The Illicit Love of a Courtesan. Jane Lark

had been absolute truth.

      That was the conundrum disturbing his sleep. She haunted him. He could not forget her.

      Pushing away from the railings, his gloved hands curling to fists, he gave up his vigil as Gainsborough’s coachman called to the horses in the straps and flicked his whip, stirring the thoroughbred blacks into a trot. The strike of the horses’ hooves rang on the cobble, as did the iron rim of carriage wheels rolling into motion and the rattle of harness caught the frigid air.

      Edward turned away. How easily he’d been tumbled from a confident man to an infatuated youth. But God help him, he could not just leave this, he wanted more of Ellen Harding. Three nights he’d played at Madam’s. Three nights there had been no sign of her. He’d hoped if he waited here, Gainsborough would lead him to where he kept his mistress.

       And then what will I do?

      His hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat, his legs slashing its skirt with long impatient strides. His eyes oblivious to the blue sky and people passing him in the street, his mind sifted through his spiralling thoughts.

      He could not entice her away from Gainsborough with wealth. Edward did not even want to if he could. She’d said she wasn’t interested in anything else. Yet a wedge inside him refused to believe it. What had been between them had not been trade. Had it? God, the woman had got into his veins like a damn dose of opium. This infatuation was a curse.

      It had felt right to hold her and touch her. And there was something seriously wrong about her relationship with Gainsborough.

      Why did she help me if she’s happy with him? It couldn’t just be about money.

      I shouldn’t have touched her. I should have asked her while I could.

      He thought of his brother. He loathed lustful men. Yet he’d just proved he was no better. Twitching up the collar of his caped greatcoat to keep the chilled air from his neck, he walked on, walked away.

      He’d find his cousin and some physical activity to consume his restlessness, boxing or fencing, or both. After tonight if he did not see her, he’d go home. Home? It wasn’t that anymore. Though, at least there his frustrated energy could be put to decent use, and he could forget about Ellen Harding. Robert wouldn’t turn him away no matter that they were at odds. It had been Edward’s decision to leave.

      A pain lodged in his chest, beneath his ribs, as sharp as a stitch. His fingers pressed to it over his coat as he halted at the edge of the curb and a street-sweep shifted before him with a tip of his cap to brush the filth from the street for Edward to cross.

      Edward withdrew a coin from his pocket and tossed it idly to the boy, who caught it in his grubby hand with a grin, kissed it, then slipped it into his pocket before lifting off his hat and nodding his thanks.

      Edward turned away, a strong inexplicable sense of unease resting over him.

      ~

       My dearest John, I think of you always, know that I love you and miss you, sweetheart.

      Ellen signed the letter to her son, Mama, blotted the ink with sand, folded it and sealed it with a little melted wax, while her maid watched. Then she addressed it and kissed the seal, her heart aching as she did. She longed to see him. But that was not a possibility. She could not even consider it; if she stopped to think about him her heart would break, and so she tried not to. He was safe and that was all that mattered.

      “Millie,” Ellen whispered, holding it out to her maid, “here, put it in your dress, not your pocket. If anyone asks, say you are going for threads and ribbons and bring some back in case they check.”

      Millie accepted the letter, bobbed a curtsy and answered in a similarly soft voice, “I wouldn’t tell, Ma’am.”

      With a sigh Ellen reached to grasp and squeeze Millie’s hand in silent thanks. “I know, Millie. I do not mistrust you.” Ellen let Millie’s hand go as a knock rang on the drawing room door.

      Millie slid the letter into her bodice.

      “Come in, Wentworth!” Ellen called to Lord Gainsborough’s butler—her jailer. None of the servants were her choice. She was no guest here, she was a prisoner, and therefore she was fortunate in Millie’s compassion. She did indeed trust her maid, but no one else.

      “A letter.”

      Ellen’s heart raced as she heard Wentworth’s statement as a question.

      Millie bobbed another curtsy and Ellen realised Wentworth held a tray. It bore a letter.

      Relief flooded Ellen.

      Millie quickly disappeared, sweeping past the butler and then escaping out of the door.

      “Thank you.” Ellen took the letter from the tray, knowing immediately what it meant. Gainsborough would call later.

      Rising from her seat, Ellen’s eyes met the butler’s insolent, disparaging gaze, it spoke of revulsion not respect. He condemned her status and yet not the man who kept her. Her chin lifting, she dismissed him bluntly, “You may go, Wentworth.”

      When the door shut she turned and faced her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The black and yellow stains across her cheek and around her eye had faded marginally, she could cover them, but the cut over her eyebrow would need to be hidden beneath her fringe. Millie would have to find a new style for her hair. The sigh of vexed frustration which tugged into her lungs, tweaked the bruising at her ribs.

      Her fingers pressing to her side she took a more cautious breath and turned away from her image, looking past the swathe of the blue chintz curtain into the street beyond.

      She often watched life pass by, like a canary in a cage. She could go out if she wished, none of them were afraid she’d run, but where was there to go?

      Turning away, her gaze skimmed across the pale blue hues of the room, stopping to rest on the small vase of snowdrops which she’d picked in the garden that morning as she moved to sit in the armchair. Her mind reached back to the woods where she’d played as a child. Snowdrops carpeted the ground there, just like snow. She’d picked them then, once, when she was sixteen. But that innocent girl in the memory was alien to her. She had forgotten family, safety and home.

      Returning her attention to the letter in her hand, her thumb slipped beneath the seal. The summons was for that night at nine.

      She left the letter on the low table beside her chair and picked up her book. But her eyes did not lower to the page instead they drifted upwards to the plaster cornice bordering the ceiling across the room. She leaned back and her memory slipped back too, to Edward, as it often did, longing for something that could never be. Closing her eyes she shut out the folly of her thoughts, but she could not stop the hope from filling her heart. For the umpteenth time in days she wondered where he was, what he was doing now, if he’d thought of her?

      ~

      As the doorman took her cloak, Ellen felt a shiver race across her skin. She had never felt so concerned about being abroad in Lord Gainsborough’s company. It was silly. She’d been his mistress for years. Her presence was expected and generally ignored.

      The smoke of gentlemen’s cigars filled her lungs. The scent of brandy and musky cologne mingled in the cloudy overheated air. She lifted her fan, hiding behind it, her eyes focusing on the floor as she took Gainsborough’s arm and he began to walk across the room.

      If Edward was here, it was better she ignore him.

      She sensed a difference in Gainsborough tonight. She was being displayed, his trophy, but that was always so. Parading all about the room, he took an age to pick a table. Then he made much of sweeping back the tails of his evening coat when he sat, and once seated, he looked up at her before calling for his cards to be dealt. He was also keeping his eye on her more than was usual.

      Ellen looked at the dealer’s hands, fighting the instinct to glance about the room, and watched Gainsborough’s cards