calmed himself and spoke again. “Miss Lovejoy has not been out of our sight more than ten minutes.”

Dr. Worley looked sympathetic. “Miss Brookes has been dead less than five,” he said. “Was there anyone else about, Miss Lovejoy? Anyone who can verify your story?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t even recall her own name. She could only remember a feeling of dread and disquiet.

The crowd was pressing forward in morbid curiosity, and Dr. Worley turned to them. “Did any of you see someone fleeing down any of the paths?”

No one spoke. A number of cautious glances passed from person to person. Surely they couldn’t believe she would murder a complete stranger for no particular reason? Dianthe sought a friendly face, someone who had witnessed the event and who could solve the mystery. But they were all strangers to her.

Oh, dear! Not all strangers, curse the luck.

One man, taller than the rest, and absurdly good-looking, edged through the crowd and quickly scanned the scene. He took in the dead girl, the people crowding into the tiny clearing, the shrubbery around them, and then his gaze settled on her. Only the quickest blink of his hard hazel eyes betrayed that he recognized her.

Lord Geoffrey Morgan! Oh, of all the people she’d not have wanted to find her in such a state, he was at the top of her list. How he must be relishing this moment after her set-down in her aunt’s drawing room months ago.

But why was he here? For all that he was a baron and from a respectable family, he had fallen low. He should be in some Covent Garden hell, bilking some poor green lad of his fortune. He was a devil—a notorious, ruthless and unscrupulous gambler. And it was ridiculous to think that he might have a life as mundane as to include visits to a pleasure garden.

Edging past the front row of spectators, he knelt beside Dr. Worley and looked at the body. “Nell Brookes,” he muttered, his frown forming creases between his eyes. He passed one graceful, elegant hand over the girl’s face to close her eyes. “What happened, Worley?”

“Stabbed in the heart. She cannot be dead five minutes. Miss Lovejoy, here, was…found her.”

Morgan looked up at her, a flicker of surprise lifting his eyebrows. “What were you doing here, Miss Lovejoy?”

“I was going to the river to meet the Thayers. I tripped over her as I came down this path.” She looked around at the faces again. If the murderer knew the girl had spoken to her—had made her promise to find him—would he come after her? No, she had to keep the dead girl’s words a secret. “She…she was already dead,” she finished, horrified to hear her voice rise with hysteria.

Lord Morgan reached across the distance, gently opened her fingers and pried the knife from her grip. She suddenly realized that she must look very suspicious, indeed—with blood on her hands and gown, her hair tumbling loose from its pins and the knife in her hand. A sinking feeling caused her to go suddenly cold, and she shivered.

The frown lines between Lord Geoffrey’s hazel eyes deepened, but she took heart from the strength that poured into her from him. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is no time for missish vapors, Miss Lovejoy. Keep your wits about you.”

She clamped her mouth shut and hugged herself tightly, fighting back tears.

He smiled with satisfaction. “There’s a good girl.” He turned to the crowd. “Back away please. You are trampling evidence. Someone fetch the constabulary. And someone bring a blanket.”

Dianthe could not take her eyes off the girl. “She is so young,” she said.

“In years,” Lord Morgan agreed.

“Should…should someone fetch her parents?” The tears she’d been fighting welled in Dianthe’s eyes as she thought of how deeply they would mourn. She looked down, not wanting Lord Morgan to witness her weakness.

“I do not believe she has parents,” he said.

“You knew her?”

“We had met,” he commented in an even tone.

“Then who is her guardian?”

“She was without a guardian. A woman of…independent means.”

Dianthe felt a blush steal up her cheeks as she met his eyes. Independent means. She suspected she knew what that meant. “Even so, Lord Morgan, someone must care for her. Someone must have brought her here. They should be told.”

Mr. Thayer interceded with an angry glance at Lord Morgan. “You ought not to be carrying on such a conversation with Miss Lovejoy. ’Tisn’t fit for innocent ears.”

“She’s shown more sense than the rest of you,” Lord Morgan said, his appraising gaze sweeping the crowd. “Someone see if you can find Miss Brookes’s escort.” He turned to Dianthe and asked, “Did you come here with Mr. Thayer?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Then leave with him. You will not want to be here for the rest of this, and it will be better if you are not too available. Where is your aunt?”

“She and Mr. Hawthorne have gone to Italy on their wedding trip. They will not be home for another month, I think.”

“Where will you be if the police need to speak with you?”

“The Thayers’.”

“Then I’d advise you to remain quietly with the Thayers until your aunt returns. Do you think that is possible for you, Miss Lovejoy?”

Was he insinuating that she was a rowdy chit who had difficulty behaving? She stood and lifted her chin in the air as she swept her skirts away from him, then went to stand beside the Thayers. Harriett and Hortense each took one of her arms and led her away from the scene. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Lord Morgan watching her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. Could he actually suspect her of murder?

The seedy Whitefriars tavern in a back street was the sort of place few people would even notice. Geoffrey could have bought the whole damn tavern for the sum he’d paid in rent over the last four years. Ah, but it was good to have a safe den in unexpected areas if one needed to go to ground quickly. Or needed to meet with people one would rather not be seen with.

He climbed the back stairs, drew his dagger from his boot, unlocked the door and stepped into the room, ready for whatever was waiting. In this part of town, break-ins were commonplace. But all was well tonight. He slipped the dagger back in his boot, took kindling from a basket, lit the fire and then the oil lantern on the table. A whiskey bottle and two glasses completed his preparations. Nothing fancy here.

Sir Henry Richardson’s knock was right on time. The man was nothing if not prompt. Geoff let him in and locked the door behind him.

“What’s so damn urgent to pull me from Polly’s bed?”

Geoff shook his head. Sir Harry, as the man was widely known, was a true ladies’ man. Tall and lanky, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, he never lacked for female attention, though he was wise enough to confine his amorous attentions to the demimonde. It would never do to have the angry father or brother of some innocent debutante looking for him.

Harry sat and Geoff poured him a stiff glass of whiskey. “Nell Brookes is dead.”

Harry choked midswallow. “Nell? Son of a… What the hell happened?”

“Murdered.”

“Not you?”

Geoff sighed. “I confess the thought entered my mind more than once, but no. If she had made some connection to Mustafa el-Daibul, well, she could have been the best lead we’ve had since the bastard entrenched himself in Tangier years ago. Nell knew women were missing, but I warned her to keep out of it. The stubborn minx did not tell me she was determined to see if she could get to the bottom of it. She knew I’d stop her.”

“A great pity. Nell was an excellent toss in the sheets. Knew all the tricks of the trade,” Sir Harry mused, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. When he’d finished the contents, he slammed it down on the table. “So we’re set back a bit. What’s next?”

“I’m still trying to sort that out,” Geoff told him. “There are…complications.”

“And what might those be?”

Geoff envisioned Miss Dianthe Lovejoy, bent over Nell’s body, holding the knife and smeared with blood. Dr. Worley had said the killer would be covered in blood, and Geoff had watched the gates until damn near dawn. No one had exited with any trace of blood on his or her clothing—except Miss Lovejoy. Surely, despite mounting evidence to the contrary, she had nothing to do with Nell’s death. What could her motive possibly be?

Geoff’s other thought—less likely but more troubling—was that Miss Lovejoy and not Nell Brookes had been the killer’s target. She looked enough like the courtesan to have confused a hired killer, and their gowns were startlingly similar. If that were the case, Miss Lovejoy would need a warning.

“Geoff?” Harry asked.

“Just thinking,” he said, pouring them both another glass of whiskey.

He went back to the table and sat. Lowering his voice, he said, “A young woman who is associated with friends of mine was found bending over Nell’s body. The doctor thought she might have been searching Nell.”

Harry smiled. “But you don’t think so, do you?”

Geoff shrugged. What, really, did he know about Miss Lovejoy, except that she detested him—and not entirely without reason? He had nearly gotten her cousin killed three months ago. “I cannot imagine why she would,” he said truthfully. “She looks to be the same age as Nell, but years more innocent. I would think a young woman of her sheltered upbringing would be too shocked to find a dead body to think of searching it. But after she left with the Thayers, we found a note in Nell’s reticule. It had notations detailing Miss Lovejoy’s address at the Thayers’, and that she would be at Vauxhall Gardens tonight. This gives rise to the question of whether Nell was seeking her out for some other purpose.”

“Could the Lovejoy chit actually have been Nell’s killer?” Harry ventured.

“Again, why?”

Harry shrugged.

“Even more curious, Miss Lovejoy could be Nell’s twin.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s a coincidence! And a rather intriguing possibility. Could Miss Lovejoy and Nell be siblings?”

“Unlikely. Miss Lovejoy has an older sister and a younger brother. The family was country-bound. That wouldn’t leave room for her father to beget a child on a mistress, nor for her mother to stray.”

A slow smile lit Harry’s face. “If Miss Lovejoy is as comely as our fair Nell, she’s bound to be a real stunner. Yes, might have to arrange an introduction.”

“She’s better looking than Nell, fresher and more innocent. But stay away from her, Harry. She’s trouble or my name isn’t Geoffrey Morgan.”

Harry looked speculative. “Are there any suspects?”

“Just Miss Lovejoy, it seems. No one saw anyone else coming along the paths afterward, or reported seeing anyone following Nell. Miss Lovejoy may not have a motive, but that doesn’t seem to bother the authorities. She’s all they’ve got at the moment. I would not want to be in her shoes.”

“She won’t be arrested, will she?”

That thought gave Geoff pause. Although he didn’t actually care what happened to the haughty little chit, he would not want her cousin caused distress. The man had saved his life, after all. “I hope not, Harry, but that’s not our business. Her family will look out for her. We need to focus on el-Daibul. Damn! I thought we were onto something with Nell. Now we’re going to have to scramble for information again. I fear I’m making a career out of this case.”

“Where do you suggest we go from here?”

“Back to the hells.”

Harry grinned. “And back to the demimonde, for me.”

Dianthe perched on the edge of her chair in Lady Annica’s private sitting room, studying the faces around her. Lady Annica, Charity MacGregor and Lady Sarah Travis were staring at her in horror, and even worse, they were speechless! This was bad. She’d never seen them speechless before. These ladies, masquerading as the Wednesday League, a bluestocking group, secretly obtained justice for wronged women. They had seen and heard things worse than Dianthe’s story, but only one had involved one of their own members. Until today.

At last Lady Annica blinked and closed her mouth. She cleared her throat before she spoke, as if she were afraid she’d lost her voice. “Dianthe, dear, that is appalling!”

“There’s more.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. “Somehow, Miss Brookes knew my name. She called me Dianthe. How could that be?”

“You said you had the same dress?” Lady Annica asked. “Perhaps she asked someone who you were.”

Dianthe shivered, recalling the horror of the scene last night. “Too many coincidences. It defies logic.”

“This entire event defies logic,” Charity declared.

“There is worse. Before I could even leave Vauxhall, the police found a note in Miss Brookes’s reticule with my name and address on it. They stopped me and asked extensive questions and said they would come by the Thayers’ today for a sample of my handwriting.” Dianthe’s stomach clenched with anxiety. “They told Mr. Thayer not to let me out of his sight until they’d had a chance to verify my story, but I slipped away because I knew you all would be frantic once you heard the news. Does that not sound as if they suspect me of something?”

Lady Sarah frowned. “But that is completely absurd. You would not harm a fly.”

“No,” she agreed, “but they don’t know that. All they know is what they saw.”

“Lord Geoffrey Morgan was there?” Sarah asked.

“He advised me to go home and stay there until this was over. Can you imagine?”

“That is good advice, Dianthe,” Sarah said. “But rather than go back to the Thayers’, I think you should come stay with me.”

“Or me,” Annica said.

“Or me.” Charity nodded. “You should be with one of us. I fear Mr. Thayer would not understand what we are about to do.”

“What are we about to do?” Dianthe asked.

“Why, investigate Miss Brookes’s death, of course. Once we prove you innocent, the police will have to leave you alone,” Lady Annica announced with confidence. “And they would not dare to bother you if you are with me and Auberville. He would never permit it.”

Dianthe warmed with the knowledge of how much these ladies would sacrifice for her. But, of course, she could never permit it. She did not like putting the ladies at risk when it was her problem and her future hanging in the balance. Nor could she tell them about Nell’s last words—that she would be next. Or that she’d promised to stop Nell’s killer. They would never let her out of their sight if they knew that little piece of information.

She shook her head. “Auberville is rising in government and I would not do anything to jeopardize that. And Sarah, I know your brother is being considered for Lord Barrington’s vacant post, so I would not have my scandal attached to your name. Likewise for you, Charity.”

Annica frowned, little lines forming between her dark eyebrows. “I appreciate your sensitivity to the matter, Dianthe, but your safety is paramount. We shall write to your sister at once. She and McHugh will return from the Highlands to take charge of this. But that will take two or three weeks. It is possible that Grace and Mr. Hawthorne will return in the interim, but we cannot count on that. Meantime, we must find a safe place for you. And I frankly do not think Mr. Thayer has the necessary connections to provide that. You belong with one of us.”

Dianthe clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. Oh, how she wished she could accept Lady Annica’s invitation. But as terrified as she was, these women had been far too good to her family to taint them with her scandal. She took a deep breath and launched her carefully prepared lie. “I have my own plan. I have already packed a small valise and left a note for the Thayers saying that I shall find lodgings elsewhere. No—” she held up one hand to silence their questions “—I shall not tell you with whom. I do not want you to have to lie should the authorities ask. The arrangements are quite proper and I could not be safer.”

“What will you do?”

Dianthe fought back her encroaching fear. She took a deep breath and lied as if she’d been born to it. “I will keep out of sight until the matter is resolved. Please, there is no need to worry.”

Lady Annica sighed. “We shall begin making inquiries, Dianthe. Now the Wednesday League is fighting for one of our own. Someone is bound to find out something.”

“Do you have the funds you will need?” Lady Sarah asked.

“I believe so.” Dianthe hedged. She had little more than ten pounds, but if they knew her plan to investigate the murder herself, they’d take her in, tie her to her chair and keep her locked up until her family came for her.

Lady Annica frowned. “When, Dianthe? When shall we see you again?”

“Heavens! There may be no need of even a week. The police may find the murderer today and I shall be safely back with the Thayers by tomorrow.”

“Do you promise to meet with us every other day?”

That was a small price to pay for their peace of mind. “Promise. But if the police are looking for me, they will watch your houses. Shall we meet at La Meilleure Robe?”

Charity nodded. “Madame Marie will accommodate us, and we shall put Mr. Renquist on this case at once. A Bow Street runner will be just the thing to hurry this along. Should you need anything—money, shelter or assistance—you know we stand ready to assist you.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know.”

“I fear for you, Dianthe. The streets of London are fraught with danger,” Lady Sarah warned. “All sorts of unscrupulous people are waiting to take advantage of an unwary woman.”

Dianthe stood and smoothed the skirts of her gown. “I shall be wary, Lady Sarah, and quite safe withering away in hiding. If you must be concerned, be concerned over my utter boredom,” she said with a wisp of inspiration.

Chapter Two

“I am sorry, Miss Smith, but I cannot let you a room,” the clerk at the desk of Emery’s Hostel for Women told Dianthe. “It is not our policy to rent to unchaperoned young ladies.”

She glanced around the spotless lobby, which was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, and fumbled with her reticule, wondering how one went about bribing a clerk. “I assure you, sir, that my aunt will be arriving later this evening. I…I will pay extra if that will ease your mind.”

The clerk’s bushy eyebrows lifted at that. “Later? You traveled to town alone?”

“She…ah, sent me ahead.”

“That is most unseemly, Miss Smith. Perhaps you and your…aunt would be more comfortable at Desmond’s?”

He didn’t believe her! He thought she was a woman of questionable virtue. She’d never been refused admittance anywhere, and this was an insult she could scarcely suffer in silence. She’d give the man a set-down if necessity didn’t require discretion. Her cheeks burning, she lifted her valise and walked into the street.

In truth, she’d already tried Desmond’s Hostel and had been refused there, too, and another three hostels besides. She would go back to Aunt Grace’s home on Bloomsbury Square, but returning there would be tantamount to walking into the Bow Street office and announcing her name.

Fighting frustrated tears, she found a vacant bench in the square across from the hostel and sat dejectedly, despairing of finding a safe place to spend the night. Her empty stomach growled. She’d never had to provide for herself or depend on her wits for survival before, and she fought the creeping fear that she was doomed to failure.

After a brief rest, she stood and retrieved her valise. Her last chance for shelter tonight was just around the corner. She prayed the little flat above Madame Marie’s shop was still vacant. If she could stay there for a few days, surely this mess would be straightened out.

She arrived at La Meilleure Robe just as Madame Marie was locking up for the night. The modiste opened the door and admitted her before locking it and pulling the shade over the window. Dianthe glanced around the dimly lit foyer and dropped her valise on a chair to remove her gloves.

Madame Marie peeked out at the street from behind the shade before turning to her. “Chérie! Where ’ave you been? My ’usband ’as been looking for you all day.”

“Mr. Renquist is looking for me? Whatever for?”

“The ladies ’ave told ’im what is afoot. But ’e already knew. Orders ’ave come down from Bow Street that all runners are to appre’end you on sight and bring you to the Bow Street station for questioning.”

“Drat,” she muttered under her breath. “Now I shall truly have to stay out of sight. Is the room upstairs still vacant, Madame?”

“No, chérie. It was let months ago.”

“Then I must leave at once.” Dianthe fought tears of frustration as she began pulling her gloves back on.

“But wait! François will not turn you in. You shall stay with us, eh?”

She could no more allow Mr. Renquist to risk his job, family and reputation than she could have her other friends. “Thank you, Madame, but I cannot. I have just thought of a nice solution,” she lied. She was dismayed by how easy that was becoming.

“Will you not stay and speak with François?”

“Tell him I will come day after tomorrow. I am meeting the ladies here in the afternoon. Once I am settled I shall be able to think about how to proceed.”

Geoff crossed Leicester Square at an angle, heading for Green Street. With dusk settling over the city, traffic was thinning. He would be home in a few minutes. Or, at least, the place he called home. He preferred the moderate home on Salisbury Street just off The Strand to his new mansion on Curzon Street.

Yes, on Salisbury Street, his footsteps did not echo on marble floors, reminding him how alone he was. Still, even there he was haunted by the memory of Constance Bennington. Constance, the first woman he’d ever loved. Her death weighed on his conscience every day. Every night. He knew he could never put her memory to rest until he found the man responsible for her death.

Four years ago, when he’d first begun hunting the white slaver, el-Daibul, to put an end to his kidnapping of Englishwomen, he hadn’t realized the price he’d pay—the price she’d pay—for his efforts. Before they’d put an end to el-Daibul’s scheme, more women had died. Women who could have been saved if only…what? He’d been more diligent? Uncovered el-Daibul’s henchmen sooner? But he hadn’t. And now the memory of what might have been was a constant reproach. And the memory of the others who’d died… Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about the others.

Now he could add Nell Brookes to his growing list of regrets. He should have been more insistent with her when he realized she was sticking her nose into the business of the missing women. Locked her up until the danger was past. If he’d known for certain that she was delving into matters that didn’t concern her…

He shook off his brooding mood. No profit in that. Only pain and remorse. He picked up his pace across the square and stopped to buy an apple from a cart. He used the moment to look around. In his experience, it was always good to take stock of one’s surroundings frequently. Less chance of being surprised that way.

Men were bustling home from their work, women hurrying back from the greengrocer with provisions, children skipping as they hurried to keep up with their governesses. And there, on a bench with a valise at her feet, trying her best to look inconspicuous, sat someone who looked very much like Miss Dianthe Lovejoy. Enjoying her last hours of freedom, no doubt.

He took a bite of the crisp red apple and watched her for a moment. Yes, it was Miss Lovejoy. There could not be two in London like her. God fashioned only one of those a generation—perhaps a millennium. Even Nell had been a pale copy.

He strolled toward her, wondering if he should speak. When he was near enough, he noted the pinched look between her eyes and the slightly reddened rims of her eyes. Had she been crying?

“Trouble, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked. Her chin snapped upward, indicating that he’d startled her. For once, it seemed, he had the advantage in their meeting.

She crumpled her handkerchief and pushed it into the sleeve of her bishop’s-blue spencer. Shrugging, she assumed a haughty mien. “I do not see how that is your concern, Lord Morgan.”

He grinned, finding her continued dislike of him more amusing than aggravating. He almost liked the chit, for no other reason than her dead reckoning of his character. He lifted his foot and planted one of his boots on the bench beside her yellow skirt. “It isn’t my concern. I was merely curious. You. A valise. Alone. You must admit the circumstances are rife with possibility.”

She narrowed her eyes and turned away to study the apple cart.

“Going somewhere?” he persisted.

“As you know, Lord Morgan, I am in somewhat of a pickle. I do not want my scandal attached to my friends’ names.”

“Ah, then you’re going home? Back to Bloomsbury Square?”

She sighed deeply and glanced sideways at him. “It is locked up until the Hawthornes’ return.”

“That places you in a rather awkward position, does it not? No family, no friends?”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, my lord.”

He chuckled. “Where are you going, Miss Lovejoy?”

“I intended to let a room at a ladies’ hostel.”

“Were there no vacancies?”

She hesitated, then murmured, “None, I fear.”

“So you are going back to the Thayers?”

“Of course not,” she snapped.

Although he already knew the answer, Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Are the authorities after you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“I…I imagine they are.”

Pity. The girl was in over her head and had no one to help her. His conscience tweaked him and he did his best to ignore it. Miss Lovejoy was just the sort of empty-headed little ingenue he avoided at all costs. “Then what are you doing here in the open? Shouldn’t you be looking for a hiding place?”

“Did I not tell you that I do not want my friends inconvenienced by my problems?”

The first uneasy stirrings of guilt prickled the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck. Adam Hawthorne had been one of the few men to give him the benefit of the doubt. For that reason alone, he owed the man. And then Adam had taken a bullet meant for him, which had compounded the debt. Now that Adam had married Dianthe’s Aunt Grace, could he leave Adam’s gently reared cousin alone on a bench at dusk? Not likely. But he avoided involvement in other people’s lives like the plague. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. Yes, he could give her money and be done with her.

“Vacancies can be found with enough money, Miss Lovejoy. I shall be happy to—”

“Keep your ill-gotten gains, Lord Morgan. They cannot buy me what I need.”

How like the high-minded little brat to bite the hand that fed her. “Damn it, Miss Lovejoy, they will buy you a room.”

“No, my lord, they will not.” She took a deep breath and raised her chin in proud disdain. “No one will rent me a room, because I am alone and unchaperoned.”

“I shall hire you a chaperone,” he offered.

She rolled her eyes so comically he nearly laughed. “Your money will not buy you everything.”

“It buys enough to pass for everything.”

“No doubt it is why you get away with so much. But your money will not buy me, Lord Morgan, so scoot away, if you please.” She made a sweeping motion with one hand.

“Even if I don’t please?”

“Even then,” she confirmed.

He removed his foot from the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. What was he to do with this prickly little baggage? He could find her a room easily enough, but it wouldn’t be in a part of town suitable for her, or in an establishment even remotely acceptable.

“Well, go!” she said.

He turned to do just that. But then Adam Hawthorne’s face, white from loss of blood, rose to his mind, and another idea occurred to him. Miss Lovejoy would be an excellent way for him to repay his debt to Adam. Besides, she would be child’s play to manage.

“Do you care about my name or reputation, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yours are beyond redemption,” she declared.

True, but he didn’t like hearing it from Dianthe Lovejoy. He took a deep breath and reined in his temper. “Excellent. Then you should have no objections to accepting my hospitality.”

His statement so surprised her that she coughed. “You cannot be serious!”

“Completely,” he confirmed, surprising even himself. “I have a home in the West End that is presently unoccupied. There is only a small staff, but I could hire more if needed.”

“But you—”

“I prefer my house in Covent Garden. We would not be sharing the same quarters. My housekeeper would vouch for your…ah, reputation, until I can find a more suitable chaperone for you.”

“I do not like owing you, Lord Morgan.”

“I do not like owing your cousin, Miss Lovejoy, but things are what they are. Your present circumstances place you in a position to benefit from the debt I owe him, although I rather think he will owe me after this. It is a simple proposition and will not require you to be courteous to me—or even speak with me, which would be preferable, given your general lack of civility. I’d advise you to take the offer before I think better of it.”

She blinked those gorgeous blue eyes and gave him a slightly confused look. A moment passed while she seemed to consider her options. Or lack of them. He offered his hand.

Hesitantly, she took it. Her hand was warm and strong, and it looked insignificant resting in his palm. He grinned. Miss Lovejoy made it clear how much she detested him and any necessity of dealing with him. She was a bit of a snob and considered him socially beneath her. Only his title had kept him near her social circle. Still, she had no reasonable alternative, and they both knew it.

She stood. “This…this is one of the most remarkable mésalliances I have ever heard of, Lord Morgan.”

“I could not agree more, Miss Lovejoy, but do not mistake this for an alliance of any sort. I am repaying a debt, and with very little inconvenience to myself.” He picked up her valise. “This, in fact, may be the last time we are required to speak to one another.”

A home on the West End? This was a mansion! On Curzon Street just around the corner from Half Moon Street, it boasted one of the best Mayfair addresses. Berkeley Square was a stone’s throw away and Green Park just a fraction farther. Heavens! It must have cost Lord Morgan an entire fortune—if he hadn’t won the place from some poor unwary gambler!

He opened the front door, entered unannounced, and dropped her valise with a sharp slap on the polished marble floor. The central hall, as large as a chapel, contained two curved staircases that met at the second floor landing. The doors to the right and left of the foyer were taller than any she’d seen outside a palace or a church. A balding servant scurried from a hidden hallway behind the stairs at the first sounds of Lord Morgan’s entry.

“My lord! We did not expect you this evening.” The man—a butler, Dianthe assumed—bowed and darted a glance in her direction. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“I haven’t decided, Pemberton. I’ve brought Miss Lovejoy to stay with you. She’s, ah, just come to town and neglected to secure a room in advance. I assume you will not have trouble accommodating her?”

“No, my lord.”

Pemberton turned to her and bowed deeply from his waist. He must think her someone of importance. She smiled and nodded as regally as she could manage, given her state of surprise.

Lord Morgan moved behind her, lifted her spencer from her shoulders and held it while she freed her arms of the sleeves. He handed the wrap to Pemberton and indicated one of the tall doors with a sweep of his hand. “I believe Miss Lovejoy would like a cup of tea, Pemberton. Could you ask Mrs. Mason to bring it to the library, please?”

“As you wish, my lord.” Pemberton bowed and hurried back down the hallway.

Following the sweep of her host’s hand, Dianthe went toward the room she assumed to be the library. When he opened the door, she stopped short. A bank of windows directly across the room admitted the last pinkish rays of the sun, sparkling through the crystal glasses and decanters on a long sideboard. Large, and with a high ceiling, the room contained three walls of bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes of varying sizes and thicknesses. A massive polished desk took up most of one corner. A grouping of leather club chairs before a fireplace, unlit in the summer heat, was on the opposite side of the room. Lush Turkish carpets in red, gold and deep brown tones muffled their footsteps as they went forward.

Lord Morgan indicated the chairs with another sweep of his hand. A tea cart to one side and a low table in the center of the grouping waited to hold refreshments. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Lovejoy. Tea will be along presently.”

She ignored him and turned to look at the titles of some of the books, running her finger along the spines.

“Are you a reader, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked.

She glanced at him. He was pouring a draft of deep amber liquid into a crystal glass. As she watched, he replaced a stopper and lifted the glass to his lips. With the sun behind him and the grace of his movements made so obvious by the light, she suddenly realized he could very easily be a charming man if he chose.

“Not as much as I’d like to be,” she admitted, turning back to the books. “I haven’t had much time until just recently.”

She heard the soft pad of his footsteps on the carpet as he came toward her. She could feel the heat of his body behind her when he reached over her shoulder, ran his index finger along the row of books until he found what he was looking for, and pulled the volume from the shelf.

“Since you will have time while you await your cousin’s return from the Continent, may I recommend this one? You may actually learn something from it.”

She took the slender volume from his hand and read the gold embossed title: The Taming of the Shrew, by William Shakespeare. Anger bubbled upward. She turned to find Lord Morgan mere inches away, blocking her path. Narrowing her eyes, she recalled that scarcely seconds ago she had been thinking he had a rough sort of charm! She would have to guard herself against such ridiculous notions in the future.

“Stand aside please,” she said in a cold voice.

He made no move to do so. Her temper snapped and she lifted her hands to push him away. He caught them and held them to his broad chest as he turned around with her, giving her the freedom she sought. She could have sworn a smile played at the corners of his mouth, and that infuriated her further.

A soft knock at the door drew her attention away from the insufferable lord. He released her hands and stepped back.

“Come in, Pemberton,” he called.

Clutching the volume she’d been tempted to throw at him, Dianthe went to the circle of chairs near the fireplace. Pemberton brought a silver tray laden with a tea service and plates of little sandwiches and sweets. Her stomach growled again and her mouth watered. Food! At least she would not starve.

“Mrs. Mason has instructed the staff to ready the blue room for Miss Lovejoy, my lord, and Sally is unpacking her valise. Cook is preparing partridge and vegetables for dinner.”

“I won’t be staying, after all,” Lord Morgan said with a glance in Dianthe’s direction. “Business requires my attention.”

“As you wish, my lord.” With a bow, the butler left and closed the library doors behind him.

“Help yourself,” Morgan told her with a wave at the tea service.

Oh, how she wished she could turn her nose up, but she was famished. She hadn’t eaten since leaving the ladies at Lady Annica’s earlier. She poured herself a cup of tea and, with a pair of silver tongs, placed a watercress sandwich on a fine china plate. When she glanced up from her task, Morgan was watching her, all signs of mockery gone.

“Do not hesitate to ask for anything you want or need. The servants will accommodate you. And, if you like, do avail yourself of the library.”

“Thank you. I expect to be very busy, though.”

“Busy? What have you to do but wait for your cousin’s return?”

“I am not quite so shallow as you think me, Lord Morgan. I have interests beyond reading and sitting all day.”

“What might they be, pray tell?”

“It is none of your concern. You are only affording me shelter, remember, and have no interest in my doings.”

“True, but you’d be wise to stay hidden from the authorities. That would mean staying home with your embroidery or knitting.”

Lord! The man was an absolute dunce! “I have business to tend to, Lord Geoffrey.” She couldn’t tell him about Nell’s last words. Like all the others, he’d try to stop her. But she could not help but respond to his arrogance. “I…I intend to investigate. I shall endeavor to do whatever is necessary to clear my reputation.”

Morgan’s hazel eyes narrowed. “You cannot do that, Miss Lovejoy. It could prove dangerous.”

She gave a short laugh. “More dangerous than hanging for a crime I did not commit?”

“If you simply lie low, the authorities are bound to discover the truth of the matter.”

“I had the distinct impression they’d made up their minds and would do little else but make a case against me. And the longer they waste their time chasing me, the less likely they are to find the real villain.”

Lord Morgan seemed to be struggling with the effort to remain silent. That was likely a first for the man. Finally, he stated, “If you will remain quietly here, either your cousin or your sister will arrive in a week or so, and by then the case will be resolved.”

“It is far too important a matter to remain sitting on my hands and doing nothing. If you cannot accept that, and wish to withdraw your hospitality, I shall understand.” Dianthe studied his face, waiting for his response.

“I make it my policy, Miss Lovejoy, never to interfere in the personal matters of others, nor to question their actions or motives.”

She gritted her teeth and gained control over her temper before she responded. “Excellent! As you have reminded me that you do not involve yourself in the affairs of others, I’m certain that you will wish to keep to your custom and leave me to my own devices.”

His jaw tightened. “As you please.”

The echo of the slamming door still rang in Geoff’s ears as he crossed the street and hailed a hackney. The annoying little fool! She was hell-bent on landing herself in trouble. Well, she could do as she damn well pleased. He refused to become involved. He knew from bitter experience that he could not change the way people thought or the decisions they made. He’d given up long ago.

The most irksome part of this scheme was that he was forced to acknowledge that he was just like every other man in little Miss Lovejoy’s sphere. She smiled, and his body, if not his mind, responded in the most primal way. She’d looked hungry and vulnerable, and he’d wanted to slay her dragons. Physical. It was merely physical.

He’d restricted his amorous activities to members of the demimonde for the past five years. They’d been seductive and skilled, and some had even managed to teach him a few tricks. And the last thing he needed or wanted—now or ever—was an insipid, spoiled, smugly superior debutante complicating his life. But were she anyone other than Adam Hawthorne’s cousin…

Well, she might be naively innocent, but she was right about the police. They would not look an inch farther for Nell’s killer than Dianthe Lovejoy’s door. And, as much as he wanted to, he could not prevent her from investigating Nell’s death. He doubted anyone would take her seriously, or that she’d have the least little success. It was more likely she’d get herself arrested.

And he wouldn’t care as long as she did not get in the way of his investigation. But she wasn’t going up against el-Daibul, so that was unlikely. He couldn’t stop her from asking useless questions, so he may as well prepare for the consequences.

Yes, he’d just look in on the troublesome miss daily and leave her to her own devices the rest of the time. Her cousin would be back from the Continent soon and take her off his hands. Geoff prayed that would happen before Miss Lovejoy embroiled herself in another scandal or got truly under his skin.

Chapter Three

T he truth is, Dianthe mused as she sank into the huge copper tub of steaming, jasmine-scented water, I could become very used to this sort of life. She’d never known decadent luxury and rather thought it suited her. She’d mentioned to Mrs. Mason in passing her desire for a hot bath, and found it waiting for her when she’d come up to her room. A maid had even been sent to help her undress and pin up her hair.

Dianthe squeezed the huge porous sponge over her bare shoulders, loosening a stream of warm water. Heaven! This was heaven. She hadn’t been terrified once since coming here. She was safely isolated from the rest of the world.

Lord Geoffrey Morgan was obscenely rich, but she’d never dreamed what that would entail. It was whispered that he was as rich as Croesus. And why not? He’d won several of the country’s largest fortunes in games of chance. The money was not really his, so she should not feel in the least bit guilty for accepting his hospitality while she sought out Miss Brookes’s killer.

She needed to make a list. The task had seemed so simple before she actually had to think of the details, but now that she was faced with the execution of her plan, she was puzzled by the daunting task.

First, she would need to find out where Miss Brookes’s family was and who her friends were. The only way she knew to accomplish that task was to attend the girl’s funeral. Certainly her friends and family would be there, and surely the girl had confided in someone about an enemy so dangerous he might want to kill her.

Madame Marie would lend her a dark gown and bonnet. Dianthe had had room for only a few gowns in her valise, and she’d never anticipated the need for a mourning gown. Since the bluestocking ladies had enlisted Mr. Renquist to begin investigating, she suspected he, too, would be at the funeral.

Stepping out of the tub, she dried herself quickly and wrapped the towel around her. She glanced over at her simple lawn nightgown draped across her bed. She hadn’t even had room to bring her dressing gown, so Mrs. Mason had brought her one of Lord Morgan’s robes to use during her stay. It was made of rich, midnight-blue brocade with matching satin lapels and cuffs, and she couldn’t wait to wrap the lush fabric around her.

Having the warmth of Morgan’s robe around her was oddly like an embrace. His scent enveloped her. The clash of her bath oil and his French milled soap reminded her that, even in such little things, they were at odds. The robe engulfed her and she had to roll the sleeves back several turns.

Seeking a distraction, Dianthe went to curl up in a chair by the fire to sip tea from the delicate blue-and-white porcelain cup. The Times, folded on the tray, was open to the death notices. Two narrow lines reported Nell’s name and the place and date of her funeral. Tomorrow. Heavens! So soon?

She glanced toward the bed uncertainly. Hung with deep blue curtains, the white velvet coverlet strewn with blue-and-gold pillows, it held the promise of comfort. Sleeping in Geoffrey Morgan’s bed didn’t seem right, somehow. Well, in Geoffrey Morgan’s house, at any rate. It could be a very dangerous thing to be in his debt. But Lord Geoffrey had less in the way of reputation to lose than her friends, and it wasn’t as if she were living under the same roof.

She shook off her brooding and put her teacup down. Tomorrow, then, she would borrow a somber gown from Madame Marie and attend Miss Brookes’s funeral. Dianthe would learn what those closest to Nell knew about the murder and, with a touch of luck, she and Mr. Renquist would conclude the matter.

The weather had turned gloomy and a steady drizzle kept traffic on the thoroughfares to a minimum. Dianthe took a shortcut through Duke’s Court to St. Martin’s Church, heedless of the sodden hem of her charcoal-gray skirts. She had draped a black veil over her gray bonnet to obscure her face, and kept her black umbrella low over her head.

A few carriages were drawn up outside the church, but no mourners milled on the steps. Had she made a mistake? Were the services later? She was about to turn and retrace her steps when she saw Mr. Renquist, without the usual red waistcoat of the Bow Street runner, enter the church. She took a deep breath, climbed the steps and closed her umbrella before passing through the vestibule into the nave and taking a seat in the back.

Only one other woman was in attendance, sitting in the back pew on the opposite side of the aisle, and perhaps a dozen men sitting separately near the front. Were these Miss Brookes’s clients? Protectors? Her family?

The men turned to watch her. Dianthe bowed her head and kept her veil in place. She could feel their eyes boring through her, and she prayed she would not be recognized.

A few moments later, the minister entered and faced the meager congregation. She had never attended actual funeral services before, as Aunt Henrietta believed that gently reared females were too delicate for such disturbing events. In her entire life, Dianthe had only visited her father’s and mother’s graves in Wiltshire once, and gone to her aunt’s grave. That was the extent of her experience with death rituals, so she watched the proceedings carefully.

Prayers were said, then a short, impersonal eulogy that revealed little about the woman they were about to bury. The cleric alluded to Nell’s profession only when he made the point that “even those who had fallen were beloved of Christ.” Then an actual rite for the dead was read. Though the men bowed their heads at prayers, she could not detect any sign of genuine grief from their posture or bearing. Except Lord Geoffrey Morgan.

He had entered late and taken a seat near the front. His face was tense though composed. Dianthe knew him well enough to recognize the way he registered distress. His lips were drawn thin and his complexion was pale. She thought a little better of him for being here and for feeling grief or compassion for Nell Brookes.

Dianthe, too, was deeply touched, and wiped impatiently at the hot tears seeping down her face. She could not forget the beautiful young woman lying forever still inside the narrow coffin. Did no one but she lament the dreadful circumstances that had brought Nell to such a pass? Then the other woman began weeping, too, and Dianthe wondered if she could be Nell’s mother or sister.

After a shockingly brief time, the funeral was over. The woman stood and hurried out of the church, and Dianthe followed, hoping Mr. Renquist would at least learn the names of the men in attendance.

“Miss!” she called as the woman reached the street.

The dark-cloaked form missed a step but did not turn or stop.

Dianthe hurried after her, raising her umbrella against the steady drizzle. “Miss! Please, spare me a minute!”

This time the woman stopped but did not turn. When Dianthe came abreast of her and raised her veil, the woman gasped. “You must be Miss Lovejoy. Everyone is talking. You do look like Nell.” She resumed walking and spoke in a soft voice. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk about Miss Brookes,” she answered.

“Walk with me, then. I do not wish to be seen here—or with you.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason there are so few people at Nell’s funeral. We cannot afford to be associated with murders, nor to be questioned by the authorities. Were our names, or those of our clients, made public…well, you can imagine the scandal.”

Dianthe matched her stride. “Are you Miss Brookes’s sister?”

“Nell had no family. Or none that she spoke of.”

“A friend, then?”

There was a hesitation, then she murmured, “Yes.”

Dianthe’s curiosity spiked. The woman was lovely, despite the drab colors she wore, and she used cosmetics—something Dianthe and her friends would never do. Was she a member of the demimonde? “You have me at a disadvantage, miss. You appear to know me, yet I do not know you.”

“Yes, I know you. You are accused of Nell’s murder.”

Lord! She could feel her reputation slipping away. “Miss Brookes had been stabbed when I found her.”

“I never believed you had anything to do with it. The police are fools to think so.”

“I want to find out who the real murderer is.”

“Because it will clear you,” the woman concluded in a cynical tone.

“I want to see justice done. Whoever did this to Nell should pay for it. Please help me find her killer. I just want to ask a few questions. Will you tell me your name?”

There was a long silence before the woman spoke again. “My name is Flora Denton.”

“Thank you, Miss Denton. How long have you known Miss Brookes?”

“Since I arrived in London. For a few months we…worked at the same establishment. She was my dearest friend.” She turned and regarded Dianthe through dark eyes. “I heard people talking about how closely you resemble her. Your hair and eyes are nearly the same, and the shape of your face and figure, but you haven’t her sophistication.”

“Where did you hear all this, Miss Denton? The murder was only three days ago.”

She nodded. “The police have been by to search Nell’s rooms and belongings. The gentlemen talk. Nell’s favorites have come to pay their respects and to comfort one another.”

For some inexplicable reason, Dianthe was pleased by the thought that Nell’s lovers mourned her. “Were there many?”

Miss Denton gave a short laugh. “Yes. Too many. For one of us, very few.”

“One of you?” Dianthe asked.

“The demimonde, Miss Lovejoy. The half-world of London, or the shadow world, as your kind would call it. The part proper ladies like you do not even speak of.”

Dianthe walked along for moment, not knowing how to reply to such a statement.

“Have I shocked you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“No, Miss Denton. My family was impoverished and I have occasionally thought that, but for the grace of family who cared for us, my sister and I might have fallen into a similar fate.” She recalled Squire Daniels in Little Upton, who had offered to buy her a small cottage in exchange for her “company.” She would have had to be a great deal more desperate to accept that offer.

“We are courtesans, Miss Lovejoy, not prostitutes. Many of us have several lovers, some have only one at a time. But we say who, and when, and where, unlike our poorer sisters. Nor do we sell our wares on the street.”

Dianthe nodded, understanding that explanation. “Did Miss Brookes have many, few, or one?”

“A few.”

“How many?”

“It varied from time to time.”

“Had she recently argued with any of them?”

“I see where you are going with this, and I would like to help you. But I am afraid I cannot.”

“But why?”

“Miss Lovejoy,” she said as she increased the length of her stride, “I do not even wish to be seen in your company. Indiscretion and women who talk out of turn are frowned upon in my business. Should it be known that I have shared any sort of information with a woman of the ton, I would find it very difficult to earn a living. My gentlemen would withdraw their patronage, and I would find myself on the streets in short order.”

Dianthe caught up to her and entreated, “Just tell me the names of her protectors. I shall question them myself.”

“Miss Lovejoy, are you not sensible to the difficulty of what you have taken on? Do you really think men of the ton will discuss their affairs with you? The very thought is absurdly naive. And Nell’s other friends will not be as forthcoming as I have been.”

Her spirits plummeted. “Then how will I ever discover what happened to Miss Brookes?”

Flora Denton stopped and turned to face her. She laughed and shook her head. “That will never happen, Miss Lovejoy. Give it up. You would have to be one of us.”

Mouth agape, Dianthe watched the woman lose herself in the crowded market at Covent Garden. One of them?

Mr. Renquist was waiting on the street outside St. Martins Church by the time she made her way back. He looked anxious and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw her. “I wondered where you had got to, Miss Lovejoy. I do not know how to find you. Where are you staying?”

An impression of Lord Geoffrey’s flashing smile passed through her head and she shuddered at what Mr. Renquist would say about her choice of lodgings. “It would be best if you do not know that, Mr. Renquist. Then it will not be a conflict for you.”

“It is already a conflict,” he grumbled. “I should be hauling you before a magistrate this very minute.”

She winced, knowing Mr. Renquist was compromising his job every moment he spent with her.

“I recognized three or four of the men, Miss Lovejoy. The others should not be hard to find.”

“Is it usual for such funerals to be so…small?”

“No one wants to be associated with a murder—at least until after it has been solved. Most of the men who attend upon the demimonde could not withstand the scrutiny.”

Dianthe’s frustration mounted. “Then how shall we ever solve this?”

“The truth has a way of coming out, miss. In its own sweet time.”

“I do not have time, Mr. Renquist. I could hang before the truth is known.”

Renquist gave her a sober nod. “Yes, I can see the problem, miss. And that is the very thing I am trying to prevent.”

She sighed as Flora Denton’s words rang in her head. You would have to be one of us.

Geoff paced the small rented room above the tavern in Whitefriars while Sir Harry scratched a few lines on a piece of paper. “Anyone else?”

“Edgerton’s cub,” Geoff told him. “I heard he was pursuing Nell but that she’d told him to come back when he inherited.”

“That was cold.”

“Nell could be cold. I imagine we would be, too, if our survival depended upon it. It wasn’t a courtship, for God’s sake, it was a business arrangement.”

Sir Harry nodded. “That’s it, then? I thought you said there’d been a dozen men in attendance. I’ve only got six names.”

“I will investigate the others, Harry. Apart from the six I just gave you, there are myself, two women, and a man I suspect was sent by Bow Street.”

“And the women?”

“Veiled. One, I think, was Flora Denton, Nell’s friend.”

“And the other?”

Geoff hesitated. Even though she’d been shrouded and veiled, he’d recognized the set of Miss Lovejoy’s shoulders, the slender lines of her form, the grace with which she moved. He wasn’t certain he wanted to bring her name into this.

Even while he’d been angry to find her at the funeral, he had to admire her ingenuity. He wasn’t particularly concerned that Flora had given her any information. No, Flora Denton was too canny for that. She knew discretion was her only choice. Now, almost certainly, the little dilettante would be flummoxed. She’d give up and sit quietly until someone from her family arrived to handle the matter for her. She had neither the experience nor the grit for more.

“The other woman?” Harry prompted again. “Did you recognize her?”

“I’ll take care of it, Harry. You follow up on the men.”

“Men? That’s a waste of my talents, Morgan. Trying to regain your reputation as a lady’s man?”

Geoff raised an eyebrow, remembering the days when he’d been known as the “Sheikh.” He’d had a way with women then, and a lighter heart and readier smile. And a much greater tolerance for social games and feminine wiles.

And, blast it all, he was about to pay for those days by having to keep a closer eye on the Lovejoy girl.

Late the following afternoon, Dianthe slipped quietly in the door of La Meilleure Robe and reached up to silence the little shop bell. She did not want Madame Marie’s clients looking into the corridor to see who had come in. The ladies would be waiting for her in the large fitting room in the back, so she hurried along the dark corridor and rapped twice before entering.

“Dianthe!” Sarah exclaimed. “Thank heavens you’ve come. We feared something had happened to you.”

“This arrangement really is not satisfactory,” Lady Annica pronounced. “What if we’d needed to contact you, Dianthe? What if you hadn’t been able to come? How would we have known where—oh! That reminds me. I have a letter from Afton for you. Mr. Thayer brought it by this morning. It was posted before your troubles, dear.”

Dianthe tucked the letter into her reticule. Thank heavens the ladies were there—Sarah, Annica and Charity. She removed her gloves and sat on one of the stools used for marking hems. “If you knew where I was staying, you could hardly plead ignorance if the police had come, could you?”

The ladies exchanged a telling glance.

“They did come, did they not?” she guessed, a knot tightening in her stomach.

“Well, yes,” Charity admitted. “And I confess that it was a relief not to lie. My husband would have known it immediately.”

Dianthe glanced at Annica and Sarah, and they nodded in admission. So, it was official. The authorities were in pursuit of her. But first things first. “I am sorry I was late, but I didn’t get much sleep last night. In fact, I only dozed off near dawn.”

“If you are not sleeping—”

“It is not because of my bed or accommodations. I am quite comfortable, but I ache to be doing something, and that makes me restless.”

Sarah sat forward. “Mr. Renquist told us that you went to Miss Brookes’s funeral yesterday. Are you mad, Dianthe? What if you’d been seen? You could have been thrown in jail!”

Dianthe remembered the funeral attendees who had watched her every move. “I wore a veil and only spoke with a friend of Miss Brookes’s, but she would not tell me anything. She is suspicious of me. Of anyone, in fact. She said that her income depends upon her discretion.”

“Oh! I had not thought of that!” Charity said. “Men—husbands and fathers—would not want their loved ones to know what they have been doing. And with whom.”

“All the same, a number of them were at the church. Mr. Renquist has their names and will be questioning them.”

Annica sighed. “This is apt to be a lengthy process. I would feel better if we knew how you were situated, Dianthe. I cannot bear to think of what hardships you may be enduring just to remain out of sight.”

Hardships? She was living in the veritable lap of luxury. She could not imagine what Lord Morgan had told the servants, but her every whim, her slightest wish, was catered to as if she were a visiting dignitary. “I am quite comfortable. Please do not give it a second thought.”

“Are you protecting your reputation, Dianthe?”

“I…am doing what needs to be done. I know that you, too, have run grave risks to accomplish your goals, and I am not taking unreasonable risks.” She’d known from the moment she’d decided not to taint her friends with her problem that she was risking her reputation—if, indeed, she had one left. What else could she do? Drag them down into ignominy with her? Never!

Annica frowned. “I do not like this the least little bit, Dianthe. You should come to one of us at once.”

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, ready for battle. “My reputation is the least of my problems. It is already in shreds. Confess! What is the on dit concerning me?”

Another awkward pause told Dianthe almost all she needed to know. “How bad is it?”

“People hush when we enter a room, as it is known that we are friends,” Sarah admitted. “My brother, Reginald, told me this morning that…that there is an order sworn to apprehend you. The only question people are asking is why you did it.”

Dianthe sighed deeply. Well, she had suspected as much. Gossip hates a void, and she’d become the juiciest topic yet in the slow summer months when most of the ton had retired to the country.

“Auberville is trying to persuade the authorities otherwise,” Annica said. “He provided them with a letter you had written me some time ago, so that they could compare your handwriting with the handwriting on the note found at the scene. It did not match, of course, but that did little to convince them. Auberville says there is some other piece of evidence they have against you, but he would not tell me what it was.”

“I cannot imagine what it could be. That was the only time I’d ever seen Miss Brookes.”

“That is what we tried to tell them,” Annica said. “But there is speculation now that there was some sort of secret connection that has been kept from common knowledge. I cannot imagine what but, given the girl’s occupation, I shudder to imagine what is being said.”

Dianthe took a deep breath and braced herself. “The point now is that…well, I’ve become fodder for the gossip mills.”

“Whatever is whispered behind fans can be overcome when the truth is out, my dear,” Charity said.

“Doubtful,” Dianthe murmured. “Once something like this is whispered, one cannot reclaim a spotless reputation. I only hope the truth will redeem the portion my friends and family have lost.”

“Drats!” Annica cursed. “This is so unfair! All you did was stop to help someone you thought was ill.”

“And I’d do it again,” Dianthe admitted. “So there is no use in agonizing over this. I simply wanted to know if there was any advantage in coming forward.”

“No!” the ladies exclaimed in one voice.

Sarah stood and began to pace circles around the small room. “My husband says you should not have hidden. He says they—the police—have likely taken that as an indication of guilt. But it is too late to undo that now.”

Then it was even worse than she’d suspected. “I doubt I will be going out much. The risk of recognition is too great.”

“Disguise,” Sarah said.

“Or go out only after dark,” Annica advised.

Dianthe donned her bonnet and gave them an uncertain smile. If she went forward with her new plan, and if she could conquer her fears, she would be doing both.

Chapter Four

D ianthe curled up in the overstuffed chair in her room and unfolded Afton’s letter. She wanted to read slowly and savor every word. The letter had been written weeks ago and would be full of ordinary news and everyday observations. Oh, how she longed for something ordinary.

She took a sip of her tea and began reading.

My dearest little sister,

I write to you with some good news and some of a curious nature. First the good news. I am bearing a little McHugh. I have known for quite some time but have delayed telling anyone until I was certain all was well. Rob is completely overjoyed. I have never seen him so doting. We expect the blessed event to occur just before the New Year.

Dianthe counted backward on her fingers. Heavens! Afton was five months along. How wonderful. Oh, but a doting McHugh would never allow Afton to travel over rough Scottish roads in a delicate condition. Nor should he. Afton should stay safe at home. And that meant McHugh would come himself. That thought made her more than a little uneasy. McHugh was not a patient man, and he would rush into the Bow Street office demanding to see any evidence against her, and that any charges be dropped. He’d likely end up in Newgate alongside her.

Oh, but she wouldn’t think of that now. Afton was having a baby! What joyous news. If Dianthe could just get clear of this mess, she would hie to Scotland to be with her. She blinked her tears away and returned her attention to the letter.

And now for the curious news. The postmaster in Little Upton forwarded a letter to me here. To say I was surprised, even shocked, is an understatement. Do you recall that Mama had a sister, Aunt Dora, who emigrated to Australia? Well, it appears that was a lie to cover a more scandalous event.

A visiting dignitary seduced Aunt Dora, and Grandfather turned her out when he discovered her transgression. She did not go as far as Australia, however. She went to London and took up with a wealthy merchant. He was married, but kept Aunt Dora comfortably. She had a daughter, Eleanor. Just think! We have a cousin. It was she who wrote to us.

Aunt Dora died a few years ago, and would never discuss her family, so Eleanor only recently found out about us. Her father preceded Aunt Dora in death, and his family turned their back on Eleanor, refusing to acknowledge her or contribute to her support.

Here lies the difficulty, Dianthe, and I pray you will be gentle and not judge her. Lacking both family and fortune, Eleanor was left to her own devices when Aunt Dora died. Untrained for any useful occupation, she had little choice but to enter the demimonde. She now wishes to leave that life behind, and begs that we will help.

Toward that end, dear sister, I have sent her your calling card, along with the Thayers’ address, and I have urged her to call upon you. When you hear from Miss Eleanor Brookes, please assist her in any way possible, and send her to us at Glenross. We shall take care of her and help her build her life anew.

I know I needn’t caution you to discretion. This sort of news would provide grist for the gossip mill for years to come, and the damage it could do the Lovejoy name is immeasurable. Think of your future prospects, Dianthe, and of our brother’s future.

I hope to hear from you soon, and urge you to come spend the Christmas season with us at Glenross.

Your loving sister, Afton

Stunned, Dianthe could only stare at the letter in her lap while her mind reeled. Eleanor. Nell. Nell Brookes had been her cousin. She had held her cousin and watched her life seep away. And Nell had known—had probably followed Dianthe to Vauxhall to meet her rather than come to the Thayer house. Thank heavens ’tis you, she had said. And, as difficult as it had been, thank heaven Dianthe had been there so Nell would not die alone.

Tears stung her eyes and blurred the words on the page. Dianthe silently renewed her promise to find and stop the man who had murdered her cousin. Of course she would not breathe a word of this to anyone. Whether her own future had been irretrievably lost or not, her brother’s must be protected at any cost.

Geoff left his horse in the care of a stable boy and let himself in the kitchen door of the manse on Curzon Street. He’d departed the gaming hells early this evening for the express purpose of dealing with Miss Lovejoy but he wanted to get back to the hells for the deepest play. The risk of a high stakes game was the only thing that gave him relief from the endless monotony of life. Only then did the dark loneliness inside him ease. Only then could he forget his failure to Constance. And, dear God, his sister, Charlotte. But that pain was still too raw to bear thinking about. Now he had to add Nell to his list. He was no good for women.

He encountered Mrs. Mason as she came below stairs bearing a tray with a half-eaten meal of lamb chops and roasted potatoes. “Oh, Lord Morgan! I did not expect you tonight. Will you be wanting dinner?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be wanting Miss Lovejoy. Is she about?”

The woman flushed and Geoff realized how his words must have sounded.

“I mean I’ll be wanting to speak with Miss Lovejoy.”

“Of course, milord. But I am afraid she has just retired for the evening.”

“I’ll be in the library. Please ask her to accommodate me. I will take only a few moments of her time.”

Without waiting for a response, Geoff made his way to the library. He’d just poured himself a brandy when Mrs. Mason appeared at the door.

“My lord, I…Miss Lovejoy begs that you return tomorrow at a…” the woman colored again and took a deep breath “…at a respectable hour.”

It took him a full minute to comprehend the enormity of that insult. It was his house, by God! And she was living on his charity! How dare she refuse to see him? Had she no manners at all?

“Thank you, Mrs. Mason,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He dismissed the woman with a wave of his hand and finished his brandy in a single gulp.

Another brandy followed the first as he considered how to respond to her haughtiness. In the end, he was confounded. There was only one way to handle Miss Lovejoy.

He took the stairs two at a time, seething with indignation. Two sharp raps on her door were all the warning he gave before opening it and stepping through. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair with her legs curled beneath her and the pages of a letter in her lap. She looked up in surprise.

“Miss Lovejoy, when I request an interview with you, I expect to be accommodated.”

She blinked those wide blue eyes. “As you can see, Lord Morgan, I am scarcely in a condition to receive visitors.”

There was nothing wrong with her condition as far as he could see. Her pale blond hair, most often done up in a formal style or tucked beneath a bonnet, was loose and fell over her shoulders, to tumble down her back. A wealth of midnight-blue fabric swathed her form, leaving a deep V open from her neck to a spot midway between her breasts, where a film of white lace peeked through. No, her “condition” was quite acceptable. At least to him.

“I do not care what condition you are in. Common courtesy would dictate that you receive me.”

She unfolded her legs, revealing bare feet. The deep blue fabric shifted to drape over her form most alluringly as she stood. He recognized the garment as his dressing robe. The cuffs had been rolled back several times, and the hem made a little puddle at her feet. The sight gave him such a sudden visceral reaction that he instantly stiffened with desire. He was jealous of his damn robe! He wanted to wrap himself around her, fall heavily over the soft swells of her breasts, get tangled between her long shapely legs.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

She stood, the pages of her letter drifting to the carpet with a soft whisper, and performed a mocking curtsy. “My pardon, Lord Morgan. I had thought your offer of shelter was given without pain of favors. Now that I know better, I shall, of course, leave.”

“The hell you will,” he cursed. “Where do you think you could go? You will simply treat me with due courtesy and respect. In short, as you would treat anyone else in the same circumstances.”

“You are not ‘anyone else.’ You are a reprobate who gambled to win my friend in marriage. Your quarrel nearly got my cousin killed. And because of you, Mr. Lucas is dead. You care for nothing but yourself. I only accepted your help because I do not care what happens to you, and, to be frank, all your money will not buy you respectability.”

“There were reasons for that wager, Miss Lovejoy.”

“You take other people’s fortunes on the turn of a card,” she accused.

“I force no one to risk so much as a farthing. ’Tis their choice, and if I do not take it, someone else will.”

“You nearly got my cousin killed!”

“Your cousin, of his own accord, lunged between me and a dishonorable shot from my opponent’s second when my back was turned.” She looked so like an avenging angel that Geoff felt guilty, though he couldn’t have said for what. He’d be damned if he was about to explain anything further to this piece of fluff who thought him guilty of all sorts of misdeeds.

She lifted her pert little nose in high moral indignation. “I’ve no doubt at all that you can explain everything away, Lord Morgan, but I’ve no interest in hearing excuses. Now, why have you come to my room?”

She had him in such a state that it actually took him a moment to recall why he’d come. “Miss Brookes’s funeral, Miss Lovejoy. I saw you there.”

He detected a crack in her hard veneer. She turned and walked slowly toward the fireplace, speaking over her shoulder. “Why should I not have gone? After all, I was the one to find her.”

“And the one the authorities are looking for. I thought you were smart enough to stay out of sight.”

“I thought I had. I was swathed in black mourning and heavily veiled. How did you recognize me, Lord Morgan? I doubt my own sister would have.”

He could hardly tell her he had recognized her figure and the way she moved. It would never do to let her know the effect she was having on him. She was already too sure of herself. He would have to settle on something more vague. “Perhaps you are not as clever as you thought.”

She halted and her spine stiffened. “Then I suppose I shall have to be more careful.”

“I’d advise it, Miss Lovejoy, though staying out of sight entirely would be preferable.”

“I believe we’ve had this discussion before, Lord Morgan. Do I not recall you saying that you ‘make it your policy to never interfere in the personal matters of others, nor to question their actions or motives’?”

“That was before you were being so widely sought.”

“Nevertheless, giving me shelter does not grant you the right to dictate my actions. Disavow yourself of that notion. If you are unable to do so I shall have to leave, because I do not intend to sit docilely by while the police make a case against me. Since no one else has come forward to do it, I shall champion myself.”

Was she suggesting that he should champion her? Surely not. She’d made it obvious that she could not even bear the sight of him. Perhaps he could reason with her. “Did you learn anything new today, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Well, no. I only spoke with one person, and she was not at liberty to…that is, she—”

“Wouldn’t tell you anything,” he finished for her. “And what does that tell you?”

“That people are afraid to talk.”

“That people are unwilling to talk to you,” he corrected. “You cannot expect those close to a murder to simply begin blurting every little detail they might recall. Investigation requires a little more finesse than that, Miss Lovejoy. You are far too naive to know how to go about this sort of thing.”

She finally turned toward him and smiled. “I have a new plan. One that will open doors for me and answer whatever questions I have. And, by the by, what were you doing at Miss Brookes’s funeral?”

Damn. “Where I go and what I do is none of your concern, Miss Lovejoy. Just stay out of my way.”

“Nor is what I do or where I go yours, Lord Morgan. And I shall be quite pleased to stay out of your way. Now, are you going to toss me out of your house on my ear?”

“You know I won’t,” he growled. “And you’re counting on that. But once your cousin is back—”

“All bets are off,” she finished for him with a wicked little quirk of her lips.

Oh! That impossible man! He leaves me alone for days, then simply appears in the middle of the night, demanding to see me, and telling me what to do!

Dianthe tossed her brush aside and stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. What was it about her that brought out the worst in that man? What was it in him that brought out the worst in her? She made a little moue in the mirror.

If forced to the truth, she would have to admit that Geoffrey Morgan had been as kind to her as she had allowed, and she hadn’t made even that easy for him. There was just something about him that set her on edge. Was it that he didn’t fawn over her like other men? Or that most of the time he just seemed annoyed by her?

She stood and glanced at the massive canopy bed. Had Lord Morgan ever slept there? She tried to imagine him lying tangled in the pristine sheets of satin-weave linen, his intense hazel eyes closed in slumber. Her breathing deepened and her heartbeat skipped. His lordship had an intangible air of danger and darkness about him that made her other beaux seem almost effeminate. She’d certainly never pictured any of them in a bed.

But this was foolishness! She had no intention of allowing herself to waste time in such utter nonsense as dreaming of that scheming devil. She untied the belt of her robe and shrugged out of it. A whiff of masculine shaving soap floated up to her from the discarded heap on the floor, and her knees weakened. What was wrong with her?

Geoffrey Morgan was everything she disliked in a man. He was arrogant, unscrupulous, ill-mannered, ruthless, cold, demanding and autocratic. Everything about him set her teeth on edge.

Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

She closed her eyes and saw his face as he’d stood in her doorway. His eyes had burned into her and caused an answering heat to rise from somewhere near her belly. When he’d taken three steps into the bedroom, she’d wondered if he’d come to ravage her. And she was distressed to realize that thought did not trouble her much.

Or was it guilt that gnawed at her? Yes. That had to be it. Willingly or not, he’d given her shelter when she’d been desperate. He’d made certain his staff would see to all of her needs, and had given her relative independence. And she had repaid him with churlishness. Though he wouldn’t know it, she really had better manners than she’d shown him.

Yes. Henceforth, she’d give him no cause for complaint. She’d show him the respect he’d asked for. She’d be as civil to him as she would to any polite stranger. She’d be the very model of decorum and ladylike calm. She wouldn’t allow him to rankle her, no matter what he said or did.

Dawn was spreading a pink glow over rooftops and chimney pots when Geoff finally arrived at his house on Salisbury Street. The day servants had not arrived yet, and only his valet, Giles, and Hanson, the cook, lived in. Although the house was certainly large enough to warrant a live-in staff of five or so servants, he did not like the intrusion upon his privacy. Giles and Hanson, though, had come with him from his estate in Devon, and their absolute loyalty and discretion could be trusted.

He let himself in, tossed his jacket and vest on the foyer table and headed for the ballroom, rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he went. He was too restless to sleep. First there’d been that absurd confrontation gone awry with Miss Lovejoy, and then he’d actually lost at vingt-et-un. It wasn’t the loss of the money that bothered him—he’d lost more in an evening. It was the fact that he hadn’t been able to concentrate. His mind had been too full of blond hair and blue eyes—and an edge of transparent lace peeking from the V of his dressing robe.

Clearly, he needed to get rid of Dianthe Lovejoy as quickly as possible. Was there any point in sending a letter to her cousin in Italy? No. Certainly someone else had done that already.

Instinctively in tune with Geoffrey’s moods, Giles had left chandeliers alight in the ballroom, and the fireplaces lit at each end of the room. Light glittered off the mirrored walls and the crystal prisms of the chandelier, setting the room ablaze with reflected brilliance. Geoffrey walked the length of the room, trailing his index finger along the rack holding everything from lances to swords. He selected a claymore, savoring its weight and length. He needed something taxing tonight. Something to banish the memory of his robe draping a delicate frame.

He hefted the claymore and sliced vertically, then horizontally through the air. The whoosh of the blade satisfied something deep in his soul, and he smiled. He worked through a routine of standard moves, then offensive moves, then defensive ones. The echo of his boots on the marble floor and his heavy breathing from the exertion were the only sounds to rupture the silence. By the time he was done, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his white shirt, but he was not yet fatigued enough to sleep. He replaced the claymore in its slot and picked a deadly rapier—light in weight, sleek in build, treacherous at its point. Ah, yes. This blade sang as it slashed the air.

With an edge vertically to his forehead, he saluted his reflection in the mirrors. Working through a different routine, watching his form for mistakes or openings that an opponent could pierce, he found the lighter, more familiar blade almost became an extension of his arm. Only when the rising sun penetrated the French doors along one wall did Geoff replace the rapier in the rack. He hesitantly caressed the hilt of his cutlass, but turned away in exhaustion.

Now, perhaps, he’d sleep. Spent as he was, the guilt, the memories of Constance, Charlotte, Nell and the other women he’d failed, would not rise to haunt his dreams. Worse, he might dream of Dianthe Lovejoy. Her steadfast defiance amused him. Her beauty drew him. Her instinctive intelligence intrigued him. And his hunger for her was reaching a fever pitch. If he started seducing her in his dreams, would he be able to resist her in his waking moments?

Ah, but he’d have to claim Dianthe in his dreams, because he’d never claim her anywhere else. He’d make love to her there because, awake, he’d never risk loving her. He’d hold her close in his dreams, because he’d never allow her to rely upon him in life. He’d never take that risk of failing again. Never.

And when the isolation and solitude became too much to bear, he’d shut himself away with Flora Denton or one of the other lovelies of the demimonde again, for a few days or weeks, until that particular monster had been tamed enough to lock away for another term of penance.

He climbed the long curve of the staircase to his room, hardening his heart, reducing his hunger and need to a mere physical act. That’s all it was. That’s all he’d ever let it be.

The summons from Harry Richardson several hours later came as a surprise. Geoff hadn’t expected to hear from him for several days. Information packets from Tangier were slow in coming—at least during the summer months.

When he opened the door of the rented room, Harry jumped to his feet. “Glad you could come so quickly, Morgan.”

Geoff glanced at the small wooden table where charts, maps, pen and ink were laid out in waiting. “El-Daibul is on the move?” he guessed.

“We think so,” Harry replied.

“Think? You don’t know?” Geoff crossed to the table and looked down at the charts. Tangier, Gibraltar, Spain, Portugal. What was going on?

Harry shrugged. “We’ve lost him.”

Geoff fastened the man with an asking stare. How could an experienced operative lose a man of el-Daibul’s infamy and importance?

“He has disappeared,” Harry explained, looking a bit pale from Geoff’s study.

“When?”

Harry went to the small table beside the cot where the whiskey bottle was waiting. He poured himself a glass and quirked an eyebrow at Geoff.

Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.

After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”

“Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”

“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”

“Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.

“No one has reported him moving overland.”

“Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”

“Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”

“Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”

“They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it took us so long to realize that el-Daibul himself had not been seen for quite some time. It looks as if he went to considerable trouble to lull us into complacency.”

Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing a stray lock. Damn! What could the man be up to? Geoff could only hope this latest development was not a prelude to increased activity. Unless… “Harry, what’s the news from the docks? Any increase in reports of missing women?”

“Not in London.”

“Send men to Liverpool, Portsmouth and Dover. Contact Culver in France, Groton in Hamburg and Peters in Venice. Verify with them that the traffic is quiet. If there’s an increase, no matter how small, and no matter where, I want to know immediately.”

“What are you thinking?” Harry asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I’m not certain. Just…verify. He’s up to something, Harry, I can feel it.”

Harry shook his head. “We’ll need evidence to get help from the Foreign Office.”

He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”

Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”

Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.

But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.

“So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”

Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.

Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.

“What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”

Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”

“If you were to guess?”

“I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”

“You make it sound personal, Morgan.”

“It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.

Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.

What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.

“Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.

“Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”

Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”

Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”

“To warn Auberville.”

Chapter Five

D ianthe sat at a dressing table in Madame Marie’s back fitting room and made a tight coil of her pale hair before pinning it at her crown. She watched Madame lower the black wig over her head and snug it into place.

“Ah, chérie! This is the mistake, no?”

Dianthe stared at her reflection. With every strand of blond hair covered, she had taken on a foreign look. Pale skin with a hint of pink on her cheeks, clear blue eyes and a beauty patch on one cheekbone made her virtually unrecognizable.

“Mistake?” she asked. “You think the beauty patch is too much?”

“Mais non, chérie! But the idea was to make you less noticeable. This—” she waved at Dianthe’s reflection “—will turn ’eads.”

“I do not care about that, Madame. More to the point is if I will be recognized.” Indeed, Dianthe was nearly desperate to change her appearance. She hadn’t been outside without her bonnet and veils since taking refuge at Lord Geoffrey’s house. Anything to evade the killer who, according to Nell, would come for her next.

Madame Marie stepped back to study her critically. “Never!” she said.

Dianthe pulled one curl down and watched as it sprang back into place. She rather liked the way she looked, and she certainly felt safer.

Madame Marie arranged the style in an artful manner and stood back to observe her work. “I did not think you could be more beautiful, chérie, but I was wrong. You look so…à la française.”

Just the thing she wanted. Her French was very good, and she knew she could fake a believable accent. She’d worn a veil to Marie’s shop but she wouldn’t wear one when leaving. She wouldn’t need it.

Best of all, this disguise would be perfect for her new plan. With the wig, an accent, a sophisticated attitude and a new name, she would be worlds apart from Dianthe Lovejoy of Little Upton, Wiltshire. Soon. Very soon.

“Là!” Madame Marie exclaimed. “I do not like that look, chérie. You are ’atching some plot, are you not?”

Dianthe blinked. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame. I am just pleased that I will not have to go about veiled and shrouded. ’Twill be nice to see where I am walking. Would you have a few cosmetics to further disguise me?”

Madame Marie rummaged in a small kit. “You do not need it, chérie, but I ’ave a powder that will warm your pale complexion and lip rouge and kohl for the eyes and lashes.”

A knock at the door drew Madame Marie’s attention away. “That will be François,” she said. “’E said there are matters to discuss with you.”

Francis Renquist opened the door a crack and called in. “Are you decent, Miss Lovejoy?”

“But of course she is decent, François.” Madame Marie smiled at her husband. She let him in and went around him, speaking over her shoulder. “She looks just like ma mere, Lizette Deauville. I ’ave an appointment, chérie. I shall see you tomorrow when the ladies come, eh?”

“Oui,” she called, turning from the mirror to face Mr. Renquist. “Do you have news?” she asked.

Mr. Renquist looked dumbstruck. His eyes widened and he stared at her with his mouth agape. “I, ah. You…are Miss Lovejoy?”

She smiled. “Then you do not think I’d be recognized on the street?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her. “But do not let that make you reckless, Miss Lovejoy.”

“And once I shed the disguise and go back to being Dianthe Lovejoy?”

“No one would link the two of you together,” he confirmed.

Thank heavens. Now she was free to proceed with her plan. But first, she asked, “Did you learn anything, Mr. Renquist?”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. The men I interviewed are well-respected family men. All have alibis for the night of the murder.”

Dianthe wondered how any man who’d dallied with a courtesan and had been fond enough of one to attend her funeral could be a “family man.” “And the others?” she asked. “Did you learn their names?”

“Yes, miss. Nigel Edgerton and Lord Geoffrey Morgan among them. I have not interviewed them yet.”

“As it happens, Mr. Renquist, my cousin and aunt are well acquainted with Lord Morgan. If you will speak with Mr. Edgerton, I shall interview Morgan.” The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Renquist to question Geoffrey Morgan. If he should slip and give her whereabouts away, Mr. Renquist would call him out.

“I am not certain that is a good idea, Miss Lovejoy. Lord Morgan has a reputation as the worst sort of rake.”

“But he owes my cousin a favor. He will not harm me in any way. Set your mind at ease on that, sir. But I wonder if you might indulge me in a few questions. You see, there is no one else I can ask.”

Mr. Renquist frowned. “What sort of questions?”

“About the demimonde, sir. And their…well, practices.”

“Here now. You ought not to be concerning yourself with such things.”

“I fear it is too late for that. Miss Brookes was of the demimonde, and therefore certain elements of it are of grave concern to me. They may have bearing on her murder. Perhaps her killer was a patron, or a jealous competitor.”

Considering her words, Mr. Renquist went to the door and peeked out. He shut it again and turned the lock. “If Marie catches me talking about such things, I’ll be hard-pressed to find supper or a bed tonight.”

Dianthe nodded in understanding.

“Ask, then,” he instructed with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

“I think it would be helpful to know how a woman of the demimonde goes on.”

Mr. Renquist looked bewildered. “Goes on?”

“Conducts herself,” Dianthe clarified, covering her embarrassment. “I assume that, if she has a protector, he would escort her places and see to her business and needs. But what if she does not have a particular protector, as Miss Brookes did not? Did Miss Brookes go to events alone? In groups with other ladies of the demimonde? Or would she always have an escort? The possibilities are bewildering, you see, and they could make all the difference in why Miss Brookes was where she was, and in what happened to her. I would ask you to investigate that for me, Mr. Renquist, but I know Madame Marie would have your…hide pinned to a wall should you spend time with that sort of woman.”

A hint of fear passed through Mr. Renquist’s eyes. “I quite agree, miss. Well, not that I am knowledgeable about such things, but the rules of polite society do not apply to the demimonde. Miss Brookes could have gone wherever she wanted, excepting in society.”

“Alone?”

“If she chose.”

“What sort of places would she have gone?”

“Public places, mostly. The theater. Vauxhall Gardens. Her escort the night of her murder was never found. Likely she went alone to meet friends.”

To meet her, Dianthe thought. But the theater? That was an idea. She could purchase a ticket and observe the goings-on. “Where else would a courtesan go?” she asked.

“Where she could meet men. Where ladies do not. Such women would not be admitted to Almack’s or balls and soirees.”

Then what of hells and public houses? Hells. A woman could expect to meet a better sort there than at a public house. Men who had enough money to gamble would be men who could buy an expensive woman’s favors. Nell Brookes had seemed the sort who would prefer men with money, and she’d been pretty enough to attract them. Her friends would have frequented the same places and have known the same men.

And they were the women whose trust Dianthe must win. Only then would she get the answers to her questions. You would have to be one of us….

Precisely what she had in mind.

Dianthe dropped her brush on the dressing table and went to pour herself another cup of tea from the pot on her bedside table. She couldn’t believe she felt so lonely. Her brother, Bennett, was abroad with a schoolmate’s family for the summer, Afton was in Scotland with her husband, and Aunt Grace was on her wedding trip. Dianthe had thought she’d be quite merry with the Thayers until autumn. She wished, now, that she’d gone to stay with Afton and the McHugh in the Highlands. Instead, she was now homeless, bereft of family and at the mercy of a man she had always believed was completely ruthless.

The mantel clock struck the hour of ten and Dianthe rolled her eyes. Hortense and Harriett would be frisking through the salons of the ton at this very minute, with nary a thought of bed for many hours to come, and dozens of young swains in pursuit, while her only company was the monotonous tick of the clock. Tedium coupled with unease made her nerves jangle.

She glanced down at the leather-bound volume on her chair. She’d finished The Taming Of The Shrew, and hadn’t brought anything else upstairs with her. Perhaps she should go down to the library and find something more interesting to read. Something on the upper shelves, perhaps. Yes, something not fit for delicate female eyes. She’d like to know that there was something more shocking than her own life at the moment, and she longed for anything that would distract her.

Without distractions, her mind always returned to Vauxhall Gardens and her cousin dying in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Every day that she delayed taking action was a betrayal of her promise to Nell.

Dianthe hadn’t heard anyone stirring for quite some time, and figured Mrs. Mason and Pemberton had undoubtedly retired for the night. They would have extinguished the lights in the library, so she picked up a lit candle to take with her. Anticipating the library ladder she would have to negotiate to reach the higher shelves, she kicked off her slippers. She’d be more sure-footed on the treads without them.

Despite the pervasive silence, there were a good many lights left burning—one in the foyer, one in the back hallway and another in the sitting room. She’d never known anyone to use the sitting room. Still, the running of the house was none of her business. Perhaps Lord Morgan’s orders had been to be prepared for his arrival at any and all times.

The ornamental umbrella stand in the foyer was tipped over, and she paused to right it and replace the umbrellas. How had that happened? She glanced around but could find nothing else out of place.

With a shrug, she continued to the library. One lamp by the desk was still lit and the fireplace still glowed, the embers a bright orange-red. She closed the door to ensure her privacy should Pemberton come to make one last circuit of the house. She had no desire to explain her taste in reading materials while standing in a nightgown.

She placed her candle on the desk and returned the volume of Shakespeare to the shelf. With heightened anticipation, she climbed the library ladder to read the titles on the top shelf. Oh, for an illicit copy of something naughty—just the very thing to chase worry from her weary brain. Perhaps something by the Italians. Dante or Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, or some other “indecent” work.

But she found nothing to titillate or even raise an eyebrow. She descended the ladder and pushed it along the shelves to a new position. The sound of a footfall outside the library door stopped her. Was it Pemberton coming to lock up for the night?

She was on the verge of calling out when another possibility occurred to her. Had Lord Morgan come to devil her? She really was in no mood for such a possibility. She found their encounters increasingly taxing on her nerves.

A faint moan was followed by a muffled footfall. A prickle of misgiving raced up Dianthe’s spine. This wouldn’t be Morgan. The sounds of that night in Vauxhall Gardens came back to her, and she made an instinctive move toward the desk and the knee well beneath it. For the first time, she noticed that the middle drawer was open and the floor beneath it was littered with papers. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the doorknob turning. Dropping to her knees, she scooted beneath the desk, hugged herself and held her breath.

The door opened and a shaft of light from the foyer spread across the wall behind her. Whatever had been dragged was dropped, and the library door was closed with a quiet click.

Dianthe scarcely breathed. Her heartbeat hammered wildly against her rib cage and fear rose in the form of a solid lump in her throat. Oh! The candle! She’d left it burning!

A gurgling chortle slid through the silence. “I know you’re in here,” a man’s voice whispered.

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