Something like pain knifed through Jeanne’s chest.
Only it couldn’t be pain because it didn’t matter in the least how David spent his time or with whom. Despite the pleasures they had shared, he was really still just a stranger. Their time together was over.
He looked up. His gaze seemed to lock with hers. But of course, she was holding opera glasses. He would not be able to see her as clearly. She was just another face framed by golden hair in a sea of faces.
“I daresay Hartley is a little too high for a trollop like you to aim for.” Mr. Ratherford’s tone was quiet. Deadly.
Gooseflesh rose all over her body, especially at the back of her neck. With suddenly shaking hands, she lowered the glasses to her lap. “What?”
“Don’t act as though you don’t know.” Ratherford’s cold tone couldn’t penetrate her confusion.
She turned to Ratherford. He was glaring at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What, indeed?” He took her arm. Roughly. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Quit acting as though you don’t know what this is about.”
“Well, I don’t.”
He jerked her arm as he jolted to his feet. She resisted. He leaned back down and gave her a harsh shake.
“Mr. Ratherford, please.”
“Come, don’t make a scene.”
People were staring.
“I’ll say you are a harlot I picked up and that now you’re picking my pockets.”
She slowly stood. He took her arm and she had no choice but to allow him to lead her out of the theatre and into the lobby. Once they had collected their wraps and put them on, he turned to her.
“You want to play the whore?” Ratherford whispered, again in deadly tones.
“I don’t understand.”
“Here, look at this and then look me in the eyes and pretend you still don’t know.”
He reached into his pocket and shoved a folded paper at her. “They have papered all of London with these.”
With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper. It was a crude, colorful depiction of a coffee shop. A cartoon. More attention to detail was paid to the tall, dark haired man and a short, very plump blonde girl.
A certain truant duke plays with a harlot whilst his sudden absence from the House of Lords on the day of an important vote remains a mystery.
The Duke of Hartley!
David was a…duke.
A duke.
Good God.
She glanced back at the cartoon. There were two sheets. Her heart rose to her throat as she slipped the bottom sheet into view. It was a nighttime scene. Light spilled from a carriage’s window and illuminated a shoddy, old building that greatly resembled her boarding house. The gutters flowed with brownish muck and several disreputable looking men and women lounged about. One beggar was reliving himself and a huge rat-like creature grinned in the foreground.
The truant duke keeps his harlot in style on Wentworth Street, Whitechapel.
“I didn’t want to believe it was actually you.” Ratherford took a deep breath. “After all there are scores of women who must easily resemble the cartoon. But that building, the exact street number of your boarding house. Still, I just didn’t want to believe it, so I brought you here tonight, as I had planned to before. I hoped he would be here. And your reaction told me all.”
What could she say? What did he want to hear? Why should he even care if she bedded a duke here or there?
“I thought you were better. I thought you had simply been forced into an unworthy situation. I thought you wanted to become something decent. I wanted to help you.” He leaned closer. “I wanted you.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You were my investment.”
“What are you saying?”
“Our association is over, Jeanne. You shall have to find another publisher.” He grasped her reticule, jerked it open and took the bills then threw the bag to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“The money I lent you was only because of my investment in you. That’s over now.” He regarded her coldly and then walked away.
“Mr. Ratherford!” She ran after him but her slippers did not make good traction on the floor and her evening gown restricted her stride. He disappeared quickly through the doors.
She followed, into the night. Rain poured from the heavens, frigid, soaking her as she ran down the street. Her delicate hat quickly became drenched. Worthless. Her hair became waterlogged, too heavy for the pins. It fell into her face, blinding her. She raked it away.
Sheets of rain and fog obscured her view. She could never find Ratherford now. Besides, what good would it do to catch up to him?
Ratherford had abandoned her.