A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  The silence was broken by loud footsteps in the hall and a voice shouting, ‘Where are you?’

  They both jumped to their feet. Jacob was here.

  Frederick reached the door and threw it open. ‘Jacob!’

  It had only been a matter of weeks since they had been together, playing billiards, the day that Cecilia showed up on his doorstep, in fact. Like they’d done since they were boys, they hugged each other and laughed at themselves for such an emotional excess.

  ‘I am surprised you made it,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Some things are more important than others.’ Jacob looked from Oliver to Frederick to a missing space in between. ‘Friends, for example.’

  They caught up on family matters. The delights of their marriages, the health of their families. Any news.

  ‘How is Eleanor?’ Oliver asked.

  Eleanor was Jacob’s sister, who’d been married to some sort of northern laird and widowed a short time after. A boating accident, Oliver thought. She bore the man’s darling daughter whom Oliver and his friends now doted on.

  ‘She’s doing well,’ Jacob said. ‘Busy with Lucy, you know.’ He shared the latest antics of the child, now five years old and bright as a copper coin.

  ‘By the way, how is your father, Oliver?’ Frederick asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘I assume he is in the country, having their usual house party.’ He had not heard from his father since informing him he’d returned from Paris.

  Frederick and Jacob knew better than to ask him about the stepmother. Nicholas had long ago told Oliver to simply pretend she did not exist, an idea that worked remarkably well.

  They finally settled down to the business of Vitium et Virtus, looking through the books, talking of the events they’d held.

  ‘Did you ever do that idea you had?’ Frederick asked. ‘You know, the one where men and women pick balls with matching numbers?’

  Oliver had forgotten all about it. ‘No. Not yet.’ He was not even sure he liked the idea any more.

  Frederick hit Oliver on the arm. ‘Does Jake know about Bowles?’

  ‘Bowles?’ Jacob sat up straighter.

  Oliver held up his bandaged hand and told the whole saga of Sir Nash Bowles.

  ‘He cut you?’ Jake frowned.

  ‘Say it,’ Oliver teased. ‘Tell me I’m slipping. I let the likes of Bowles cut me.’

  The afternoon wore on as they talked over plans for the club after Christmas.

  ‘I’ll try to help more,’ Frederick said. ‘We’ll stay in London through the Season. I should be able to come often.’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘I will try to stop by as much as I can. We leave most of the work to you, Oliver.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Do not worry over it.’

  As the sky darkened with the setting sun, they lit one lamp after another, but finally they could not deny that the hour was late and it was time for Frederick and Jacob to return to their wives.

  ‘We should go,’ Jacob said.

  Without saying a word, Oliver leaned forward and placed his hand, palm up, at the centre of the table they sat around. Jake placed his hand on top of Oliver’s, and Frederick lay his on top of Jake’s.

  ‘In Vitium et Virtus,’ they chorused. In vice and virtue, the words that bound them together.

  They broke apart, and Frederick poured them each a glass of brandy. They lifted their glasses.

  ‘To absent friends,’ Jacob said.

  ‘Be he in heaven or hell—’ Oliver continued.

  ‘Or somewhere in between—’ Frederick added.

  ‘Know that we wish you well,’ Jacob said, his voice turning low.

  Their ritual, their incantation. For Nicholas.

  They all stood and made their way to the door. Instead of using the side door, as they were accustomed to doing when the club was open, they entered the public parts of the building to the marble-tiled hall. Snyder, typically a fixture in the hall, was absent and they retrieved their own topcoats, hats and gloves.

  Frederick punched Oliver’s arm again. ‘You’ve gone the whole afternoon without mentioning Cecilia to Jacob.’

  Jacob smiled. ‘How is our Coquette doing?’

  ‘Coquette?’ Frederick’s brow furrowed.

  ‘That is the name she goes by.’ Jacob peered at him. ‘Did not Oliver tell you she works here?’

  ‘He told me,’ Frederick said. ‘Not the name Coquette, though.’

  Here was another opportunity for Oliver to tell his friends about meeting Cecilia in Paris, that she was the woman he’d told them about when he returned, that she said she bore his child.

  But the hour was late and they needed to go home.

  ‘Coquette,’ Frederick repeated. ‘Coquette.’

  ‘What the devil is wrong with you?’ Oliver asked him. ‘Most of the singers and dancers use false names.’

  ‘Yes, but something about that one.’ Fred looked as if he was struggling to remember. His face relaxed. ‘I cannot think. But I do need to return home. Georgiana will believe I fell into the Thames—’ He stopped abruptly, realising he was joking about what might have been a real possibility for Nicholas.

  He nodded uncomfortably. The three men dressed for the cold, damp evening air and walked outside together.

  ‘Wish I would have arranged for my carriage,’ Jacob said.

  Frederick gave him a playful push. ‘Getting soft in all your ducal splendour, are you?’

  They said goodbye and started to walk in the opposite direction from Oliver, who merely needed to turn the corner.

  Oliver was about to put his hand on the door handle, when he heard running footsteps behind him. He turned.

  It was Frederick. ‘Wait, Oliver!’

  It had started to drizzle, but Oliver waited for Frederick to reach him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I remembered.’ Fred took a moment to try to catch his breath. ‘I remembered where I saw her.’

  ‘Saw who?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Your Cecilia.’ Fred took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. ‘It was when I was in Paris. I went to a club called Maison D’Eros. All the men there were talking about a courtesan, the most desirable courtesan in Paris, they said. Very selective and exclusive. I saw her. She went by the name of Coquette. Madame Coquette!’

  Oliver went cold.

  ‘She accepted maybe one or two men per week, they said. And the men paid well for a night with her. They paid for the chance to please her. If they did not please her, she sent them off, but kept the money.’ Frederick shook his head. ‘I do not know why I did not realise it when I first saw her. Her demeanour was so different at dinner.’

  Oliver had witnessed Cecilia’s transformation many times.

  ‘It was Cecilia,’ Frederick said. ‘Did you know? Did you know she was a courtesan in Paris?’

  ‘No.’ Oliver’s voice deepened. ‘I did not know.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oliver stood by the door while Frederick dashed away. The rain thickened, falling like needles in the cold air and still he did not move.

  She’d told him there had been no other men since him, yet she’d been a courtesan, selective and exclusive, but a courtesan none the less. Was he to believe she’d stopped her liaisons with men after meeting him?

  That was how she earned her money.

  Rainwater streamed from the brim of his hat and the wet was soaking through his topcoat. He finally turned and put his key in the lock. The hall was empty, but that was no surprise. The servants had a day off.

  He peeled off his wet topcoat and dropped it on to a chair; his hat and gloves he left on the table. He climbed the stairs to the second floor where his bedchamber—and Cecilia’s—were located. He paused at the top step, his hand re
sting on the banister.

  With sudden resolve he surged towards her door and, restraining himself, knocked mildly.

  ‘Come in.’ Her voice sounded unconcerned.

  He opened the door and stepped inside.

  ‘I am in the sitting room,’ she called.

  He walked to the door of the sitting room.

  She sat on the sofa, a book in her hand, her face illuminated by the light of a nearby lamp. Her legs were tucked underneath her, her hair merely tied back with a ribbon. She wore a morning dress, a loose-fitting garment of what might once have been white muslin, but had turned grey with time. Even from the doorway he could see where she’d mended it.

  ‘Oliver,’ she said with some surprise, although she must have known the servants were out.

  ‘I am back from meeting Frederick and Jacob at the club.’ He could not quite keep all the emotion from his voice.

  Her relaxed expression tensed. ‘Is something wrong there?’

  ‘Not there,’ he said.

  Her brows rose.

  He meant to ease into this discussion, but his anger pushed words out of his mouth. ‘Why did you lie to me, Cecilia?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I’ve never lied to you.’

  ‘You are lying now.’ He was burning inside, remembering all the lies his stepmother had told, lies that were meant to make him suffer or to make him look the fool.

  Cecilia lifted her chin. ‘What is this lie you say I told you?’

  He laughed derisively. ‘Madame Coquette.’

  The colour drained from her face. She uncurled her body and placed her feet on the floor. Her feet were bare. She did not avert her gaze from his.

  ‘Madame Coquette,’ he repeated, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. ‘The most desirable courtesan in Paris. Very selective and exclusive. Frederick told me all about her.’

  She did not flinch. ‘There was no need to speak of her. She was not real.’

  He laughed again. ‘Apparently she took real men to her bed.’

  ‘Did she?’ Cecilia stood.

  He took a step into the room. ‘You said you’d been a hostess, not a courtesan.’

  ‘That was the truth.’ She moved away from him. ‘I had been a hostess and—and later a courtesan.’

  ‘Later. At the time you met me.’ He moved closer, but she edged away.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘So did you seek out those other men, when you found your belly swelling?’ This was the lie that hit him hardest. ‘Did they laugh at you? So you came to find me?’

  ‘I came to find my mother. You were a last resort.’ Her voice trembled. ‘But you are the father. Whether you believe me or not!’

  ‘Do not play me for a fool, Cecilia!’

  ‘I am not!’ She continued to edge away, trying to circle behind him. She was trying to escape from him, he realised.

  Well, they would have this out now, he vowed. He’d not go another day believing her nonsense.

  ‘You will stay here, Cecilia!’ he shouted. ‘We will deal with this now.’

  ‘No!’ she cried.

  She made a lunge towards the door, but he was quick. He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Now! Cecilia!’

  She fought like a dervish to be free of his grip. Twisting. Turning. Pulling away. Her eyes filled with terror. ‘No! No! Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me.’

  It was as if she was in a different place, a different time. Too hysterical to see what was around her. Who was with her.

  ‘I won’t hurt you!’ he cried, loosening his fingers to prove it.

  She wrenched from his grip and bolted for the door, slamming it behind her.

  He took chase, reaching the stairs as she was nearly to the hall. He slid down the banister, but she’d run to the servants’ door, closing that behind her, as well. He opened the door and ran after her down the stairs and through the hallway.

  He’d done well in many a foot race, but he was no match for her panicked flight. Her bare feet helped her, while his boots could not gain purchase on the polished floor.

  She reached the door to the garden and ran outside into the cold, now pouring rain, nothing covering her but her thin dress.

  He finally caught her in the alley, the same alley where he’d fought with Bowles, the alley from which Nicholas had disappeared.

  He seized her arms again, but she slipped on the wet surface and they both wound up on the ground.

  ‘No! No! No!’ she cried.

  He feared someone in the surrounding houses would hear her and think he was attacking her.

  She thought he was attacking her.

  He held her fast and tried to make her look at him.

  ‘I will never hurt you, Cecilia. Look at me! Look at me!’

  She finally focused on him.

  ‘I will not hurt you,’ he said, slowly and calmly. ‘You are safe. But we must get out of the rain.’

  Her dress was soaked through and, even in the dim light in the alley, he could see that it clung to her body. The rain drenched through his coat, waistcoat and shirt. It felt like ice, it was so cold out. Her flight, her terror and the cold rain could not be good for the baby.

  He repeated, ‘You are safe. Now stop fighting. Calm down.’

  She nodded, but her eyes still looked fearful.

  ‘We’ll go back to the house now and get you warm.’

  She started to shiver, a sign, he supposed, that she was calming down.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘We’ll go back now.’

  She nodded.

  Afraid to let go of her, Oliver continued to firmly grip one of her arms. He rose to his feet and helped her up. He put an arm around her, but as they walked, her wet skirts caught on her legs and tripped her.

  He stopped and made her face him. ‘I’m going to carry you. Will you allow it?’

  Again she nodded. Her teeth chattered.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the garden behind his town house and through the kitchen door, which he’d left open in his rush to catch up to her. He carried her all the way to her bedchamber and placed her in a wooden chair in front of the fireplace. She was shivering and dazed and he feared she would lose consciousness. He needed to get her out of her wet clothes in a hurry. He tried to untie the laces on the back of her dress, but the knots just became tighter. He took a penknife from his pocket and cut them. He pulled off the dress and cut the laces of her corset, as well. Tossing those soaking garments aside, he peeled off her chemise, which was clinging to her like an extra layer of skin.

  Her clothing gone, he carried her to her bed and wrapped her in the bed linens and blankets. He pulled the whole bed closer to the fireplace. Near the washbasin, he found a dry towel and wrapped it around her hair.

  Her teeth no longer chattered, but she still had not said a word.

  ‘Stay here,’ he told her in a gentle but firm voice. ‘I will be back quickly.’

  * * *

  Cecilia remained in her bed as Oliver ordered and gradually the mists in her brain cleared and she was able to keep two thoughts together. The cold made her body ache. She loosened the cocoon of covers enough to place her hand on her abdomen.

  The baby was so still.

  Please, baby, move. Show me you are unharmed.

  What had happened? She vaguely remembered being outside in the alley. Oliver carrying her in his arms. She remembered running.

  From Duncan.

  But that was impossible.

  Baby, please move!

  The door opened and Oliver entered carrying a tray. He wore the banyan he’d given her to wear that first night she’d worked at Vitium et Virtus.

  ‘Good. You are awake.’ He placed the tray on the table beside her bed
. It held a teapot, cup and saucer, cream and sugar. He poured her a cup of tea.

  She sat up. ‘I can’t feel the baby move.’

  He paused, holding the teapot in mid-air. Her worry seemed reflected on his face. ‘Is—is the baby quiet sometimes?’

  She’d never paid attention before. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Try not to worry.’ Although he looked worried. He finished fixing the tea and handed her the teacup. ‘Drink. It will warm you.’

  The blankets slipped from her shoulder and she covered herself again. She took a sip of tea.

  She looked up at him. ‘What happened, Oliver? I cannot remember.’

  ‘Do you remember that I learned about Madame Coquette?’ he asked in a stiff voice.

  That part came flooding back. ‘You became angry.’ It was like a curtain slowly opening in her mind, revealing a little at a time. Her heart pounded and it became difficult to breathe. ‘You hit me!’

  ‘Cecilia, no!’ His eyes flashed in alarm. ‘I never hit you. I would never do that. I seized your arms, but all I wanted was for you to stay and answer my questions.’

  She did not remember it that way. She remembered him being angry and lunging at her. She’d had a flash of a memory of him hitting Bowles in the face the night of the masquerade, and then she’d felt the jarring pain of a fist connecting to her own cheek.

  She touched her cheek. There was no pain now. She scrambled off the bed with only a blanket to cover her. The towel covering her hair fell to the floor and her still-damp hair tumbled to her shoulders. She walked to her dressing table. Leaning down, she gazed in the mirror. The light in the room was dim, but there was no bruise. She leaned closer, but still—nothing.

  ‘No bruise,’ she murmured to herself.

  She’d pulled away and ran, but in her mind she had been fleeing Duncan.

  ‘I did not hit you, Cecilia,’ he repeated, his voice soft and low. ‘I only tried to stop you.’

  She turned to him. ‘It was you?’ She closed her eyes and tried to remember. She remembered terror. She remembered Duncan. ‘I thought you were—someone else.’

  ‘Who, Cecilia?’ he asked.

  ‘My husband.’ She saw Duncan’s face again and her legs started to tremble.