He’d left her to attend his meeting, a spring in his step as he took the long walk to Clarges Street. He could have paid for a hackney coach, but preferred to save his limited funds after his splurge on dinner last evening.
A footman greeted him at the front door of Hugh’s townhome, which sat amid a row of elegant residences. So, not only could his old friend now afford new lodgings in a fashionable part of town, he also had servants in his employ. Edward’s curiosity had reached its peak by the time he was ushered into a drawing room, where Hugh awaited him along with another man Edward had never met before.
“Ed, this is Mr. Benedict Sterling … Ben, this is my good friend, Mr. Edward Norton.”
Mr. Sterling rose from where he’d sat sprawled in an armchair, standing at an impressive height. Despite his scruffy jaw, bristling sideburns, and mop of unruly light blond hair, his mode of dress suggested wealth and class.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Edward said, extending a hand to Mr. Sterling.
Rather than take him up on the offered handshake, the man paced around Edward in a slow circle, looking him over as if inspecting a sculpture or some other such inanimate object.
“He isn’t particularly tall, but he isn’t necessarily short, either,” he mumbled, a hand braced at his chin.
Edward cast Hugh a quizzical glance, but his friend merely nodded as if in encouragement, remaining silent. Benedict paused behind him and murmured something about ‘nice calves’, causing Edward’s ears to grow hot. Not the first time he’d received such a compliment, but never from another man, and never under such odd circumstances.
Benedict came around to face him, arms braced over his chest. “He’s handsome, like you said.”
That statement was directed at Hugh, who nodded his agreement.
“He’s a gentleman,” Hugh said. “Not a peer, but still well bred.”
“Can you dance?” Benedict asked, finally addressing Edward directly.
“Well enough,” he hedged, realizing he’d come to this meeting grossly unprepared. What the devil was happening here?
“Would you say that women find you charming?”
Edward furrowed his brow. “Well, I’ve never thought to ask. As I do not come with a fortune or prestigious family name, I can’t pretend to be the most sought after of bachelors, but am never short on female companionship in social situations.”
Benedict cast a glance at Hugh. “And you’re certain we can trust him? He’ll be discreet?”
“I can vouch for him,” Hugh replied. “He needs the funds, Ben.”
“Very well. He’s hired.”
Edward fought the swirling mixture of elation and confusion tearing through him. While he was glad to have been accepted so readily, he still had no idea what he’d be doing to earn a living.
“What exactly is it I’m hired to do?” he asked, finally finding his voice.
Hugh gestured for him to sit, taking his own chair nearby. Benedict, who remained standing, continued to hold the reins as the person in charge of this little meeting.
“You’ll be matched with a young lady, whose whims you will cater to with charm and graciousness. You’ll be her escort, ply her with compliments and affection, and if she wishes it, you will bed her.”
Edward flinched, staring into Benedict’s cold blue eyes and finding that the man seemed to be completely serious. He looked to Hugh, who also showed no outward indication that this was some kind of joke. But, obviously they were having him on, because Edward had never heard such a ridiculous thing in his life.
He smirked, the motion of his lips soon spreading into a full-fledged grin. Then, his shoulders began to tremble and the snorts he tried to smother turned into uproarious chuckles. His eyes watered as he slapped his thigh with one hand. His chest ached from how hard it became to draw breath, laughter spilling from him uncontrolled.
“Oh, God!” he guffawed. “I haven’t had my leg pulled like that in ages. And look at the two of you … so serious, as if you actually meant it. I say, bloody good one, Hugh!”
He expected that at any moment, the other two men would drop the act and laugh along with him, wiping moisture away from their eyes before finally telling him what he’d really be doing. Yet, after several seconds it became clear this wouldn’t be the case. Realizing he was the only one laughing, and that Benedict now looked annoyed while Hugh seemed embarrassed, Edward fell silent. The sober realization that they really had been serious washed over him like a tidal wave.
He sprang to his feet. “God’s blood, you’re serious!”
“As the grave,” Benedict replied with a roll of his eyes. “The Gentleman Courtesans has been in business for a year, quite successfully I might add.”
Edward turned to Hugh, who gave him a sheepish smile. “I warned you that it was scandalous. But, the business is lucrative and all it costs is hours of your time a few nights a week.”
“It’s no more than you might do for free,” Benedict offered with a raised eyebrow. “Whatever your money troubles are, consider them over once I’ve arranged for you to have your first keeper. And if she’s made happy enough, you won’t need a new arrangement for quite some time.”
When Benedict put it that way, there really was nothing Edward could say in protest. He hadn’t been with a woman in months, his father’s death and the resulting problems it had caused taking up most of his time. That he’d now get paid to bed a lady ought to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, yet somehow it did not. Men paid for the use of mistresses all the time, and the women in such situations were well provided for. As he thought of Jacob and Caroline, who were counting on him to settle the family’s affairs, and the business that threatened to drag them all down, Edward realized he had no choice. It wasn’t as if any other promising offers had fallen into his lap as of late. Even with the burden of the family business on his shoulders, he had attempted to find proper employment—something he was qualified to do that would provide the needed funds. However, his efforts had seen him faced with rejection and a heightened sense of desperation that grew worse by the day.
Entertaining a wealthy woman in and out of bed sounded far preferable to debtor’s prison or watching Caroline be forced to work her fingers to the bone to support herself. As the head of his family, it fell to him to ensure that everyone was provided for, and this opportunity was the best he was likely to receive.
Edward had no expectations for himself in terms of a marriage or courting a proper lady given the state of his finances, but he would need to ensure that his new occupation did not cause any further embarrassment to his family’s reputation and standing.
Glancing about Hugh’s drawing room, he pictured himself living in such comfort. He imagined gracing Caroline with the sort of dowry that would see her married well, and perhaps even financing a Grand Tour for Jacob. He’d fuck a hundred ladies if that was what it took to make those imaginings into reality.
Turning to Benedict, Edward smiled. “I’m in.”
Chapter 1
London, two weeks later …
Throwing open the door to the study adjoining her bedchamber, Clare Dunnaby heaved a sigh of relief. A servant had thought to start a fire in the hearth in preparation for her arrival home, and it went a long way toward warding off the chill clinging to her. It had been a miserably cold and foggy morning, but she’d been looking forward to inspecting the newest exhibits at the British Museum for weeks now. Rain and cold be damned, Clare had been determined not to suffer from boredom while cloistered away indoors. Tenacity was her middle name, and she was often known for going against all prudence when it came to whatever she wanted most at the moment.
Actually, Cecelia was her middle name, but had she been able to apply a moniker to herself, she would have chosen Tenacity to sit wedged between her first and last name. Armored with resolve to enjoy her outing—along with a pelisse that buttoned to the throat and a cumbersome umbrella—she’d taken the walk from Bedford Square to the museum. Such weather was good
for a hearty constitution, her aunt often told her, but while Clare often found light summer showers enjoyable, today’s inclement conditions left much to be desired. She peeled off her gloves while striding closer to the fire, tossing them atop the nearest available surface without bothering to notice how they fell.
The housekeeper would swoon in a dead faint if she trod into Clare’s private domain, but Aunt Helene ordered the servants to keep out. The room had been transformed into a study of sorts, filled with tables, desks, and shelves which contained the assortment of items related to Clare’s intellectual interests. She was unforgivably absentminded and, as Aunt Helene affectionately called her, an irredeemable sloven. It wasn’t that she enjoyed making additional work for the chambermaids, or even that she had no care for her belongings. It was simply that her mind never ceased working long enough for her to give thought to anything beyond whatever held her attention.
And, at the moment, the thing capturing her interest was the parcel lying on her writing desk. It had been delivered during her outing, and the moment sensation returned to her numb fingers she would tear it open. She’d been waiting for the parcel for months now, and could hardly contain her excitement over what might be inside.
While the heat of the fire seeped through the layers of her clothes, she set to work making herself comfortable. Fumbling with the buttons of her pelisse, she peeled the damp garment off and flung it in the direction of the coat tree in the corner of the room. It fell into a heap, just missing its target and landing amongst a cloak and a spencer she’d forgotten to pick up and return to her lady’s maid for cleaning. Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, she tried again for the coat tree, smiling as she made her mark, sending the headwear spinning before it settled on its perch.
Her fingers now warm enough that they no longer felt like rigid icicles, Clare went to her desk while running them through hair cropped to chin length. In her youth, the locks had fallen to her waist in a heavy tumble of glossy black waves. However, she no longer had the patience to sit while her maid combed, brushed, and styled it. Clare found that the shortened hair freed up much of her time for more important things—such as her study of botany, her collections, and her books.
Before settling into her chair, she located the bell-pull and rang, desirous of a hot drink and something to nibble on as she whiled away the hours before dinner in her study. That done, she reached for her parcel, barely able to contain a wide grin as she tore through the brown paper. Inside, she found a plain box with a folded and sealed letter resting on top. Despite wanting to get to the contents of the box, she opened the letter first. Upon the stationary inside, she found the familiar handwriting of her dear friend, Gillian Young.
Dearest CeCe,
Do forgive me for taking so long to write. Our arrival in Cornwall preceded a whirlwind of activity as we settled in with Randall’s associates. Then, the excavation began and my daylight hours have been spent at toiling and discovery. The weather has impeded our work some days, but the moment the soil is dry enough we go right back to our site and resume our work. We’ve unearthed quite a few interesting specimens, a few of which I have enclosed samples of for your collection.
I do apologize for the shortness of this letter, but am certain you understand. We’ve only a few days left before we begin our travels again, and I hope our next destination proves as diverting as this one has been.
Thank you so much for including the pressed blossoms with your last letter. The cluster of Delphinium gypsophilum Ewan was my favorite. I look forward to your next letter, though it might be best for you to withhold it until I can apprise you of where we will travel to next, along with the address.
Randall sends his warmest regards.
Your friend,
Gilly
P.S. - on the back of this letter you will find a list of the specimens I sent for your collection.
Setting the letter aside, Clare slid the box closer to her and paused, allowing the anticipation to build before she would permit herself the satisfaction of knowing what lay within. She tried not to think on the inclusion of Randall’s greeting in Gillian’s letter. Her friend’s elder brother had expressed an interest in her a year ago, before the siblings had embarked on their journey of geological exploration. He had even invited her to join them, likely in an attempt to appeal to her intellectual tendencies, knowing he had little chance of appealing to her romantic ones.
It wasn’t that she had no interest in the opposite sex, only that she’d had yet to find a man who could capture her attention as easily as a good book, a scientific essay, or her beloved plants. She found it ever so ironic that one of the only men not repelled by her pursuits—on the contrary, he seemed drawn to her because of them—and Clare felt absolutely nothing but sibling-like kinship toward him. She and Gillian had been friends for so long, the other woman felt like the sister she’d always wanted, making Randall more like a brother to her than anything else. She only wished the man would finally realize this and turn his attentions elsewhere.
She’d turned down the invitation, for she would not leave Aunt Helene alone for the world. Besides that, she had also hoped time and distance would turn Randall’s attentions away from her and toward some other woman—one who would feel affection for him in return. It would seem that was not yet the case.
Shrugging aside those thoughts, she slowly opened the box, her breath catching at the sight of the specimens laid inside. The door to her study opened and footsteps approached, but she couldn’t be bothered to look up as a maid sat a tray of tea and biscuits atop the stack of books resting on one corner of the desk. No one needed to ask why she’d rung, for all the servants knew that a summons from her study meant someone was to bring her tea and then promptly exit without disturbing her. The maid did that now, leaving her to contemplate the collection in peace.
She absently nibbled on a biscuit while taking up each stone and comparing them to Gillian’s list. There was a triangular hunk of beige and black speckled cassiterite in quartz, a small jade green slab of iridescent quartz, a jagged bit of cuprite sporting swirls of aquamarine and deep red, and a multifaceted piece of sky-blue chalcedony.
Forgetting about her refreshment, she fumbled about the clutter of her desk until locating her magnifying glass, needing more than the assistance of her brass-rimmed spectacles to properly study the stones.
Lifting the cuprite until its surface gleamed in the light of the taper resting nearby, she peered at it through the glass. She was so engrossed by the contrasting swirls of aquamarine and red that she hardly heard the knock upon her door. Without bothering to answer it, she turned the stone over in her hand and studied it from a different angle. The door swung open despite her refusal to urge the person to enter, and she didn’t bother to look up—knowing that after tea had been delivered, only one person would dare enter her domain without permission.
Aunt Helene’s familiar rose-oil scent wafted up her nostrils the moment before she spied the woman in her periphery.
“Aunt,” she murmured, laying the cuprite back into the box and selecting the chalcedony.
“CeCe, dear … how was your trip to the museum?” her aunt asked, leaning against the corner of her desk.
“Quite diverting, and far preferable to spending all day trapped indoors. What have you been up to today?”
“Why, preparing to surprise you for your birthday, of course.”
Clare paused, the stone falling from her fingers and into the box with a ‘thunk’. At last, she peered up at Helene, who gave her a smug smile, her bright blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Even as she approached her sixtieth year, her aunt proved to be a stunning woman. Smile lines around her eyes and a few wrinkles only added character to a remarkable face. To the everlasting despair of every eligible man of a certain age in London, Helene was adamant that she would never marry again after being widowed. Clare had always doted upon her aunt, seeing her as a model of the sort of woman she wanted to be. Independent, intelligent, and unconc
erned with the thoughts and opinions of others.
“My birthday?” she murmured, furrowing her brow. “My …”
Helene pilfered a biscuit from Clare’s tray and took a dainty bite. “It is April 25th, my dear. The day of your birth, you might recall.”
Clare’s frown deepened as she sat up straighter in her chair. “No, that cannot be right. It can’t be so late in the month already.”
“Of course it is,” Helene insisted. “You’ve lost track of time again, busy as you have been with your plants and your rocks and such.”
“Minerals,” she corrected. “Or, specimens as Gillian calls them.”
“Oh, you’ve heard from Gilly. I do love that dear girl. How is she?”
Clare lifted her letter from the desk and waved it through the air. “Enjoying Cornwall and already plotting her next destination. But, back to the matter at hand. Are you certain it is my birthday? Perhaps you are the one who has the date wrong.”
Helene rolled her eyes and took another bite of her biscuit. “Today’s copy of the Post begs to differ. It is your birthday, my dear, and I’ve planned something especially wonderful for you this year.”
Raising her eyebrows, Clare found herself intrigued. “More wonderful than that hot air balloon ride last year? I was so grateful you convinced Mr. Kent to allow us to come along for his ascent. A most bracing experience!”
“Even better than that,” Helene declared. “It is not every day a girl turns one-and-twenty after all.”
Clare shrugged. “One would think receiving my inheritance would be gift enough.”
“That gift is from your parents, God rest them,” Helene replied, her expression growing wistful for a moment before she smiled. “This is something special, from me.”
Tempting the Bluestocking: A Gentleman Courtesans Novella Page 2
