The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

      “What might they be, pray tell?”

      “It is none of your concern. You are only affording me shelter, remember, and have no interest in my doings.”

      “True, but you’d be wise to stay hidden from the authorities. That would mean staying home with your embroidery or knitting.”

      Lord! The man was an absolute dunce! “I have business to tend to, Lord Geoffrey.” She couldn’t tell him about Nell’s last words. Like all the others, he’d try to stop her. But she could not help but respond to his arrogance. “I…I intend to investigate. I shall endeavor to do whatever is necessary to clear my reputation.”

      Morgan’s hazel eyes narrowed. “You cannot do that, Miss Lovejoy. It could prove dangerous.”

      She gave a short laugh. “More dangerous than hanging for a crime I did not commit?”

      “If you simply lie low, the authorities are bound to discover the truth of the matter.”

      “I had the distinct impression they’d made up their minds and would do little else but make a case against me. And the longer they waste their time chasing me, the less likely they are to find the real villain.”

      Lord Morgan seemed to be struggling with the effort to remain silent. That was likely a first for the man. Finally, he stated, “If you will remain quietly here, either your cousin or your sister will arrive in a week or so, and by then the case will be resolved.”

      “It is far too important a matter to remain sitting on my hands and doing nothing. If you cannot accept that, and wish to withdraw your hospitality, I shall understand.” Dianthe studied his face, waiting for his response.

      “I make it my policy, Miss Lovejoy, never to interfere in the personal matters of others, nor to question their actions or motives.”

      She gritted her teeth and gained control over her temper before she responded. “Excellent! As you have reminded me that you do not involve yourself in the affairs of others, I’m certain that you will wish to keep to your custom and leave me to my own devices.”

      His jaw tightened. “As you please.”

      The echo of the slamming door still rang in Geoff’s ears as he crossed the street and hailed a hackney. The annoying little fool! She was hell-bent on landing herself in trouble. Well, she could do as she damn well pleased. He refused to become involved. He knew from bitter experience that he could not change the way people thought or the decisions they made. He’d given up long ago.

      The most irksome part of this scheme was that he was forced to acknowledge that he was just like every other man in little Miss Lovejoy’s sphere. She smiled, and his body, if not his mind, responded in the most primal way. She’d looked hungry and vulnerable, and he’d wanted to slay her dragons. Physical. It was merely physical.

      He’d restricted his amorous activities to members of the demimonde for the past five years. They’d been seductive and skilled, and some had even managed to teach him a few tricks. And the last thing he needed or wanted—now or ever—was an insipid, spoiled, smugly superior debutante complicating his life. But were she anyone other than Adam Hawthorne’s cousin…

      Well, she might be naively innocent, but she was right about the police. They would not look an inch farther for Nell’s killer than Dianthe Lovejoy’s door. And, as much as he wanted to, he could not prevent her from investigating Nell’s death. He doubted anyone would take her seriously, or that she’d have the least little success. It was more likely she’d get herself arrested.

      And he wouldn’t care as long as she did not get in the way of his investigation. But she wasn’t going up against el-Daibul, so that was unlikely. He couldn’t stop her from asking useless questions, so he may as well prepare for the consequences.

      Yes, he’d just look in on the troublesome miss daily and leave her to her own devices the rest of the time. Her cousin would be back from the Continent soon and take her off his hands. Geoff prayed that would happen before Miss Lovejoy embroiled herself in another scandal or got truly under his skin.

       Chapter Three

       T he truth is, Dianthe mused as she sank into the huge copper tub of steaming, jasmine-scented water, I could become very used to this sort of life. She’d never known decadent luxury and rather thought it suited her. She’d mentioned to Mrs. Mason in passing her desire for a hot bath, and found it waiting for her when she’d come up to her room. A maid had even been sent to help her undress and pin up her hair.

      Dianthe squeezed the huge porous sponge over her bare shoulders, loosening a stream of warm water. Heaven! This was heaven. She hadn’t been terrified once since coming here. She was safely isolated from the rest of the world.

      Lord Geoffrey Morgan was obscenely rich, but she’d never dreamed what that would entail. It was whispered that he was as rich as Croesus. And why not? He’d won several of the country’s largest fortunes in games of chance. The money was not really his, so she should not feel in the least bit guilty for accepting his hospitality while she sought out Miss Brookes’s killer.

      She needed to make a list. The task had seemed so simple before she actually had to think of the details, but now that she was faced with the execution of her plan, she was puzzled by the daunting task.

      First, she would need to find out where Miss Brookes’s family was and who her friends were. The only way she knew to accomplish that task was to attend the girl’s funeral. Certainly her friends and family would be there, and surely the girl had confided in someone about an enemy so dangerous he might want to kill her.

      Madame Marie would lend her a dark gown and bonnet. Dianthe had had room for only a few gowns in her valise, and she’d never anticipated the need for a mourning gown. Since the bluestocking ladies had enlisted Mr. Renquist to begin investigating, she suspected he, too, would be at the funeral.

      Stepping out of the tub, she dried herself quickly and wrapped the towel around her. She glanced over at her simple lawn nightgown draped across her bed. She hadn’t even had room to bring her dressing gown, so Mrs. Mason had brought her one of Lord Morgan’s robes to use during her stay. It was made of rich, midnight-blue brocade with matching satin lapels and cuffs, and she couldn’t wait to wrap the lush fabric around her.

      Having the warmth of Morgan’s robe around her was oddly like an embrace. His scent enveloped her. The clash of her bath oil and his French milled soap reminded her that, even in such little things, they were at odds. The robe engulfed her and she had to roll the sleeves back several turns.

      Seeking a distraction, Dianthe went to curl up in a chair by the fire to sip tea from the delicate blue-and-white porcelain cup. The Times, folded on the tray, was open to the death notices. Two narrow lines reported Nell’s name and the place and date of her funeral. Tomorrow. Heavens! So soon?

      She glanced toward the bed uncertainly. Hung with deep blue curtains, the white velvet coverlet strewn with blue-and-gold pillows, it held the promise of comfort. Sleeping in Geoffrey Morgan’s bed didn’t seem right, somehow. Well, in Geoffrey Morgan’s house, at any rate. It could be a very dangerous thing to be in his debt. But Lord Geoffrey had less in the way of reputation to lose than her friends, and it wasn’t as if she were living under the same roof.

      She shook off her brooding and put her teacup down. Tomorrow, then, she would borrow a somber gown from Madame Marie and attend Miss Brookes’s funeral. Dianthe would learn what those closest to Nell knew about the murder and, with a touch of luck, she and Mr. Renquist would conclude the matter.

      The weather had turned gloomy and a steady drizzle kept traffic on the thoroughfares to a minimum. Dianthe took a shortcut through Duke’s Court to St. Martin’s Church, heedless of the sodden hem of her charcoal-gray skirts. She had draped a black veil over her gray bonnet to obscure her face, and kept her black umbrella low over her head.

      A few carriages were drawn up outside the church, but no mourners milled on the steps. Had she made a mistake? Were the