Benedict chuckled. “Perhaps we ought to fit you for a gown, though you’ve no tits to fill it with.”
“If he had the tits to fill a bodice, he wouldn’t have to become a governess,” Aubrey scoffed. “He’d be able to tempt some man to the altar, and knowing David, he’d be flush as a king.”
“Damned right,” David replied with a smirk. “A lady must have standards, after all.”
“We’ve lost sight of the point here,” Hugh chimed in. “Even marriage offers no solution for men in our situations. All the heiresses have set their caps for peers with titles and lands.”
David perked up at that. “I have land…or will have it once my father has turned up his toes.”
Dominick snorted. “If I were you, I would not go bragging to the debutantes about that impoverished shithole you are poised to inherit. You may as well possess no land at all.”
David pulled a face, while Dominick simply laughed. Still, he offered no protest because they all knew Dominick’s words to be true.
“You know, misguided as David might sound, he actually makes a valid point,” Benedict remarked. “Women have an edge over us. All they need do is display their charms and dupe some idiot into caring for them for the rest of their lives.”
“Precisely,” Hugh agreed. “And it isn’t only a matter of marriage. The ones with sullied reputations or lacking a dowry may always turn to becoming some man’s chere-amie.”
“And make quite a bit of coin in the process,” Dominick added. “Have you heard the latest gossip surrounding Melissa Barrow?”
“Baron Gadsden’s mistress?” Benedict asked, wracking his brain for any news he’d heard about the chit. “He kept her in grand style until he died, I know. Even sprang for that monstrous carriage she moves about Town in.”
“Four perfectly matched bays, brass trimmings, and that ridiculous maroon color,” Aubrey said. “You can’t miss it, which I suppose is the point. The man was said to be besotted with her until the day he died, giving in to even her most absurd requests. You cannot fault the woman for taking advantage.”
“But did you hear what happened after the baron’s death?” Hugh asked as he sat upright on his sofa. “The settlement he left will keep her ensconced in her townhouse for the rest of her life, with enough left over to open her own milliner’s shop. Her designs are all the rage this Season, and I’ve no doubt she’ll retire to the country in a few years to enjoy what’s left of her life in the style of a princess.”
“Deuced lucky female,” Dominick muttered. “And she isn’t the only one, Clare Woodward’s keeper ensures she has her own theater box, and a wardrobe so excessive she’s never seen wearing the same gown twice.”
David gave their friend a knowing smile. “I say, Nick, you sound downright envious. Perhaps you might become some man’s mistress so you can enjoy such a lifestyle. You needn’t work at all, simply reach deep inside yourself and find a taste for your own sex.”
Benedict half-expected Dominick to react with the predictable outrage and insist that no depth of poverty could ever drive him to that. But Dominick surprised them all by returning David’s smile and letting out a bark of laughter.
“As dire as my situation has become, it may well come to that,” he quipped. “What do you think of Lord Walsingam? If one squints hard enough, he might almost pass for a female.”
They exploded into hysterics as Dominick went about picking apart the foppish style of the viscount in question. Benedict often saw the man about Town and had witnessed the ridiculous lengths he reached to make a spectacle of himself.
As the laughter died away to the occasional guffaw and snort, Dominick sighed. “All that being said in jest, it’s still true that all a cunning, enterprising woman need do is spread her thighs to earn herself a king’s ransom. It is really too bad that a desperate man cannot become a courtesan in order to better his financial situation.”
Benedict perked up at that, a sudden idea occurring to him like a lightning strike to the brain. It was preposterous; so ridiculous, so unbelievably ingenious he could not believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
“What if you could do it?” he offered. “Become a courtesan, I mean?”
Dominick furrowed his brow and looked at Benedict as if he thought his friend had gone mad. “Gad, Ben, I was only joking about Lord Walsingam. Desperate or not, I’m no molly.”
“And if you were, you’d not find yourself in the position of a courtesan,” Hugh reminded them. “Sucking men off in alleys and darkened parks for a few shillings here or there will not earn you your own theater box or enough money to retire to the country.”
“At least in a molly house, a man might have a pillow to lay his head upon at night,” David stated. “It might be preferable to being turned out of one’s residence; not altogether a terrible prospect for a desperate fellow.”
“Like hell,” Dominick snapped. “I am not, nor will I ever be, that desperate!”
Benedict clenched his teeth, annoyed as ever with Dominick’s propensity for completely missing the point. “That isn’t what I’m talking about, you dunderheads.”
“No,” Aubrey said, eying Benedict with an astute pensiveness. “He isn’t talking about servicing men at all. Are you, Ben?”
While Benedict might have argued that his idea could apply to the men of the ton as well as the women, he did not care to debate that position.
Coming to his feet, he moved to stand before the hearth and face them with his hands clasped behind his back.
“You fools lack imagination,” he said. “Here we’ve sat about talking as if the men of the beau monde are the only ones with flush pockets and an appetite for carnal pleasures. Meanwhile, London is filled with wealthy women who might pay as much as any man to have a courtesan cater to their every desire.”
Aubrey met his gaze and smiled, giving him a little nod that indicated he’d known this was what Benedict had meant all along. “Well said, my friend.”
“Think about it,” Benedict implored the other three men. “Every Season the papers and the gossip mill are overrun with tales of women being caught up in some scandal or another. They have their own appetites, and they have ways of fulfilling them: affairs that often end in scandal or ruination if she’s a debutante, or ones that stir gossip and notoriety if she is a spinster or widow. But what if they could have the same pleasures as a man—the services of a male courtesan to pleasure them in bed, escort them about Town, and generally cater to their whims?”
“Impossible!” David interjected. “Do you know how such a thing would damage a man’s reputation? He’d become a laughingstock once word made the rounds that a man had lowered himself to being kept in the style of a mistress.”
Benedict, who had already thought of this as the idea formed, merely grinned. “That’s the beauty of it. Despite those few scandals a year, women of the ton have proven themselves to be far more discreet than men. They are better at keeping their secrets, especially when their reputations are on the line. If it were to become clear to them that this is to be kept a secret, you can rely on them to keep it quiet.”
“He’s right you know,” David supplied. “Damned mysterious, secretive creatures, women.”
“Precisely,” Aubrey said. “The idea has merit.”
Excitement had Benedict fairly vibrating as he mulled over just how successful this could be if done right. The more he thought on it, the more he began to realize he’d just stumbled onto the solution for all their money woes.
“If we approach this from the right angle, it could become a lucrative enterprise,” he told them. “All your money troubles would become nothing more than a distant memory.”
“Wait a moment,” Hugh said, giving him an incredulous look. “I thought you were merely being philosophical, but you are actually...you’re suggesting that we ought to go into business as courtesans.”
“You are mad,” David grumbled.
“Completely insane,” Dominick agreed.
Aubrey stood now, his dark eyes taking on a familiar light. His mind was working, turning their problem over in his head and latching onto the solution Benedict’s idea offered.
“But he isn’t,” he argued. “Ben is right about the women of the ton. If they could pay to have their pleasure and discretion as well, they would. They’d pay as much, or more, than a man.”
“And they won’t be paying for just any men,” Benedict added. “They’d be paying for the company of men with refinement, men with charm and wit…”
“Gentlemen!” Hugh filled in when he trailed off. “By God, I think you’re on to something!”
“He is,” Aubrey agreed. “If you are serious about beginning such an endeavor, then you may count me in. I’ve been worried about how I’ll go about securing a good match for Elizabeth. She will come of age in a few years. With the sort of income such an initiative could earn, I can outfit her with a trousseau and dowry fit for any London debutante.”
It came as no surprise that Aubrey would think of his niece above the needs of his failing business. The girl had come into his care as a babe of no more than two years, and it had always been Aubrey’s aim to ensure she had a secure and comfortable future. And he was right; with the money they could earn by becoming courtesans, Aubrey would not only be able to set his business to rights, he’d be able to provide that coveted future for Elizabeth.
“I could help my father pull our estate back from the brink of destruction,” David mused aloud, eyes darting as he seemed to finally warm to the idea. “I wouldn’t have to inherit a crumbling ruin.”
“No,” Benedict assured him. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“I could afford to feed myself while continuing at the Royal Academy,” Hugh said with a wide grin. “The money might be enough for me to live on between commissions.”
“It would be,” Benedict insisted. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Hugh sprang to his feet with a little huff of surprised laughter. “I cannot believe I am saying this...but I’m in also.”
“So am I,” David said. “We’ve nothing left to lose.”
That only left Dominick, who still appeared a bit apprehensive about the entire thing. His gaze fell on each of his friends one by one, as if he were trying to determine whether they’d all taken leave of their senses or had too much to drink.
“It would be a firestorm of scandal if anyone found out,” he declared.
“That’s why we will do everything we must to ensure that does not happen,” Aubrey argued. “Think of it, Dominick, all your gambling debts erased, your pockets filled with your own money instead of your father’s; this will make it possible.”
Dominick frowned, running a hand over the stubble overtaking his jaw. “I am an excellent lover.”
Hugh gave a dry snort. “That assertion does not count when it comes from the mouth of a whore. She’s being paid to tell you that you are excellent.”
Dominick gave Hugh a black scowl. “Perhaps I ought to ask your mother what her opinion is. She’s still a handsome woman. Do you think—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll beat you black and blue,” Hugh growled, curling one hand in to a fist.
“Oh, do lighten up, Hugh,” David said, shoulders shaking as he tried to smother a laugh. “Dominick knows very well your mother wouldn’t have him.”
“Perhaps not,” Dominick agreed. “But the women of the ton would.”
Aubrey arched an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll join us?”
Dominick’s wary expression remained, but he rose to his feet to join the others. “Dash it all, why not? Like David said, it isn’t as if we have anything else to lose.”
Benedict became stone cold sober as the anticipation of setting his plan into motion superseded all else. Instead of finding his bed to sleep off his inebriation, he now wished to ensconce himself in his study, where he could plot and plan in peace. A wicked sense of satisfaction washed over him as he thought of this as just another way to thumb his nose at his father. He hadn’t wanted to go crawling to the man to ask for funds, and now that eventuality would be taken firmly off the table. He couldn’t wait for the viscount to ask him where his funds were coming from, only for Benedict to refuse to reveal his methods. The old man wouldn’t be able to stand it, and anything that irritated the viscount brought Benedict boundless joy.
“This calls for a toast,” he declared, ambling to the sideboard covered with depleted decanters.
The brandy and sherry were all gone, but he found just enough port for each of them to partake. Pouring five measures into cut crystal glasses, he passed them out, then raised his own.
“To our new enterprise. May it bring us wealth.”
“May it bring us beautiful, rich, insatiable women,” David added.
“May it save Dominick from having to don a dress and court the favors of Lord Walsingam,” Hugh said with a chortle.
Five glasses were raised amid boisterous laughter, and Benedict took a sip of his port. As the other men fell into conversation about the sorts of women they hoped to service, Aubrey took his arm and pulled him aside.
“Ben, are you certain you are up for this?” he asked, voice lowered so no one else could hear. “The rest of us will not have a bit of trouble with the particulars involved, but you—”
“Relax,” Benedict cut in. “I predict there will be a very...singular sort of clientele I can cater to. Just as there will be those who wish for your particular brand of dominance. As the person I trust most, I hope I can rely upon you to help me ensure such clients are taken care of. I assure you I am more than up to the task on my end.”
Understanding his meaning, Aubrey gave a slow nod. “Understood. Whatever you need from me, count it done.”
He’d always been able to rely on Aubrey to keep his secrets, and this would prove no exception. He and Dominick had been friends the longest, but he and Aubrey shared the sort of friendship that ran a bit deeper than his connection to the others. Whether it was because, at times, they proved far more serious than the rest of their set, or because they shared a kinship due to being different from other men of their acquaintance, Benedict felt closer to Aubrey than anyone else in the world. He proved the only man who had never scorned him once learning the truth he kept hidden beneath a veil of debauchery and cynicism.
“Very well then,” he said, raising his glass once more. “To the Gentleman Courtesans.”
With a smile, Aubrey clinked his glass against Benedict’s. “To the Gentleman Courtesans.”
Chapter 1
2 years later …
“As we near the halfway mark of the Season, I know we are all looking forward to the annual Summer Exhibition by the Royal Academy of the Arts, where only the best of London’s up and coming artists will have their work displayed. I have it on good authority that one son of the Earl of P will throw his hat into the ring for his third year in a row. This writer shall certainly be in attendance to find out whether the third time really is a charm!”
-The London Gossip, 10 March 1819
Closing the leather-bound portfolio at his fingertips, Hugh rose to his feet and gathered the collection of sketches depicting various parts of human anatomy. Tucking it—along with the matching case holding his pencils and charcoal—beneath one arm, he filed from the classroom along with the other young men who had attended today’s lecture. Amid the expressions of his fellow students, he identified all too well with those who portrayed disappointment and frustration. The human body, their instructor had said, proved one of God’s most beautiful and complicated designs, which was why so many of them failed at adequately capturing it on paper. Within his own portfolio were images of the parts he’d been working to master for years now—eyes, noses, lips, hands.
Fucking hands, he thought with a scowl as he followed the corridor toward the entrance to Somerset House, within which was housed The Royal Academy of Arts.
Human hands had been the bane of his existence since he’d begun his in
struction, perhaps one of the most difficult body parts to sketch or paint with any amount of skill or accuracy. Four fingers and a thumb; one would not expect it to be so bloody complicated. He’d taken to eyes like a fish to water, and he prided himself on the ability to inject the windows of a person’s soul with just the right amount of emotion. But, hands...they could be broad or slender, possess knobby knuckles or beefy digits, and could portray the same range of moods or personalities as eyes could. There were the smooth hands of the young and the gnarled claws of the old, the pretty hands of a fine lady and the calloused paws of a bare-knuckle brawler.
And in the opinion of his instructor, Hugh proved abysmal at mastering them all.
Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he blew out a frustrated breath. The mop of sable strands was never quite as neat as they ought to be—but then, neither was his person as a whole. Messy hair, loose, haphazardly donned clothing, fingers that were always stained with paint and charcoal; all were trademarks of his appearance. Though, his clothing was far finer these days than any he’d been able to afford two years prior. That he paid no mind to caring for them as he ought—or at least hiring a decent valet to do so—was nothing short of ludicrous according to his fellow Gentleman Courtesans. However, Hugh had no time for valets, the latest cravat styles, or Byronese curls. Not when he spent most of his days closeted away in his townhouse wearing a smock and surrounded by canvases, paints, and chemicals.
Art was his life, his passion, and when such a thing took its position in the forefront of a man’s mind, there remained room for little else. Especially when one wished to make art more than something he studied or indulged in as a hobby. It was Hugh’s wish to make his way in the world as a portraitist; something he would never succeed at if he could not learn how to properly draw a pair of goddamned hands.
“Oh, Hugh, there you are.”
Hugh glanced up to find another of his instructors walking toward him, a bright smile spread over his wrinkled face. Hector Crosby had studied art abroad before becoming one of Europe’s most esteemed portraitists, and now spent his days molding young men to follow in his footsteps. Upon first seeing Hugh’s works several years ago, the man had taken an interest in his education as well as his success as an artist. He went out of his way to offer wisdom and encouragement outside of lecture sessions, a great honor considering how many painters would give anything just to gain Crosby’s notice.
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 2
