Taming of the Rake (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 4)

by Victoria Vale

  Benedict drew in a calming breath and tried again, keeping his voice level this time. “If you didn’t summon me to tell me what you want, why are we here? I hardly needed you to deliver me a copy of your ridiculous paper, as I have already read today’s outrageous fabrication.”

  The Gossip scoffed. “My source was a reliable one, and we both know it.”

  Benedict ground his teeth, the scandal sheet crumpling in his fist. Damn her, she had him over a barrel. He had already spent the morning rifling through his documents and contracts, trying to decide which of their former clients had betrayed them. He was fairly certain he knew which woman had gone running to the Gossip with her story, and was prepared to deal with her in due time.

  “I simply asked you here today to make certain I have your full attention, Mr. Sterling. As you can see, I have been made privy to every so-called gentleman selling himself as part of your organization. If you do not wish for me to publish those names, you will give me what I want.”

  “I am still waiting for you to tell me exactly what that is.”

  There was a slight movement behind the veil, and Benedict detected the flash of white teeth when she smiled. “We will get to that when I’m good and ready, and not before. Think of this as a prelude of sorts, Mr. Sterling. Until recently, I believe you thought of me as nothing more than a minor nuisance. Today, I have come here to inform you that if you don’t fear me yet, you ought to. You will.”

  “Will I? Where is your proof, your evidence?”

  “Oh, but I do have proof. It isn’t much, but it is a start, I am sure you will agree. There’s a collection of distinct calling cards—”

  “Which could belong to anyone with the initials G.C.,” he countered with a dismissive wave. “Is that all?”

  “There are accounts of a secret office in the back of Madame Hershaw’s dress shop.”

  “And when you visited there, what did you find?” Benedict felt bolder now, realizing that what information she did have was now obsolete. He had taken great pains to make sure of that. “I’d wager absolutely nothing.”

  “You are awfully brash for a man whose back is against the wall.”

  “And you are as stupid as you are arrogant if you think I can be intimidated by names on a list, and an outlandish story you could have spun out of thin air. Unless you have something more substantial than that, we have nothing else to discuss.”

  It was a wild gamble, and he knew it. But Benedict had never been one to back down, even when faced with insurmountable odds. Defiance seemed threaded through the very fabric of his being.

  The Gossip issued a labored sigh and folded her hands. “I had so hoped we could avoid such unpleasantness, but I can see you are determined to do this the hard way. Very well, then. If you will not give me what I want—”

  “Will you come to the point anytime today, or continue beating around the bush?”

  She issued a derisive sound. “You know, I don’t believe I will. You seem to be itching for a fight, Mr. Sterling, and I do not want to disappoint you. If it’s war you want, so be it. You cannot say you weren’t warned … more than once.”

  Benedict bit back a string of curses as he realized this woman had never intended to bargain with him. She was like a cat playing with a wounded mouse—only, she seemed to expect him to grovel and plead. Apparently, his impudence had only exacerbated her need to toy with him before swallowing him whole.

  “Goddamn it, who are you?” he snapped, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. Thus far, she had been beating him at their little game, and it infuriated him to be at such a disadvantage. “What have I ever done to deserve this?”

  She made to walk past him, her guards falling in step behind her. Her shoulder brushed his and she paused, staring up at him. Through the gray fabric of her veil, he made out a round face and large dark eyes. His belly clenched with the urge to vomit as her scent assaulted his nostrils.

  “Now you’re finally asking the right questions, Mr. Sterling.”

  Before he could form the words to respond, she was gone, leading her pack of dogs behind her. Benedict couldn’t give chase, because at that moment the meager contents of his stomach rose swiftly up his throat. He stumbled to the nearest tree, one hand braced on the trunk as he leaned over and retched. His face flushed hot from the exertions, and he nearly crumpled to his knees.

  When he straightened, Celeste was at his side, offering a handkerchief and a mournful expression. He avoided her gaze while wiping at his mouth and drawing in deep breaths. He trembled as some darkened corner of his mind unlocked and began spilling memories out into the light. That scent, that voice … he was beginning to suspect he knew very well how he recalled them.

  He had to be sure. Without having seen her full face he had only his faulty recollections to fall back on. They came from a time in his life he had actively worked to forget, a period too intimately tangled with his past. If she was who he suspected, Benedict could hardly fathom why he would be the object of her vendetta. She’d do better to turn her anger on his father, who had been the force driving them into each other’s lives.

  You don’t even know if it’s really her. You have managed to anger and annoy half the ton in the last few years. It could be any number of women.

  In order to be certain, he was going to have to call on another of his friends. He hated to involve anyone else he cared about in this mess, but found he now had no choice. He could not fight his enemy blind.

  “Are you certain it was wise to provoke her?” Celeste asked as he tucked her soiled handkerchief into his pocket. “And what are you going to do now?”

  “First, I’m going to go home and scrub my teeth,” he said with a cringe. “And then I need to visit a friend. I think I know who the Gossip is, but I want to be sure.”

  “Really? Who is she?”

  He shook his head, refusing to draw Celeste any deeper into this web. Bringing her here had been a mistake, no matter how much better it made him feel to not have to face this alone.

  “It doesn’t matter yet … not until I can prove it. Come, I need to send word if I want to meet her tonight.”

  Celeste took his arm again. “Who?”

  “Lady Millicent Dane.”

  They called her The Ravishing Widow, and it was never difficult to see why. Lady Millicent Dane was known for her beauty and a scandalous reputation. Being widowed at a young age had freed her from the control of any man, and she’d cast off the expectations and strictures of society to live as she pleased. Like Benedict, she was amused by the hypocrisy of the ton and delighted in giving them something to talk about.

  However, some things were better kept secret; which was why tonight he chose to meet her in the one place the London Gossip wouldn’t follow him. His obsessive reading of her columns had revealed something very telling about the woman. Self-righteousness and piety were her weapons, and she used them against the people she maligned in her writing. She would never risk following him into the White House in Soho Square, a brothel catering to a wide array of tastes with its themed rooms and variety of available whores. Her own reputation could be ruined by such an act, and Ben had a feeling she wasn’t willing to go quite that far to bring him down.

  So, as he entered The White House to find himself overwhelmed by whores offering to guide him into the room of his choice, Benedict waved them off. He inquired after Millicent’s location, and was promptly led into a room known only as ‘the dungeon.’

  He found his old friend within the dark interior, which was illuminated by only a few tapers. The effect heightened the menacing look of the various implements arranged along one wall—things made of leather and metal and wood that promised pleasure or pain depending on the mood of the person wielding them. An array of tables and benches with buckles and straps filled the space, while a St. Andrew’s cross acted as a proud centerpiece.

  Benedict raised his eyebrows when he noticed the nude woman strapped to the cross, spread wide and tethered to
its beams. Her pale skin glowed in the meager candlelight, her back, buttocks, and legs left on full display. On either side of the cross stood Millicent and the man who was presented to the world as one of her footmen, but whose role in her household was of a more intimate nature. Peter was a large man, broad through the shoulders and chest—which were proudly exhibited by the absence of a shirt. Arms crossed, he watched Benedict in silence as Millicent came forward to greet him.

  She was the only one fully clothed, in a pair of black breeches, shirt and waistcoat, a pair of boots clicking against the rough floor. Tumbles of white-gold hair fell loose down her back, and her lovely face was fixed in an expression of amusement at Benedict’s reaction to the scene.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, lips quivering with coming laughter.

  Millicent waved one hand, displaying a riding crop held in a small fist. “No apologies necessary, darling, we simply grew bored waiting for you. But Peter and I have only just begun, and I think it will heighten Lily’s anticipation to be made to wait. What say you, Peter?”

  The manservant gave the whore a lascivious glance, running his fingertip down her spine. The woman whimpered, but remained still.

  “Whatever pleases you, Mistress.”

  She thrust the crop toward Peter without a glance in his direction. “Hold this until I return, pet.”

  Peter reacted to the command in her tone and hurried across the room to do her bidding. Instead of taking the crop in hand, he bent down to clutch it between his teeth.

  Millicent grinned and reached back to pat his bare chest. “Good boy. Come, Ben, we’ll speak elsewhere.”

  Benedict followed her from the room, where Peter took up a silent vigil beside the cross, eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he remained docile with the crop in his mouth.

  “As always, you manage to both impress and astonish me,” he quipped.

  Millicent’s deep, throaty laughter floated back toward Benedict as she guided him down the corridor as if she lived in The White House and knew its every square inch. Throwing open a door, she guided him into an innocuous sitting room that had a fire going in the hearth.

  “You know how easily I grow bored,” she said, dropping into an armchair and crossing her legs. “Peter is always finding such inventive ways to keep me happy and I adore him for it. Now … your note seemed rather urgent. I take it you are here about today’s copy of The London Gossip.”

  Sitting across from her, Benedict stared into the fireplace. He described his meeting with the Gossip in a monotone voice, relating the details as if he had observed it all from a distance.

  Millie’s back snapped straight, and her fingers dug into the arms of her chair as she stared at him open-mouthed. “Dear God.”

  “Yes. She knows our names, though the fact that she hasn’t published them yet brings me some modicum of comfort.”

  She tapped her finger against her chin and narrowed her eyes. “If that woman had anything other than a list of names, she would have gone public by now. Aside from her so-called ‘anonymous’ source and the story she published this morning, I daresay she has nothing of any substance.”

  Benedict shook his head and sighed. “She still knows far too much for my peace of mind. I worry that today’s story is going to rattle the other courtesans as well as our clients—both past and current. If one of us can be betrayed by a former lover, we are all in danger of exposure.”

  “Then you came to the same conclusion I did? This morning’s column was about Dominick.”

  “So it would seem. There are two courtesans with dark hair who have earls for fathers. But only one of them had a nine-month affair with a widow with enough gall to go running to the Gossip with her story.”

  “Lady Thrush,” Millicent spat, upper lip curling with derision. “I have always disliked that woman. She never stopped wanting him, you know, and only ended their arrangement because of her husband’s jealousy. The moment he died, she began plotting her course back to poor Nick. She hardly waited until her time of mourning had passed.”

  “Dominick told me she accosted him at Viscount Barrington’s house party. She was quite … aggressive. Of course, he refused her and went on to elope with Miss Barrington a few weeks later. So, Lady Thrush certainly seems to have a motive—however maniacal it may be.”

  “Only an insecure woman makes such a cake of herself over a man.”

  Benedict grinned. “No … some of you would much rather have the men make cakes of themselves over you.”

  “It is ever so much fun,” she replied with a laugh. “But, enough about that, darling. Tell me what I can do to help. Shall I handle Lady Thrush for you? I do have some information I could hang over her head to ensure her silence. She won’t cross me.”

  “I will deal with her. There is no dirt you can hold over her like the things I am privy to. No, I have a different request to make of you. One that will require the utmost discretion.”

  “Discretion is something of a specialty for me, as you well know. Tell me what you need.”

  “The London Gossip. I think … no, I know she must be one of us. A member of high society.”

  Millicent wrinkled her nose. “Do you really think so? Her writings have always struck me as being rather biased against the ton—as if she were an outider looking in, writing such horrible things out of jealousy.”

  “You and I both know one doesn’t need to be an outsider to be made to feel as if they do not belong.”

  Her face softened as a hundred confidences floated on the air between them. Over the years, the circle of people he could entrust with the truth had widened a bit. Included among them was Millicent because, like him, she had experienced her share of loss, pain, and darkness. As well, her secret inclinations would make her a pariah if word ever spread, and Benedict knew such a burden well.

  “I think I know her,” he whispered, uncertain why he had such a difficult time saying the words. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he recalled that nauseating scent and the sound of her grating voice. “In fact, I’m almost certain we’ve met before and perhaps … you are going to think I’m mad.”

  She furrowed her brow, leaning forward to rest a hand on his knee. “Ben, you’ve gone white as a sheet, and you … you’re shaking. What on earth?”

  “My father,” he ground out, fighting to regain control of his senses. “He has something to do with this. Not the column, of course, but her … when I saw her today, when I heard her voice, I knew.”

  He felt as if he would be sick but didn’t want to face why he felt this way. It required jabbing at the parts of himself he thought had healed. Apparently, the wounds had merely festered, and now he was going to have to rip them back open.

  Millicent rested a hand atop his. “Say no more. I will make a few inquiries and see if I can turn up anything pointing to her identity. Would that help?”

  “Tremendously.”

  “Consider it done,” Millicent said, giving his hand another squeeze before pulling away. “I will send word when I have something to report.”

  Benedict cleared his throat, annoyed with himself for almost falling apart in front of her. It didn’t matter that she was part of the small circle of people he trusted. He had worked long and hard to turn himself into the man he was now—to cultivate strength and stoicism, and exercise control in everything he did. The scar at his temple served as a constant reminder of the night he had, in a sense, been reborn. He had stopped allowing things to happen to him and started shaping his own life as he saw fit. Uncompromising, he was often called. Relentless. Cold.

  But those traits had saved him and seen him through the darkest times of his life. They would not fail him now.

  Sitting up straight, he squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw. The Gossip was nothing more than a bothersome fly, and he would have the last laugh once he had effectively swatted her away.

  For the sake of the people he loved, the family he had formed not of blood but of a different
sort of bond, he could not fail.

  Chapter 1

  “Rumor has it that the Honourable Mr. B—and I confer such a title on him out of formality, not because I actually believe him to be possessing of actual honor—has absconded with a certain runaway bride to Scotland. It is the least he can do after thoroughly destroying her previously unblemished reputation, not once but twice. Time will tell whether marriage might prove enough to tame one of London’s most notorious rakes.”

  -The London Gossip, 25 November 1819

  David Graham had died and gone to heaven. Surely that was what had happened, because he’d climbed into a large, plush bed and was now surrounded by his favorite creatures in the world. Heavenly beings, women. He had sampled enough of them to realize there was something to love in each and every one. His insatiable appetite for them was a straightforward fact of his existence, stitched into the fabric of his character. He reveled in their sweet scents and tinkling giggles, loved the sight of a trim ankle and a dainty hand as much as he did a well-formed bosom or a pair of spread thighs. He wasn’t a selective man, and was often accused of being too indiscriminate. But David believed one could find the beauty in anything if they looked close enough.

  Some men prided themselves on their titles and social standing, or the immaculate tailoring of their clothes. Others were connoisseurs of fine horseflesh, quality spirits, or excellent cigars. His expertise involved the fair sex.

  David derived much satisfaction from his ability to appreciate women in the manner they most deserved: with the full force of his charm and amiability … and a talent that had earned him a reputation as ‘the most skilled tongue in England.’ Of course, there had never been any official contest to be won, but he’d pleasured enough ladies to earn himself that unique title, and it was one he guarded with fierce pride.

  It was his notoriety which had led him here, to heaven. Two hands caressed his bare chest, soft and searching, while another made its way up his thigh. His cock pulsed with a need that was promptly met by a fourth hand wrapping around him and taking up a slow, measured stroke. He groaned against the wet, silken flesh pressed to his lips, working his tongue in the rhythm this lady seemed to like best. It had taken years of meticulous calculation to develop this particular skill, and just now it rewarded him as it always did … with musical moans of ecstasy and a pair of thighs clenching his head in a shuddering, forceful grip.