she managed to say was: “No tea.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Ha. Right. I’d forgotten entirely. You’re not still put out over that, are you?”
She had always thought that the life of a courtesan would take its toll slowly over time. That she might tolerate it for at least a decade to come, before her beauty slowly faded into age.
But no. Six months ago, her life had become unbearable over the course of one cup of tea. She didn’t respond, and he sighed, slouching in his chair.
“Well, then. What is it you want?” he asked.
What she wanted sounded so simple. When she went outside, she wanted to feel the sunlight against her face.
She hadn’t realized how bad matters had become until the first sunny day of spring had arrived. She’d gone outdoors—had been chivied outside, in fact, by a friend—to promenade in the park. She had felt nothing—not inside her, nor out. She hadn’t felt cold. She hadn’t felt warm. And when the spring sun had hit her face, it had been nothing but pale light.
This man had made her into dark gray stone, from the surface of her skin to the center of her soul. No nerves. No hopes. No future.
“I didn’t come here to tell you what I want,” she said firmly.
She wanted never again to have to fill another man’s bed, telling falsehoods with her body until her mind could no longer track her own desires. She wanted to rid herself of the murk and the mire that had filled her. This life had bound her as effectively as if she were a falcon tied by a leather shackle, and she wanted to be free.
She steepled her fingers. “You’ve offered a reward to the woman who seduces Sir Mark Turner.”
These words had an immediate effect. Weston sucked his breath in. “How did you know that was me? I thought I kept that quiet.” He looked at her. “It’s supposed to be quiet. It’s no good if I ruin the man at the expense of my own reputation.”
She shrugged. “A little research. There’s not much secrecy among courtesans.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered. A reward of three hundred pounds, and the finest whores in all of London have failed. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking him on, Jess.”
She met his gaze without flinching.
“You are thinking of it.” Weston’s lip curled. “Of course you are. You’re between protectors. Honestly, Jess. If you’re that desperate for funds, I’ll take you back.”
After what he’d done to her six months ago, the offer should have made her skin crawl. As it was, the proposition felt like nothing more than the cold gray of shadow.
She should have yearned for justice. She should have wanted revenge. She should, at a minimum, have wanted to extract something from him, of a size and shape to fill the desolate wasteland of nothingness he’d left inside her.
But she’d learned years ago that there was no justice, not for a woman like her. There was no way to crawl backward, to unravel the harms that had been done. There were only small, timid paths to be found through tangled underbrush. If you were lucky, you might hit upon one and escape the dark forest.
“It happens,” she said, “that I have something none of those other women had.”
Weston rubbed his chin. “Well, what is it?”
Desperation, she thought.
But what she said was, “Information. Sir Mark is returning to his boyhood home for the summer—a small market town called Shepton Mallet. I gather he wants to escape the adoring throngs for a period. He’ll be away from his loving public. Staying, not in his brother’s mansion, packed with servants, but in an isolated house, with only a few villagers to come by and take care of his needs.”
“That’s not precisely a secret.”
“With nobody watching him, he’ll have the opportunity to stray from his righteous path. He wouldn’t dare, here in London—he’s the center of everyone’s attention. Out there…?” She trailed off suggestively. “At a very minimum, I should like the chance to try.”
“If you know I made the offer, you know the rules. Seduce him. It needs to be believable—I’ve tried to ruin him with false accounts already, so you’ll have to prove it by getting his ring. Tell the entire ton your experience through the gossip sheets and destroy Sir Mark’s good reputation. Do all that, and you’ll get your money.”
Jessica tapped her lips. “I will be investing far more than an evening’s work. He’ll have to think me available. Not good enough to marry, but genteel enough that I’d make good…company. I’ll be hiring a house in the country. Retaining servants.” It would stretch her last reserves to the breaking point. If this failed, she would have no choice but to find another protector. She stared flatly at the table in front of her. “If I do it, I want three thousand.”
Enough to purchase a small home in the country in a tiny village where nobody knew her. Enough to have morning after morning to herself, to lift her face to the sun. They said time healed all wounds. Jessica prayed it was so, that one day she might feel more than this impossible emptiness.
Weston clapped his hands. “So. The vicar’s daughter has learned to bargain. Admit it, Jess. I made you who you are. You owe me.”
She did owe him. He had made her, twice over. But there was no point in dreaming of a revenge that would never come. Right now, she just wanted to survive. “Three thousand,” she repeated coolly.
“One thousand pounds,” he countered. “Ruin Sir Mark, and I’ll consider it a bargain at the price.”
She’d be damned if she agreed. But then, she was already damned. The only question was whether she’d get full value for her soul.
“Fifteen hundred,” she told him, “and not one penny less.”
“Agreed.” He held out his hand, as if he honestly expected her to shake it.
For one brief second, she imagined grabbing hold of the fireplace poker, not too distant, and smashing it into his arm. Hard. He would fall to his knees… The imagined jolt of the impact shook her from her reverie. “Agreed, then,” she said, pushing to her feet.
Still, she didn’t shake his hand.
CHAPTER TWO
Shepton Mallet
Two weeks later
PEACE. AT LAST.
Sir Mark Turner had walked all the way from the small house on the northern edge of Shepton Mallet into the very center of town, without attracting any more attention than any other newcomer who might make his way to Market Place in the early morning. He’d received a few nods, a few long stares. But there had been no choking crowds, no cries of recognition. No men had followed him, aghast that he walked about without an honor guard twelve-strong.
He’d wanted distance and anonymity to think about the proposal he’d received, to join the Commission on the Poor Laws. Here he’d found it.
