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The older man’s eyes brightened with gratitude and hope as he shook Rafe’s hand. ‘Bonne chance, Seigneur de Densmore.’
Rafe nodded, then headed off down the street, hearing the laughter spill out of the hell as the Frenchman pulled open the door and hurried back inside.
Rafe quickened his pace, eager to reach the safety of his rented rooms and avoid any more unfortunate encounters tonight. He would need all the luck Monsieur Fournier offered. Mr Smith was right about the state of his finances: there wasn’t a creditor or friend in England likely to lend Rafe enough to repay the moneylender. All the rents from Wealthstone tenants went to pay the mortgages and, despite his luck in finding the spoons, he didn’t think he’d be so fortunate as to find another valuable missed by his father.
Curse the fool. Even the windfall from selling out his country to the French hadn’t been enough to save his father from debt, and death.
Rafe stomped in a puddle of water. It splashed up the side of his boot and dripped in to wet his stocking. He hadn’t escaped becoming an anatomy lesson in France only to end up in a medical theatre in London. Nor was he about to lose what little remained of the Densmore legacy, to see his mother evicted from her home and cast on the charity of some distant relative who’d do nothing except sneer at her misfortune. His father might have lacked the presence of mind to secure a future for his wife and child, but Rafe would, even if it meant crawling into bed with the enemy.
If Cornelia planned to increase her widow’s portion using the register, then it was time for him to share in the wealth. If she thought she could ignore him and their past, she was mistaken. She needed him as much as he needed her and he would make her see it.
He had no choice.
Cornelia watched the swan glide down the canal, the water trailing behind it forming a V spreading out to touch each shore. Despite being nearly noon, all good society was still asleep, leaving the park quiet except for the governesses tending to their small charges. She watched the water flowing through the canal, the steady current reminding her of the river behind Hatton Place and the way the ducks used to swim to the opposite shore as she and Andrew played beside the banks.
She sighed, wondering if he’d outgrown the French shirts she’d sent him for Christmas. She hadn’t seen him since before she and Rafe had set sail for Paris in search of the riches to be gained from the Peace of Amiens. She’d visited him at Mr Higgins’s school where he stayed during the school terms, comforted to know he was somewhere safe while she was across the channel.
She picked at a small knot in the wooden handle of her parasol. If only she had the money to pay the tuition and keep Andrew there over the summer. She lowered the parasol, fluffing the lace along the edge. She’d have the money soon enough and school would begin again in a few weeks. Hopefully, her empty-headed stepmother wouldn’t do anything foolish between now and then. Once Andrew was back at school she could see him. She wasn’t about to travel to Sussex and face the vapid woman or listen in person to the many demands for funds Fanny felt the need to waste paper sending.
Cornelia settled the parasol back on her shoulder, shielding her face from the morning sun as she focused on the rippling water. Closing her eyes, she listened to the gentle slosh of small waves against the bank, letting the rhythmic sound sooth her the way it used to when she was a girl. She’d spent so many hours playing by the river, her ill-fitting dress muddy as she wandered shoeless through the reeds, imagining the stalks to be the sturdy walls of a castle where a handsome prince waited to rescue her, and her mother was still alive.
Foolish dreams.
She opened her eyes and gazed across the grass at a woman holding a small child’s hand as it tottered about on unsteady legs. None of her girlish dreams had come true: not a peaceful life, a happy marriage or a future with Rafe.
What happened between us?
He’d been so different from all the other men, smiling at her from across Lord Perry’s card party as if he understood her humiliation and worry over her father’s mounting losses. He hadn’t laughed like the other men when Lord Edgemont had goaded her weak father into wagering her hand. Nor had he leered at her when old Lord Waltenham won.
Then, in the garden, as she’d fought Lord Waltenham’s clawing hands, cursing him and her father for what was about to happen, Rafe had stepped out from behind the box hedge. He’d thrashed the lecher, sending him fleeing into the house, and everything had changed.
No one had cared or noticed when the daughter of an obscure baronet and a penniless Baron ran off together. It wasn’t love, but curiosity which had led her to accept Rafe’s proposal to join him in London.
A man and woman working together can win more than gambling alone, he’d tempted her and she’d followed him, wanting to see the world as he’d painted it. He’d taught her to play cards, to carry and dress herself like a lady, and to charm men away from their money with nothing more than a promise. Then, in their rented rooms one night, their winnings piled high on the table, he’d taught her the secret pleasures shared between a man and a woman.
She gripped the parasol tighter, her breasts growing as heavy now as during the first night she’d lain next to him, anticipating his touch with curious excitement and trepidation. The memory of his thick voice in her ear as he explained everything each finger did and all the new sensations they awakened inside her, stole through her body once again. Beneath him, his dark brown eyes pinned to hers, she’d experienced a need deeper than the press of their skin and the urgency of their kisses, one which spoke to her soul.