Gail Ranstrom - The Courtesan's Courtship

“I did not love you before.”

He held his breath. “Do you…love me…now?”

She shivered and her voice caught on a sigh. “Yes.”

She loved him? But how could she? He’d flaunted her as a courtesan, warned her she could not trust him. But he’d never told her that she had taken his breath away the first time he’d ever seen her.

“Dianthe,” he said, his voice cracking over the force of his emotions. “I…not a single one of your relatives would thank me for loving you, and a few would call me out. And they’d be right. I want nothing more than to despoil you.” He held her closer, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her scent.

“Do not try to be noble,” she said. “Finish what you’ve begun…!”

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

The Missing Heir

“Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end…”

—Romantic Times

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Once again, with love, to my family.

Thank you for all the years of love, laughter and friendship. I couldn’t ask for more.

My gratitude and love to Rosanne, Margaret, Cynthia, Lisa, Eileen and Suzi, who always tell me the truth, even if I don’t like it. And especially to Sandi F., through thick and thin.

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 Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

August 18, 1820

F ragmented shadows skittered across the dark pebbled pathway in Vauxhall Gardens, confusing in their quickly changing patterns. A sigh. A moan. The wind? Even the shadows menaced. Dianthe was not timid, but she had never liked being alone in the dark. Objects seen or imagined disappeared with the next shift of the wind. She stumbled, certain her friends had come this way to watch the fireworks over the river just moments ago. Had she made a wrong turn in the dark?

The bushes nearby rustled and a prickle of fear raced up her spine. Was it the breeze off the river, or were Hortense and Harriett doubling back for her? Or could it be that strange man shrouded in a scarlet cloak who’d run into her earlier? She hadn’t been able to see his face, but he’d seemed surprised when she’d turned to glare at his hand on her arm, as if he had thought she was someone else.

She stubbed her toe again and seized the trunk of a tree to keep her balance. Eerie dappled moonlight filtering through the leaves and branches cast another kaleidoscopic mix of shadows and light, but this time there was no mistake. The object she’d stumbled upon was a woman. She looked like a forgotten doll lying facedown and partially hidden beneath a fragrant honeysuckle bush.

Dianthe recognized her—the girl’s white dress, actually. It was almost identical to her own, right down to the pink satin ribbon that trimmed the neckline and hem. She’d seen the young woman earlier in the evening, near the entrance.

Hortense, who had been returning from the privy, had stopped and stared. “My goodness, Dianthe, she could be your twin. Even her hair is your light blond,” she’d said. That had been hours ago.

Dianthe knelt beside the girl and touched her shoulder. “Miss? Are you ill? Do you need help?” she asked, fighting rising alarm.

“Miss?” she asked again, shaking the girl’s shoulder gently. A faint moan sped Dianthe’s heartbeat. She tugged at the woman’s shoulder and turned her over, her hands coming away wet and sticky. A dark gleaming stain spread in a ragged pattern over the bodice of the young woman’s gown. Dianthe was shocked by the look of panic and despair on the girl’s face.

“Oh…’tis you. S-stop…him,” she whispered in a faint, wavering voice. “Don’t let…him get away with…this. Promise me.”

“What?” Dianthe asked. “Get away with what, miss?”

“M-murder. Promise….” The woman was agitated, though her voice was growing weaker by the moment. “Be careful, Dianthe…he saw you and will come for you next.”

“Do I know you, miss? Who will come? And who was murdered?” she asked.

“The others…and…me,” she said with a soft sigh. “Stop him…before…”

A chill of fear and dread raced along Dianthe’s nerves. No, that didn’t make sense. The girl expelled another sigh and seemed to settle into her arms.

Dianthe shook her again, and her head lolled to one side. “Miss!” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I promise, miss! I promise! Just say something. Please!”

The girl’s eyes were open. Why wouldn’t she answer? “Miss?” Dianthe asked again, louder this time, and fighting the onrushing panic.

She leaned forward, her hair tangling on the branches of the honeysuckle bush and coming loose from her coiffure. An object lay on the ground beside her and, without thinking, she picked it up. Moonlight flashed off the edge. A knife!

Aghast, she recoiled and fell back on her bottom, growing dizzy with disbelief. No, it wasn’t true. The young woman’s eyes were still open—she couldn’t be dead!

Dianthe gulped in a lungful of air, then another, fearing she was about to faint. She couldn’t gather her wits or comprehend the horror of what lay before her. Still dizzy, still holding the knife, she drew her knees up and placed her forehead on them, breathing deeply and fighting her rising nausea.

“What the deuce—”

She looked up to find a stranger staring down at her in horror. “Someone bring a lantern!” he shouted.

A moment later, the small clearing sprang to life and a sea of faces surrounded her. Hortense and Harriett pushed forward, staring down at her with mouths agape. Their father knelt on the other side of the dead girl and felt for a pulse.

“What happened, Miss Lovejoy?” Mr. Thayer asked.

“I don’t know,” she squeaked. “Miss Banks went home and left me to search for you alone. I was trying to catch up for the fireworks and I tripped over…” She swallowed hard, bile rising in her throat. Blood. There was blood on her gown and her hands. And on the knife she still held.

A gentleman dressed in sober black pressed forward and appraised the scene. She recalled meeting Dr. Worley at parties and soirees, and had even danced with him once or twice. Surely now that he was here everything would begin to make sense.