Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3)

by Victoria Vale

  He was a fucking mess.

  “Bloody good shot,” Benedict remarked, and Nick blinked at the target before him.

  He’d landed his shot dead center, surprised he’d managed it while so distracted. Nick handed the weapon off to Aubrey, who set about reloading as he took up the second pistol.

  “Do you think you’ll ever have to use these?” David asked, watching Nick prepare the second flintlock.

  “He might,” Benedict said with a dry snort. “If the way Martin Lewes looked at him the other night at Boodle’s was any indication. The man despises you, Nick.”

  Nick’s jaw tightened at the mention of the man who stood in a prime position to take Calliope away from him. The thought was so ridiculous he nearly laughed aloud. For Lewes to take anything from Nick, the assumption must be made that she belonged to him in the first place.

  And she didn’t; not in any way that mattered. It was the damnedest thing, because where before he’d been determined to bed her, he now found himself wanting all the rest.

  He didn’t want her to accept Lewes’s suit, settling for life as the bland wife of a future viscount. He wanted … he wanted …

  “The man is an ass,” he spat, raising the pistol and taking aim at the target once more. “Why Calliope wants him is beyond me, but then, aside from knowing how to curl their toes I can’t pretend to understand women.”

  He imagined that the circular target was Lewes and opened fire, lip curling in satisfaction as the man’s head exploded in a gory spray of blood and bits of skull.

  The fantasy brought him no satisfaction.

  He snatched the second loaded pistol from Aubrey and shoved the other into a pair of waiting hands. He tightened his hand around the butt, closing one eye and preparing to put another ball through the target.

  The flintlock cracked in his hand, and this time the ball struck just right of center. Just to the side of perfection, of being good enough.

  He growled and dropped the pistol, standing back to let Aubrey take a turn.

  “It doesn’t matter, at any rate,” Benedict stated. His voice was light, but Nick felt the other man’s stare—knew his friend could somehow sense what was happening to him. “Your job is to provoke his jealousy so he offers for her, and from what I’ve heard you have nearly accomplished that.”

  Nick’s hands spasmed as he fought not to hit something. He didn’t care to be reminded how close he stood to watching Calliope become Mrs. Martin Lewes. Aubrey’s shot rang out, the ball striking even farther to the right than Nick’s.

  “Yes,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “Aubrey, you’re carrying too much tension in your arm. Slight bend in the elbow, exhale when you pull the trigger. Try again.”

  Aubrey muttered something under his breath about being a linen-draper, not a bloody marksman, but accepted the other pistol from David and tried again, this time landing his shot closer to the center.

  “This house party ought to be the end of it,” Benedict said. “Don’t you think, Nick? You’ll be glad to be rid of her, I suspect.”

  Yes, he told himself as he offered a silent nod. Yes, he ought to be happy for it to end, because then he wouldn’t have to feel as if she were reaching inside him and tying him in knots. He wouldn’t have to face the fact that even if he wasn’t a courtesan, he still wouldn’t be good enough for her. He wouldn’t have to think of an empty future in which he watched her become the mother of another man’s children from a distance, while he went on … doing what? Surely he could only go on as a courtesan for another few years, and by then he might have fucked his way through all the women of the ton. His reputation would ensure no respectable lady would even consider setting her cap for him. He’d die old and alone, mourning the only woman he’d ever really wanted for more than just her money or the offering of her body.

  David stepped up to shoot with a grip that was sure to result in a sprained wrist when the pistol inevitably kicked. Grateful for the distraction, Nick fixed his friend’s grasp and changed the angle, then waved a hand for him to carry on.

  All the while, Benedict watched him in that unnerving way of his. They’d been friends since university, longer than either of them had known any of the other courtesans. If there was anyone who could claim to know him best, even better than his uncle, in fact, it was Ben. Which was why he had no hope of hiding his turmoil and confusion. Nick didn’t even know why he’d bothered to try.

  “Do I need to put an end to this contract?” Benedict whispered, his voice low but with steel bolstering every word. “Of all the men working for this agency, you were always the one I worried about the least. But, this woman—”

  “Is a client,” Nick snapped. “Like any other. I am still the last courtesan you have to worry about losing his head over a keeper. If you need someone to wring your hands over, I suggest you set your sights on Aubrey.”

  The man in question was bent over the pistols with David, the two laughing and nudging one another while reloading, so he didn’t overhear. However, Benedict cut his eyes at Aubrey with a slight frown. Nick hadn’t been so preoccupied with his own affairs that he hadn’t noticed the changes in their friend. The oldest of them, he had a family and a business to care for, and Nick had never thought his tenure as a courtesan would last. It wasn’t a matter of if Aubrey would ever leave them to settle down, but when.

  “You know the rules about complications,” Benedict ground out. “Whatever romantic notions you have concerning Miss Barrington, I suggest you disabuse yourself of them immediately.”

  As much as he wanted to shove a fist down Benedict’s throat for that, Nick held back for two reasons. Firstly, his friend was a champion bare-knuckle brawler with lethal fists and a quick temper. He’d lay Nick out flat without breaking a sweat.

  Secondly, Benedict was right. It was foolish of him to think he could ever be anything to Calliope but a means to an end.

  However, deep down, that didn’t stop him from wanting her to be more. Nor did it prevent him wishing he stood a chance.

  The unease in Calliope’s stomach faded as the carriage rolled through the wrought iron gates of her father’s rural property in Surrey. With the sprawling acreage and spacious architecture one couldn’t find in a London residence, it lacked the vast intimidation of the viscount’s massive country estate. Her father preferred it here, close enough to London that he could sojourn there when necessary and retreat here when he wished for peace and quiet. He had once confided to Calliope that the country seat he’d inherited after the death of his brother made him feel as if he lived in the shadows of ghosts. He hadn’t been born to become the viscount, and resented his title as much as he did the circumstances that had forced him to accept it.

  The place was just as she remembered it, and being able to arrive a full day before any of the guests settled a sense of peace over her. She had only been here a few months ago for a visit, but felt as if a lifetime had passed since then—as if a different person entered these gates than the one who had left through them. Tomorrow, the house party would commence, and she would go back to feeling worn thin and stretched in a dozen different directions. For today, she would enjoy the serenity of being near her father and her aunts—who, though they often taxed her patience, she loved dearly.

  Her spirits lifted even more at the sight of the man standing at the foot of the front steps of the three-story Palladian house, the breeze tousling a head of hair that seemed to grow more silvery with each passing month. Calliope was the first out of the carriage, not bothering to wait for a footman to place the steps before she had jumped down and dashed into her father’s waiting arms.

  “Papa!”

  Aside from several more gray hairs and a few additional age lines around his eyes, the viscount was just as she’d last seen him—healthy and bright-eyed, his grip as strong and sure as ever as he lifted her off the ground and twirled her just as he had when she’d been a little girl. He wasn’t much larger than she was, but he had always seemed like the stronge
st man in the world to Calliope. His wiry form was now accentuated by a slight paunch that spoke of his love of curries and pies. His eyes, blue like Diana’s, crinkled at the corners with smile lines.

  “Anni, my dear, how was the journey from London? Not too taxing I hope?”

  She winced as he set her away from him, glancing back at Diana, who descended from the carriage with the help of her husband. Hastings murmured words of comfort to his wife, who had demanded the carriage be pulled over several times for the sake of her stomach. The poor thing had cast up everything she’d eaten this morning, and she looked pale and wan.

  “Not for me, but poor Diana found it disagreeable. I daresay she doesn’t want to see the inside of a carriage again until it is time to go home.”

  Her father’s eyes twinkled with affection as Diana approached, smiling despite her current state.

  “I am sorry to hear you have suffered so, but delight in the reason for it,” he said, reaching out to take her into one arm while still holding on to Calliope. “Your mother had the same hardship when she carried you, but it passed, and she was in good health up until your birth. If it makes you feel any better, you look wonderful. Practically glowing, isn’t she, Anni?”

  Before Calliope could verbalize her agreement, Diana snorted.

  “That glow is nothing more than a sheen of sweat from the exertions of trying and failing to retain anything other than tea.”

  Hastings reached for his wife, concern wrinkling his brow. “Let me help you to bed, darling. Then I can—”

  “You,” Diana snapped, glaring at her husband, “have done quite enough, thank you.”

  Their father tried to choke back a laugh and failed, while Calliope nudged him in the ribs and whispered to him to take care. They were safe as long as Diana was annoyed with Hastings and not them. Despite Diana’s insistence that Hastings not make a fuss over her, he took her arm and guided her up the front stairs with mincing steps. Heads pressed close together, the two murmured to one another as they ascended. Calliope smiled at their backs, even as a pit of longing opened within her gut, yawning wider when she thought of the man who would arrive here tomorrow intent on earning her father’s favor. While she was of age and did not need her father’s permission to wed, it was important to her that the viscount at least approve of Martin.

  For some reason, that line of thought only led to her wondering what her father would think of Dominick, which was ridiculous. It did not matter what he thought of her courtesan, as her involvement with him would end before she returned to London. All she had to do was endure the next fortnight, and she would never have to suffer his presence, or the confusion of emotions he stoked within her.

  “Come, sweet,” her father urged, tucking her arm through his. “We have much to talk about, do we not?”

  She nodded her agreement but said nothing as they entered the house, a sudden trepidation washing over her. Her father and sister had planned this gathering for one purpose, so it shouldn’t surprise her that he’d want to discuss her suitors. However, she was not so eager to think or talk about the two men demanding her attention. It would seem her father wished to get straight to the point, so he would be prepared to inspect her prospective bridegroom tomorrow.

  He ushered her through the entrance hall, where a trio of maids worked to dust and polish in preparation for guest arrivals, while footmen came and went carrying freshly laundered linen and gleaming china.

  Once upstairs, they first stopped into one of two private family drawing rooms so Calliope could greet her great aunts. Upon first entering the room she had to stop and blink to ensure her eyes didn’t deceive her. Aunts Louisa and Doris looked as if they had not moved from their twin armchairs since the last time Calliope had visited, and for a moment she expected to find a layer of dust covering them both in a fine powder.

  Louisa peered at her over a pair of round spectacles, a riot of unruly white curls peeking out from beneath a mobcap. In her lap sat the ancient pug that had been her constant companion for as long as Calliope had been living. Horatio had begun to go gray about the snout and was so fat it was a wonder his little legs could support his weight—not that it was necessary when Louisa insisted on carrying him about.

  Doris was rail thin and severe, in direct contrast to her sister’s corpulent frame and plump jowls, her own gray hair pulled into a knot so tight it was a wonder she could blink. A book rested in her lap, likely some dry treatise on proper decorum or household management, as Aunt Doris thought the reading of novels a waste of time, and especially disapproved of them in the hands of young ladies.

  “Look who has just arrived,” her father announced, pride swelling his chest as he presented her.

  “Aunt Doris, Aunt Louisa,” Calliope said, gracing each of them with a smile while internally bracing herself for the inevitable criticisms. “You are both looking well.”

  “Oh, hello, child,” Louis murmured, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. “You are too thin. Hasn’t she become so thin, Doris?”

  “Hmm, quite,” her other aunt agreed with a frown of disapproval. “What have you done to yourself? Just because your hopes of making a match have borne no fruit does not mean you should let yourself go. Perhaps you’d snare a suitor if you were plumper.”

  Calliope wanted to point out the irony of Doris’s assessment while her own figure was akin to the shape of a fireplace poker, but she knew better. Arguing with the aunts only made them ornery, and just now they seemed in good spirits. Their criticisms might be received differently from people who didn’t understand them as their family did. It was simply their way, and they did not bother to speak their minds to people they did not like. For those individuals, they chose to whisper to one another while casting disparaging glares in their direction.

  “And you must remember to wear a hat when you venture out of doors,” Louisa added when Calliope did not latch onto the first bit of bait. “Your complexion is looking a bit …”

  “Dark,” Doris filled in with a decisive nod. “And Louisa is right. A fair complexion is a most attractive trait in a woman.”

  Calliope bit the inside of her cheek and held in a laugh, certain she did not need to remind them that her ‘dark’ complexion had nothing to do with the sun.

  “I will try to keep that in mind,” she said instead, trading an amused glance with her father.

  “Where is your sister?” Louisa asked, squinting as she peered past Calliope. “That husband of hers certainly likes to keep her to himself, doesn’t he?”

  “She is resting,” her father replied. “The journey from London was quite taxing for her.”

  “Hmm, a bad sign, to be sure,” Doris declared. “A lady with such a delicate constitution will never bear strong sons. Poor Hastings may never have his heir.”

  “On the contrary,” Calliope replied. “It is a possible heir which is responsible for her condition. Diana is with child.”

  “Oh, that is wonderful news,” Louisa said. “You mustn’t be too envious of her, Calliope. It is not so uncommon for a younger sister to wed and start breeding before the elder. Chin up, girl.”

  Her father coughed, taking hold of Calliope’s arm and giving it a squeeze, as if sensing she’d come to the end of her patience.

  “We will not disturb you,” he said with a gracious bow of his head, as if addressing two queens as opposed to his crotchety, spinster aunts. “Calliope and I have some catching up to do, and I believe it is nearly time for your afternoon naps.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Doris agreed. “We shall need our rest if we are to endure the descent of your guests tomorrow.”

  “Such taxing affairs, house parties,” Louisa grumbled.

  “Then we will leave you to your rest,” the viscount replied, already steering Calliope from the room.

  They beat a hasty retreat, waiting until they had closed the door to meet one another’s gazes and erupt into a fit of laughter.

  “A bit like standing before a firing squad, is it
not?” her father.

  “Why we put up with them is beyond me,” she replied. “How they’ve managed to live so long boggles the mind.”

  “I am of the opinion that their bitterness and unmarried state are responsible. With no men to annoy them and each other to commiserate to, they are a match made in heaven.”

  “I suppose you are right. They will likely outlive us all, and die as they have always lived—together, and insulting everyone around them until their last breaths.”

  “Fortunately, we will not be around to see that. Come, sweet … I’ve sent for tea, and I wish for us to talk.”

  He led her into another room further down the corridor, one that only a select few were allowed to enter—a place where he kept the majority of the furniture and art he had acquired over his years in India. The drapes were drawn, a blazing fire and several candles setting the brightly-decorated room aglow. The opulent grandeur of his collection clashed with the smooth architecture and classical decor of the rest of the house, but it was all the more beautiful for that fact.

  Rich tapestries hung from the walls, striking hues of red, gold, royal blue, and purple mixing in a divergence of geometric and floral patterns. Thick, plush rugs of a similar style muffled her footsteps as she side-stepped heavy cabinets and tables—some of carved brass, others lacquered a shiny black, and one of marble with inlaid, hand-painted tiles. Every surface displayed a wealth of curiosities. A collection of golden candlesticks here, a brass spittoon there, a cluster of ceramic elephants with jewels for eyes. Three hookah pipes stood in one corner of the room, towering structures made of silver, jade, and copper with painted glass bowls.

  The centerpiece of the entire room was the massive portrait hanging over the hearth, and it was to this painting that Calliope went. She was always drawn to it, the image immortalized with a gilt frame captivating her now as it had the first time she’d lain eyes on it.