Page 6 of The Courtesan’s Protector (About An Earl #4)

CHAPTER 5

T here had been no sleep the night before. Jane had tried, of course, knowing she needed to be sharp the next day. Her adversary always was, after all. But thoughts of Nora plagued her. When she did briefly doze off, her dreams had been even worse. Her younger sister fighting off the same demons that had eventually claimed Jane, herself. Or worse.

Still, she didn’t feel tired as she stood at her window, watching down at the street below for Ripley and his phaeton to collect her. She’d had thoughts of him, too. Of his immediate offer of help and of his kiss that had brought both peace and even more confusion to her restless body.

She was surprised when a carriage stopped on the street before her shop. A customer? It was far too early for that, though she supposed they would see the sign she’d made and hung on the window, declaring the shop would be closed for the day.

But it wasn’t some stranger who stepped from the rig—it was Ripley. Even from a distance, she knew him. She had for years, knew the way his body moved, knew the way he held himself both in combat and at ease. And when he looked up toward her window, her heart skipped in a way it most definitely shouldn’t.

She turned away and hustled down, locking up after herself as she stepped up to him.

“Good morning, Jane,” he said softly as he reached out a hand to her. She took it and let him help her into the rig. He joined her, slipping into the seat across from her, his long legs edging into her space a fraction. Then he knocked on the carriage wall and they began to move.

“What is this?” she asked. “I thought you only had the phaeton.”

He smiled a fraction. “Keeping track of me, are you?”

She returned the smile and searched for the teasing pepper that had always led their relationship. She needed to get herself back together at least when it came to him. “You need a minder, I think.”

“You might not be wrong about that,” he said softly. “But the carriage isn’t mine. Brentwood has one. He married last year and his wife, Mariah, brought a little money and a carriage and driver to the settlement. Apparently her parents couldn’t imagine life without a rig.”

Jane pursed her lips. “Must be nice.”

“Isn’t it just? At any rate, he was kind enough to loan it to me, as I didn’t think you’d want to rumble along for half a day in the phaeton and I wasn’t certain I could find you a horse quickly enough.”

“Oh,” she said, and thought of Ripley’s always-frowning right-hand man. He was very good at his job, anyone who interacted with him for more than a few minutes could see that. And he was fiercely loyal to Ripley. Which made the way he sometimes glowered at Jane feel even more pointed.

“Well, I suppose he doesn’t need one more reason to dislike me,” she said with a sigh.

Ripley tilted his head. “He doesn’t like you?”

She lifted her brows in surprise. “I’m shocked you weren’t already aware. You always notice the little shifts and moods of everyone.”

“A survival technique in my former business.”

She smiled weakly. “And mine.”

“Is he rude to you?” Ripley continued to press, and she saw a flicker of anger enter his stare at the thought. Gone immediately, but heated for the flash it had existed.

“Oh no!” she said. “Never rude. Just…cool. I felt he was pleased when Esme stopped fighting and that meant I came to the club less often to corner and support her.”

Ripley seemed to consider that. “Hmm. Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Brentwood is serious, that is very true. Sometimes he’s hard to read, even for me. I suppose that’s part of why he’s so good at his job. His reactions are inscrutable most of the time and when things get heated at the club, you need a man who doesn’t add to the upset.”

“I can see that. Certainly I wasn’t saying it to impugn the man. I know he’s vital around the club and a good friend to you.”

“He is that,” Ripley mused softly. “If he doesn’t like you, he’s never told me. And if he had, I wouldn’t give a damn.”

“No?” she said, truly surprised at that answer, despite the tension that had always existed between her and the man across from her. She’d been in the world long enough to know that one friend could poison the other against someone he was attracted to. Men tended to stick together, an often-terrifying united front since they held so much more power.

“No,” he repeated. “Because I like you.”

That sentence was said lightly, perhaps to lift the heavy mood in the dim carriage. She’d known it, of course. Ripley liked her. Ripley wanted her. But Jane still felt a thrill at it. Far more deeply than she ought to considering the circumstances.

“Flatterer,” she said with a laugh that swiftly turned to a sigh. She rested her head back on the seat cushion and thought of what he would see today, the kind of welcome they would likely have. “I know I’ve dragged you into a mess. Perhaps you won’t like me so much when this is done.”

He held her stare evenly for what felt like an eternity, though it couldn’t have even been thirty seconds before he spoke. “Do you know who my mother was?”

She blinked at what felt like a change of subject. “No.”

His mouth tightened, as did his fists on his thick thighs. “Regina Ripley.”

Her mouth dropped open and she leaned forward. “The—the famous courtesan?”

He nodded slowly. “The very one. Famous, celebrated and, sadly, far too long dead. I couldn’t judge you, Jane, because you and I are cut from the same sad and tattered cloth.”

* * *

R ipley very rarely spoke of his mother. He’d stopped a decade ago when the cancer had taken her. Even those he’d call friend didn’t know his relationship to her, though people remembered her. She had been the belle of her time, the most sought-after courtesan in all of London.

“I’ve seen Bernard Horner’s portraits of her,” she said. “So I know she was stunning. But what was she like?”

“Horner,” he repeated with a shake of his head. “One of her old protectors. She was his muse. I was an extra nuisance around. Regardless of all that, it’s nice to see her face when I encounter the portraits in galleries.”

He didn’t mention the one in his residence above the club. Jane hadn’t gone into that particular parlor where it hung above his fireplace.

“It must be startling,” Jane said softly. “Painful, even, if you were close.”

“We were,” he said. “You asked what she was like and she was kind and lively…but she was also sad. When she stripped away all the trappings of her sophisticated life, she was wounded.”

Jane’s nostrils flared slightly and he wondered if she was thinking of her own life as a lightskirt and mistress. She hadn’t often reached the lofty heights his mother had, almost always keeping herself to middle class men and women. But she understood. He sometimes saw that same wound in her.

“Was it just the life that hurt her?” she asked gently. “Or something more specific.”

“Yes, the life was hard. You know it. Not always bad, but difficult. But I think what truly broke her was my father. Lord Pottinger.”

“The earl?” Jane gasped.

“I thought you didn’t know an earl from a marquess?” he said with a laugh that felt forced. It was forced.

“Esme’s gossip sheets forced the toffs on me. And the earl is in them regularly. He’s your father?”

Ripley nodded, trying to keep the sour taste in his mouth from becoming an equally sour expression. “The very one. He used her until she had nothing left to give. Until his son swelled in her belly and then he abandoned her with not even a farthing of support. We don’t talk. He can get fucked.”

She met his stare and he knew she saw past his facade. She measured his pain. He supposed that was what they’d always done to each other. The only two capable of such an action. That was part of why they constantly pulled away from each other. And part of why he loved her. To be seen was…something. Even if it scarred. He touched his eyebrow briefly out of habit and then cleared his throat.

“We struggled most of my life. She was celebrated, but the men who bragged about having her in their bed weren’t exactly generous. I started fighting at seventeen to help out. Was rubbish at it at first.”

“Did she ever see you come into your own?” Jane asked.

“No.” He said it and that one syllable burned like fire. “She died a year and a half before I went on the jag that led to me taking the title. She never fully benefitted from my success.”

He dropped his gaze from hers. Jane could see many things, but somehow he didn’t want to share his guilt. That he hadn’t had enough to get his mother better doctors. Or at least allow her end to be more comfortable. That was the ultimate regret of his regretful life.

Jane was quiet a moment and then she motioned to the book he had placed on the carriage seat before he came to pick her up. “What are you reading?”

She was allowing him respite from the painful subject. He appreciated it and picked up the tome. “ Gulliver’s Travels ,” he said. “An adventure to pass the time if you’d like. We could read it out to each other.”

Her cheeks flamed briefly. “Oh…I only learned a few years ago.” She turned her face as she said it.

He wrinkled his brow. He hadn’t known that. Of course it was very common for those of their class to not read. His mother had taught him from the start, telling him it would give him an advantage. She hadn’t been wrong.

“Well, I could read it to you if you’d like,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. I could use the distraction.” She settled back and closed her eyes.

He watched her for a moment, memorizing her face when she wasn’t observing him in return. Then he pulled the curtain away from the carriage window to give himself more light and opened the book from the beginning, a note from the publisher to the reader.

“ The author of these Travels, Mr. Lemuel Gulliver, is my ancient and intimate friend; there is likewise some relation between us on the mother’s side .”

* * *

D espite the desperate nature of their travels out to Little Oak, there were times on the trip that had actually felt comfortable . Where Jane could almost forget her fears for Nora, her anticipation for what would happen when they saw her mother, and what stirred when Ripley was so close to her.

He’d read her the adventure story, giving it life, and she had been allowed to lose herself a little. And when he stopped? They’d talked. Not about his mother or her family, but just about life. About the friends they shared.

But now the carriage slowed as they reached their destination and Jane’s comfort was long gone. She reached across the carriage and caught Ripley’s hand in both of hers, seeking reassurance.

“She’s…” she began. “I don’t know what to expect, Ripley, and I?—”

He leaned forward and cupped her cheeks. He kissed her once, gently and far too briefly but it quieted her mind for a blissful moment. “I’m here.”

He released her and opened the carriage door, stepping out first before he helped her down. She knew she was digging her fingers into his bicep as they faced the old house together.

It was the same as it had ever been, and yet somehow worse. Her mother hadn’t kept it up over the years and the painted shutters were peeling, the front garden overgrown so that one had to trod on the weeds to get to the front door.

The very door that was opening now and revealed her mother. There was a moment where the two women stared at each other and a lifetime of memories overwhelmed Jane, left her unable to speak.

Her mother seemed to have none of that problem. She looked her daughter up and down, folded her arms and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”