From Courtesan To Convenient Wife. Marguerite Kaye
laughed bitterly. ‘I am certainly adept at acting. The entire duration of my last—engagement—was a performance, nothing more.’
‘Something we have in common. I too have earned a living from performing. The Procurer you see before you is a façade, a persona I have been forced to adopt.’
Which remark begged any number of questions. Sophia, however, hesitated. There was empathy in the woman’s expression—but also a clear warning that some things were better left unspoken. Locking such things away in the dark recesses of memory, never to be exposed to scrutiny, was the best way to deal with them, as she knew only too well. Sophia uncurled her fists, clasping her hands together on the table. ‘I will be honest with you, Madam, and trust that your reputation for discretion is well earned. A woman in my position has, as you have pointed out, very few options, and even fewer resources. I do not know in what capacity I can be of service to you, but if I can do so without compromising what is left of my honour, then I will gladly consider your offer.’
Once again, The Procurer gave a little nod, though whether it was because she was satisfied with Sophia’s answer, or because Sophia had answered as she expected, there could be no telling. ‘What I can tell you is that the monetary reward for the fulfilment of your contract, should you choose to accept the commission, would be more than sufficient to secure your future, whatever form that might take.’
‘Frankly, I have no idea. At present, my only future plans are to survive day to day.’ But oh, Sophia thought, how much she would like to be able to discover for herself what the future might hold. Six months ago, bereft and utterly alone, raw with grief, she had been so low that she had no thought at all for the future. But life went on, and as it proceeded and her meagre funds dwindled, Sophia had not been able to look beyond the next month, the next week, the next day. Now, it seemed that a miracle might just be about to happen. The Procurer, that patroness of fallen women, was sitting opposite her and offering her a chance of redemption. ‘I have no idea what the future holds,’ Sophia repeated, with a slow smile, ‘but I do know that I want it, and that whatever it is, I want it to belong to me, and to no one else.’
‘Something else we have in common, then, Lady Sophia.’ This time The Procurer’s smile was warm. She reached over to touch Sophia’s hand. ‘I am aware of your circumstances, my dear, including the reason you were compelled to act as you did. You do not deserve to have paid such a high price, but sadly that is the way of our world. I cannot change that, but I do believe we can be of mutual benefit to each other. You do understand,’ she added, resuming her business-like tone, ‘that I am not offering you charity?’
‘And I am certain that you understand, for you seem to have investigated my background thoroughly, that I would not accept charity even if it was offered,’ Sophia retorted.
‘Then indeed, we understand each other very well.’
‘Not quite that well, Madam. I am as yet completely in the dark regarding this role you think me so perfectly suited for. What is it that you require me to do?’
But The Procurer held up her hand. ‘A few non-negotiable ground rules first, Lady Sophia. I will guarantee you complete anonymity. My client has no right to know your personal history other than that which is pertinent to the assignment or which you yourself choose to divulge. In return, you will give him your unswerving loyalty. We will discuss your terms shortly, but you must know that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half-measures will not be rewarded. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without remuneration.’
‘Return to England?’ Sophia repeated, somewhat dazed. ‘You require me to travel abroad?’
‘All in good time. I must have your word, Lady Sophia.’
‘You have it, Madam, rest assured. Now, will you put me out of my misery and explain what it is that is required of me and who this mysterious client of yours is.’
Paris—ten days later
The carriage which had transported Sophia all the way from Calais drew to a halt in front of a stone portal surmounted by a pediment on which carved lions’ heads roared imperiously. The gateway’s huge double doors were closed. Was this her final destination? They had passed through one of the entrance gates to the city some time ago, following the course of the bustling River Seine, which allowed her to catch a glimpse of the imposing edifice which she assumed was Notre Dame cathedral. Despite this, Sophia still couldn’t quite believe she was actually here, in Paris.
The days since her momentous meeting with The Procurer had passed in a blur of activity as her papers were organised, her travel arrangements confirmed, and her packing completed. Not that she’d had much packing to do. The costumes required for her to carry out her new duties would be provided by the man who presumably awaited her on the other side of those doors. The man to whom she was bound for the duration of the contract. The shudder of revulsion was instinctive and quickly repressed. This contract was a world away from the last, less formal and much more distasteful, one she had reluctantly entered into to, she reminded herself. The Procurer had promised her that her stipulated terms would be honoured. Though she must do his bidding in public, this man had no right to any part of her, mind or body, in private. So it was not the same. This man was not Sir Richard Hopkins. The services he was paying for were radically different in nature. And when it was over, she would be truly free for the first time in her life.
The butterflies which had been slowly building in her stomach from early this morning, when she had quit the last of the posting houses to embark on the final leg of her journey, began to flutter wildly as Sophia saw the huge doors swing inward and one of the grooms opened the carriage door and folded down the steps. Gathering up the folds of her travelling gown she descended, glad of his steadying hand, for her nervous anticipation was palpable.
‘Monsieur awaits you, madame,’ the servant informed her.
‘Merci,’ Sophia replied, summoning up what she hoped was an appropriately eager smile, thanking the man in his own language for taking care of her during the journey. The servant bowed. She heard the carriage door slam, the clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones as it headed for the stables.
Bracing herself, Sophia prepared to make her entrance. The hôtel particulier which she assumed was to be her temporary home was beautiful. Built around the courtyard in which she now stood, there were three wings, each with the steeply pitched roof and tall windows in the French baroque style, the walls softened with a cladding of ivy. The courtyard was laid out with two parterres of box hedging cut into an elaborate swirling design which, seen from above, she suspected, would form some sort of crest. The main entrance to the hôtel was on her left-hand side. At the top of a set of shallow steps, the open doorway was guarded by a winged marble statue. And standing beside the statue, a man.
Late afternoon sunlight glinted down, dazzling her eyes. She had the absurd idea that as long as she stood rooted to the spot, time would stand still. Just long enough for her to quell her fears, which were hardly unjustified, given her experience. Men wanted but one thing from her. Despite The Procurer’s promises and reassurances, until she could determine for herself that this man was different and posed no threat to her, she would, quite rightly, be on her guard.
Though she must not appear so. Sophia steeled herself. The future, as she had discovered to her cost, did not take care of itself. This was her chance to forge her own. Though she had assumed her new persona in Calais, now she must play it in earnest. She had coped with much worse, performed a far more taxing role. She could do this! Fixing a demure smile on her face for the benefit of anyone watching from the myriad of windows, she made her way across the paved courtyard.
The man she approached was tall, sombrely dressed, the plain clothes drawing attention to an impressive physique. Black hair. Very tanned skin. Younger than she had anticipated for a man so ostentatiously wealthy, no more than thirty-five, perhaps less. As she reached the bottom of the steps, he smiled, and Sophia faltered. He was a veritable Adonis.