by Diane Gaston
‘Legrand,’ Vincent repeated. ‘He is no challenge at all. You will wrap him around your little finger in no time.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But Hercule will remain nearby, will he not?’
Hercule, large, strong and intimidating, was employed as a flash man to make certain none of the working girls suffered mistreatment. He stayed within shouting distance in case things did not go as planned.
‘But of course.’ Vincent threaded her arm through his. ‘Time to turn yourself into Madame Coquette.’
They walked up the servants’ stairs to a room on the first floor where the dresser arranged Cecilia’s hair and applied just a light dusting of rouge on her cheeks and lips.
‘What dress today, Coquette?’ the dresser asked.
‘The red, I suppose.’
The red gown was made of fine silk, its neckline, sleeves and hem trimmed in gold embroidery. The neckline dipped lower than what Cecilia would wish, but it was perfect for Madame Coquette. Her gowns were fine enough for a high-priced courtesan, but they were not hers. The manager of the club paid for them.
Once in her gown and slippers, Ceclia said au revoir to the dresser. In the hallway with Vincent, there was nothing left to do but meet her customer.
Vincent held her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Deep breath!’ he commanded. ‘Breathe in, Madame Coquette!’
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let herself become her alter ego.
Lifting her chin, she opened her eyes again and nodded to Vincent who turned her towards the door that led to the drawing room and gave her a little push.
With a slight sway to her hips that had not been there before, she entered the drawing room and made straight for Monsieur Legrand as if she were eager to be in his company.
He gaped at her as she approached him, almost spilling his glass of wine and only remembering to stand when she drew near.
‘Legrand,’ she said in a voice deeper than she usually spoke, emphasising the grand. ‘It is my pleasure to entertain you tonight.’
Legrand was a man in his fifties, who obviously enjoyed the fruits of his labour. His round stomach strained at the buttons of his waistcoat, which was well tailored and made of the finest cloth. His nose had the red hue of someone who enjoyed too much wine and his neck disappeared behind his jowls. Yet he displayed himself to her as if she would find him irresistible. No wonder so many courtesans had their beginnings in the theatre. It took a great deal of acting to convince a man such as this that his company was desired.
He’d paid a great deal for this night with her, although the manager of Maison D’Eros took the lion’s share. Her goal was to save enough for a modest living somewhere, ideally back in England, for which she was always homesick—even more so since spending the day with Oliver. It would take her a long time to amass such a sum. Years, perhaps. She’d been building Madame Coquette’s reputation over the last year and a half and she had little more than what travel expenses to England would cost her.
‘Shall we retire to my room?’ she asked, taking his arm.
‘Yes. Yes,’ he stammered.
She led him up to the second floor to a room that was not exclusively hers. Others, including Vincent, used it on other nights of the week.
She gestured for Legrand to open the door and she swept by him to enter the room, decorated in red-silk drapery on the walls and white and gold damask upholstering the chaise and sofa. The tables were mahogany embellished with gold and Egyptian motifs made popular by Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt. On the tables were crystal decanters of wine and brandy, bottles of champagne, and plates of grapes and cheeses. Prominent in the room was a large bed, its covers and canopy in a white fabric similar to the upholstered chaise and chair, trimmed in gold fringe.
Cecilia’s silk red gown was perfect for the room. She looked as if she were part of the room’s decoration.
Legrand closed the door and lunged for her, throwing himself at her and slamming his lips against hers.
She pushed him away. ‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She spoke with great indignation. ‘How dare you attack me like—like you are a hound in heat. I will not stand for such disrespect!’
‘Forgive me, madame.’ He grovelled. ‘I could not help myself. The mere sight of you lights a fire in me that can never be extinguished!’
She straightened her clothes. ‘Well, I suggest you compose yourself immediately. Remember the bargain, monsieur. You have paid for my time, but that is all. You must win me over if you want any more of me.’
This was the brilliant ruse Vincent had thought up for her. Her customers were required to make her want to bed them. And if she wanted it, she promised them rapturous satisfaction.
Of course, she never wanted any of them.
‘What might I do to please you?’ Legrand asked.
She lowered herself onto one of the sofas. ‘First you may pour me some champagne and amuse me with your repartee.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Legrand nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the champagne bottle and open it.
The champagne always made being Madame Coquette a bit easier.
Legrand babbled of once meeting and advising Talleyrand, the French politician who’d managed to operate at the highest levels of government through Louis XVI, the Revolution, Napoleon and now the Restoration.
As if Talleyrand would accept advice from such a ridiculous man.
‘Talleyrand.’ She made a sound of derision. ‘He is the one no one trusts completely, is that not so? He is a traitor to France. Am I to admire you for associating with a traitor?’
If Legrand had vilified Tallyrand, she would have praised Tallyrand as a great statesman of France.
Because, no matter what Legrand said or did, she was not going to be pleased by him. He would never win her over. That was the point.
Legrand continued to try, attempting to impress her with his wealth and his success as a merchant. Cecilia could almost feel sorry for him, except he was willing to pay for a woman’s favours, merely to impress his compatriots.
Conversation inevitably came to an end and Legrand began spouting flattery. ‘Madame, your beautiful skin makes me long to touch you. You are the most ravishing of Paris courtesans. I would have paid double for this night with you. Triple. And considered it worth every franc.’
Cecilia wished her price had been negotiated higher. This was something to discuss with the manager, who might be underselling her services.
‘You flatter me, monsieur,’ she said, dipping her head and fluttering her lashes the way Vincent had shown her.
His expression turned eager. ‘Please, I beg you, madame. Sit with me.’
‘With pleasure.’ Cecilia girded herself and moved to the chaise.
Legrand put his arm around her. ‘This is much better. Much better.’
She pretended to sigh. ‘Would you pour me more champagne?’
‘More champagne?’ He sounded both surprised and disappointed. ‘As you wish.’
‘For you as well.’ She smiled sweetly.
He opened the second bottle of champagne and poured two glasses, handing one to her.
She tapped her glass against his. ‘To this lovely night.’
He puffed up with hope. ‘This lovely night.’
He drank the contents in one gulp and put his arm around her again. As Cecilia slowly sipped hers, he stroked her arm, then became bolder and put his hand on her thigh.
‘May I kiss you?’ he asked while he performed the greater indignity of kneading her thigh.
She took her time to drink the last of her champagne, then smiled. ‘Of course you can!’
He placed his dry, thin, fleshless lips against hers and held her in both arms.
She made herself remain still for a moment, before st
arting to cough. And cough. And cough.
He released her. ‘What can I do? More champagne?’
She nodded, still coughing.
His hand shook while he poured another glass of champagne. She grabbed it from his hand and drank as if desperate for it.
When she’d composed herself again, she apologised. ‘Forgive me, monsieur. I—I tried...’ She let her voice trail off.
She positioned herself for another kiss and Legrand eagerly complied. This time he opened his mouth.
She made a sound and again pushed him away. ‘Did you clean your teeth, monsieur?’
‘My—my teeth?’ He looked befuddled.
‘I am sorry, but your mouth—the taste, the smell—it makes me cough.’ She reached for her champagne again.
He cupped his hand near his mouth and exhaled, trying to smell his own breath.
‘I cannot kiss you, monsieur.’ She frowned. ‘I am so sorry.’
He moved towards her. ‘We can proceed without kissing.’
She allowed him to touch her, to fondle her breasts, to run his hands down her body before pushing away again. ‘It is no use, monsieur. I am certain you are a very fine gentleman and I am so very impressed by your wealth and your importance, but I must feel something for the men I bed. They must stir me and you—you do not.’
He looked as if she’d slapped him.
This was the dangerous moment. When the man was filled with lust, but spurned. This was when Hercule might be needed.
‘I am very certain this has never happened to you before,’ she said. ‘You are such a fine gentleman. I do not know what is wrong with me.’
He puffed up again. ‘Never happened before. Never. Women like me. Many women.’
‘I am certain they do,’ she said soothingly.
He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Perhaps we can proceed anyway? I will not hold it against you if you do not—do not get pleasure from it.’
‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She pretended to be horrified. ‘You wish me to bed you without feeling on my part?’
‘Well...’
She shook her head. ‘No. That is not what I do. Remember the bargain?’ The rules set forth for a night with Madame Coquette were very specific. ‘I must want to couple with you and now, I simply cannot. I will have another coughing fit and I know you would not wish me to have another coughing fit.’
‘No...’ He rubbed his face. ‘I told all my friends.’
‘You told your friends that you had arranged a night with me?’ she asked.
He nodded, looking horror-struck.
She reached over and patted his hand. ‘It is not your fault. It is entirely mine.’ She always tried to take the blame. She had no wish to humiliate the men, although with some of the more unpleasant ones, it was tempting.
‘No one will believe that.’ His lower lip jutted out like a hurt child. ‘Some of them are here tonight. In the card room. If they see me leave early—’
‘You must not leave early, then!’ she reassured him. ‘We will stay the whole night, until just before dawn. Will that do?’
He seemed to be considering it. ‘Just before dawn. That might work. My wife will expect me home about then.’
The men always had a poor wife waiting at home.
‘And you must tell your friends whatever will impress them,’ she added. ‘I will never say anything but that my time with you was incredibly passionate. I will say I was impressed by your skill—because I am sure I would be, if it were not for my awful cough. Because of the smell.’
‘You would be, that is very true.’
She patted his hand again. ‘I am very sure I would be.’
He flushed with pride, as if he really had given her incredible passion.
Cecilia was always surprised how easy it was to talk these gentlemen out of bedding her by complimenting their supposed prowess. What the man’s friends thought of his night with her was always more important to them than the act itself.
‘What will we do all night?’ he asked.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. ‘We can play piquet!’
Chapter Five
November 1818, three months later
Oliver leaned against the wall in the billiard room of Vitium et Virtus, watching Frederick and Jacob knock the balls in the pockets of the green baize table. The day’s weather was cold and drizzling, but the fire in the fireplace kept the room comfortably warm. Frederick was meticulously lining up his next shot, taking long enough that Oliver began tapping his foot.
‘Just take the shot, Fred,’ he said impatiently. ‘This fuss does you no good.’
Frederick ignored him and continued to study the ball some more before placing his cue and executing a perfect shot, sending Jacob’s cue ball and the red ball into the pockets.
‘That’s the game,’ groaned Jacob.
Frederick looked up and grinned. ‘Does me no good, Oliver?’
‘You would have made it without all that fuss.’ Oliver picked up his cue and stepped up to the table while Frederick retrieved the balls from the pockets.
Jacob flopped in a chair. ‘That is the second game you’ve won over me.’
‘You were distracted.’ Frederick turned his grin on the new duke. ‘Thinking of your bride, no doubt.’
Jacob laughed.
It was gratifying to see Jacob happy. Oliver had often caught Jacob spending the night hours at Vitium et Virtus, drinking and looking more haggard by the day.
Jacob had been reeling with grief over the accident that killed his father and brother, and lamenting that he was not up to the enormous responsibility of a dukedom.
But then Jacob met his Rose.
Oliver wished them well. He really did.
He wished Frederick and Georgiana well, too.
Both Oliver’s friends were obviously besotted with their wives. When Oliver saw them with the women, the loving looks and tender touches between them reminded him of the many gestures of affection he’d long ago witnessed between his mother and father.
But his father had still left his mother behind in India.
Obviously love fled in the wake of expediency. Once gone, love could destroy.
Oliver sincerely hoped the love shared by Frederick, Jacob and their wives would not be so easily shattered. But he would not wager any money on it.
And he was known to wager on almost anything.
Oliver stood next to Frederick and they hit their respective cue balls simultaneously to see who would have the first shot. Oliver’s ball stopped closest to the baulk cushion. He went first, hitting both Frederick’s cue ball and the red ball.
Oliver concentrated on the billiards. That was what he liked about games or any competition. He could focus on winning and push all other thoughts out of his mind. Unfortunately, Frederick’s careful approach to billiards gave Oliver too much time to think.
He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Back to discussing my wife,’ Jacob said in good humour. ‘I highly recommend marriage.’
‘As do I.’ Frederick continued to eye the ball. ‘You should try it, Oliver.’
‘Not likely.’ Oliver’s reply came quickly.
‘You will change your tune.’ Frederick continued to consider the placement of his cue. ‘Once you meet the right lady.’ He finally hit the red ball and sent it into a pocket.
Did Frederick not see how easily his marriage to Georgiana might have turned to misery? Oliver held his tongue, though.
He took his shot and this time sent Fred’s cue ball into a pocket.
‘Maybe he already has.’ Jacob rose to pour himself some brandy. He turned to Oliver. ‘The mysterious Parisian lady.’
Cecilia.
‘No
nsense.’ He regretted telling them of her, not that he’d said much, and it had taken him some time to divulge even that meagre information. He never discussed the more private elements of his time with women.
‘You cannot tell us you do not think of her,’ Jacob persisted. ‘You’ve been different since that trip. A veritable malcontent.’
‘I dispute that statement.’ Oliver tapped his foot, impatient over Frederick’s care in executing his shot. Or at least that was the reason he told himself his toe was tapping.
Frederick finally hit the ball. ‘I agree with Jake. You’ve been moodier. And what lady was your last conquest? No one since Paris.’
Frederick was right, of course. ‘You assume too much. Perhaps I do not tell you of my every liaison. Perhaps I am discreet.’ Oliver took his shot and missed.
His friends exchanged knowing glances.
He played the rest of the game in disgruntled silence. And lost.
Oliver refused to believe that the brief encounter with Cecilia had sent him into this funk. Perhaps the cause was because he’d not accomplished his goal in Paris. He’d not found very much new to offer at their club. Nothing, at least, that was not distasteful to him.
Too much of Vitium et Virtus was becoming distasteful to him.
But that was a worry that had preceded his trip to Paris.
He must admit that the memory of Cecilia did linger in the recesses of his mind. A church bell would call back the image of her in Notre Dame, the sun through the rose windows bathing her face in colour. One of the lady patrons of the club wrapped her Kashmir shawl around her shoulders, just as Cecilia had. Their new French songstress had Cecilia’s colour hair.
Reminders were to be expected, were they not? Yet surely that bore no special significance.
‘Another game?’ Frederick held up a cue ball.
Jacob stood and picked up a cue.
Oliver poured himself some brandy and lowered himself into a chair. The room had been designed for their comfort, his, Jacob, Frederick and Nicholas. The richly carved oak panelling on the walls came from a German monastery. The billiard table, with its fine green-baize surface, filled the room’s centre, but around it were the most comfortable chairs in the club and enough tables and cabinets to hold the ever-present brandy. The chandelier’s many candles illuminated the billiard table so play could continue all night, if desired.