The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) by Linda Rae Sande Read Free Book Online Page B

was, to be sure.”
    David couldn’t argue there. John Wainwright II was a rake of the worst kind. He wouldn’t be missed by anyone but those whose clubs and brothels he frequented when he was in town. The marquess realized then his attention had been deliberately misled by the woman who sat across from him. “But the Wainwrights’ deaths aren’t the reason you wore black today,” he stated finally, realizing there was more to Josephine’s visit than news he could get from The Times .
    “Indeed. I had word from the Continent that my sister died.” She said the words without the least bit of sadness to her voice.
    David blinked and then furrowed his brows. “I take it you two were not close,” he ventured. He wondered if he should extend sympathies but thought better of it when Josephine shook her head.
    Josephine had to breathe very carefully in order to stave off the warring emotions she was experiencing. Relief, at hearing her sister had finally died of the French pox she’d contracted while a mistress to a French army general, and hatred that her sister had been a traitor to the Crown. “At one time, we were. Before she broke one of the cardinal rules of being a mistress,” Josephine remarked, wondering if she could now tell David Carlington the true identify of the woman who had sold his pillow talk to the French and nearly forced him to give up his marquessate and his seat in Parliament.
    “There are rules ?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood in the study. He thought of asking if he might light another cheroot. Even if it was still morning, this type of conversation warranted a smoke. Or perhaps a brandy. “I wasn’t aware.”
    There were rules, of course, and Josephine knew the man was aware of at least a few of them. Or perhaps he wasn’t, and that’s why he had been so unguarded back then.
    Shame on him .
    Josephine regarded David Carlington for a long minute, deciding she should tell him what she knew. “My mother taught my sister and me that we were to take only one client at a time,” she commented lightly, as if she were reciting a rule of business. “You see, if a mistress takes money to warm a man’s bed, then she cannot in good conscious take money from another in exchange for the knowledge she has gained at the expense of the first.” She sat very still for a moment, wondering if the marquess would make the connection. Apparently, he did not. At least, not right away.
    It had been ten years, after all.
    The marquess stiffened, his gaze on her suddenly wary. “Does this have anything to do with the note you sent me about my mistress sharing information with the enemy?” he wondered, remembering the day he received the damning parchment. The beautifully written but startling missive described how everything he had shared with his mistress was being passed onto the French. He hadn’t known Josephine back then, so the signature on the note meant nothing. And he chose to ignore the warning, thinking a jealous peer was trying to stir up trouble. He was sure that Genevieve could be trusted. “How did you ... know ?” he asked, his face suddenly hardening.
    Back then, when they had finally met in person, he didn’t ask Josephine how she knew about Genevieve and her arrangement; his only query regarding the note, asked of her during one of their late morning meetings, had to do with why she would send a note to a man she had not yet met telling him his mistress was selling his secrets to the enemy. And she was quick to explain that she was loyal to Crown and country, having already gained an appreciation for politics from her second protector.
    Josephine realized from David’s face that he was making the connection. “Genevieve’s real name was Jennifer Wentworth. She was my sister.”
    The marquess held very still for a long time, his expression not giving away the tumultuous feelings he was experiencing at that moment. There was relief, to be sure, in finally knowing the true