Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Oh, and now you’ll come crawling to me.” He snorted. “And why should I do business with you?”


“Because otherwise I shall go to your competitors. They haven’t your reputation for the truth, but in a pinch—”

“Go! Why should I care?”

In response, Jessica reached up and undid the simple chain at her neck. The unwieldy pendant that hung on its end emerged from between her breasts. She set it atop the papers she’d brought.

Mr. Parret stared at the item she’d placed in front of him.

It was, of course, Mark’s ring. The onyx in its center winked up at her.

Slowly, Mr. Parret set his daughter on the floor. “Belinda,” he said quietly, “go find your governess.”

“But I want to hear about the lady.”

“Go. Now.”

He waited until she’d disappeared. Then he walked forward, slowly, and picked up the ring. He dangled it from its chain, turning it from side to side. “Well,” he said softly. “One of the complexions that could be put on the matter I observed in Shepton Mallet was…precisely this. I didn’t want to think it. After all, I don’t want to ruin Sir Mark’s reputation.”

No. Jessica had thought long and hard about her options. There were only so many ways she could find money, and she wasn’t going to—she couldn’t—sell herself again. But even if she wasn’t selling her body, she could still sell her integrity.

You have an odd sort of integrity to you, he’d told her once. Maybe…maybe after this was all said and done, she could have her security and her integrity, all at the same time.

“I think,” Parret said, settling into a chair, “that you need to tell me your tale.”

Jessica took a deep breath. “It began,” she said, “when I met Sir Mark in Shepton Mallet. I had come there, you see, with the express purpose of seducing him…” The story she conveyed was mostly truthful. It required only a few alterations to change the entire tenor of it. She spoke, and Parret listened, nodding intently. When she was done, he picked up the pages she’d scrawled that morning and read through them.

“You write well,” he said in surprised tones, as he turned over the first page.

“For a courtesan, you mean?”

“For a woman.” He spoke absently, his fingers drumming against the table. He turned another page. “For that matter,” he said, “you write well for a man.”

Jessica searched for an appropriate response. Her mind covered everything from sarcasm to outrage. Finally, she settled on the simplest reaction. “Thank you,” she said graciously.

When Parret reached the end, he looked up. His mouth was set in a grim line beneath the ragged line of his mustache. “I don’t think this will work,” he told her.

“Then I’ll have to take it to your competitors.” She tried not to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped that Parret would be able to give her enough to survive—enough that she wouldn’t have to think of money for a good long while yet.

Parret scowled. “Oh, not the piece,” he explained. “I meant that we can’t call you a courtesan. It’s too risqué. Why don’t we call you a ‘fallen woman’ instead, and leave the precise circumstances of the fall a mystery? That way, the public will be free to imagine anything they wish.”

Jessica took a staggering breath of relief.

“Of course,” Parret continued, “I can offer you my normal rates—a shilling per column inch. It’s a fair offer—what I would give a man under the circumstances.”

Jessica almost smiled. “My dear sir,” she said, “you must be joking. No man could possibly have told this story. We are talking about the most in cendiary article that London has seen in years. You can’t fob me off with a few shillings. This isn’t piecework. I want fifty percent of the proceeds.”

His eyes narrowed. “All the expense of production is mine, and all the risk. Two pounds, no more.”

“Forty-five percent. I can take my account to anyone else. I’ll have a share of the proceeds, or you’ll have nothing.”

He slapped his hand on top of the papers, as if to ward off that threat. “Twenty-five.”

“Thirty, and I get five pounds upfront.” Enough to clear the debts in her name. Enough to survive for months. Enough for the future to become suddenly possible, and not some grim, looming fate. Even the city street outside the window seemed to lighten.

Mr. Parret cocked his head to the side. “Very well. I accept.” He reached out one hand.

Jessica took it carefully. “You bargain well,” she told him. “For a man.”

He pursed his lips ruefully and shook her hand. And apparently, that was all it took to turn a courtesan into a former courtesan. She’d just earned enough to survive for a good long while. Before this ran out, she would find a way to earn more. She wouldn’t need to sell her body ever again.