Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

Hope had never known another mother—her own mama’s name had never been mentioned—and she’d been eight when she’d deduced through something a visitor had said that Mama was not in fact her real mother. When she’d questioned her father, he’d said the matter was not to be spoken of again. Hope and Charlotte were equal in both their parents’ eyes.

But that had not been the case. Hope knew that.

* * *

The play was entertaining, the gambling not so much. Lord Westfall drank too much, and persisted at the gaming table long after his luck had run out. Until, seizing Hope by the waist, he insisted she throw the dice, after which he was on a winning streak, and his jovial spirits had returned.

At last, Hope persuaded him it was time to move onto Skittles Parlour and was glad at the opportunity to converse with some of her friends there. Several of the lavishly bejewelled courtesans clinging to the arms of their respective aristocrats were graduates of Madame Chambon’s.

When a lively waltz began to play, Lord Westfall took Hope onto the dance floor where he proceeded to display his expertise as a dancer.

Hope was sorry when the polka that followed it sapped his lordship of his remaining energy, and she was suddenly alert with fear and acute feeling when his place was taken by a newcomer desiring to partner Hope.

The two men greeted each other affably, Lord Westfall surrendering his soon-to-be mistress saying, “Be my gue

st. Hope has more stamina than I do. I’m sure she’ll lead you a lively dance.” He thought he was being funny with the double entendre which Hope ignored, but which caused Wilfred to laugh more loudly than was warranted. He, too, looked as if he’d had too much to drink.

“You’re looking as beautiful as ever, my lovely Hope,” Wilfred remarked, as he twirled her into the centre of the dance floor. It was a slower waltz, to Hope’s annoyance, so conversation was possible. The last man she wished to converse with was Wilfred Hunt.

She stared stonily over his shoulder. “I saw your sister’s engagement notice in The Times. You must be pleased.”

“I am pleased that my sister is happy. And my parents. It’s a fine match.” Wilfred’s smile was as artless as if he were discussing the marriage of a couple of acquaintances.

“So, you have achieved your aim.” Hope was silent as she went through the elaborate lengths to which Wilfred was determined to damn her in Felix’s eyes.

Wilfred merely inclined his head.

“Then perhaps, since you had already achieved your aim, you then felt it was not necessary to give Felix the promissory note I took from him?” She smiled sweetly as she caught his eye, and pushed her point in case he’d been too obtuse to understand to what she was alluding. “In view of the fact that it would be a small kindness to atone, in part, for what you have done to me.”

Wilfred’s mouth turned up at the corners. It was one of those small, self-satisfied, gloating smiles that made her vision go black, for that’s how he’d always smiled at her when he knew he had the upper hand. How he did love to trade on his superior position. He had Hope exactly where he wanted her.

“Of course I gave it to him. And of course he was distraught. Understandably so.”

The music trailed off, and Wilfred led her off the dance floor. Seeing Lord Westfall occupied, he caged her hand on his arm and continued walking her through the merry throng.

A large withdrawing room just beyond where the dancing was taking place was empty. Leisurely, Wilfred closed the door behind them, muting the noise as they gazed down onto the gaslit street.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Hope asked, turning, resting her elbows on the window ledge. It was colder here. The fire was not burning as brightly as it was in the makeshift ballroom.

“On the contrary, I desire you more than I desire any other woman alive,” Wilfred replied conversationally. “The fact that I can’t afford you is what eats away at me. You can’t imagine my regret at having to pension you off to Madame Chambon.”

“Really.” Hope’s tone dripped scepticism. “I had very little say in the matter, as you recall.”

Wilfred shrugged. “As I’ve told you before, you were costing me a fortune, yet you showed no gratitude after your mother disowned you, leaving me the only person in the world concerned for your welfare. You were hardly a pleasure to come home to, and I was the one person standing between you and the gutter.”

“And what else might you have to say to me, Wilfred, when you know I am to become Lord Westfall’s mistress?” she asked. “What might he think if he came upon us speaking so intimately now?”

Wilfred shrugged. “You’re not his mistress yet, which means you are anyone’s—at the right price. Perhaps I’m negotiating. It might be in your interests if I raise your price.”

“You really think you could tempt me back into your bed?” Hope resisted the temptation to be more cutting. Wilfred could be unpredictable when his manhood was at stake. Yet she couldn’t help herself, saying under her breath, “Alas, you’ll never be able to afford me now, Wilfred. I would not offer you what you want at any price.”

He considered her a moment, his gaze speculative. “What about if I put in a good word for you to Felix? It might soften the rage and disappointment he showed when I revealed your touching loyalty towards me after I told him that our tender feelings for one another were the reason you stole the promissory note in order to return it to me? You could have us both. I don’t mind sharing.”

She stared him down. “I’d not trust you to follow through, even if you gave me your word.”

“Hardly the kind of thing a man of honour wants to hear, Hope.” Wilfred put his fingers around her wrist, but she tugged herself free and, in a fit of chagrin, swept over to the fireplace, glaring at him as she leant against the mantelpiece.

“Yours has never been a word of honour, Wilfred. Your word counts for nothing. And that doesn’t come from me. There are plenty who say it.”