The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
decorum.
Christopher straightened his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception. The company had thinned in his absence and Tripp was nowhere to be seen. Nursing his wine, Christopher wandered over to the window and glanced out. A privet hedge bordered the lane leading to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the sweeping drive where a knot of coachmen smoked pipes and chatted at the head of the four waiting carriages. Beyond them, a down-at-heel fellow in a battered black hat perused the front of the house. A prospective buyer?
The ramshackle condition of the property would not attract a wealthy purchaser despite the magnificent view of alabaster cliffs, the English Channel and, on a rare fine day like today, the faint smudge of the French coast on the horizon. Small vessels, their white sails billowing, scurried towards Dover harbour behind the headland. Mid-channel, larger ships plied their trade on white-tipped waves. No wonder his uncle had hermited himself away here with his fille de joie.
A picture of her face danced in his mind. He shook his head. No one could be that beautiful. The dim light had fooled him.
‘Christopher?’
Damn it. What now? He swung around. ‘Yes, Aunt?’
Excitement gleamed in his aunt’s protuberant eyes. ‘I am so glad George brought me today. Lord and Lady Caldwell were my brother’s closest acquaintances.’
She motioned in the direction of the well-dressed couple engaged in conversation with chubby Uncle George. ‘They have invited us to stay with them for a day or two.’
‘How delightful for you both.’
Aunt Molesby dropped her penetrating voice to a whisper. ‘Caldwell says that John actually used that woman as his hostess. Can you credit it?’
A veritable charger in the lists, nothing would stop his aunt at full tilt. Fortunately, she did not seem to expect an answer.
‘Yes, indeed,’ she continued. ‘The shame of it. Lady Caldwell never attended, of course. Only men friends were invited for the gambling parties.’ Her expression changed to disgruntlement. ‘That woman didn’t attend the gentlemen in any of their gambling pursuits. She always disappeared after dinner.’
Thank heaven for small mercies.
‘You really should greet the Caldwells, you know,’ she said, urging him in their direction. ‘They were acquainted with your father.’
* * *
By the time Christopher had accepted the Caldwells’ words of sympathy, said farewell to the Molesbys and spoken to the vicar, most of the food was gone and the guests had departed.
The butler approached with a low bow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir, Mademoiselle Boisette will see you now.’
Quelling his irritation at the pompous tone, Christopher followed the butler up the curved staircase to the second floor. Ushered into what was obviously an antechamber, he surveyed the delicate furnishings and the walls decorated with trompe-l’oeil scenes of what he assumed to be the idyllic French countryside.
Rather than risk the single fragile, gilt chair collapsing under him, Christopher declined the butler’s offer of a seat.
‘If you would wait here a moment, sir, I will inform Mademoiselle Boisette you are here.’
Hell. Did she think he was here for an interview? He would make his position clear from the outset.
The butler knocked on the white door beneath a pediment carved with cherubs. It opened just enough for him to enter.
More moments passed and Christopher paced around the room. This situation became more tiresome by the minute. Finally, the butler returned and gestured for him to enter. ‘This way, sir, if you please.’
A gaunt, middle-aged woman, her well-cut, severe gown proclaiming her to be some sort of companion, bobbed a curtsy as he passed and Christopher stepped into the lady’s bower, a room of light, with high ceilings and pale rose walls. A white rug adorned the centre of the highly polished light-oak planks. Mademoiselle Boisette, seated on the sofa in front of an oval rosewood table, glanced up from pouring tea from a silver teapot.
Stunned by the full effect of her glorious countenance, Christopher blinked. His mind had not played tricks downstairs. With hair of spun gold and small, perfectly formed features, she seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Unfortunately, she had spoiled the effect by applying rouge to her cheeks and lips since their first meeting.
He took the hand she held out.
She smiled with practised brilliance. ‘Mr Evernden, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Denise, you may leave us. Mr Evernden and I have business to discuss.’
The woman twisted her hands together. ‘I will be in the next room should you need me, mademoiselle.’
Mademoiselle Boisette inclined her head. ‘Merci, Denise.’
She indicated the striped rose-and-grey upholstered chair opposite her. ‘Please, do be seated.’
Like the pieces in the antechamber, the delicate furniture seemed unsuited to the male frame. Careful to avoid knocking the table with his knees, he lowered himself onto the seat.
Despite the damned awkwardness of the situation, Mademoiselle Boisette seemed perfectly at ease. She might not have attended his uncle’s card parties, but this young woman managed to hide her thoughts exceedingly well. Determined to remain impartial, he eyed her keenly. He would hear her out.
Pouring tea into a white, bone-china cup, she moved with innate grace. Her fine-boned fingers were as white and delicate as the saucer in her hand.
He didn’t like tea. He never drank it, not even for his mother. He took the cup she held out. ‘Thank you.’
She peeped at him through her lashes. ‘What an amusing situation to find ourselves in, Mr Evernden.’ Her husky laugh curled around him with delicious warmth.
He steeled himself against her blandishments. ‘I would hardly call it amusing, mademoiselle.’
After slowly stirring her tea, she replaced the spoon in the saucer without the slightest chink. She arched a brow. ‘Mais non? You do not find it entertaining? A farce. The son of anoble English milor’ and a courtesan’s daughter, trapped together by a dead man’s will? My mother was une salope. A prostitute, I think you say in English?’
Startled, Christopher swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. Damn. It burned the back of his throat on the way down.
He struggled not to cough for several seconds. By God, he hadn’t come here to listen to this. She might look like an angel, but she used the language of the Paris gutters. ‘Your frankness, madam, is astonishing.’
To his satisfaction, she looked slightly nonplussed.
She tilted her head in enchanting puzzlement. ‘I thought it would be better if we did not, how do you say it…mince our words?’
Did she think he would be taken in by such contrived gestures? Christopher glared at her. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If it is plain speaking you want, you shall have it. My uncle’s will leaves me in a damnable position. I have no alternative but to place you somewhere you can do no further harm to my family’s good name.’
‘Do you have any idea what will happen to me in a workhouse or some other charitable institution?’ Despite her smiling expression, desperation edged her voice. ‘Oh, no, Mr Evernden. I will not allow it.’
Christopher glanced around the elegant drawing room. She was right. Wherever she ended up, it would not be like this. Her beauty would leave her vulnerable to all kinds of abuse. The thought sickened him.
Damn it. She’d been his uncle’s mistress for years. What difference could it possibly make to a woman of her stamp? ‘You have no choice. Cliff House must be sold to pay my uncle’s debts. You must go somewhere you can learn a respectable