The Courtesan's Book of Secrets Read online

  Uncovered: a list of noblemen’s names—each one guilty of treason

  To save his family legacy, Rafe Densmore must seize a courtesan’s infamous register. No one can ever know how his father betrayed his country! One person stands in Rafe’s way—the beautiful Cornelia, Comtesse de Vane.

  In the card rooms of Paris, Rafe and Cornelia made an unbeatable…intimate team. Until, convinced of Rafe’s desertion, desperate Cornelia married an elderly comte. Now, returning to London an impoverished widow, she’ll do anything to possess the register.

  Even if that means becoming Rafe’s partner once again.…

  “Lee’s novel hits the sweet spot.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Engagement of Convenience

  “I don’t need your help.” Her tongue slid over the fullness of her bottom lip, sweeping through him like her crisp verbena perfume swept over his senses.

  “Oh, I think you do.” He held steady as he leaned in, matching her enticing look with one of his own, refusing to let the student best the master, no matter how tight his dark breeches grew. “Why else would you invent such a dramatic reason to call on me?”

  “You flatter yourself.” Her fingers swept her chest, the little half-moons of her fingernails matching the high curve of her breasts.

  “And you can’t recover the register without me.” He shifted closer, the wood beneath him creaking and almost covering the slight hitch in her breathing. He laid one hand on top of her knee, the curve of it filling his palm. “You need me.”

  * * *

  The Courtesan’s Book of Secrets

  Harlequin® Historical #389—October 2014

  Author Note

  I read a lot of historical nonfiction for fun and for inspiration. The inspiration for The Courtesan’s Book of Secrets came from a biography of Nell Gwyn, mistress of King Charles II of England. In the biography, the author mentioned a book kept by a servant of Charles II that listed all the women who slept with the king at Whitehall Palace. The book was destroyed, and with it a number of secrets.

  Reading about this book, I began to wonder what might happen if a book of secrets everyone thought was lost suddenly reappeared, and if the secrets in it had the power to destroy titled families. My wondering eventually became Rafe and Cornelia’s story. To craft their tale, I had to dip into the darker underworld of Regency England. It was a treat to see a slightly seedier side of London and to help my characters rise above the temptation of cards and blackmail to overcome the threat of the book and find love and success.

  I hope you enjoy The Courtesan’s Book of Secrets. It is my fourth Regency story with Harlequin, including Engagement of Convenience, Rescued from Ruin and Hero’s Redemption from Carina Press. Please check out my website, www.georgie-lee.com, for more information about me and my novels. I love to hear from readers, and you can email me at [email protected]. You can also find me on Twitter, @georgieleebooks, and Facebook.

  Georgie Lee

  The Courtesan’s Book

  of Secrets

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  GEORGIE LEE

  Engagement of Convenience #1156

  Rescued from Ruin #377

  The Courtesan’s Book of Secrets #389

  Did you know that these novels are also available as ebooks?

  Visit www.Harlequin.com.

  Thanks to Tami and Melissa for giving the cougar her bite and helping me get this story to the end.

  GEORGIE LEE

  A dedicated history and film buff, Georgie Lee loves combining her passion for Hollywood, history and storytelling through romance fiction. She began writing professionally at a small TV station in San Diego before moving to Hollywood to work in the interesting but strange world of the enter-tainment industry. During her years in La-La Land, she never lost her love for romance novels, and she decided to try writing one herself. To her surprise, a new career was born. When not crafting tales of love and happily-ever-after, Georgie enjoys reading nonfiction history and watching any movie with a costume and an accent. Please visit www.georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books. She also loves to hear from readers, and you can email her at [email protected].

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Lord Twickenham’s address to the House of Lords on the Bill of Attainder for the Treasonous Acts of Lords Seduced by the French during the American Rebellion, July 8, 1783:

  Mrs Ross convinced weak men of title and station to provide the French with secrets of his Majesty’s Government during the American Rebellion. My own brother perished because of their treachery. How many other fine men died because it?

  She might be gone, along with the evidence of her conspirators’ crimes, but those deceitful men are still among us. My lords, I crave the day when proof of their villainy finally emerges and the full power of this Bill of Attainder is brought against them. If they think time can erase their guilt, then they are mistaken.

  Through this Bill of Attainder, if evidence ever comes to light of their guilt, even if God has struck them from this earth, they will be convicted of High Treason as though they still walked among us. All their titles and lands will be forfeit to the Crown and their heirs will bear the burden of their fathers’ disgrace.

  London, July 1803

  Rafe Densmore, Fifth Baron of Densmore, marched up the stone staircase of Mrs Ross’s unimposing town house off Gracechurch Street. He rapped his knuckles against the door and the black ribbon hanging from the brass knocker fluttered in the breeze. He eyed it with a frown, wondering if the ancient courtesan’s sudden demise would be to his benefit or his detriment. She’d been perfectly alive and well when she’d penned the letter in his pocket, summoning him to her sad doorstep.

  The old shrew.

  He shifted back and forth on his feet. Deep in his boot, his toe caught the beginning of a hole in one stocking.

  Damned cheap wool. If he employed a valet, the man would do something about it. Perhaps he might charm Mrs Linton, his landlady, into mending it for him. Though if her needlework proved anything like what she did to the meagre meals she deigned to deliver to his room, he might as well mend it himself. He wondered if her meals were the true extent of her culinary skills or revenge for his grossly outstanding rent.

  The hackney horse waiting at the kerb whinnied, failing to disturb the thin driver leaning against the vehicle, smoking a long pipe. The smoke swirled around his head before the wind carried it over the back of his stocky grey animal.

  Rafe eyed them both. Whoever had hired the poor beast and his horse must still be inside and it was time for them to draw their business to a close. He hadn’t fought so hard to reach Mrs Ross, or to raise the blunt needed to meet her demands, only to be stalled on the doorstep by a dawdling caller.

  He raised his fist to knock again when the bolt scraped and the door creaked open to reveal the drooping eyes of a withered old butler. Rafe brushed past him and into the small entrance hall, his throat tightening from the thick dust covering every surface. A spider scurried behind a dark painting. Compared to this house, his current lodgings seemed breathtakingly opulent.

  ‘Lord Densmore to see Mr Nettles,’ Rafe announced. ‘He’s expecting me.’

  ‘Yes, of course. This way, my lord.’ The butler shuffled across the hall.

  Rafe followed before something along the edge of his vision brought him to a halt at the morning-room door.

  A tall, voluptuous woman draped in gauzy black silk stood by the cold fireplace. She didn’t move or greet him, but remained silent beneath the dark veil covering her face. A slow smile spread across Rafe’s lips, his fever in obtaining the register momentarily dampened. Despite her silence, something about her called to him and he moved closer to the doorway. The slight tensing of her shoulders made him stop, but not turn away. Her dress, dark and wispy like smoke, swirled around her curves. She clutched a book to her chest. The leather tome obscured the full roundness of her breasts, except for the creamy tops which were just visible beneath her black-net chemisette.

  ‘Good morning.’ He swept off his hat and dropped into a low bow, noting the few white petals scattered on the faded carpet at her feet, probably the remains of Mrs Ross’s funeral. By her own account, Mrs Ross was a recluse, but apparently she wasn’t completely devoid of friends to mourn her.

  And what a delightful friend this is. Rafe straightened, admiring the woman’s generous measure of height. Heat flooded through him as he imagined tucking the statuesque creature into the curve of his body and brushing his lips along the bit of exposed neck caressed by her short veil. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, sensing her height would match his perfectly, the way Cornelia’s
once did.

  His hand tightened into a fist, the sharp edge of betrayal cooling his ardour. He relaxed his fingers and struggled to keep smiling. Why the deuce was he thinking of Cornelia? He’d left that business in France where, with any luck, it would stay.

  He focused on the woman’s face, trying to catch a glimpse of her features beneath the thick veil. Nothing was visible except the flush of skin and the faint red of full lips. Hopefully, her features were as appealing as the hint of body beneath the close-cut French style of her dress. If the solicitor proved problematic with the register, this woman might be more obliging.

  ‘If you please, my lord,’ the butler urged.

  Rafe stroked the tall woman with one last glance, reluctantly offering a parting nod before following the butler to a room near the back of the house.

  They reached the end of the hallway and the butler pushed open the door to an old study, the bare, sagging shelves held up by dust. A round man with spectacles sat at a desk, reviewing stacks of yellowed papers. He stood as Rafe entered, a wide smile drawing back the jowls framing his mouth.

  ‘Mr Nettles, Lord Densmore to see you,’ the butler rasped.

  ‘Lord Densmore, what a pleasure.’ A few loose threads from his cuff waved as the man motioned Rafe to the wood chair in front of the desk. ‘Sit, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t arrive when my letter said I would, but business in France delayed me.’ It damn near killed me. If he hadn’t enjoyed a small winning streak at the tables, he’d still be stuck in the stinking place. ‘My condolences on Mrs Ross’s passing.’

  ‘Yes, poor woman. Takes her first trip outside in over twenty years and some runaway carriage strikes her. Terrible business.’ The solicitor tutted as he lowered himself into his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. ‘I suppose she was right to stay hidden away for so many years.’

  ‘If would seem so.’ If only the carriage had finished off the wretched blackmailer before she’d mailed the blasted letter. Then who knew whose hands the register might have fallen into. At least now there existed the chance of buying the entire rotten thing, not just the page with his late father’s name on it, and the proof of his treason. ‘Mrs Ross wrote to me while I was in Paris, offering to sell me a certain book of hers.’

  ‘Yes, I know of it. Not a very interesting read. Nothing but lists of nobility and numbers next to their names. Probably accounts from the men who paid for her company in her youth. According to the butler, she was quite a beauty back then.’ The man chuckled, his round belly bouncing up and down beneath his wrinkled waistcoat. Then his jowls dropped, giving him the look of an innocent bloodhound waiting for its master’s command. ‘Why do you want such a thing?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’ Rafe didn’t elaborate, unwilling to enlighten the man on the true nature of the register.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you do.’ The mask of innocence slipped just a bit, reminding Rafe of an exceptional card player he’d once bested in France whose ability to bluff almost matched his. Then the solicitor rubbed his chins, the look gone. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t arrive a hair sooner.’

  Fear snaked up his spine, all thoughts of gambling or what the puffy man might know about the register gone. Obtaining it was almost the only thing he’d thought about since landing in Dover. He’d torn through Wealthstone Manor in search of anything left of value to sell to obtain it. The delightful set of silver spoons he’d discovered in the attic, wedged in their wooden box between two trunks and somehow missed by his father, had just been sold this morning.

  Rafe shifted forward in the chair, his hand tight on the arm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It seems you weren’t the only one Mrs Ross wrote to about the register. Judging from her papers, she’d been in straitened circumstances for some time and was forced to part with a number of possessions. There are still outstanding debts and I’ll have a hard time settling them with what valuables are left.’ He grabbed a crinkled paper with each hand, flapping them in the air. ‘Though it would be a might easier to sort through it all if she hadn’t called herself Mrs Ross at one time, Mrs Taylor in later years and now Mrs Ross again. I wish she’d made up her mind about who she was.’

  ‘And the book?’ Rafe tensed, eager for him to get on with it.

  ‘A young woman arrived just before you did, a French Comtesse, though she didn’t sound French. I sold it to her.’

  ‘Hell.’ Rafe jumped up and ran to the door. He flung it open and raced down the hall, sending balls of dust whirling out of his way. At the morning room he stopped. Only the wilted white flowers greeted him. ‘Blast.’

  ‘Lord Densmore.’ The solicitor came down the hall behind him as Rafe rushed to the front door and pulled it open. Outside, everything was the same as before, except for the hackney. It rolled down the street, a familiar face watching him through the back window before the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared in the traffic on Gracechurch Street.

  Cornelia, Comtesse de Vane.

  What’s she doing here? Rafe slammed his fist against the doorjamb and a small splinter slid beneath his skin. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in France, rotting away with her crooked old husband at Château de Vane, counting the silver or ordering the servants about, not stealing the register out from under him.

  ‘Lord Densmore, I’m truly sorry for your inconvenience.’ The solicitor puffed from behind him. ‘Had I known the book was so important to you—’

  Rafe held up one hand to silence the man, in no mood to be polite. ‘Thank you, Mr Nettles, but I’m no longer in need of your services.’

  Rafe stormed off down the street, the slam of Mrs Ross’s front door echoing off the buildings.

  He moved into the bustle of Gracechurch Street, his toe sliding through the now-widened hole in his stocking. If it weren’t for the crush of people, he’d pull off the boot and toss the offending garment in the gutter. Instead, all he could do was keep walking, the wool grating with each step like the memory of Cornelia watching him from the back of the hackney.

  He passed a wagon loaded with apples and plucked one from the pile without the seller noticing, turning the smooth fruit over and over in his fingers. What’s she doing here?

  She couldn’t have convinced her husband to abandon his native shore. The Comte wasn’t likely to leave after everything he’d done to regain his ancestral home. It meant the old man had either given up the ghost in a fit of ecstasy over his nubile young bride, or Cornelia had spent her time at the château plotting to run out on him just as she’d so cleverly plotted to run out on Rafe.

  His hand tightened on the apple, the hard skin pressing against the splinter and making it sting. If it hadn’t taken him so long to raise the money to purchase the register page, he might have beaten her to it today.

  Now she had it and the ability to destroy him.

  He took a bite of the apple and cursed, spitting out the mushy piece and flinging the whole rotten thing under the wheels of a passing carriage.

  Damn his luck. Nothing was working out as he’d planned.

  * * *

  Cornelia leaned back against the squabs and let out a long breath, relief flooding through her as if she’d faced a man at dawn and prevailed.

  Her fingers tightened on the register, the leather cracking a little under the pressure. If she’d dallied a few minutes longer this morning or walked instead of hiring the hack, she might have lost the register to Rafe. Then all her plans to protect Andrew, her half-brother, would have come to nothing.

  She eased her grip on the book and closed her eyes, struggling to see Andrew’s dark hair tousled over his small head, to remember the warmth of his little hand in hers as they’d explored the river behind Hatton Place, their father’s slurred and roaring voice blocked out by the rush of water over the rocks. However, one image remained stubbornly fixed in her mind.

  Rafe.

  His deep tones had rolled into the town house ahead of him, drawing her back two years ago to their first nights together in the tiny room in Covent Garden. The image of him standing over her as she’d lain in the narrow bed, his shirt open at the neck, his dark breeches tight against his hips, made her heart race as fast as it had when he’d smiled at her from across Mrs Ross’s entrance hall.