A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  ‘No,’ Flo answered. ‘I was out.’

  So someone outside the club had inflicted them?

  Confronting Flo so soon after first meeting her would be a mistake. If someone had cared enough to ask Cecilia how she got her bruises, she would have lied. If they’d asked her if her husband had inflicted them, she would have denied it. He’d have killed her if she ever told.

  Cecilia vowed she’d find out who did this to Flo, though. She’d bide her time. Look for a safe moment to ask the girl who had held her with a grip so tight it caused bruises.

  ‘Do you have any white powder?’ Cecilia asked.

  Cecilia had become quite experienced at hiding bruises.

  Flo took a powder box and powder puff from a drawer in a nearby dressing table. Cecilia dabbed the powder lightly over the Almond Bloom, then dabbed on some more Bloom followed by more powder until the bruises faded from sight.

  ‘Coquette!’ Flo exclaimed. ‘You made them disappear! How did you learn to do that?’

  ‘I worked in a club before,’ she said, which was no explanation at all.

  Flo put on her wrapper and tied it with a sash. ‘Let us go to dinner, then,’ she said.

  Chapter Eight

  If they had been anywhere else, a dinner table full of diners would be scandalised by a pretty young woman coming to eat in her wrapper and shift like Flo did. Not in a club such as this. Or in the one in Paris.

  Just as outrageous, the Duchess sat at the table with these lowly folk. She did not eat, but did introduce Cecilia to the large group of servants and entertainers. Cecilia could not remember all their names. She made a point of learning the names of Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, and Mr Bell, the butler, who would be present throughout the night, and Snyder, the large man who guarded the door.

  After dinner, Cecilia, Flo, and the other girls who would perform that evening donned their costumes, each of which had a mask to match. Cecilia’s mask was a lacy gold concoction with paste jewels resembling blue sapphires outlining the eyeholes. As Oliver said, it did not totally disguise her face. Most of the girls wore similar masks that showed more of their faces than they concealed. So the gentlemen members could see how pretty they were, Cecilia supposed.

  * * *

  After she was dressed, Cecilia walked upstairs to report to Oliver as he had requested. She found him in the ballroom standing with another gentleman. They wore black-silk masks, but it took just a glance for her to recognise Oliver. And a second one to see the other man was the Duke. Oliver watched her approach. He, of course, recognised her.

  The Duke turned when she came near and smiled. ‘Look at you!’

  She met Oliver’s gaze, made even more intense by the black mask framing his eyes. ‘Will this costume do?’

  ‘I think you look lovely,’ the Duke said.

  Oliver glanced away.

  He really did not want her here.

  Suddenly he spoke to her. ‘Explain how this works. You encourage members to spend more money? There are not many ways this might be done. You might encourage them to play more games of hazard and faro, but that is the extent of it.’

  ‘I will concentrate on the game room, then.’ It might be difficult to prove her worth if these were the only ways she could increase revenue. ‘I can always challenge them to make larger bets or to linger at the tables a bit longer than they otherwise might have done. I can bring them drinks, so they do not have to take their attention from the games.’

  This club was not like Maison D’Eros, where attendance could be gained by paying the price for entrance and where guests were charged for drinks and food and for the privilege of sitting down to a game of cards.

  ‘Have you met everyone?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I believe so,’ she responded. ‘At dinner.’

  The Duke interrupted. ‘I beg your pardon. I must bid you goodnight. Rose and I are expected at the theatre tonight.’ He took Cecilia’s hand. ‘I hope this night goes well for you. Welcome to Vitium et Virtus.’ He turned to Oliver. ‘We seem to be leaving everything to you.’

  Oliver’s expression softened. ‘Go. Enjoy your evening with your wife.’

  Cecilia still had difficulty believing that this Duke had actually married a maid.

  ‘The Duchess is below stairs in the servants’ hall,’ Cecilia told the Duke.

  The Duke grinned. ‘So I expected.’ He seemed besotted with his duchess and she with him.

  Cecilia remembered when she had been besotted with Duncan. Before he used his fist on her. She could even admit she’d spent a day besotted by Oliver, but now...

  She and Oliver were left standing alone together and she was acutely aware that he might have the power to dismiss her, no matter what his partner, the Duke, might say. She must make herself seem malleable to his desires—at least as far as her duties on the job required.

  He turned to her and the softness in his eyes when speaking to the Duke disappeared, replaced by the hard stare that made her feel him a powder keg that was about to explode.

  ‘Shall I place myself in the game room, then?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  She was about to turn away when he stopped her. ‘Are you certain you wish to do this?’ His voice seemed earnest. ‘Our members will certainly proposition you.’

  She forced herself to look into his eyes and hoped she would not weaken in front of him. ‘It will not be much different from Paris. I know what to do.’

  She would endure the propositions, the lewd remarks, the groping hands, just as she had in Paris.

  ‘Let one of us know—Mr Bell, Snyder, me—if any member becomes too un-gentleman-like.’

  She could not read his expression. Did he think this likely? Would he blame her if it happened?

  ‘If there is something I cannot handle myself, I will alert one of you,’ she responded.

  She turned and walked away from him, feeling his gaze on her back as she did so.

  When she entered the game room, her spirits sank. She’d forgotten how much she detested the flirting and flattering. She’d thought she’d left that all behind in Paris. She thought she could return home again.

  She shook herself. She must never allow herself to think of home again.

  They—her family—must be as dead to her as she was to them.

  She lifted her chin and strode into the room, approaching the croupiers who ran the hazard and faro tables, as well as the footmen in attendance in the room, reminding them of what she would be doing there.

  At Maison D’Eros there had always been jealousy and competition among the workers, especially between the women who entertained the men. Someone was always feuding with someone else. Vincent taught her to ignore it and simply serve the patrons. She had only been at Vitium et Virtus a few hours, but, so far, everyone seemed amiable and content. At dinner they’d all insisted to her that they were well paid and well looked after by Oliver, the Duke and the third man whom she had not yet met. They all helped each other, too, they’d said.

  Each and every worker in the game room offered that very thing. To help her.

  It touched her.

  The footman in attendance told her, ‘If anyone gets out of hand, you signal me. The owners do not allow any tomfoolery.’

  It was more reassurance.

  ‘Would you steer me to the wealthier members? Or the more important ones? I will ensure they enjoy losing all the coins in their purses.’

  The footman laughed. ‘I will indeed.’ He called out to the croupiers. ‘Let us help Coquette find the wealthy and important fellows.’

  The two young women at the faro and hazard tables shouted back their agreement. They were an attraction to the tables themselves, with their pretty faces and low-cut necklines that were almost low enough to cover no part of the breast at
all, especially when they leaned over. Which they certainly needed to do in the performance of their jobs.

  Cecilia had been fortunate to find this place, lucky to have been hired by the kind Duke and Duchess. Her situation could have been so much worse. Perhaps she could relax a bit.

  At that moment voices sounded outside the room and men in masks walked in. Cecilia laughed at herself for thinking about relaxation. She took a breath, straightened her spine, planted a smile on her face and became Madame Coquette.

  She strode towards the doorway. ‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ she welcomed. ‘I am Coquette, your new hostess, here to see to your pleasure.’

  * * *

  Oliver did not visit the game room right away, although all his impulses propelled him in that direction. With difficulty he resisted, remaining in the ballroom, mixing instead with the members and guests seeking drinks of whisky and brandy poured one after the other by the butler.

  After an hour he could wait no longer. He wandered over to the game room and looked in, his gaze riveted on the young woman dressed in deep blue with her sensuous walk and throaty laugh.

  Cecilia.

  Several men surrounded her at the hazard table while the croupier gathered their markers or doled out their winnings. She cried aloud for the dice to roll the winning numbers and moaned when they did not. It looked to Oliver as if the entire game was played to attempt to please her. Her gaze drifted from the game and she caught him watching her. Her smile faltered a moment before she returned to the dice.

  She had transformed herself into a woman he did not recognise. Openly flirtatious, lively and overtly sensuous, as if she had turned herself into her opposite. Which one was genuine? He could not tell.

  One of the footmen came to the doorway. ‘The concert begins shortly,’ he announced.

  Oliver followed him out of the room and back to the ballroom. As one of the owners, he would introduce the singers. The orchestra, seated on a balcony overlooking the room, tuned their instruments while the members filed into the room and found seats on the sofas and divans arranged for their viewing pleasure. Many of the members had already linked themselves to a woman, whether they were those employed at Vitium et Virtus who were not performing this night, or other female guests.

  Oliver waited until everyone was settled, then he climbed onto the stage. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen!’ he shouted over the din of conversation. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen! The Vitium et Virtus singers!’

  Three young ladies stepped forward, Fleurette in the middle. They immediately burst into a pretty but bawdy song sung in Shakespeare’s time.

  That was a maid this other day

  And she must needs go forth to play.

  And as she walked, she sighed and said,

  ‘I am afraid to die a maid.’

  When the four friends had been at Oxford, they’d made a study of bawdy songs. Elizabethan times were particularly fruitful in this endeavour and, truthfully, Oliver had learned a great deal about that era as he searched.

  The ladies continued.

  He took this maiden then aside

  And led her where she was not spied

  And told her many a pretty tale,

  And gave her well of Watkins ale.

  Oliver glanced over to the doorway of the ballroom and saw Cecilia standing there, listening to the concert, the ghost of a smile on her face. She looked more herself than at any other moment since she’d reappeared to him. Or, at least, she looked more like the woman she had been in Paris. His skin warmed at the sight of her relaxed, enjoying the moment, even if she hovered by the doorway as though she did not belong inside.

  He walked over to her and she immediately stiffened.

  ‘The game room is almost empty,’ she said defensively. ‘I only wished to listen for a minute.’

  The Parisian Cecilia had disappeared again. He still did not know which Cecilia was the real one.

  ‘You are free to go wherever you like in the club,’ he told her. ‘I came over to ask what you think of the entertainment.’

  She glanced back to the stage. ‘Their voices are lovely. They blend so well. And the song is very pretty.’ She looked at him with a hint of amusement in her eyes. ‘Not too shocking.’

  He smiled. ‘Take care. They are only getting started.’

  The singers were skilled at connecting with their audience, so that they made each person feel as if they sang for them. The members loved it. Oliver had attended musicales at his father’s house, usually with singers hired from the Royal Opera. Though he appreciated the beauty of their music, it lacked this personal touch.

  Sometimes, though, when he listened to music, there drifted in a memory of different rhythms, ones that repeated over and over. Different instruments, making different sounds. Different voices singing words he could no longer make out. Music that touched sympathetic chords deep within him.

  He had not thought of India, not with this nostalgia, not since he’d been in Paris. Not since right before he’d first seen Cecilia.

  He darted a glance to her. She quickly averted her gaze as if she’d been looking at him. He felt his mood mirrored in the expression on her face, the expression of one who’d lost a great deal of what had been most dear.

  * * *

  Cecilia watched the change in him, saw the moment the sadness enveloped him and felt it resonate within her. Why should she feel this so acutely? Why should this moment bring on his sadness? She did not want to be curious about him, to wonder what had come over him, to wonder what had sparked it. The music? The music was gay, pretty and clever in its use of double entendre. It made no sense that it should depress his spirits.

  She forced herself to attend to the singers on stage. Of the three, Flo stood out. It was she to whom one’s eye was drawn. Flo was so pretty, so lively. If there was a man hurting her, how long would it take before she’d shrink and cower from everything and everyone?

  The singers began a new song, this one sung in the Scot’s tongue of Robert Burns.

  Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,

  My dame come tell me truly,

  What length o’ graith, when weel ca’d hame, Will sair a woman duly?

  The carlin clew her wanton tail,

  Her wanton tail sae ready

  I learn’d a sang in Annandale,

  Nine inch will please a lady.

  Cecilia laughed at the last line of the stanza.

  Oliver must have heard her, because he emerged from his black cloud to stare at her.

  Her guard flew up. Did he object to her finding that funny? Well, she’d told him she’d worked in a club—a brothel, really. Surely he did not expect her to be maidenly. She could never be maidenly again.

  At least his sadness evaporated. She could sense it inside herself.

  Once Cecilia had learned to be attuned to her husband’s moods. That had been a matter of self-preservation. But she could not recall ever feeling his moods the way she felt Oliver’s.

  She mustn’t let this draw herself to Oliver, as she had been drawn to him in Paris. She hoped he would make good on his promise to support her and the baby, but she would not even allow herself to count on that. She’d seen his mood change when she told him about her condition; she’d seen his disbelief, his blaming her.

  She placed her hand on the doorjamb. Gracious, she was tired. She could not remember being this weary since marching with Duncan from Belgium to France after Waterloo. In some ways this fatigue was even more pervasive than that.

  The club stayed open until two in the morning. She still had two hours to go.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Oliver asked.

  He startled her. ‘I am merely fatigued.’ It would not do for him to think she could not perform her job. She pushed herself away from the doorjamb.

&n
bsp; She must have moved too quickly, because a wave of dizziness washed over her. She groped for the doorframe again.

  And felt his arms encircle her. ‘You are unwell. Come.’

  He led her through another room to a door that led to what looked like a completely different place. He brought her to a drawing room and sat her in a chair.

  She leaned forward. ‘I am so dizzy.’

  ‘Did you eat?’ he asked, removing her mask and placing it on a nearby table.

  ‘Yes. With the other staff. I ate.’ Although some of the food made her stomach queasy.

  ‘Have you had anything to drink?’ He pulled off his mask.

  She’d brought many a drink to the gentlemen in the game room, but had no more than a few sips for herself. ‘Not since dinner.’

  ‘Wait here.’ He left the room.

  Cecilia held her head in her hands and prayed the room would stop spinning.

  Oliver returned with a tray holding a teapot, cup, sugar and milk. He set it down and poured her a cup, adding milk and sugar.

  She took the cup from his hand and sipped it slowly, hoping to keep it down.

  She’d heard that women who were going to have babies often felt sick in the morning, but this was the first wave of true nausea and dizziness she’d experienced. And, of all inconvenient things, she had to experience it in front of Oliver.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

  She did not feel better, but she smiled and replied, ‘Oh, yes. I am quite certain I can return to work.’ In a few minutes. She hoped.

  ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘No more work for you for tonight. As soon as you are able to walk, I will see you back to your hotel.’

  ‘Truly, I will be well enough to work.’ She tried to stand, but sat down again when the room started spinning.

  ‘See? You are not ready yet.’ His voice turned low and soft.

  Through the walls they could hear the orchestra. Flo’s clear, bell-like voice came through as well.

  I’ll go no more a roving, with you fair maid.