Less than two hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey Drake were declared man and wife before a small gathering of close friends and family. The ceremony had gone off without a hitch, and Benedict couldn’t help feeling a bit smug about his hand in all of it. He’d handled the unforeseen challenges of the day with a level head, and without allowing his memories to ruin his enjoyment of the ceremony. Yes, it had required an effort on his part, but he’d managed to give Lucy away and experience genuine happiness for his best friend.
Now standing in front of the church waiting for the carriage to carry him back to Aubrey’s residence for the wedding breakfast, Benedict tried to rest in a moment of relief.
It did not last, for there was always another niggling worry hanging over his head. One that had become increasingly dire as time progressed. Glancing over at Hugh and his wife, Evelyn, who stood talking and laughing with David, Ben experienced a moment of guilt. He had told them nothing of the latest developments, nor did Nick or Aubrey know that he’d been keeping a closely guarded secret. He hadn’t wanted to alarm them, not until he was certain matters hadn’t spiraled too far out of his control.
As far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. The Gentleman Courtesans operated like a well-oiled machine, in relative secrecy despite the rumors that swirled around London. Of course, the rumors were only exacerbated by that vile columnist, The London Gossip. The woman penned a daily scandal sheet filled with the salacious happenings of the beau monde, to which everyone who was anyone subscribed. In it, she had exposed the existence of the Gentleman Courtesans several months ago, though she had not mentioned the names of any of the men involved.
Benedict had been confident enough to continue operating the agency with only a few adjustments in strategy. He had told the other courtesans to ignore the gossip rag and go about their business secure that they were safe to do so.
But then … he’d been attacked in an alley in Seven Dials, and the orchestrator of said attack had turned out to be none other than The London Gossip herself. He hadn’t seen her face, as she’d worn a veiled hat and had been protected by a collection of guards who were composed of more brawn than brains. She had issued a clear threat, one that Benedict could not ignore much longer.
The walls were closing in on him. The London Gossip knew he was the orchestrator of the entire business. That didn’t bother him as much as it ought to, when he was already known in London for spitting in the face of propriety. He mostly did it to annoy his father, a stodgy viscount concerned with appearances above all else, but also because it was damned fun. However, the columnist knowing his identity put the others in danger. If she knew he was the ringleader, did she also know about his friends? By associating with them publicly, was he further endangering them?
What had begun as a financial venture had now devolved into something else entirely, and Benedict feared he would soon lose control of it all. In the short time that had passed since the attack, he’d been consumed with the need to come up with some solution. However, with one courtesan getting married, another losing his head over a client, and several others who’d needed him to secure arrangements, Benedict had been overwhelmed. He was barely keeping his head above water, certain the next calamitous wave would take him under.
Swallowing the dread making his throat constrict, he forced those thoughts into the dark corners of his mind. Today was not the day for such thinking. Aubrey and Lucinda were signing the parish register, and would soon be ready to depart for the wedding breakfast. He would eat and drink champagne and bask in Aubrey’s happiness, and he would forget about this until later, when yet another sleepless night would plague him.
He turned to find Dominick striding past him, his long legs propelling him at an alarming speed. Benedict’s pulse spiked as he followed, his head echoing with bells of alarm.
“Nick?”
He didn’t respond, hands balled into fists as he pressed on. Benedict trotted to catch up, taking the other man by the collar of his coat and yanking him back.
“Nick, where the bloody hell are you going?”
Dominick whirled on him, batting aside Benedict’s hand. Fire blazed in his eyes, green sparks coming alive where before his irises had been deadened by grief. His mouth was a tight, determined line, and he radiated certainty and purpose.
This couldn’t be good.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I have to go to her.”
“What?”
Benedict flinched as several heads turned in their direction, but he lowered his voice and said, “Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s not too late. I have to talk to her, make her understand that I cannot live without her. I can’t simply stand back—”
“It is too late!” Benedict bellowed, forgetting about the other wedding guests milling about. Making a scene became the very least of his concerns.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he leveled a determined glare at Ben. “It isn’t too late. There’s still a chance.”
“Don’t be a fool, Nick.”
Dominick took hold of his shoulders. “I have to try, or I’ll regret it every day for the rest of my life. Can’t you stop being such a cold bastard for one minute and put yourself in my place?”
Benedict’s knuckles cracked as he flexed and clenched his hands, his skin growing hot. “I have been in your place. Do you want to know how it turned out? Much the way this is going to end for you.”
Dominick shook his head and began to back away. “No. No, I don’t accept that.”
With that, he turned and took off at a run, dodging a few pedestrians before picking up speed. Benedict bit back a string of curses, trying to appear composed as he turned to find Hugh and David looking on, their faces showing confusion and curiosity.
“Tell Aubrey I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have Nick with me.”
Without waiting for a response, he set off after Dominick. Teeth gritted as he ran, he rethought his earlier assessment of today’s occasion.
It was official. Now he really hated weddings.
Chapter 1
London, 3 months earlier …
“This time of year, London is overrun with desperate spinsters. Now that last Season’s crop of desirable debutantes has gone off on honeymoon trips with their new husbands, the dowdy and the forgotten may have their pick of the leavings.”
The London Gossip, 20 August , 1819
“Miss Barrington, surely you must know how much I’ve come to enjoy your company.”
Calliope Barrington offered a diffident smile to the man who had spent the past half hour overflowing with effusive compliments and poetic speech. Much to her surprise, Mr. Rufus Gordon had spent several weeks dancing attention on her. They’d made one another’s acquaintance through their fathers, who were old school friends. He was only ten years her senior, was neither handsome nor ugly, tall nor short, fat nor slender. He might just be the blandest man she’d ever met, quite easy to overlook or forget.
But, she had long grown past her years of aspiration and girlish fancy. At two-and-twenty, Calliope had reached the age of practicality.
“You are kind to say so, Mr. Gordon,” she replied, coming to a stop as he steered them off the Hyde Park path and onto a patch of grass beneath a large tree. Her sister remained in their shadow, close enough to keep them in her sights, but far enough to be out of earshot. “I, too, have enjoyed coming to know you.”
A bald-faced lie. The man was as boring as he looked, and a bit pompous to make matters worse. But, he was unwed and interested, and beggars could not be choosers.
He beamed his pleasure at her words. “I think we get on well, Miss Barrington. So well that I believe the time has come for us to speak of furthering our friendship, as it were. I find you to be both beautiful and companionable, and I think of you often when we are apart. If I may be frank, Miss Barrington—and I hope you will not think me too bold—I have found myself utterly bewitched by you.”
Calliope stiffened, doing her best to keep her ex
pression demurely neutral. She could never let on that in the midst of her relief at what must be an overture toward a proposal, there was also a great deal of dread. Her stomach went cold as if a glacier had settled there, and her gaze grew unfocused as she tried to muster a response.
“Again, you flatter me, Mr. Gordon.”
He took a step closer, his face swimming before her bleary eyes as he reached out to take hold of her upper arm. The gesture was subtle, the positioning of their bodies ensuring none of the passersby would notice.
When her vision cleared, she noticed he was staring at her quite intently. Actually, he was leering, his gaze falling somewhere south of her face. Her throat convulsed with disgust as his polite demeanor slipped, salacious ambition flaring in his eyes.
“I would be good to you, Calliope,” he murmured, her Christian name caressed with the forked tongue of a snake. “I am prepared to be very generous, if you understand my meaning. Yes, I can see you do.”
Calliope clenched her teeth around the urge to release the words of castigation resting on her tongue. She could never act in so unseemly a fashion in public. No, too many people would expect that of her. What was worse, it was unlikely anyone would believe that the so-called ‘gentleman’ had propositioned her. She would be the one cast in a bad light.
“Take your hand off me,” she ground out, giving her arm a twist to dislodge his hold. “And I have never given you permission to address me thus.”
Mr. Gordon’s hand dropped to his side, his expression transforming from one of anticipation and lust to one of annoyance. “Come, Miss Barrington. Surely you do not intend to play coy after we’ve spent weeks dancing around the inevitable.”
Calliope curled her hands into fists, disgust churning her stomach. “And here I thought your intention was courtship and that the outcome would be a respectable one.”
He smiled, once again the doting suitor, though the coldness in his eyes kept her on edge. “I have shocked you. I’m aware that despite your advanced age, you are still an innocent. I wasn’t certain, but you’ve proven that with your reaction to my overture. I am prepared to take that into account in coming to the terms of our arrangement.”
She recoiled, her gorge rising sharply. “Mr. Gordon, you have grossly misjudged my character if you think I could ever be coerced into such an arrangement!”
That was enough to wipe the smile off his face, but not nearly enough to stop him from offering further insult. “I understand that you are reticent, but once you’ve had time to think it over, you’ll see that mine is the best offer you are likely to get.”
Calliope flinched as if she’d been struck. Not the first time someone had alluded to her prospects in such degrading terms. Unlike the first instance, Calliope wasn’t overcome with rage or the urge to weep. She did not feel shame, for she had done nothing to lead this man to believe she was anything other than a respectable, unwed woman seeking a husband.
Cold resignation filled her as she realized yet another man had toyed with her and wasted her time. She was weary, she was annoyed, and she had had quite enough.
“Allow me to make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Gordon. I have no interest in such an offer, from you or any other man. Even if you are right that I should not hope for anything better than becoming some man’s chère-amie, I do think I could find a better protector than one such as yourself. Your looks are unremarkable, your skill at conversation sorely lacking, and your valet uses entirely too much of that pomade in your hair. And in case I haven’t made myself clear enough by now, clear off and good riddance.”
After such a set-down there was nothing left to do but spin on her heel and storm off, which she accomplished without tripping over her skirts or looking back. She felt Mr. Gordon’s gaze on her back, but was grateful the man didn’t try to pursue her. Apparently, he wasn’t as stupid as he seemed.
Calliope’s sister approached, concern in her blue eyes and a furrow between her brows.
“Oh dear. Did it not go well?”
Calliope’s only response was a garbled sound of outrage—one that might be classified as a grunt mixed with a muffled scream. Diana winced, looping her arm through hers and bodily urging her to slow her swift steps.
“Slowly now, and smile. People are watching.”
Calliope remembered that this time of day the park was at its most crowded, though it was not as clogged as it would be during the Season. Still, there were dozens of fashionable people of the ton about, and many of them stared openly as they walked past. Calliope stifled her emotions and forced a genial smile—a skill she’d had to develop since her first Season, and one that continued to serve her well. It would never do for any woman to act in an unseemly manner in public, but she would earn twice as much scrutiny for it. She could never give them a reason to look down their noses at her more than they already did.
“Deep breath, my dear,” Diana said through her teeth, simpering and nodding a greeting to a passing matron and two young ladies. “Now … tell me what happened.”
Her shoulders slumped as the weight of yet another defeat pressed down on her. “The same thing that always happens. I spend weeks or months letting a gentleman court me, thinking that perhaps this one will be different—this man will be the one. Meanwhile, they never want anything more than to get under my skirts, though they are never shy about letting me know how lucrative such an arrangement could be for me.”
It was difficult to keep her face passive as she hissed out her diatribe, voice lowered as much as her ire would allow. Her grip on Diana’s arm tightened, and she shook with the unrelenting anger thrumming through her. She wanted to march back to that tree and throttle Mr. Gordon.
“How preposterous they are,” Diana remarked with a shake of her head. “Don’t they know you’re an heiress with a fortune of your own? You have no need to become any man’s mistress.”
“It doesn’t matter to them. They don’t look at me and see a potential wife. They see a plaything … an exotic oddity they would flaunt on their arms and take to their beds, but they wouldn’t marry or sire sons with.”
Diana’s sweet face turned mournful, her blonde brows drawing together. “Oh, Callie … I wish your experience had been a better one. But you must believe the right man is out there. You cannot allow a few rotten apples to keep you from searching for him.”
Diana was so dear, always looking for the silver lining and attempting to bring joy to the people she cared about. And she was so good at it that everyone absolutely adored her. She’d had no problem nabbing a husband during her first Season, while Calliope had finished her third with nothing to show for her efforts. Diana continued to pretend she was shocked that her elder sister had not received an offer of marriage yet. Why wouldn’t someone want to marry the daughter of a viscount who came with a massive dowry and a father as influential and well-connected as theirs?
Diana meant well, but she could never understand. She looked upon Calliope and saw only the sister she loved. The rest of society saw a half-breed, a woman who was only considered one of them because of a twist of fate.
No one being introduced to the Barrington sisters would guess that they shared a father. Calliope was dark where Diana was light—her hair raven-black, her skin slightly bronzed, and her eyes a dusky brown. Diana had the round face, plump lips, and soft features of a perfect English rose, while Calliope carried the clear stamp of her Bengali mother’s heritage.
These differences had meant nothing when they were children. Calliope had been delighted to learn that her father’s second wife was with child, and was elated to be presented with a little sister to play with and love. It wasn’t until Calliope’s first Season that she was made fully aware of her perceived place in this world. It had stung, yet she had never let anyone but Diana know it.
“I’ve decided to give up. I will resign myself to being a wealthy spinster … perhaps I will develop a few interesting eccentricities. Do you think Hastings will mind if I live with the two of you until I
’ve died?”
Diana issued a dry laugh. “My husband is quite fond of you, as you know, and of course I want you to remain with us as long as you wish. I know how little you love living with Father and the aunts.”
Calliope groaned. “How can two such old, miserable crones still be alive? It defies all reason.”
“That they are so miserable is what keeps them with us. Tormenting the people around them gives the old hags something to live for.”
They leaned into one another and laughed, perhaps a bit too loudly, for they turned several heads. But it made Calliope feel better to jest and laugh with her sister. In the shadowy corners of her mind, she was aware that it could not last forever. Diana had been married to the Earl of Hastings for six months now, and suspected she was with child. Even if her instincts were proven wrong this time, children were inevitable. Diana had her own home, her own life, and would soon have a growing family demanding her time and energy.
Could Calliope continue living on the fringes of her sister’s existence, longing for the things she wanted but did not have?
She couldn’t even feign disappointment over Rufus Gordon, as she hadn’t even liked the man. But she would have tolerated him for the chance at a child, or perhaps two. Someone to love and call her own, even if that love was not romantic or passionate—was that so impossible?
“I refuse to allow you to give up,” Diana said, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin as if prepared to do battle on Calliope’s behalf. “Let’s see. Who can we pursue next?”
“Diana,” Calliope groaned. “Please. I am crying off. I do not like the feeling of desperation. For the love of God, I was ready to accept a proposal from Rufus Gordon.”
Diana shuddered. “It’s all right, dear, we all have lapses in judgment. What about Mr. Lambley?”
“Already betrothed. The wedding will be just after the start of the Season.”
Making of a Scandal (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 3) Page 2