Page 1 of Touched By a Traitor
Prologue
31 December 1830—London
Had Andrew Creswellforeseen his impending encounter with Charlotte Grace this evening, he would have remained firmly ensconced in his bedchamber. Instead, cruel fate had orchestrated their meeting, and now they stood in stony silence within Madam Tansley’s lavishly appointed parlor.
The establishment occupied a grand Georgian townhouse in one of London’s more respectable districts, its exterior betraying nothing of the commerce conducted within. Inside, Turkish carpets covered polished floors, while crystal chandeliers cast warm light over silk-draped walls adorned with paintings of dubious virtue. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of French perfume, expensive tobacco, and the lingering aroma of roasted fowl from the evening’s repast.
Andrew’s calloused hands, more accustomed to hauling cargo than holding crystal, tightened around his brandy glass. The woman beside him possessed the bearing of an aristocrat fallen on hard times, judging by the way her fingers worried the worn wool of her skirt with barely contained agitation.
Miss Grace was undeniably striking—a study in quiet dignity amidst the brothel’s calculated opulence. Her dark hair was swept into a simple chignon, a few rebellious tendrils framing features that spoke of good breeding despite her circumstances. Large eyes, dark as winter nights, held a keen intelligence thatset her apart from the painted courtesans who moved through the room like exotic birds.
Though of average height, reaching just below his chin, her presence commanded attention. Her figure was slim and graceful beneath the modest woolen dress that stood in stark contrast to the revealing silks surrounding them. The high neckline and long sleeves only served to fuel Andrew’s imagination, while her posture suggested steel beneath the delicate exterior.
The issue wasn’t her beauty—far from it. The problem lay in her gaze, sharp as a winter wind, that swept over him with the practiced disdain of those born to privilege. Her eyes catalogued his rough-hewn clothing with silent judgment, each glance an indictment of the calluses beneath his cuffs and the working man’s cut of his coat.
Andrew savored another swallow of brandy, silently conceding that Madam Tansley’s excellent spirits might be the only thing saving this woman from his temper. The conniving procuress had orchestrated this meeting, then vanished, leaving him trapped with Miss Grace’s glacial company.
Around them, the evening’s revelries continued. Gentlemen in fine evening dress conversed in hushed tones with women whose painted smiles never quite reached their eyes. A pianoforte tinkled in the corner where a blonde courtesan entertained a portly MP with a ribald song, while servants in pristine livery moved silently between the guests, ensuring glasses remained full and plates laden.
“Tell me,” Miss Grace said suddenly, breaking their brittle silence, “are you a man of substantial means?”
Andrew released a derisive breath. “Good Lord, how refreshingly direct. Do you always fortune hunt at a brothel or is this a special occasion?”
Color flooded her cheeks, but her chin lifted defiantly. “You mistake my meaning entirely. I’m not seeking a husband.”
“A patron then? A keeper? Or are we conducting a census?”
She hesitated, her composure wavering for the first time since their introduction. When she spoke again, her voice carried careful calculation rather than desperation. “I find myself requiring… a business arrangement. Something mutually beneficial for parties of discerning taste.”
“And what sort of business might that be? Your ability to assess a man’s worth by his coat, or making dockworkers question their life choices?”
Instead of looking chastened, one corner of her lips curved upward in genuine amusement. “I see you have a gift for sharp observation, sir. I could certainly offer equally pointed rebuttals if that’s how you’d prefer to spend your evening.”
Andrew studied her carefully. “And what would you consider a proper use of such an evening, Miss?”
“Well,” her long eyelashes fluttered as she adopted an air of mock consideration, “cataloguing men’s shortcomings, delivering uncomfortable truths, reading legal texts when the company grows tedious…” Her voice grew more serious but retained its edge. “Or perhaps offering something that might genuinely interest a man of means.”
His brows drew together. “I hope you’re not peddling stolen goods, Miss. I have expensive tastes but simple ethics.”
“Nothing stolen,” she said with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “My virtue, sir. For the right price.”
Andrew recoiled as if struck, brandy sloshing dangerously close to the crystal’s rim. “What in God’s name—”
“Two hundred pounds,” she pressed on, desperation fracturing her careful facade. Her fingers worried the fabric of her skirt with violence. “Perhaps you know someone who might meet such a sum?”
For a moment, he could only stare, mind struggling to reconcile her refined bearing with such a brazen proposition. This woman, with her aristocratic features and eyes that burned with wounded pride, was offering herself like common chattel? Yet the raw desperation threading through her voice rang with unmistakable truth.
The way she held herself—spine rigid as if facing an executioner rather than negotiating—suggested this degradation cost her more than she was willing to reveal.
The air between them grew thick with tension. Andrew found his attention drawn to the elegant line of her throat, the subtle quickening of her breath beneath the modest neckline of her gown. He remained so transfixed that Madam Tansley’s approaching footsteps registered too late.
“Ah, I see Andrew has assumed his banker’s countenance,” Madam Tansley purred, her smile predatory as she materialized beside them like a silk-clad specter. “Already discussing terms, are we, dear girl? What sum did you name?”
“Two hundred pounds,” the woman answered, staring at her feet.
Andrew gritted his teeth. Madam had targeted him for this negotiation.
A laugh like poisoned honey spilled from Madam’s painted lips. “Oh, my sweet child. You should request more. Much, much more.”
