A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  She couldn’t breathe. Oliver was beating Bowles! She cowered, remembering how it felt to be hit over and over.

  Stop, Oliver! she wanted to cry, but fear locked her throat. Oliver could kill Bowles with his bare hands, just as Duncan could have killed her. She could not bear to watch and was too frightened to try to stop it. She turned on her heel and ran, her heart pounding wildly.

  She could not return to Vitium et Virtus and pretend to be Coquette, not while Oliver might be killing Bowles. She went instead to Oliver’s house and pounded on the door until Irwin let her in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oliver pulled off his mask and looked down on Bowles, seated in a puddle in the alley. Blood dripped from his nose and one eye had already swollen shut.

  It served Bowles right.

  Bowles had pulled a knife on him, but Oliver had been quick enough to deflect the blade from stabbing him in the chest.

  He picked up the knife and pointed it into Bowles’s face. ‘Shall I show you what the blade of this knife feels like?’ Oliver growled.

  Bowles glared at him, but gave no answer.

  Oliver gripped the handle of the knife for a moment, angry enough to consider using it. Blood dripped from his hand, pooling on the ground.

  Like the pool of blood they’d found in this same alley six years before when Nicholas disappeared.

  ‘Nicholas,’ Oliver murmured.

  Bowles rose to his feet. ‘Nicholas Bartlett? What of him?’

  ‘Never you mind about Nicholas,’ Oliver shot back.

  He hurled the knife as far as it would go, over the fence and into someone’s garden.

  Bowles made an unintelligible sound.

  ‘You won’t be pulling that knife again,’ Oliver told him.

  Bowles never heeded the rules of a fair fight.

  Oliver’s hand throbbed and more blood dripped onto the ground. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand.

  Oliver spoke low and menacing. ‘Stay away from Vitium et Virtus. You cannot best me, so do not try again. Next time I may not let you off so easy.’

  ‘First tell me why you mentioned Nicholas Bartlett,’ Bowles demanded. ‘He’s...he’s dead, correct? Everyone says so.’

  ‘Forget Nicholas,’ Oliver said sharply. What business was it of Bowles’s? ‘Leave here now and do not come back. Ever.’

  Oliver held the handkerchief tightly against the bleeding cut on his palm as he watched Bowles limp out of the alley. He followed him to the street and watched until Bowles turned the corner at St James’s Street.

  Oliver walked through the alley again and entered Vitium et Virtus through the private entrance. One of the footmen attending the kitchen was passing by and noticed his bloody hand.

  ‘Sir!’ the man cried. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘A cut,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Come, sir.’ The footman gestured towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll fetch Mrs Parker. She’ll bandage it for you.’

  Oliver followed the footman to the doorway of the kitchen, which was a chaos of activity preparing food for the masquerade. The footman strode up to the club’s housekeeper and spoke to her, glancing over at Oliver.

  Mrs Parker dropped what she was doing and ran over to him. ‘Mr Gregory, let us bandage that up.’

  She led him to her sitting room where she cleansed the wound and wrapped his hand in strips of linen. It hurt like the devil.

  Oliver thanked her and put on his mask again. He needed to find Cecilia, to tell her he’d caught up with Bowles, who would not likely be bothering them again.

  He looked for Cecilia first in the game room, but no one had seen her since she’d left with him. He next searched the ballroom, where Flo approached him.

  ‘Mr Gregory, have you seen Coquette?’ Flo asked.

  ‘No. I was about to ask you if you had seen her,’ he responded.

  ‘Oh.’ She bit her lip. ‘She made me worry. Told me not to leave the room.’

  He leaned over to Flo’s ear. ‘Bowles was here, but he is gone now.’

  Flo’s eyes widened. ‘Sir Nash was here?’

  He nodded. ‘Do not fear. He’d be a fool to return.’

  One of the other workers approached Oliver to deal with a drunken guest, and for the rest of the night he was kept too busy to look for Cecilia. When the masquerade was finally over, Snyder told him Irwin walked over to say Cecilia had come home early. Irwin told Snyder she’d appeared upset and Irwin thought Oliver should know.

  Oliver left Vitium et Virtus through the private door and walked to his house. He used his key to let himself in. Irwin and the other servants would be abed at this hour. He climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, but paused at his door, turning instead to Cecilia’s.

  He knocked softly on her door and entered. Coals glowed in the fireplace casting enough light for him to see her in the bed.

  How innocent and vulnerable she appeared. Her face was relaxed in repose and, in the dim light from the fireplace, she was almost too lovely to behold.

  He made himself call softly. ‘Cecilia?’

  Her eyes flew open and grew wide with fright. She half rose.

  ‘It is only me.’ Oliver wanted to touch her, but held back.

  ‘What?’ she said, blinking.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, but are you unwell? You came home early.’ Had the commotion about Bowles made her ill? Hurt the baby?

  She sat up, holding the bed linens around her. ‘I’m fine. I—I just wanted to come home.’

  He sensed she was not fine. She was unsettled and disturbed.

  He tried to reassure her. ‘I came to tell you Bowles will not be a problem any more.’

  She clutched the bed linens even tighter. ‘Why not?’ She seemed even more disturbed. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I taught him a lesson.’ She did not need to hear the details.

  ‘A lesson?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘He won’t be returning.’

  Her eyes grew huge and looked frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  Her reaction made no sense. ‘I mean, I sent him away and he’d be a fool to return.’

  The tension in her body eased a little. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Very well.’

  On the dance floor when he’d almost kissed her, her lips had seemed ready for him. Not now. Something had changed.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’ He backed away.

  She lay down again, burrowed under the blankets and turned her back to him.

  * * *

  It was near noon by the time Oliver sat alone at breakfast, lingering over the newspapers and cups of coffee, not in any hurry to go over to Vitium et Virtus to survey the damage and disarray that always came in the wake of a special event.

  Mr Bell and Mrs Parker would see to the clean-up, but Oliver felt an obligation to be there.

  Even if his hand still throbbed from the blade of Bowles’s knife.

  A knife fight. When had a masquerade included a knife fight?

  Could there have been a knife fight the night Nicholas disappeared from that same alley?

  Oliver wished he could return to those youthful days when he, Nicholas, Frederick and Jacob conjured up one wild idea after another for their secular version of a Hell Fire club. Even then it had been the camaraderie shared among the four good friends that Oliver valued the most. The belonging. As if they were his family.

  When Nicholas disappeared, they lost that. And, with Nick gone, Oliver gradually lost pleasure in Vitium et Virtus.

  At least last night he’d had the pleasure of waltzing with Cecilia. Holding her in his arms again.

  He wished he’d kissed her.

  From her reaction to him last night when he woke her, t
he chance of kissing her again was somehow lost.

  The door opened and Cecilia walked in.

  He’d not expected her.

  He stood. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning.’ Her gaze was averted as if she did not wish to look at him.

  Why? What had happened between that almost-kiss and now?

  He gestured to a chair. ‘Sit. I’ll fix you a plate.’

  She went to the sideboard instead. ‘I’ll do it.’

  She selected her food and poured her tea. He stood the whole time, waiting for her to sit. She finally lowered herself into a chair, not across from him, but adjacent to him. So she would not have to look at him?

  He felt as if she were four leagues away.

  He returned to his newspaper. What other choice did he have? Until she told him what disturbed her, what else could he do?

  She finished her cup of tea and glanced at the teapot, which was not in her reach. She started to rise to walk over to it.

  ‘Allow me.’ Oliver picked up the teapot with his bandaged hand.

  Her voice rose. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  He poured her a cup.

  ‘Nothing serious,’ he assured her, passing her the cream and sugar. ‘A cut.’

  She made no effort to fix her cup of tea. ‘Last night? How?’

  He rubbed the bandage. ‘Bowles drew a knife.’

  Her eyes grew huge. ‘You fought with knives?’

  ‘Bowles pulled a knife. I disarmed him.’ And then pummelled him with my fists, but she did not need to hear the unpleasant details.

  She reached out as if to touch his hand. ‘How bad is the cut?’

  It still hurt like the devil. ‘It will not kill me.’

  ‘May I see?’

  * * *

  Cecilia watched him unwrap his hand, the strips of linen closest to the wound showing new red blood.

  Bowles had attacked him with a knife? All Oliver had were his fists. No wonder he used them so fiercely against Bowles.

  She moved her chair closer and took his hand in hers. The cut was a long gash across his palm.

  ‘How did Bowles cut your hand?’ She had a difficult time picturing it.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘He was aiming for my heart. I stopped him.’

  She shivered. Oliver hadn’t been a killer; he’d almost been killed.

  The wound’s edges were smooth, but there was a gap from which blood still oozed. The skin around the cut was very red and a little swollen.

  ‘I think you need this stitched,’ she told him, still holding his hand. ‘Would you allow me to sew the sides together? They will heal better.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know how to stitch wounds?’

  She nodded and looked directly into his face for the first time this morning. ‘After Quatre Bras and Waterloo, the surgeon had me sewing up the easier wounds. I had the needle and thread, you see.’

  ‘You stitched up wounds after Waterloo?’ His brows arched.

  The sight of wounded men came back to her. ‘There were so many.’ What she’d done had been such a small thing. ‘At first it was a little difficult, but I became accustomed to it.’ She examined his wound again, gently touching the edges with her finger. ‘Come up to my room. I have needle and thread there.’

  She gathered the bloody bandage in her hand. He stood and extended his uninjured hand to help her rise.

  As they walked to her room, her emotions were in a jumble. He might have been killed! On the other hand, she’d witnessed him angry enough to kill.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, he opened the door to her bedchamber. She led him to her sitting room.

  ‘Please sit, Oliver. I’ll gather what I need.’ She brought a clean towel, a basin and her bottle of lavender water. When she’d tended to the soldiers at Waterloo, she’d not had the luxury of lavender water.

  Her sewing box was on the table in the sitting room.

  She sat on the sofa with him and drew one of the tables to the sofa’s side. Sitting so close, she felt her body hum again, teasing her with desire. She blinked, trying not to lose focus on his wound.

  ‘Let me wash the blood away.’ She held his hand over the basin and poured lavender water on it, carefully wiping off dried blood and new blood with the towel.

  If she kept her attention on the task and not on the lime and bergamot scent of his soap, she’d endure this.

  She took a needle from her etui and a length of black thread from a spool. She threaded the needle and wet the thread with the lavender water. ‘It will go through easier this way.’

  ‘I am delighted to know that.’ His voice was strained.

  She glanced into his eyes. ‘This will hurt, but it will go faster if you do not move.’ She folded the towel and placed his hand on top of it on the table. ‘Are you ready?’

  He smiled at her. ‘As ready as I have ever been to have my hand sewn together.’

  His good humour reminded her of Paris. That was not going to help her complete this task.

  She took a breath and pushed the needle into his skin.

  He flinched and gritted his teeth, but kept his hand steady.

  She continued, riveting her attention to the wound, as she had managed after Waterloo. She worked quickly, but carefully.

  As she was concentrating, the baby inside her moved, startling her into pausing.

  ‘Why are you stopping?’ he asked, his voice tight.

  ‘The baby,’ she said. ‘The baby moved.’

  How much tougher could this be? The baby reminding her that Oliver was the father.

  ‘There!’ she said when finished.

  She glanced up at him. His face was taut. She’d seen that look before on countless men trying to endure pain.

  Oliver expelled a pent-up breath and more colour returned to his cheeks.

  She rose from the sofa. ‘Wait here. I need some bandages. I’ll be right back.’

  She found Mary down in the kitchen with Mrs Irwin. ‘Do we have some strips of cloth to use as bandages?’

  ‘Bandages?’ Mary cried. ‘Who needs bandages?’

  ‘Mr Gregory cut his hand.’ It was enough of an explanation.

  ‘I don’t think we have bandages,’ Mrs Irwin said.

  ‘But I know some cloth we can use.’ Mary popped out of her chair.

  They ripped an old, laundered bedsheet into strips, and Cecilia brought the bandages to Oliver, who was lying on the sofa, one arm over his face.

  He sat up when he heard her enter and extended his arm.

  Cecilia started wrapping his hand, a hand that had once caressed her. A hand that had been capable of a brutal beating.

  * * *

  Oliver felt her withdraw again as she finished bandaging. For a very few moments, they had been as they were in Paris. At ease with each other. That was worth the several minutes of pain he’d endured.

  ‘Do you have plans for today?’ he asked, trying to delay having to leave her.

  ‘I planned on returning books to Hookham’s,’ she responded. ‘Do you need any returned? Any you wish me to pick up?’

  ‘No.’ He had heard of a book he wanted to read, The European In India, but to mention it seemed too revealing a disclosure.

  The clock struck one. ‘I should go now,’ she said, standing. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What is it?’ Princess Charlotte died in childbirth. So could Cecilia.

  Her smile was beatific. ‘The baby moved again. Very active baby today.’

  ‘Is that good?’ He hoped so.

  ‘I have no idea.’ She put her sewing items back and picked up the basin and lavender water.

  A hint he should leave, he believed.

  But she
did not rush him out. ‘What about you, Oliver? What are your plans today?’

  ‘Back to the club. It is likely a shambles today.’ He would rather walk to Hookham’s with her.

  ‘Well, do not use your hand overmuch.’ She nodded towards it.

  He pushed himself up from the sofa and started for the door of the sitting room, but turned around before crossing the threshold. ‘Thank you, Cecilia.’ He lifted his hand. ‘That was quite remarkable of you.’

  He left her bedchamber and continued down the stairs. There was no reason for him to delay going over to the club. Keeping busy would prevent him from thinking of her.

  He crossed through the garden and into the alley where he had tussled with Bowles the night before. In the sunlight he could see a small pool of blood from the bleeding of his hand. He touched his bandages, remembering the flash of silver that warned him of Bowles’s intent.

  He crossed through the club’s garden and entered the building through the owners’ entrance. As he passed through the rooms to the door through to the public side, a figure stepped into the hallway.

  It took a moment for Oliver to recognise who it was. ‘Frederick!’ He quickened his step. ‘When did you get back?’

  When they reached each other, a handshake was ready. Frederick and his wife had been away in the country for a couple of months.

  ‘We arrived this morning.’ Frederick’s lips twisted in dismay. ‘I’d planned to be here for the masquerade, but one of the carriage wheels broke and we tipped over.’

  ‘Good God! Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘With God’s luck, no,’ Frederick said. ‘It was just Georgiana and me inside. One of the coachmen was thrown off, but suffered only bruises.’

  Oliver frowned. When Frederick purchased his commission in the army after Oxford, Oliver actually prayed his friend would survive. His prayers had been answered, apparently not only during the war, but also on the road to London.

  ‘Suffice to say,’ Frederick went on, ‘we were delayed. But I was sorry to leave that chaotic event in your hands alone. I know how hectic it can be.’

  ‘Jake and Rose came, so I was not alone.’ Although they had been so wrapped up in each other, he’d not had the heart to disturb them.