A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man

by Celeste Bradley

  “What in the world has gotten into you?” That little squeaky complaint came from her mother’s direction.

  Piper chuckled. “I think I’ve sprouted balls the size of grapefruits,” she said. “Courage, Mother. That’s what’s gotten into me. I’m finally brave enough to live my own life and tell my own story, and you know what? It looks nothing like yours. It’s full of passionate kisses and whipped cream and silk scarves and…”

  Forsythe’s chair scraped loudly across the wood floor as he jumped up from his seat. Paulette was not far behind.

  “No. Really—stay. Enjoy your evening. We’re going.”

  With that, Piper grabbed her bag and started to exit the dining room, Mick’s warm and solid hand wrapped firmly around hers. But she stopped.

  “Mother and Father, stop trying to control me. It won’t work anymore. Please respect that.”

  Piper couldn’t remember walking through the foyer and out the door, but at some point she found herself on the front sidewalk, Mick’s arms snug around her, her feet spinning off into the air as he twirled her around.

  “I am so proud of you,” he said into her ear, his breath hot and his voice sweet. “You are something else, woman.”

  He put her down. “Whadya say we get us some real food?”

  * * *

  She stepped into the dim and cool pub and heard a chorus of voices welcome her. Piper could tell immediately that the man behind the bar was Mick’s brother, because he was an older, chubbier, balder—and much louder—version of Mick. The short woman at his side had to be Mick’s sister-in-law, Emily.

  Mick introduced her, and Piper felt like a long-lost relative, there was so much hugging and kissing going on. It was like she’d fallen into a rabbit hole outside her parents’ house on Towbridge Street and popped up in another world entirely. Cullen and Emily’s two children, Maeve and Will, ran out of the office where they’d been doing their homework to get a look at their uncle’s new girlfriend.

  She and Mick grabbed a couple of barstools, and that’s when she was bombarded with questions about beverages—stout or lager? How about a shot of Jameson? Powers? A mixed drink?

  “I can make a Cosmo if that’s more your style,” Cullen assured her.

  She felt besieged, which Mick picked up on right away. “Mind if I order for you?” he asked her.

  “Please do,” she said.

  Not long after, Piper was on her second glass of Murphy’s and was diving face-first into a basket of delicious fish and chips, courtesy of Emily. She sprinkled everything with malt vinegar and salt and was taking a big bite of fish, juice running down her arm, when Cullen leaned on the bar and laughed.

  “The poor waif is starving, Magnus! When’s the last time you bought her a decent meal?”

  Piper stopped chewing, her eyes growing big in embarrassment, but Mick leaned over and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Piper’s been a bit deprived,” he said, squeezing her tight. “She’s got some catching up to do.”

  Full, happy, and glad to have met his family, Piper left the pub with Mick about an hour later. As they walked to the T station, Mick’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Yes?” he said. Piper watched his face go rigid. His eyes flashed to her momentarily, then he nodded as he listened, holding up a finger to indicate he needed to stop a moment and take the call.

  Piper waited. She heard a woman’s voice emanating from the phone.

  “But why now?” he asked. “They’ve been jacking me around for months, and now it’s suddenly an emergency?” He paused again. “Los Angeles? Why all the way out there? I thought they were based out of New York. Can’t we do this first bit over the phone? Some kind of conference call?”

  Piper watched him nod a few more times and say, “I understand. All right. Let me know when they pick a date.” He said good-bye and slipped the phone into his pants pocket.

  “That was my agent,” he said, though Piper had figured it out by then. “The Compass Cable people want to meet with me soon. Apparently, the show is a go.”

  Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten the fish and chips.

  Twenty-eight

  London

  As I look back over the last seven years, I believe the greatest difference must be the sweet peace of my contentment. I do not miss the spotlight, although the Swan still reigns supreme. I think she may still own the demimonde when her golden hair turns to silver, for her elegance is ageless and her vivacity is tireless. I, on the other hand, enjoy my quiet evenings curled up with Eamon, at last with the time to read. Most would find us boring. I find us delightful.

  Eamon is my lover and dearest friend, but I have never forgotten my beautiful Sir. I carry my longing for him in my most secret heart. Though I have not seen him since I woke alone that morning, I feel him with me every night as I lie in the dark and remember.

  I opened my eyes in the night, suddenly and violently awake. My heart pounded, yet I knew not why. The room was utterly silent, with no danger in sight or hearing. Had I been dreaming? I found no trace of nightmare in my thoughts. I lifted my head from my pillow and slid up a little, listening carefully.

  The room was utterly silent.

  With a start I realized what was missing—what had been there every night of the last seven years. I could not hear Eamon’s gentle snore.

  He lay with his back to me, his head on the pillow only inches from mine. With an awful sense of foreboding, I reached my hand out to stroke his big shoulder. For an endless moment it hung in the air, unable to travel that last inch. As long as I did not finish the gesture, I could hold the hope in my heart a few seconds longer.

  Wake.

  Turn to me in sleepy good humor.

  Take me in your arms and warm my chilled feet.

  Please, my darling companion.

  Wake.

  But Eamon would never wake again. His big heart, that generous and constant heart, had stopped in the night. I would never lay my head against his chest and hear its steady thud again. Worse than the thought that I was alone again was the notion that Eamon no longer existed. How could so much warmth and unassuming gentleness be subtracted from the world by the simple misbeat of an organ?

  Those next days passed in a fog. Sadness turned the minutes to hours, and sometimes hours to minutes. The very earth seemed tilted without his strength and integrity to hold it upright. Not since my parents had died had I been dealt such a blow. In some ways I took this all the harder, for I was a woman of the world. I knew that no amount of wishing would turn back the clock, would declare it all a terrible mistake, would bring back his booming laugh to make me shake my head and smile.

  Then, just when I was at last becoming accustomed to the silence, I was called to the office of Eamon’s solicitor. There was a will, it seemed. I must dress and make an appearance that afternoon.

  Though it would be a presumption to wear black as if I were family, I could bear to wear nothing brighter than a pale dove gray. As I walked into the office of the solicitor, I was surprised to see pretty young Alice Wainwright waiting there as well.

  I had not wished to intrude upon the mourning of Eamon’s beloved daughter by attending the funeral in full disreputable person, but I had been called here today on business. Should I leave? I backed away a step, about to slip out the door. At that moment Alice raised her head and saw me. Her green eyes were reddened with crying and her red-blond hair was pulled back tightly from her face. Clad in full mourning of the blackest black, she looked painfully pale and vulnerable. My heart went out to her at once, but any motion I might have made to comfort her was halted by the flash of pure hatred that suddenly enlivened her sad eyes.

  Yes. Of course. Alice’s response was only natural.

  As I stood there, wondering if I might yet manage to escape without confrontation, a tall figure in black stepped between us.

  I blinked at the sneering rage in the blue eyes of Lord B____. Shock reverberated through me. I had not seen a glimpse of him sin
ce he’d beaten me nearly to death. My heart pounded. Run.

  “Whores should not invade the presence of respectable women.” His tone was arch, his words righteous, yet I saw his gaze travel knowingly over my body. With his back turned to Alice, he licked his lips and smiled as a wolf might, showing all his teeth.

  I backed away a step. “I—” Time to leave.

  The door across from me opened and a small, neat man in spectacles blinked at us all in surprise. “Here already? Goodness, I must wind my watch!”

  Alice jumped to her feet and scurried into his office. Lord B____ followed Alice, for after all, she had the purse strings all tied up. Relieved, I turned to flee. I had one hand on the door when the solicitor stopped me.

  “No, Miss Blackbird. Your presence is required for the reading of the will.”

  I turned and blinked at him. Why? I’d thought Eamon might have left me a token, a silver jewel case or perhaps a favorite painting. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I shall have to come back later.”

  The little man gazed at me with understanding but no mercy. “No, Miss Blackbird. Your presence is required. I shall not be allowed to read the last will and testament of Eamon Wainwright unless both you and Miss Wainwright are in the room.”

  He bowed crisply and beckoned with one sweeping hand. I walked slowly into the office. Oh, Eamon, what have you done to me?

  Once Alice and I had been seated, the solicitor scuttled around to his own chair, then blinked up at Lord B____. “My lord, might I ask in what capacity you are attending this reading?”

  Lord B____, who loomed behind Alice’s chair like a prison guard, folded his arms. “In the capacity of Miss Wainwright’s fiancé.”

  “Oh, Alice,” I breathed. “You didn’t!”

  Alice shot me one guilty, defiant glance. She then pointedly shifted in her seat, turning her back to me. The solicitor’s gaze flicked back and forth between the three of us and I knew that Eamon had kept this gentleman informed of all our doings.

  I had nothing to hide. Of the many names people might call me, “liar” was not one of them. Alice surely had no secrets worth keeping, for she was but twenty-three. With a start I realized that by the time I had turned twenty-three I had been a courtesan for five long years. I shot another look at Alice. Hmm. It would not do to underestimate the daughter of Eamon Wainwright.

  Lord B____, on the other hand, could be called every name in the book and they would still not encompass the extent of his evil.

  “Very well.” The solicitor shuffled his papers about on the desk and began to read. “Hereby stands the last will and testament of Eamon Wainwright of Bannerfield Hall. I, Eamon Wainwright, being of sound mind, do state that…”

  The man droned just a little and I was still trying to conceive of what Alice’s life might be like in the hands of Lord B____, so I did not closely attend the next several paragraphs pertaining to the dispensation of the estate (to Alice, of course, since it was not entailed) and the fine horses that his wife had so devotedly bred (to his wife’s brother, who shared her passion for them) and his personal wealth, which would obviously go to Alice again—

  “… unless my daughter Alice should be so idiotic as to wed that malignant wastrel, Lord B____, in which case half my wealth, some fifteen thousand pounds, will go at once into the hands of my devoted Blackbird, Miss Ophelia Harrington—”

  “What?” Lord B____ let out a roar of rage that completely drowned out Alice’s gasp of shock.

  I sat stunned. Oh, Eamon, how could you involve me in this, knowing what you know? And then, in a startled flash, I realized that Eamon had revealed my true identity, which I hadn’t even known that he’d known. I wondered how much involvement this capable little solicitor had in tracking down the old Ophelia. He shot me a sharp glance. Oh, quite a bit, I imagined.

  Lord B____ was shouting now, his fury unleashed on the bearer of bad tidings, who sat through it all with a quiet lack of intimidation. People must lose their tempers in his office quite often.

  Then Alice stood and placed one trembling hand on Lord B____’s arm. He whirled on her, but quieted at once. “Take me home,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t care about the money. I only want to get away from her.”

  All eyes fixed on me, the apparent cause of all distress. Had I only so much power in the world! Unfortunately, since Lord B____ had already revealed the engagement there was no concealing it now. If the two of them wed, Alice would lose half her substantial fortune.

  I only hoped Eamon’s last attempt to bring her to her senses would work. I, myself, had no interest in the money. Eamon had taught me a great deal about investments. I was secure, if not actually wealthy. I need not even find another protector if I did not wish it, although if I gave up the life of a courtesan, what life would I live?

  When they left, I turned to the solicitor. “Eamon should not have done this.”

  He spread his hands. “And yet he did. A man’s fortune is his to dispense as he wishes.”

  I looked after Alice worriedly. “I hope she opens her eyes. If the girl has an ounce of self-preservation…”

  The solicitor shot me a look. “Then you would get nothing.”

  Oh, Eamon. I gazed at the floor. “What I wanted I lost ten days ago.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, the little man rocked back on his heels. “Mr. Wainwright talked about you a great deal. You made him happy, although to be truthful, I thought he was a man in the grip of a middle-aged folly. I am very pleased to see that I was entirely wrong.”

  I met his even gaze without shame. “I’m glad I pleased him. He deserved whatever happiness I could provide.” I thought of poor, deluded Alice. “I only wish I could convince his daughter to look elsewhere for hers.”

  Twenty-nine

  Boston

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Linc told Melvin Tostel. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  The security guard hooked his key ring to his belt and looked him up and down like he didn’t trust him.

  Linc made a rectangular shape with his hands. “It’s a day planner, about six by nine, black leather. I must have left it in here this afternoon and I’ve been completely lost without it—I couldn’t even sleep!”

  Melvin narrowed his eyes at him. “I’ll let you go about your business, Mr. Northcutt. I’ll be up at the security desk to sign you out. Soon.”

  Linc nodded, pretending not to notice that Tostel had warned him to be quick. He began to search frantically for what was already shoved down into the front of his shirt, nicely hidden by a button-down shirt and navy blue blazer that was hot as hell.

  “I’ll be up in a jiffy!” he said, watching the security guard disappear from the doorway. Linc listened for the elevator to ding and the doors to close. Silence. He had to work fast. He didn’t want to raise Melvin’s suspicions enough that he would tell Piper about Linc’s little midnight visit.

  The workroom was a disaster. He spun around, his mind racing. What he needed was something that would shed light on the Sir Speedy mystery page. He needed to confirm that the words on that page were exactly what he thought they were, and that they absolutely had found their way into the exhibit.

  The possibility made him shiver with pleasure every time he thought of it.

  But what, exactly, was Piper up to? It was driving him insane that he couldn’t figure out what she was doing. The exhibit taking shape upstairs was exactly as she’d described to the trustees. Yet those erotic sentences Linc had found were written by Ophelia Harrington’s hand! Piper and Mick knew that! They had uncovered some kind of seriously juicy scandal, and there was no way they’d hide the truth to avoid causing a stir. They were too honorable for that.

  Linc rifled through all the desk drawers, seeing nothing that struck him as noteworthy. He quickly perused the shelves and the boxes near the worktable. Nothing. He scanned a stack of exhibit design sketches, and that’s when he saw something quite puzzling.

  The physical dimension
s on these pages were almost identical to the exhibit proposal Piper had submitted to the board. But that’s where all similarity ended.

  Linc pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and tore through the papers as fast as he could. The installation in his hand was entitled “Harrington 2,” and the central exhibit was a … a …

  Linc’s eyes bugged out. No fucking way.

  As he pored over the plans for the individual exhibit chambers and an itemized checklist of artifacts, his shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. This was better than anything he could have whipped up in his dreams—Piper was planning a completely and totally different exhibit than what was expected for the Fall Gala.

  Oh, this is rich, he thought. Piper fancied herself as some sort of vanguard feminist curator, when in reality, anyone who would rock their career boat at a time like this was a stone-cold twit.

  Her office had a bigger window, didn’t it? He could probably start moving in next week.

  Linc bundled the sketches together as quickly as he could and returned them exactly where he’d found them. On the way up the elevator, he had to force himself to stop giggling. His first duty was to double-check that everyone in Piper’s life had received their gala invites.

  Linc yanked the day planner from inside his shirt just before the elevator door opened on the main floor.

  He jogged toward Melvin, seated at the main security desk. “Got it!” he said brightly, waving the book in the air before he signed out. “Have a nice night!”

  Thirty

  London

  Breakfast was once again interrupted by the Swan and her news sheet, but this time she rushed into my chamber, her lovely face as pale as marble. “Ophelia! You must flee London!”