A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man

by Celeste Bradley

  He smiled sadly. He’d forgotten all about it in the mad rush to prepare the exhibit. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d forgotten everything and anything last night, including the gift, and not because he was busy. It was because the bitter wind blowing off Piper’s cold shoulder had frozen him solid. He hadn’t been able to think about anything last night except for the way the oxygen had been sucked from Piper’s workroom the instant she pursed her lips and calmly said, “I need to go.”

  Just like that, the open, lusty, vibrant Piper he’d come to love was gone. Back in her cave. And it was because of him.

  His fingers trembled as he tore off the little bit of wrapping paper around his gift. Underneath was a plain white box, the kind a department store might give you with your new tie clasp.

  He took off the lid.

  His felt his stomach free-fall every one of those thirty-two thousand feet.

  She’d given him the key to her apartment.

  Mick swallowed hard and looked out the window, overcome with sadness and the weight of his own stupidity.

  Piper had just gathered the courage to offer it all to him and he’d thrown it right back in her face. He knew Piper. He knew that to her, the whole exchange must have had a familiar, decade-old stink to it.

  And this time she’d bared more than her perfect breasts—she’d opened her perfect heart.

  Mick swung his head around and tapped the shoulder of the busy man sitting next to him. The man looked up from his computer and removed an earbud. “Yes?”

  “Where are we?” Mick asked.

  The guy became instantly wary. “Uh. On a plane.”

  Mick laughed like a man coming unglued. “I mean, how long till Chicago?”

  He shrugged and replaced his earbud. Mick began to poke at the flight attendant button with impatience.

  She arrived momentarily, looking a bit perturbed. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “How long till we’re on the ground?”

  She checked her watch. “Another hour or so. Are you experiencing a medical emergency of some kind?”

  Mick ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He groaned in frustration, then laughed. “No. I’ve just made the worst mistake of my feckin’ life, is all. Thanks for asking.”

  She turned on her heels and headed back up the aisle. “Off his meds!” she chirped.

  Mick began making a mental list of what had to happen as soon as he hit the ground—he’d change his airline ticket, have his agent call the Compass people and tell them to feck off if they couldn’t wait a few goddamned days, and get Cullen to bring his tux to Logan and drive him into the city.

  He was coming home.

  * * *

  Piper could not believe what she was seeing in the mirror. She looked like an early nineteenth-century Englishwoman of scandalous celebrity, not some twenty-first-century soon-to-be-unemployed chick.

  She sighed and smoothed down the scarlet satin of the bodice, just a little too formfitting for polite society. “I can’t thank you enough for this dress, Brenna. It’s so perfect. It’s modeled after the one Ophelia wore at the trial, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. I thought it was the perfect statement for you to make tonight.”

  Brenna stood behind her, beaming with pride. “You’re going to take everyone’s breath away, Pipes. You’re absolutely stunning.”

  She turned a bit to the side to check her hair and the dramatic scooped back and the fiercely low-cut front. It only made her harrumph. “I wanted to take Mick’s breath away.”

  Brenna leaned in close. “You already have, sweetie. I know you’re upset that he isn’t here tonight. It really sucks.”

  Piper nodded, seeing her face begin to bunch up with emotion.

  “How many calls of his have you ignored today?” Brenna asked, sounding thoroughly disgusted with her.

  “A few. I can’t deal with him right now. Please just let me get through tonight and then I’ll face my demons, okay?”

  Brenna shrugged. “I’m just saying—”

  “I’ll ruin my makeup if I cry any more.”

  Brenna patted her shoulder. “There’s no reason to cry. He’s a decent guy who is trying to do what’s right, and he’ll eventually figure out he fucked up.”

  “I know, I know. I understand all that intellectually, but I swear, Brenna—all I see is his back walking out of my apartment.”

  Brenna took Piper by the shoulders and spun her around. “Which apartment are we talking about?”

  “My apartment back in grad school.”

  “When was that?”

  “What? What do you mean—it was back when I was in grad school, like I just said.”

  “Uh-huh. How many years ago?”

  Piper laughed. “Okay. I see where you’re going—it happened a decade ago, not today, and Mick’s not being here tonight is not the same.”

  “See?” Brenna kissed her cheek, then wiped away any sign of her lipstick. “My work here is done.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m still angry at him.” Piper grabbed her small drawstring reticule from the bed and turned out her bedroom light. “We better go—don’t want to be late for my own execution.”

  * * *

  Four long hours after the plane landed at O’Hare, the TSA officers and FBI agents finally gave Mick the green light to get back on a flight to Boston. Apparently, any sudden change in travel plans that meant skipping the second leg of a ticketed journey didn’t sit well with security officials. Plus, his “odd” conversation with the flight attendant had earned him an escort the instant he’d deplaned.

  The first thing he did after he was released was call Cullen. He explained his change of heart, his encounter with airport security, and where and when Cullen should meet him.

  “Don’t forget my shirt studs,” he said.

  “For feck’s sake, Magnus! What are you going to do, change into your tux while I’m driving through the Ted Williams tunnel or something?”

  “That was my plan.”

  The second thing Mick did was call his agent. She was bewildered, but agreed to call Compass and give them his message, verbatim.

  “I think you’ve just shot yourself in the foot,” she advised him.

  Thirty-four

  London

  The second day of the trial dawned much like the first, gray and dank, just like my cell. My every movement echoed in the small chamber. I felt cut off from the entire world, walled in by what seemed like miles of stone. With something nearing nostalgia, I wondered what Hettie and Bertha were up to.

  I washed gratefully. The little solicitor had made sure that I was kept stocked with soap and water and relatively clean toweling. I dressed in the same horrid gown I had worn the day before, although my belief in its power had much diminished. It had not protected me. Instead, I had felt more naked and vulnerable than ever. A courtesan without her bosom on display is a sad creature, indeed!

  It seemed I had risen much too early from my lumpy pallet. I sat for hours, simply panting for some distraction from my thoughts. Then I heard footsteps outside my cell and the jingling of the jailer’s keys. I stood, feeling ice at the pit of my stomach.

  Would I emerge from this day with my feet on the ground or dangling in the air?

  The door opened and a man ducked through the low lintel, but it was not one of the turnkeys. My heart fluttered at the sight of the dark head of hair, but when he straightened I saw that it was only the man from the gallery, my one-time fiancé, Lord Malcolm Ashford.

  “Good morning, Miss Harrington.”

  I turned my back on him. “Leave,” I ordered over my shoulder. What was the point of good manners now? “You may gloat over my hanged corpse if you must, but I will not waste a minute of my life on your petty triumph!”

  “I cannot imagine a prettier corpse,” he retorted. His voice was deep but his tone was clipped and supercilious. “However, the breathing version is preferable, even to me.”

  I had to look at him then. “
Even now?”

  He nodded. “I bear you no ill will, Miss Harrington. In fact, I came here today to offer you absolution from your acts against me twelve years ago.”

  “How odd.” I pressed a palm to my forehead as I sifted through what might possibly have been the most pompous statement I had ever heard. Is this my final unction? I felt a bubble of mad laughter rising within me. “Perhaps I should have wed you after all. How appealing the gallows would be about now.”

  He cleared his throat and went on. “You are in a grave situation, Miss Harrington.”

  “Did you really just use the word ‘grave’?” I let out a breath. “There you go again, being unbearable.” I folded my arms and gazed at him in resignation. “You obviously have things to say to me. I, obviously, cannot flee the room screaming.” I waved a careless hand. “Have at it.”

  “I am not the insufferable twit you think me, Miss Harrington.”

  I gazed at him with no attempt to hide my doubt. He lifted his chin. I had to admit, he was a handsome fellow. I could not see his eyes very clearly in the shadows of the cell, but he looked as though he had all his orifices in the right places.

  “When you agreed to wed me—”

  “When I was forced to agree to wed you, you mean.”

  He was silent for a moment. “That was wrong of me, I admit. I apologize.”

  I drew back, surprised. For some reason, my inability to fit this man into some little box in my thoughts was very disturbing. Even his voice was less offensive to me now than it had been so long ago. “I accept your apology.”

  “However, you did lie.”

  I began to protest. He held up a hand. “I beg of you, let me finish a sentence.”

  One of my few flaws is my tendency to interrupt. I folded my hands and nodded silently. He went on. “Since you are known to be a forthright sort of woman, I only thought that this old falsehood might still be bearing on your mind.”

  I opened my mouth to assure him that I hadn’t the tiniest of regrets, but I realized that I did. Life had taught me that even good people sometimes made poor first impressions. I had judged and convicted this man on the basis of a single overheard conversation, however damning. Then I had misled several perfectly innocent people that a wedding would soon take place. “Well, I do feel terrible about the florist.”

  His lips quirked. “The florist was paid handsomely for his efforts.”

  Not by my relatives, I was sure. “By you?”

  He spread his hands. I drew my brows together. “Very well. Perhaps ‘insufferable twit’ does not apply.”

  With his hand pressed to his chest, he bowed slightly in thanks.

  “But that does not explain what you are doing here, my lord. The turnkey will come any moment to lead me to the Bailey.” My last private conversation of my life might be with the man I had jilted. “My existence is becoming increasingly bizarre,” I breathed to myself.

  He straightened. “Yes. Time is of the essence.” He tapped on the door in a manner akin to a signal. The door opened and an object was handed through. Lord Malcolm Ashford turned to me and handed me the large brown paper-wrapped parcel. “This is for you.”

  I stared at him. “Am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’?”

  His expression was extremely saturnine. “Open the package, Miss Harrington.”

  “Bizarre” was really not the right word. I sat upon the cot and untied the string wrapped about the package. The paper fell away to reveal a pile of rich ruby silk. I blinked. “What is this?”

  I looked up to see that he had withdrawn into the shadows once more. “That,” he said, “is what you should have worn yesterday.”

  I let my fingers trail over the gown, caressing the fine silk like an old friend I had dearly missed. I stood and held the dress up to me. It was deliciously daring and ruthlessly fashionable. I smiled then, a wild, wicked grin of old.

  The Blackbird was back.

  Thirty-five

  Boston

  Well, that hadn’t taken long.

  The scrim had gone up. A young, nearly naked Ophelia Harrington appeared, her hair in disarray, the tendons of her neck pulled taut as she struggled to escape the silk ropes that tied her to the auction block. The audio kicked in, and an Englishwoman’s voice cried out in surround-sound glory, “I had to fight to remember my humanity when all others saw me as something less!”

  Front and center, in strikingly designed lighting, hung the exhibit’s new title:

  THE COURTESAN CRUSADER: THE LIFE, LUST, AND LIBERATION OF OPHELIA HARRINGTON.

  Piper heard the sound of shattering glass, and figured someone had dropped their highball. Claudia Harrington-Howell’s face turned the color of half-dried cement. LaPaglia cried out like a man being pulled to pieces on the rack.

  Piper flipped the switch that illuminated the six chambers of the exhibit, beckoning them in. No one moved. No one breathed.

  She sighed and folded her hands upon the silk of her gown as she watched Claudia flee from the exhibit hall, holding a hand over her head as if she were at a loss for words at what she’d just seen, then parting the crowd with wide swings of her long arms.

  Thirty-six

  London

  I took the stand in that daring crimson gown. My hair rippled loose down my back, a declaration as obvious as a pirate flag. I licked my lips and smiled at every man attending, daring them to deny that they wanted me. I even wiggled my fingers in greeting to a few blokes in the gallery, making their jaws drop as their friends punched their shoulders in congratulations.

  The judge reddened beneath his powdered wig. Lord B____ glowered. Next to him, to my surprise, sat the man who’d come closest to caging the Blackbird. Lord C____. Ah. That explained a great deal. I had wondered where a wastrel like Lord B____ had gained the ear of the court. Lord C____ had power and wealth to spare for this act of vengeance. He glared at me malevolently.

  Now I wished he’d been awake for Kiri’s whipping. I thought of his reddened buttocks and smiled knowingly at him. His sneer faded slightly and his gaze shifted away.

  As the trial continued, the London coroner stood to give his statement. I watched him with wide eyes and a sultry fingertip in my mouth. Barely able to tear his gaze from my bosom, he stammered over the lie about the suspicion of poison, turning such a furious shade of red that his testimony became entirely unbelievable.

  My barrister, thrilled at the first chink in the prosecution’s armor, leaped to his feet and began to rip the rest of the testimony to shreds. Unfortunately, he could only progress as far as turning “foul play” into “undetermined causes” before the judge shut him down with a glower and a blow of his gavel.

  Next, I smiled through several gentlemen standing up and claiming that they had sometimes felt ill after dining or drinking in my presence. Since every one of them was an over-imbibing glutton, this fell somewhat flat upon the ears of those in the gallery, especially after the doubtfulness of the poison theory.

  Wisely, the prosecution dropped that tactic and decided to concentrate upon the fact that I would inherit giant piles of gold from my alleged felony. I did my best to portray a woman who didn’t need money, but the notion cost me a great deal of sympathy with the crowd. Neither a rich woman nor a gold digger was appreciated by the masses.

  As the afternoon wore on, I struggled to maintain the Blackbird’s saucy insouciance but my fury was growing. I no longer delighted in playing the coquette. I didn’t want to disturb and manipulate. I wanted to be believed. Yet how could I ever be heard if I were not allowed to speak?

  The prosecution’s final statement was more twaddle about how I had seduced and manipulated an upstanding man, then poisoned him for profit. My barrister shuffled his papers for a moment, then shot me a hopeless glance.

  That, I realized, was the last straw. Even my own defender did not think the fight worth fighting. In that moment I realized that the fight was always worth fighting. I glared at my barrister. “You’re sacked.” Th
en I stood. “I shall be making my own statement in my defense.”

  The judge shot a nervous glance in the direction of the seething Lord C____, then pounded his gavel. “You have not been asked to testify, Miss Harrington!”

  I folded my arms, which incidentally displayed my bosom to perfection, and faced him down. “Why is that, my lord? Why have I not been allowed to speak? Do you not think that these fine citizens…”—I waved a graceful hand to the crowd in the gallery—“deserve to hear what I have to say?”

  A grumbling began above us. The judge eyed Lord C____ and raised his gavel once more. Then his gaze was caught by, of all people, Lord Malcolm Ashford, now sitting in the area reserved for my supporters. I saw Lord Malcolm shake his head ever so slightly. The judge slowly lowered his gavel.

  “Miss Harrington shall be allowed to speak,” he said grudgingly.

  I tilted my head. “Thank you, my lord.” Not even the snoozing bailiff missed my ironic tone. “How nice to see that you are able to put the past behind you. I recall the first time I turned down your suit … and the second … and the third…”

  Snickering began in the gallery, and in truth, on the bench itself. The judge flushed and shot his recorders each a quelling glare. “That is not pertinent to this trial, Miss Harrington!”

  I smiled widely. “Isn’t it? When we strip away all the lies, isn’t that precisely what’s behind this trial? You pledged your entire fortune for one night between my thighs. If I remember correctly, you even offered to clap your lady wife into an asylum so that I might take up residence in the Lord Recorder’s House. How are your knees, my lord? As I recall, you spent a great deal of time on them, begging.”

  The judge’s upper lip twitched and his knuckles whitened on the gavel, but he only shot a single livid glance at Lord Malcolm before he sank back warily.

  Thus emboldened, I straightened in my box, determined to skewer the hypocrites, all of them. “My only crime has been to be a woman with a mind of my own. Because of that I stand accused of a murder I did not commit. And who are my accusers?”