The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (20 page)

Christopher stared at the small white square of paper. She’d left him another damned note.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would know where she’d gone. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so right away?’

He snatched it up and read it through.

Nothing. He felt his jaw tighten. Not a bloody word about where she was going. Just goodbye and good fortune. And thank you. He felt like a flag deprived of breeze, deflated and limp. She hadn’t cared for him one jot.

And Garth was here. He narrowed his eyes, remembering the scene he had interrupted. This was Garth’s fault. He’d scared her away with his lecherous pawing.

‘Send Jeannie to the study,’ he said, marching down the hall. For once Garth would pay for his idiocy.

The door crashed against the wall and Garth raised his head slowly. He had that stupid, distant expression of a man in his cups. ‘Hello, Kit, old boy. Drink?’

‘You lousy, rotten bastard.’ Christopher lunged across the room and hauled Garth to his feet by his shirtfront. He raised his fist.

Garth made no move to defend himself. Guilt shadowed his eyes.

‘Blackguard,’ Christopher said. ‘You know where she is.’ Disgusted, he shoved him away.

Garth staggered back and landed in the seat. He made a feeble attempt to straighten his cravat. ‘I don’t. I gave her the money to go.’

Christopher couldn’t think or breathe. A cold numbness enveloped him. ‘You gave her money?’ His stomach crashed to the floor, leaving him nauseous. She’d taken money from Garth. For what? His fists clenched.

A small china bowl on the shelf at eye level filled his vision. He picked it up and flung it at Garth’s head.

Garth ducked. The bowl hit the wall with a crash. He brushed the dusting of porcelain shards from his shoulders. ‘I never did like that bowl.’

‘You gave her money?’ Christopher wouldn’t believe it. His heart felt like the ornament, shattered in a million pieces. But he had to know. He had to let Garth give him the
coup de grâce
. ‘For services rendered, no doubt.’

Garth’s expression turned wary. ‘No. I paid her to leave you alone. She’s a scheming little bitch. She planned to wed you. She as good as admitted she planned to have a fine time at your expense. I wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t told me herself.’

The contents in the pocket over his heart burned a hole in his chest. His throat filled, clogged with a solid lump. He took a long slow breath, blinking away the hot sensation behind his eyes. He hauled in a shaky breath. ‘What the hell happened?’

Garth shrugged. ‘I asked her how much she wanted to buy her off.’

He had to know. Had to hear it. ‘How much was I worth?’

‘A hundred guineas.’

The world seemed to stop spinning. He felt empty. He hadn’t for a moment thought she wanted money. It didn’t make any sense. Hell, he could have bought her off the day
after the will was read. He’d been taken for a fool. A short laugh scraped his throat raw. He’d been ready to marry her, a girl from the stews, the daughter of a prostitute, a bastard.

Somehow he’d been bewitched by her beautiful face and luscious body. But by God, he wished Garth hadn’t spoiled the dream. It took a moment, but finally he managed to speak. He kept his voice flat. ‘You had no right to interfere.’

‘Head of the family. Duty and all that.’

‘Utter rot.’

They turned towards the opening door.

Jeannie, more bowed than ever, crept into the room. She had a firm grip on the butler’s sleeve and a dog-eared paper clutched in her hand.

She glowered at Garth from beneath her bushy brows, then twisted her neck to look up at Christopher, holding out the scrap of parchment. ‘She niver told me what she planned to do or I would have given her this.’ She twisted her neck to glare up at Bates. ‘All right, cully. Tell ’em where she’s gone.’

Bates sputtered and pulled his arm out of her clawed fingers.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Mr Evernden, I’m that worried about my wee lass.’

T
he pistol in Rafter’s hand waggled and Sylvia stepped back as a fair-haired man, with distinguished grey at his temples and vivid blue eyes snapping anger, strode into the room. He halted in front of the desk and leaned against it.

This must be the Duke of Huntingdon, her father. An ache spread through her chest, so painful her ribs hurt when she drew breath. Her mother had adored this man. She had died, knowing he didn’t care one snap of his fingers for her.

He couldn’t be more duke-like. Regal and straight shouldered, his demeanour spoke of privilege and command, but his mottled red complexion warned of a volatile temper or some disorder of the blood. She’d waited all her life to look him in the eye. She took a deep steadying breath.

Rafter tightened his grasp on her arm. She winced.

The Duke swept back his black evening coat and set his hands on his hips. ‘What is going on here, Rafter?’

‘This woman pushed her way in, demanding to see you, your Grace. Bradford came and got me instead.’

‘I heard a shot,’ the Duke said.

‘Yes, your Grace. She fired at me.’

Trust Rafter to tell only half the story. Sylvia glared at him. ‘He grabbed at the gun and it went off.’

The Duke turned his haughty gaze on her. ‘When I ask you a question, young woman, you will answer. Until then, be silent.’

Damn his arrogance. This was not the civilised conversation she had envisaged holding with him, the one where she held the gun.

‘Your Grace,’ Rafter said in dulcet tones, ‘allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Sylvia Boisette.’

Sylvia forced herself not to curtsy. Instead, she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.

Huntingdon’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red. ‘Good God. What the hell is she doing here? I am surrounded by incompetence. I thought you said you could handle this problem.’

That was all she was to him, a problem to be swept under the carpet liked so much unwanted dust, or locked in the closet like a skeleton. She shivered. The truth of that thought came closer to reality than she cared to admit. She kept her gaze locked on his face. ‘I came here to talk to you.’

The Duke seemed nonplussed. ‘Damn it all, Rafter. You told me I’d heard the last of her. How much more will it take to be rid of you?’ He curled his lip in distaste. ‘Between you and your mother, you’ll see me ruined.’

His scornful words and expression gouged into Sylvia’s soul like the claws of a raging beast. ‘Do you have any idea what my mother suffered when you abandoned her?’

A flash of pain flickered in his eyes, then his expression hardened. ‘Give her what she wants, but get rid of her, Rafter. This is the last time I give her money and to hell with the consequences.’

What was he talking about? She’d never asked him for a penny and never would. ‘I don’t want your money. I want an apology for what you did to me and my mother.’

Scarlet-faced, he jerked his gaze to her. ‘Apology?’ The word choked him. ‘Apologise to a woman who’s been
bleeding me dry for years? A woman who sells herself to the highest bidder just like her mother did? Never.’

Damn his arrogance. Her mother had given up her pride and her body so this man’s child could survive. ‘
Cochon!
She had no choice because you never came back, you heartless cur.’

‘I’m afraid we have another little problem, your Grace,’ Rafter said.

Huntingdon stilled. ‘What now?’

‘This little ladybird has a friend. A Mr Evernden has taken her under his wing.’

Heat branded Sylvia’s cheeks. Rafter had turned something beautiful into filth.

Huntingdon shrugged. ‘Pay him off. Anything. Surely he’ll see reason.’ He glowered. ‘Warn him of the trouble it could cause for him and his family. God knows I’ve seen enough of it.’

‘Ah, your Grace,’ Rafter said, his hoarse voice full of warm congratulation, ‘that’s the way of it. Threaten them into submission.’

The Duke brushed Rafter’s words away with a sharp gesture. ‘I don’t care what it costs, get her and her false claims out of England. Buy Evernden’s silence.’

Outrage boiled in her blood. She hated her father for what he had done to her mother. Now he wanted to do the same to her and make Christopher his accomplice.

She looked longingly at Rafter’s weapon, the one he’d pulled from his pocket after hers fired harmlessly into the wall. She wanted to put a bullet in the Duke of Huntingdon so badly she pictured the blood staining the pristine white of his shirtfront. She’d hang to feel the satisfaction it would bring.

Sylvia wrenched her arm from Rafter’s grip. Ignoring the pistol aimed at her back, she crossed the thick patterned rug and glared into Huntingdon’s face. ‘Leave Christopher Evernden out of this game of yours. He has nothing to do with
you or my mother. As far as I am concerned, I don’t want to remember I have you for a father.’

His blue eyes blazed anger. ‘You are no daughter of mine.’

‘Liar. Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me, then?’

The Duke recoiled as if struck. ‘Don’t play me for a fool, my girl.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Look. I’ve paid you more than enough to set up your own establishment in Paris, much as the thought disgusts me. You’ve got what you want. Now go away and leave me in peace.’

Nothing he said made any sense.

Rafter crossed to her side, grinning like some insane Celtic pixie. For once, his usually implacable grey eyes danced with unholy amusement.

‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, your Grace.’

The rain had eased into a fine drizzle. Moving swiftly through the garden at the back of Huntingdon’s house, Christopher slipped and slid on sodden grass. He cursed the wet creeping up his legs from where he had landed in the shrubbery when he had jumped down from the back wall. He ducked as an ornamental willow slapped wet fingers in his face.

‘Bugger,’ Garth mumbled.

Christopher glanced behind him.

The light of a wall lantern caught Garth hopping on one foot. Deep barks issued from the back of a building the waft of manure and hay identified as the mews.

‘Quiet,’ Christopher whispered, wishing he’d made him stay behind. ‘They will set the dogs on us.’

They skirted the patch of light spilling out on to the drive and strode up the alley beside the house as if they belonged there. At the side door, Garth grasped Christopher’s shoulder. ‘What if she’s not here? We are going to look like a pair of fools.’

Christopher shook him off. ‘Bates said she asked for a carriage to bring her here.’ He had no doubts. He knew her
only too well. She went after what she wanted with solid determination and she was in danger.

Christopher pulled his pistol from his pocket and pushed the door open.

A footman leaped up from his seat beside the door. ‘You can’t come in here…’ He fell silent at the sight of Christopher’s weapon aimed at his chest.

‘Tie him up,’ Christopher said to Garth.

With the footman’s neckcloth as a rope and his handkerchief as a gag, Garth bound the servant to his chair.

‘Which way now?’ Christopher asked.

Duelling pistol in hand, Garth jerked his head towards the passageway. ‘The formal rooms are that way. Lord knows where we’ll find the Duke.’

They crept along the hall. A bustling figure, the butler by his dress, almost ran headlong into them. ‘What the deuce?’

‘Just the man we need.’ Christopher pressed his pistol against the man’s neck. ‘One sound and you are a dead man, understand?’

The butler nodded.

‘Where is his Grace?’ Christopher muttered.

‘In his study with Mr Rafter and a woman,’ the butler croaked.

Now they were getting somewhere. He swung the man around and grasped his shoulder. ‘Lead the way.’

The door opened unannounced. The butler, framed in the doorway, opened and closed his mouth like a landed carp.

‘Get out,’ Huntingdon said.

The butler lurched forward.

The room filled with broad shoulders and simmering male rage. Christopher shoved the butler aside and aimed his pistol at Huntingdon’s chest. Garth stumbled towards Rafter.

Cold metal, hard and unforgiving, nudged Sylvia’s temple.

Garth halted in his tracks.

‘As I was saying, your Grace,’ Rafter said.

Sylvia caught Christopher’s glance in hers. No emerald fire, no smile, just a cool stare. Garth had told him, of course, and now he scorned her. She steeled herself to bear his hatred despite her longing to throw herself at his feet, tell him what she had said to Garth wasn’t true. She must not. For his sake. She held her head high.

‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing in my house?’ the Duke asked.

Garth flashed a charming smile and bowed with courtly grace as if this were some chance meeting in the park, or a morning call. ‘Stanford, at your service, your Grace. We met at Lady Elphinstone’s last month, you might recall. This is my brother, Christopher Evernden.’ He raised an eyebrow at Rafter. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

Rafter gave him a sharp nod. ‘Seamus Rafter.’

Sylvia blinked as Garth swayed on his feet. Good heavens, he was his usual three sheets to the wind.

Stunned silence filled the room while the men took stock of each other. The fire popped. Everyone jumped except Rafter.

The Duke scrubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Will someone tell me why you are invading my house?’

‘I should have thought that was obvious, your Grace,’ Christopher said. ‘We are here to make sure no
more
harm comes to Miss Boisette.’

The protective words and the anger in his voice draped Sylvia like a warm blanket for all his impassive expression. He should not have come here, but even so her heart swelled with joy.

Then, at the thought of what could happen to him as a result, her mouth dried. ‘Thank you, Mr Evernden, Lord Stanford, but I believe the Duke and I were about to come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.’

Christopher’s gaze flicked to Garth. ‘Another one?’

Heat scalded her face. She couldn’t blame him for his
thoughts. The rage she glimpsed in his eyes seemed to twist the knife that resided in her chest. Clearly she’d burned her bridges.

Turning to Huntingdon, she forced herself to continue. ‘Mr Evernden is an innocent bystander caught in your web. Let him go.’

Rafter chuckled. ‘Too bad he didn’t think of that earlier. Now, if you don’t want the young lady dead at your feet, you
gentlemen
will drop your weapons.’

Christopher cursed and let his pistol fall.

Rafter narrowed his gaze on Garth. ‘And you.’

Garth tossed his on the sofa. ‘Now what, Kit?’

Everyone swung around as the door opened and a fresh-faced youth of about thirteen strolled in. His brilliant blue eyes immediately settled on Huntingdon. ‘Are you coming, Father? I have set the chess board up in the library.’ His voice faltered as he caught sight of Rafter’s pistol. ‘What is it, Papa? Who are these men? Shall I call the footmen?’

‘Welcome to the play, Lord Basingstoke,’ Rafter said with a grin. ‘It’s the final act.’

The lad frowned. ‘Rafter, what is going on?’

‘Allow me to do the introductions,’ Garth cut in.

Sylvia gaped at him. He was definitely in his cups.

‘This is your half-sister, Sylvia.’ Garth nodded at the others as he went round the room. ‘Mr Rafter you know. Behind your father is my brother, Christopher Evernden, and I am Stanford. Sylvia, this is your brother, David Woods, the Earl of Basingstoke. Oh, and shrinking in the corner over there is your butler.’ He grinned with obvious delight at his own humor.

‘Stow it, Garth,’ Christopher muttered.

The young earl frowned at Sylvia. ‘I don’t have a sister.’

‘Oh, but indeed you do, my lord,’ Rafter said with smug satisfaction.

‘Silence, Rafter,’ Huntingdon roared. ‘I’ll not have my
personal business bandied about in this fashion.’ He pulled at his cravat, his complexion heightened with a nasty purple tinge.

Sylvia pulled her arm free of Rafter’s hand. She didn’t want to do this any more. Too many people had become involved in this confrontation with her father. ‘There is nothing more to discuss. Give me your word you will not follow me and nothing spoken of tonight will leave this room.’

‘You think I can trust a blackmailer?’ the Duke asked.

‘I don’t understand,’ the young Basingstoke said.

‘You are right, David,’ Huntingdon said. ‘You don’t understand. She’s not your sister, no matter what she says. Please leave this to me to sort out.’

‘No one is going anywhere,’ Rafter said, menace clinging to him like creeping sea fog. He shifted his weapon’s aim to the boy. The lad’s jaw dropped as Rafter continued. ‘It’s time your son knows what kind of a bastard you really are, your Grace. Or is it the other way around?’

Clearly distressed, Sylvia rubbed at her temple.

There was a red mark where Rafter had dug the metal barrel against her delicate skin. Christopher wanted to ram the pistol down Rafter’s throat and make him swallow it.

‘No,’ the Duke’s voice choked out in a whisper. He clutched at his chest, pushed Rafter aside and collapsed on the sofa.

David crouched beside his father, fingers fumbling at his neckcloth.

Garth stiffened to attention, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Rafter. ‘Dear God, no.’

Rafter’s chilling laugh rippled around the room. He drew himself up straight, like a soldier on parade, and glanced in contempt at the Duke’s anguished expression. ‘It’s time, your Grace.’

Sylvia knelt at Huntingdon’s side and chafed his hands. ‘Stop talking riddles. Someone send for a doctor. This man needs medical attention.’

Christopher couldn’t believe it. She should be strangling Huntingdon, not helping him. He deserved to die.

Garth went to the console by the window and poured a snifter of brandy. He returned and handed it to Sylvia. ‘Give him this.’

Sylvia coaxed the glass into Huntingdon’s hand and guided the glass to his mouth. He took a swallow and gradually his colour reduced and his breathing became less ragged.

‘Look out,’ Garth cried.

Out of the corner of his eye, Christopher caught Rafter’s swift movement. Too late. Rafter pressed the muzzle of his gun against the boy’s neck while Garth stared at the lad as if he’d seen a ghost.