Boisette inclined her head. ‘Merci, Denise.’
She indicated the striped rose-and-grey upholstered chair opposite her. ‘Please, do be seated.’
Like the pieces in the antechamber, the delicate furniture seemed unsuited to the male frame. Careful to avoid knocking the table with his knees, he lowered himself onto the seat.
Despite the damned awkwardness of the situation, Mademoiselle Boisette seemed perfectly at ease. She might not have attended his uncle’s card parties, but this young woman managed to hide her thoughts exceedingly well. Determined to remain impartial, he eyed her keenly. He would hear her out.
Pouring tea into a white, bone-china cup, she moved with innate grace. Her fine-boned fingers were as white and delicate as the saucer in her hand.
He didn’t like tea. He never drank it, not even for his mother. He took the cup she held out. ‘Thank you.’
She peeped at him through her lashes. ‘What an amusing situation to find ourselves in, Mr Evernden.’ Her husky laugh curled around him with delicious warmth.
He steeled himself against her blandishments. ‘I would hardly call it amusing, mademoiselle.’
After slowly stirring her tea, she replaced the spoon in the saucer without the slightest chink. She arched a brow. ‘Mais non? You do not find it entertaining? A farce. The son of anoble English milor’ and a courtesan’s daughter, trapped together by a dead man’s will? My mother was une salope. A prostitute, I think you say in English?’
Startled, Christopher swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. Damn. It burned the back of his throat on the way down.
He struggled not to cough for several seconds. By God, he hadn’t come here to listen to this. She might look like an angel, but she used the language of the Paris gutters. ‘Your frankness, madam, is astonishing.’
To his satisfaction, she looked slightly nonplussed.
She tilted her head in enchanting puzzlement. ‘I thought it would be better if we did not, how do you say it…mince our words?’
Did she think he would be taken in by such contrived gestures? Christopher glared at her. ‘Very well, mademoiselle. If it is plain speaking you want, you shall have it. My uncle’s will leaves me in a damnable position. I have no alternative but to place you somewhere you can do no further harm to my family’s good name.’
‘Do you have any idea what will happen to me in a workhouse or some other charitable institution?’ Despite her smiling expression, desperation edged her voice. ‘Oh, no, Mr Evernden. I will not allow it.’
Christopher glanced around the elegant drawing room. She was right. Wherever she ended up, it would not be like this. Her beauty would leave her vulnerable to all kinds of abuse. The thought sickened him.
Damn it. She’d been his uncle’s mistress for years. What difference could it possibly make to a woman of her stamp? ‘You have no choice. Cliff House must be sold to pay my uncle’s debts. You must go somewhere you can learn a respectable occupation.’
A shadow darkened her eyes to fathomless blue. Fear? Anger? Golden lashes swept the expression away, leaving her gaze clear and untroubled. He was mistaken. Women like her did not know fear.
Except that looking at her, he couldn’t quite give credence to the gossip. Or did he simply not want to believe something this beautiful could be so depraved?
She surged to her feet in a rustle of stiff silk and skirted the table between them. The heavy scent of roses wafted over him. He didn’t recall her wearing so much perfume in the study.
As light as a butterfly, her hand rested on his upper arm. She slanted him a teasing glance. ‘The key is respectable, non?’
Heat prickled up his arm. How would that hand feel in his? Soft? Warm? Before he could discover for himself, she floated to the window. A vague sense of loss swept him.
Her hair molten gold and the profile of her perfect face and figure haloed by the glow of the afternoon sun, she paused, looking out.
Another pose designed to drive a man to lustful madness. He tightened the rein on his self-control and waited in silence.
She pressed a hand to her throat, fingering the trinket suspended at her beautiful throat, then turned to face him full on.
He squinted against the light, straining to see her expression.
‘Your uncle made no complaints,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to take his place?’
Once more, unruly blood stirred at the suggestion in her husky voice. For a moment, he considered her blatant offer. Blast her. He was no cup-shot, idle rake like his brother. ‘Quite sure.’
She remained silent for a moment, thoughtful, then smiled and raised one hand, palm up. ‘Then give me two hundred pounds from the sale of Cliff House and I swear the Evernden family will never hear from me again. Nor will I ever mention my connection with your uncle.’
Blackmail. A brief pang of disappointment twisted in his chest, instantly obliterated by a flood of relief. Two hundred pounds was a pittance to rid his family of this blot on their good name. If he could only trust her word. ‘Where will you go?’
The sultry coquette evaporated, leaving a haughty young woman staring down her nose. ‘That, sir, is none of your concern.’
If she thought to bleed him dry a few hundred pounds at a time, she’d come to the wrong door. ‘If you want money from me, I will make it my concern.’
She hesitated, then dropped her gaze. ‘I am going to Tunbridge Wells.’
‘Tunbridge Wells?’ The nearest town of any significance to the Darbys’ estate where he planned to spend the next fortnight. He’d arranged to pick up his curricle at the Sussex Hotel and send the town carriage back to London. ‘And how do you intend to support yourself?’
While her face remained a blank page, storms swirled in the depths of her eyes. ‘A friend owns a small, but exclusive, ladies’ dress shop in the town. I plan to invest in her business.’
With short sharp steps, she returned to her seat. The heavy scent of roses thickened the air. ‘Would you care for some more tea?’ She picked up the teapot. ‘I have grown fond of the English thé.’
Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’
She began to fill her cup.
A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’
Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’
Not quite so self-assured, then.
‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’
She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.
God,
