The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

before passing through the vestibule into the nave and taking a seat in the back.

      Only one other woman was in attendance, sitting in the back pew on the opposite side of the aisle, and perhaps a dozen men sitting separately near the front. Were these Miss Brookes’s clients? Protectors? Her family?

      The men turned to watch her. Dianthe bowed her head and kept her veil in place. She could feel their eyes boring through her, and she prayed she would not be recognized.

      A few moments later, the minister entered and faced the meager congregation. She had never attended actual funeral services before, as Aunt Henrietta believed that gently reared females were too delicate for such disturbing events. In her entire life, Dianthe had only visited her father’s and mother’s graves in Wiltshire once, and gone to her aunt’s grave. That was the extent of her experience with death rituals, so she watched the proceedings carefully.

      Prayers were said, then a short, impersonal eulogy that revealed little about the woman they were about to bury. The cleric alluded to Nell’s profession only when he made the point that “even those who had fallen were beloved of Christ.” Then an actual rite for the dead was read. Though the men bowed their heads at prayers, she could not detect any sign of genuine grief from their posture or bearing. Except Lord Geoffrey Morgan.

      He had entered late and taken a seat near the front. His face was tense though composed. Dianthe knew him well enough to recognize the way he registered distress. His lips were drawn thin and his complexion was pale. She thought a little better of him for being here and for feeling grief or compassion for Nell Brookes.

      Dianthe, too, was deeply touched, and wiped impatiently at the hot tears seeping down her face. She could not forget the beautiful young woman lying forever still inside the narrow coffin. Did no one but she lament the dreadful circumstances that had brought Nell to such a pass? Then the other woman began weeping, too, and Dianthe wondered if she could be Nell’s mother or sister.

      After a shockingly brief time, the funeral was over. The woman stood and hurried out of the church, and Dianthe followed, hoping Mr. Renquist would at least learn the names of the men in attendance.

      “Miss!” she called as the woman reached the street.

      The dark-cloaked form missed a step but did not turn or stop.

      Dianthe hurried after her, raising her umbrella against the steady drizzle. “Miss! Please, spare me a minute!”

      This time the woman stopped but did not turn. When Dianthe came abreast of her and raised her veil, the woman gasped. “You must be Miss Lovejoy. Everyone is talking. You do look like Nell.” She resumed walking and spoke in a soft voice. “What do you want?”

      “I want to talk about Miss Brookes,” she answered.

      “Walk with me, then. I do not wish to be seen here—or with you.”

      “Why?”

      “For the same reason there are so few people at Nell’s funeral. We cannot afford to be associated with murders, nor to be questioned by the authorities. Were our names, or those of our clients, made public…well, you can imagine the scandal.”

      Dianthe matched her stride. “Are you Miss Brookes’s sister?”

      “Nell had no family. Or none that she spoke of.”

      “A friend, then?”

      There was a hesitation, then she murmured, “Yes.”

      Dianthe’s curiosity spiked. The woman was lovely, despite the drab colors she wore, and she used cosmetics—something Dianthe and her friends would never do. Was she a member of the demimonde? “You have me at a disadvantage, miss. You appear to know me, yet I do not know you.”

      “Yes, I know you. You are accused of Nell’s murder.”

      Lord! She could feel her reputation slipping away. “Miss Brookes had been stabbed when I found her.”

      “I never believed you had anything to do with it. The police are fools to think so.”

      “I want to find out who the real murderer is.”

      “Because it will clear you,” the woman concluded in a cynical tone.

      “I want to see justice done. Whoever did this to Nell should pay for it. Please help me find her killer. I just want to ask a few questions. Will you tell me your name?”

      There was a long silence before the woman spoke again. “My name is Flora Denton.”

      “Thank you, Miss Denton. How long have you known Miss Brookes?”

      “Since I arrived in London. For a few months we…worked at the same establishment. She was my dearest friend.” She turned and regarded Dianthe through dark eyes. “I heard people talking about how closely you resemble her. Your hair and eyes are nearly the same, and the shape of your face and figure, but you haven’t her sophistication.”

      “Where did you hear all this, Miss Denton? The murder was only three days ago.”

      She nodded. “The police have been by to search Nell’s rooms and belongings. The gentlemen talk. Nell’s favorites have come to pay their respects and to comfort one another.”

      For some inexplicable reason, Dianthe was pleased by the thought that Nell’s lovers mourned her. “Were there many?”

      Miss Denton gave a short laugh. “Yes. Too many. For one of us, very few.”

      “One of you?” Dianthe asked.

      “The demimonde, Miss Lovejoy. The half-world of London, or the shadow world, as your kind would call it. The part proper ladies like you do not even speak of.”

      Dianthe walked along for moment, not knowing how to reply to such a statement.

      “Have I shocked you, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “No, Miss Denton. My family was impoverished and I have occasionally thought that, but for the grace of family who cared for us, my sister and I might have fallen into a similar fate.” She recalled Squire Daniels in Little Upton, who had offered to buy her a small cottage in exchange for her “company.” She would have had to be a great deal more desperate to accept that offer.

      “We are courtesans, Miss Lovejoy, not prostitutes. Many of us have several lovers, some have only one at a time. But we say who, and when, and where, unlike our poorer sisters. Nor do we sell our wares on the street.”

      Dianthe nodded, understanding that explanation. “Did Miss Brookes have many, few, or one?”

      “A few.”

      “How many?”

      “It varied from time to time.”

      “Had she recently argued with any of them?”

      “I see where you are going with this, and I would like to help you. But I am afraid I cannot.”

      “But why?”

      “Miss Lovejoy,” she said as she increased the length of her stride, “I do not even wish to be seen in your company. Indiscretion and women who talk out of turn are frowned upon in my business. Should it be known that I have shared any sort of information with a woman of the ton, I would find it very difficult to earn a living. My gentlemen would withdraw their patronage, and I would find myself on the streets in short order.”

      Dianthe caught up to her and entreated, “Just tell me the names of her protectors. I shall question them myself.”

      “Miss Lovejoy, are you not sensible to the difficulty of what you have taken on? Do you really think men of the ton will discuss their affairs with you? The very thought is absurdly naive. And Nell’s other friends will not be as forthcoming as I have been.”

      Her spirits plummeted. “Then how will I ever discover what happened to Miss Brookes?”

      Flora Denton stopped and turned to face her. She laughed