A Courtesan's Scandal Read online

  “Berger? The slave trade!” Kate exclaimed, sinking back on her heels. “What are you implying? Jude is involved in the slave trade? My Jude?”

  Digby opened one eye. “I am fairly certain it is your Jude, the surname notwithstanding. He is not easily forgotten, it would seem, for he is rather quarrelsome when he’s full of drink and when he’s not, he’s rather popular with the ladybirds. The description of him—provided by one such ladybird—sounded quite like you, Kate. Blond hair, green eyes, and uncommon beauty.”

  “Dear God,” she murmured.

  Digby touched his eye and winced painfully.

  “Aldous, there is a some beefsteak in the kitchen. Will you fetch it?” she asked.

  “I smell something that stirs my appetite, and it is not beefsteak,” Digby said.

  “And the pastries, Aldous,” Kate called after him. To Digby, she asked hopefully, “Did you learn how to find him?”

  “Unfortunately, The Princess set sail earlier this week. No one I spoke with knows when she will return.”

  Kate’s soaring hopes quickly plummeted. “Lud, what happened to you, Digby?” she asked softly as she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

  He flicked his wrist. “I suppose I was a bit too cavalier with my purse,” he said with a grimace. “I was set upon by a pair of thugs as soon as I departed the tavern. Not only did they divest me of my purse, but my gun as well.”

  “Your gun!”

  “I may be foolish, but I am not entirely a fool. I, too, spent more years by the quays than I care to remember and was prepared for such tomfoolery. I was not, however, prepared for the speed of their blows. I was quite overwhelmed.”

  “Oh, Digby,” Kate said sorrowfully.

  A sharp rap at the front door startled them both; Kate exchanged a look with Digby. “Wait here.” She stood and removed her apron as she walked across the room and tossed it aside. She reached the door at the same moment Aldous did on his way back from the kitchen. He thrust the plate of petit fours at her, which Kate quickly put down, and hurried after him.

  When Aldous opened the front door, still carrying the beefsteak. Kate saw a footman in livery standing outside. She assumed he was a royal footman, but on closer inspection, she realized the colors were wrong. A gust of cold wind swept into the house, lifting the hem of Kate’s gown as the footman removed his hat.

  “Yes?” Aldous asked coolly.

  “A message, sir, for Miss Katharine Bergeron, from the Duke of Darlington.” He held out something to Aldous.

  Aldous, who harbored a resentment of the Quality in any shape or fashion, shut the door in the footman’s face. “A package,” he said to Kate. “Small.”

  She couldn’t imagine what Darlington would be sending her, and frankly, she didn’t care. He was an odious man, a mean, unkind, rotten man. “No, thank you.”

  Aldous opened the door. “She don’t want it,” he said.

  “Don’t want it?” the footman said, seeming confused. He looked at the package. “But I’m to deliver it.”

  “She don’t want it. Take it back.”

  “Take it back?” the poor man repeated, as if he couldn’t fathom such a thing.

  “All right, all right,” Kate said, hurrying forward. She put out her hand for the package.

  “Thank you, mu’um,” the footman said, obviously relieved.

  Kate did not reply; there was no opportunity to do so. Aldous had shut the door again. She looked at him askance, to which Aldous shrugged. “He’s a footman.”

  The package was a small, plainly wrapped box with a sealed note tied to it. Kate returned to the drawing room with Aldous on her heels, and while he handed the beefsteak to Digby, and commanded him to press it to his eye—to which Digby protested, as he was rather fastidious about such things—Kate opened the note.

  She read it. Digby had taught her to read, but she still found it laborious. When she’d managed to read it all she thought the note sounded much like Darlington—curt and cold. She then opened the box and removed a pearl necklace. It was exquisite and outlandishly extravagant for a man who was not her lover.

  Kate had been the recipient of such gifts before, and they usually meant the same thing—a desire to bed her. Wasn’t that what they all wanted in the end, these fancy lords with their bottomless wells of money?

  “Too salty, love,” Digby said.

  “Pardon?” Kate asked, looking up.

  Digby licked his fingers. “The petits fours are too salty. I’d recommend a dash instead of a pinch.”

  “I thought there was something a bit off about them,” she agreed, and handed the necklace and box to Aldous. “Send it back.”

  “What is that?” Digby asked, eyeing the box.

  “A necklace.”

  Aldous opened the box and withdrew the necklace, holding it up to Digby. “You don’t mean to return this,” Aldous said. “Sell it. It would bring a small fortune.”

  “It would indeed,” Digby said, perusing the necklace with a critical eye.

  But Kate shook her head. “The price is too high to me. Send it back, Aldous. Please.”

  Aldous sighed. Digby looked pained. Kate stubbornly swept up her apron and put it on. “Too salty, really?” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  Grayson’s mother and father, the third Duke of Darlington, had produced four boys and three girls in their many years of matrimony. All but Randolf, who had succumbed to a fever at the age of twelve, survived into adulthood.

  Grayson’s father, who had been gone some six years now, had been a jolly man, as comfortable with a house full of children as a man could be. Grayson’s mother never missed an occasion to remind Grayson that his opportunity to sire a big, happy family was passing with each day he remained a bachelor.

  In addition to their own large family, both of Grayson’s parents had come from large families. Two of his mother’s sisters still lived, as did a sister and a brother of his father. That made Grayson, at the age of thirty years, the head of a very large brood. Too large. There were times Grayson felt stifled by his responsibilities to them all. His name was their name. His reputation bolstered theirs. His business dealings influenced their livelihoods. That sort of responsibility felt large and unwieldy, and at times, very frustrating.

  But most of the time, Grayson adored his large family. On any given day, particularly leading up to the Season, which would commence in a few weeks’ time, one or two of the Christopher clan was in the sprawling Darlington House on Charles Street, where Grayson resided. On this rainy afternoon, his sisters Prudence and Mary, otherwise known as the ladies Beaumont and Wallace, respectively, and Grayson’s brother Merrick, Lord Christopher, had come calling with Grayson’s mother, the dowager duchess. Prudence and Mary lived in their husbands’ homes. The duchess was in town for the Season, and opted to stay with Prudence to be closer to her grandchildren.

  Merrick had no house of his own in London. Darlington House was certainly big enough for all of them, but Merrick preferred taking private apartments in a gentleman’s club near Hyde Park to being at Darlington House under the watchful eye of his brother.

  Cold rain and dark gray skies had driven the denizens of Mayfair into their salons and Grayson’s siblings were restless, Merrick particularly so. He roamed from window to window, looking past the rain sluicing down the panes to the private park behind the house.

  There was another caller that long afternoon: Diana. She was a close friend of Prudence, which was how Grayson had made her acquaintance. He’d been attracted to her dark beauty. She’d recognized it and had encouraged him. Diana filled an emotional and physical need in Grayson, for he found it difficult to keep the company of the fairer sex. If he paid the slightest heed to an unmarried woman, rumors instantly abounded that he intended to offer for her. There were courtesans whose company he might have kept, but his mother and his sisters would disapprove so vociferously he would never be able to rest. Diana had proved to be the best solution for him.

/>   Since the time they had come together, Diana and Grayson had been extremely careful not to give any hint of their association, and Diana was practiced in maintaining her cool distance from him in social situations.

  But today she wore the pearl necklace he’d sent her as an apology for having missed their appointed liaison.

  And last, but hardly least, were Prudence’s two young sons, Master Frederick and his little brother, Radcliff, six and five years respectively, both of whom had small wooden swords and were making good use of them. Grayson had a sword, too, and would circle casually, lunging when they least expected it and sending them into fits of giggles.

  As Radcliff used his sword to dig at the carpet, Mary asked petulantly, “Is the rain ever going to end?” At nineteen years, she was really scarcely more than a child, yet she’d been married to Wallace, who was scarcely older than she, for a year. She was slouching in a chair, one arm draped across her middle, staring at the windows. “It’s rained for days and days! The streets are so muddied one can hardly pass through them, and I despise going about in it.”

  “It is that time of year, Mary,” Merrick said. “Be thankful it is not snow.”

  “Is it going to snow?” Frederick asked his Uncle Merrick hopefully, but Merrick didn’t hear him. The boy looked at Grayson. He winked and whispered, “Perhaps.”

  “It’s all the same to me,” Mary replied to Merrick. “It’s cold and wet and dreary. And Lord Wallace is very particular about heat. Did I tell you, Grayson? He says it is far too expensive to have all the hearths lit, and leaves me to suffer in the brutal cold. You should speak to him on my behalf.”

  Grayson smiled indulgently at his sister. “I best leave the delicate issue of how many hearths are to be lit in your very lovely house to you and your husband.”

  “But that is the very thing that will spark a disagreement!” Mary complained. “Oh, I don’t know why I should expect any sympathy from you! Bachelors and dukes are never forced to compromise.”

  Grayson shot a furtive glance at Diana. “You may trust that I compromise on many things,” he said patiently, and grabbed Radcliff, sweeping him up high overhead to the little boy’s delight.

  “Really, Darlington, your behavior is most unbecoming for a duke. Furthermore, it will excite the boys into illness,” his mother said from her seat at a writing table.

  “Who are you writing to, Mamma?” Mary asked idly as Grayson continued to play with Radcliff.

  “Lady Blue. I understand her daughter will be coming out this Season and I should like to invite her to tea.”

  “Very soon many young ladies will be in town, Christie,” Prudence said slyly. “Everyone agrees it is high time you made a match.”

  “Everyone, eh?” he asked with a grin for Radcliff. “Tell me, Rad, do you think it high time I made a match?”

  “Put me in the sky again!” Radcliff cried.

  “Darling, do have a care with my son,” Prudence said as he tossed Radcliff up in the air.

  “Throw me!” Frederick cried.

  “Well I am most concerned, Your Grace,” his mother said above the boys’ shrieks of laughter. “You are well past the age of marrying. You must think of heirs! But I know very well you will not think of it at all, so I am determined to host a tea and invite all the debutantes and have a look at them myself.”

  “It is a waste of time, Mamma.” Mary giggled. “Grayson won’t find a single one of them suitable. He never does. They are all too silly, or too young, or too disagreeable.”

  “If you had been introduced to as many eligible young ladies as I have been, Mary, you would say the same.”

  “Really, Christie, don’t you want to marry?” Prudence asked.

  “Of course I do. Eventually. I have a duty to marry,” he added absently.

  “Then you mustn’t be so particular!”

  Perhaps. But he could not imagine sitting every day for the rest of his life across the table from a woman he did not love.

  “I pray he never finds a suitable match, for then you will set your matchmaking sights on me,” Merrick said. “Ouch,” he said when Frederick, in a fit of laughter, crashed into his leg.

  Prudence scoffed as Merrick righted the boy and sent him back to Grayson, who was now on the floor on all fours, pretending to be a beast. “We have Harry, as well, Merrick,” Prudence said, speaking of Grayson’s other brother. “On my word, I don’t know what it is about my brothers that makes them all so averse to marriage.”

  “Perhaps the stifling finality of it,” Merrick suggested. That drew a laugh from Grayson, and as he was momentarily distracted, Radcliff was able to deliver a playful blow that knocked him over.

  “Darlington, really,” his mother said impatiently.

  Grayson grinned at the boys and poked them both in the belly. “Duty calls, lads,” he said, and gained his feet, straightened his clothing, and clasped his hands behind his back. He lifted one brow and looked pointedly at his mother.

  She tried to remain aloof, but he detected the barest hint of a smile.

  “Do you know who I think would make an excellent match for you, Christie?” Prudence continued a moment later when Frederick and Radcliff retreated to the far end of the room to throw bits of paper into the fire. “Lady Augusta Fellows, the daughter of the Earl of Brooking. She’s been out a year, and by all accounts, she is lovely. What do you think, Diana? You’ve had the pleasure of her company, have you not?”

  “I’ve scarcely met her at all,” Diana said. “I was introduced to her at an assembly. Poor thing was pressed to play the pianoforte.” She glanced at Prudence. “And she played it very ill, indeed.”

  Prudence laughed. “Nevertheless, I should think her charm would make up for her lack of musical ability. What do you think, Your Grace?” Prudence said teasingly. “Charm? Or musical ability?”

  “Charm, naturally, as he cannot hear the pianoforte,” Diana said gaily.

  Startled, Prudence looked at Diana, as did the dowager duchess. Diana’s smile faded. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said. “I merely remembered that you once remarked—”

  “I did, indeed, Lady Eustis,” he said. “It is hardly a secret that I am deaf to music.”

  “It’s a pity, really,” Mary said. “Music is so very lovely, particularly on tedious days such as today.” She suddenly sat up. “I believe I shall play the pianoforte!”

  “A capital idea,” Merrick said. “I’ll come along. I can’t bear another moment of all this talk of matchmaking.”

  “Frederick, Radcliff, would you like to play the piano-forte?” Mary asked, holding out her hands to them.

  “Yes!” Frederick cried, and galloped across the room to his aunt, Radcliff running on his heels. The four of them went out the door, and a moment later Grayson’s butler, Roarke, glided into the room.

  “Beyond her lack of ability on the pianoforte, what else do you know of Augusta Fellows?” Prudence asked Diana.

  Roarke whispered softly, “The footman has returned, Your Grace. The package was refused.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small box and the note that had been appended to it. The seal was broken.

  Grayson frowned with confusion. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I hardly know anything of her at all,” Diana said. “I can’t imagine why you’d be so keen on her. She seems rather like all the others to me.”

  “I suppose she might to you, Diana, but you don’t have all these bachelor brothers who are in desperate need of your assistance,” Prudence said blithely as Roarke went out.

  Grayson opened the note he’d written, expecting to find something written in reply. Astonishingly, there was nothing. Grayson could not imagine a woman—any woman, and certainly not that woman—refusing a gift from him.

  “I think Lady Augusta is very comely and has a pleasant disposition,” Prudence continued. “What do you think, Mamma?”

  “I’ve heard that about the entire lot of them,” the duchess said. “Which is prec
isely why we should have a tea, Pru. It is the only way we might see for ourselves if this Augusta Fellows is right for our duke, hmm? Have you met her, Darlington?”

  Grayson glanced up. Diana was looking at him strangely; it occurred to Grayson that she must have recognized the box. “I have not,” he said to his mother.

  “Perhaps she will attend the prince’s Twelfth Night Ball. You must make her acquaintance. If you’ve made a proper acquaintance, I may invite her to my tea,” his mother said. “Will you?” she asked as she perused the letter she had been writing.

  Grayson’s hand closed around the small box that had been returned to him. “Of course, Mother, if you wish it,” he said, and signaled for the footman to pour him a whiskey as the sound of pianoforte keys being banged with something—perhaps a wooden sword—reached them through the open door.

  Chapter Nine

  Having recovered from the altercation at St. Katharine’s dock, Digby lounged with Kate’s latest batch of petits fours on her daybed, in her suite of private rooms, passing judgment on her gowns. With Amy’s help, Kate donned each one behind a screen, then stepped out and twirled about, waiting for Digby’s verdict.

  Only three days ago, a woman named Mrs. Olive had appeared at Kate’s doorstep with two seamstresses and four footmen, bearing boxes and boxes of gowns. Kate had recognized the name instantly because the woman was the most sought-after modiste in all of London. The prince had sent her to Kate, Mrs. Olive said, for as she put it, “he very much desired her to be the most elegantly outfitted woman at the Twelfth Night Ball.”

  If there was one thing Kate had become quite attached to in her years as a courtesan, it was fine ladies’ clothing, and she’d welcomed Mrs. Olive with open arms.

  In the end, Mrs. Olive had left her with three gowns and accoutrements. Now that the evening of the ball was upon them, Kate couldn’t decide which one to wear and was leaving the decision to Digby. Fortunately for her, if there was a man who knew the drape and cut of a gown, it was Digby.