Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

“Not even a sister?”

Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research.

Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level, but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public.

“Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.”

Chapter 2

Hope was received in the drawing room of his lodgings.

He was as handsome as she remembered, though it was a dispassionate observation. Wilfred Hunt’s striking Adonis looks were not all that distinguished him, Hope knew.

“You look well, Hope. The new style suits you.” He indicated the princess-line bodice of blue velvet over the striped blue and white bustle hobble skirt. Hope had been aware of his undisguised appreciation as his gaze followed her progress from the doorway after she’d been announced, to the Chippendale chair upon which he’d invited her to sit.

She inclined her head and he lowered himself onto a delicate chair opposite her, resting one elbow on the writing desk beside him as he leaned forward, his expression searching. They might have been two old friends and he was favouring her with a confidence.

“But not in a talkative mood, it would appear, so I will get to the point.”

Hope steeled herself not to blink. She’d not give him the satisfaction of showing she cared anything for what he might have to say; much less that she was afraid.

“You are acquainted, of course, with our old friend, Felix Durham.”

She stared. Why state the obvious?

“He’s in London.”

That was hardly surprising.

“I thought he’d like to see you.” Wilfred’s tone was falsely conversational.

“Why do you suppose that?” With an effort, Hope kept her voice neutral. She was giving nothing away.

Wilfred studied the half-moons of his fingernails as he shrugged. He was testing her. Trying to needle her. “You’re right, of course. You were on good terms with his sister, though, were you not? Letitia?”

“Our paths crossed.”

“She’s dead now.”

Hope clenched her teeth. “I’m sorry.” She wouldn’t ask how. The less questions she asked of Wilfred, the better. He’d told her in such a cold way as to disarm her. That was the way Wilfred operated. Always going for the weak spot. Hope had liked Felicia on the few occasions they’d found themselves together.

“Typhoid. She and her brother were infected, he worse than she, so her death was a shock. Poor Felix has been inconsolable. That’s why his friends thought they needed a novel idea to cheer him up.”

Hope could see where this was going now. Though not why. She gripped her reticule more tightly, if only for something to occupy her hands, and stared stonily at him.

Wilfred sighed, shifted in his chair, then said with sudden irritation, “Despite what you think, I’ve asked you here because I want to help you.” He paused. “If you’ll help me.”

A small laugh escaped Hope before she could catch it. “You want to help me? Frankly, I find that very hard to believe.” She cleared her throat. “Naturally, though, if there’s anything you want, you don’t even have to ask me. You never did—before.”

“No need for the snide tone. You were foolish, Hope. You put me in an impossible situation! What was I supposed to do?”

Hope rose. She’d not expected to upset him so easily though Wilfred had never found it easy to control his temper. She glanced at the door, glad it was the middle of the day with a house full of servants scurrying about the back corridors. “I certainly will not help you if it has anything to do with Mr Durham.”

He glowered, not rising, his fingers tapping the tabletop. “Sit down, Hope. I’m surprised at your attitude. I thought you rather liked Mr Durham. Or is it on principle you intend to refuse any request I make of you, Hope?” His nostrils flared. “Your sister is in London, rubbing shoulders with high society. She’s a lovely, sweet little thing. So blonde and delicate and obedient. So different from you, Hope. Not surprisingly, there are high hopes she’ll make a fine match, though, of course, there’s little enough with which to launch her. You don’t want to be the one to stand in the way of Charlotte’s happiness, do you?”

Hope was already halfway to the door, but she stopped, calculating whether it was foolish to make any kind of response.

“I thought that might make you see sense.” Satisfaction dripped from his tone. If Hope could have scooped it up and thrown it back in his face, she would have.