expression changed to a stern one. ‘Is that what you desire, Miss Hart? To fool men?’
She was too happy to allow him to scowl at her. She mimicked the madam’s low, attention-capturing cadence, as well as her accent. ‘Yes, it is, Sloane. We must fool some very rich men into giving all their money, n’est pas? And then toss them away, keeping all their money in our pockets.’
Not only was he not amused, he looked thunderous. ‘Do you wish to become a courtesan as well, Morgana?’
She responded to his grimace with a saucy smile.
Madame Bisou hurried to his side. ‘Are you ready, Cyprian?’ She batted her lashes at him. Morgana’s eyes narrowed.
Sloane took Morgana’s hand and leaned into her face. ‘Do not jest with me, Morgana. Are you planning to become a courtesan?’
The clasp of his hand felt angry, but the contact was every bit as affecting as the day before.
She raised her eyes to his, suddenly serious. ‘Do you jest, Sloane? What man would think me a courtesan?’
His eyes filled with heat and she felt his thumb caress her palm. He did not answer her. ‘Good day, Miss Hart,’ he said.
She did not immediately release his hand when he began to pull away. His expression turned quizzical.
She said, ‘I hope your dinner goes well tonight, Sloane.’
‘My dinner?’ He looked startled. ‘The dinner with Heronvale, do you mean?’
She nodded and opened her fingers so his hand slipped out of hers.
He lightly brushed her arm. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’
Madame Bisou, née Penny Jones, entwined her arm in his. ‘Come, Cyprian.’ She swept him out of the door.
Morgana lightly fingered her palm and her arm where the memory of his touch still lingered.
Chapter Ten
If Sloane had led a double life in the past, he now had tripled himself. He continued to play the gentleman for the ton, the possible suitor for Lady Hannah, the wealthy fellow who put in appearances at White’s and talked politics with the Marquess of Heronvale. At night, after the ton’s elegant routs and balls, he slipped into the shadows, returning often to Mrs Rice’s glove shop, keeping his eyes and ears open to possible danger from that quarter. To Mrs Rice’s mounting rage, her lackeys had made no progress in finding her missing girls or in discovering the ladylike woman who had snatched the pretty maid from her grasp. Sloane would remain watchful, however, just in case.
During these past three weeks it had also become his practice to often look in on the courtesan school. He kept an eye on Penny, lest she be tempted to go back on her word not to exploit Morgana. He imposed his intimidating presence on the taciturn Cripps, to ensure the butler kept the servants in line. Sloane watched Morgana as well, in case he need rein her in from some risky exploit that might expose the whole affair.
It had become his habit to breakfast with Morgana and her girls, the most pleasant part of his day. The courtesan school, scandalous as it might be, was a relief from the crushing boredom that permeated the rest of his time. Sometimes Elliot joined him at Morgana’s, as he did this day. Penny had requested they both assist the girls in her special dancing lessons. Both men slipped through the gap in the garden wall and entered Morgana’s house unseen.
The formality of being announced long abandoned, they made their way straight to the dining parlour and entered to a chorus of good mornings. Morgana’s grandmother’s eyes lit up. ‘How lovely of you to call.’
‘Men at last,’ exclaimed Katy, who nearly thrust her chest under Elliot’s nose before Miss Moore pulled her into a chair.
Katy complained loudly. ‘I’m tired of seeing only old Cripps. He’s given the footmen such a lecture they run and hide when they see us!’
Sloane was greatly heartened that Cripps had been so cruel to poor Katy.
‘You must remember, men are to throw themselves at you, not you at them,’ Miss Moore told her. ‘You are better than that, Miss Green.’
Sloane frowned as he and Elliot filled their plates. Morgana often said those words to the girls. You are better than that. For all Morgana’s wide-eyed plans, he knew too well the world would not treat them so.
Elliot chose a chair at the far end of the table where Lucy, who still considered herself of the servant class, always retreated. Sloane sat next to Morgana.
She poured him a cup of tea, fixing it just as he liked. ‘It is so good of you and Mr Elliot to volunteer to be dance partners.’
He smiled at her. ‘I would not exactly say Elliot volunteered, but he is excellent at following orders.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘Is it against his scruples? I would not impose upon anyone who objected to it.’
He glanced at Elliot, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Lucy. ‘He is shy around women, I believe.’
Her expressive eyes glanced in the same direction. ‘Katy must frighten the wits out of him, then. Lucy is shy, too, but they seem to get on together.’
‘They talk of plants, I believe.’
Morgana asked his opinion of Naldi’s performance as Figaro at the opera the previous evening. Lady Hannah had fished for an invitation and Sloane had obliged, including her parents and Morgana in the party.
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Surely you know I find every opera a dead bore.’
She rolled her eyes at his comment, but went on, ‘Well, I was not impressed. Naldi speaks as often as he sings, and often off key.’
Sloane had known without her saying so that she had not been impressed. While Lady Hannah spent the evening searching for her friends among the audience, he’d watched Morgana and had seen her opinion of the opera written on her face.
‘I do wish I could have talked with Harriette Wilson,’ she added. ‘She could have answered so many questions.’
What a silent argument they’d had over the infamous courtesan. Morgana had given Sloane a hopeful glance when Harriette appeared in her opera box, and he’d returned it with a censorious grimace. She’d replied with a thinning of her lips and he’d countered with a pointed shrug.
‘Do not act the fool, Morgana. You know you could not speak with her.’
She sighed. ‘I know. I know. My reputation would be ruined.’ She said this with exaggerated drama.
He put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘You have no notion what ruin would mean, but, I assure you, I do.’
Her ginger eyes turned warm with sympathy.
Damnation. Such moments between them only complicated matters. He did not need her sympathy, nor her interest in his well-being. It only
