A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  Those voices and memories might be crowding his head, but he could not let them matter.

  Cecilia was in trouble of some kind. Even if she was lying, her distress was genuine. And he did have the means to help her.

  ‘Do you know something, Oliver?’ Cecilia picked up her gloves and cloak from the side table. ‘I was mistaken to come here. I do not need anything from you. Forgive me for wasting your time.’

  She swept out of the room.

  What? First come and ask for money, tell a tale that, unbeknownst to her, was guaranteed to tug at his heartstrings, then run out?

  He would not have her disappear again.

  ‘Cecilia! Wait!’ He rushed after her.

  His butler still attended the hall.

  ‘Where did she go?’ Oliver asked.

  Irwin lifted his hands. ‘Out the door.’

  ‘And you did not stop her?’ he growled.

  ‘I was supposed to stop her?’ Irwin asked.

  ‘You do not understand, man.’ Oliver strode towards the front door. ‘I do not know how to find her.’

  He opened the door and ran out, sweeping his gaze up and down the street. He did not see her. His house was near the corner, so he hurried to look on Jermyn Street. He could not see her there either. How could she have disappeared so quickly? How was he to find her again? He must.

  Because he needed to tell her it did not matter what trouble she was in, he could and would help her. If she were indeed carrying a child, even if that child was not his, he had no wish to make them both destitute, no wish to force her into the terrible choices with which women in her situation were forced to make.

  Without a topcoat or hat, he walked in every hotel on Jermyn Street and asked for her, but no one could recall a guest who matched her name and description.

  How was he to find her?

  He’d mishandled things, become confused by the voices in his head, voices of his friends and his father. But his friends and his father had never met Cecilia, had never spent time with her. He could not believe he had totally misread her character.

  He sensed there was much she was not telling him. No wonder he could not instantly believe her, could not immediately decide how to proceed. Besides, his whole life his father had hammered into him to be wary of women, that they would lie and deceive to get their hands on his wealth.

  He’d always wanted to ask his father if his mother had been after his father’s wealth. If so, Oliver never saw it. Certainly Oliver’s stepmother used his father for his fortune. She relished the heights of society his money and title provided for her—and had always warned Oliver that he would never belong there.

  There certainly had been women who were more enamoured of Oliver’s money than of Oliver himself, but none had tried to get more out of him than trinkets. None had tried to entrap him with claims they were with child. He’d always supposed the women did not want a bastard half-caste for more than a few passionate nights and some pieces of jewellery, and they certainly did not want the half-caste’s child.

  Perhaps that was why he’d simply been unprepared for Cecilia and her claim. He’d always believed the women he’d bedded were as eager to prevent a baby as he was.

  He’d lost her now, though, so what was he to do?

  She thought he’d refused her request. What would she do instead? If she was with child, would she feel forced to give up the baby to the Foundling Hospital? Oliver had visited the Foundling Hospital. He’d donated to it, but, although the hospital did good work raising unwanted children, too many of them died.

  The rain had stopped, but the sky was darkening and the air turned even chillier than when he’d dashed out of the town house. Tomorrow he’d go to Bow Street and see about hiring a Runner to track her down. And he’d continue his round of hotels.

  * * *

  Cecilia had hurried into Grenier’s Hotel on Jermyn Street, right around the corner from Oliver’s town house. Ironic that she should be staying so close to where he lived. The way her luck was transpiring she would encounter him again.

  She could not leave it to luck. Tomorrow she would look for somewhere else to live, somewhere cheaper, although how to find such a place, she did not know. She’d only been to London a couple of times when her older sisters were presented at Court.

  She pulled off her bonnet and walked to the window overlooking Jermyn Street. Below on the street, Oliver entered the hotel. Her heart pounded. He was pursuing her? Did he see her enter?

  Her senses had become finely tuned to other people’s moods. Especially men. She’d had to learn to read Duncan or else stumble into something that set him into a rage.

  She ran back to her door to make certain it was locked.

  Grenier’s Hotel catered to French expatriates and she’d registered as a French woman. Coquette Vincent was the name she’d used, although she’d had no good reason to hide her identity. Habit, she supposed. She was glad she had not given her real name. It would make it that much harder for him to find her.

  Still, she held her breath when footsteps sounded in the hallway.

  They continued past her door.

  She hurried back to the window and watched until she saw Oliver leave again, striding down the street away from his house.

  Apparently, she was safe.

  She walked over to the bed and lay upon it, resting her hand on her abdomen.

  ‘Poor petit bébé,’ she murmured. ‘How am I going to take care of you?’

  She refused to say she did not want this baby, now that the baby grew inside her. She knew what it was like to feel unwanted. Her parents had wanted a boy. After two girls, her older sisters, her parents had been certain the third child would be a boy.

  But Cecilia had been born instead. Her sisters were never happy they had to share the money for their dowries or their clothes and such. Her father could not be bothered with her at all, but when she was a child, she’d thought her mother cared for her a little.

  Until she’d asked to see her mother and father just the day before and they refused.

  Her mother had refused to see her.

  She sat up and hugged her knees.

  ‘I’ll take care of you, petit bébé,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll never turn you away.’

  She needed money. She could still work at something until her body swelled. She had a few months before that would occur. She’d survived on her own in Paris and she would do so here, as well, she vowed.

  She could do what she used to do in Paris. All she needed was a place, a club. She probably did not have enough time to build an interest in her as Madame Coquette. She and Vincent had worked over the course of a year to build Madame Coquette’s reputation. First by allowing the occasional man a night with her, then gradually building to more frequent nights as word of her selectivity spread.

  It did not matter, though, because she did not wish to be Madame Coquette ever again, but she could work in a club and make the men spend more money there.

  Most gentlemen’s clubs in London did not allow females anywhere near their establishments, but she had heard of a place that was much like the clubs in Paris. On Jermyn Street, too. She’d met an Englishman at Maison D’Eros who’d bragged about a club on Jermyn Street that he intended to own some day. He’d tried to impress her so she would agree to allow him to have a night with her, but there was something about him she did not trust, so she’d refused.

  But she remembered the club and the street it was on. She did not know the number, but how difficult would it be to discover which building was a gaming club?

  She rose from the bed, tidied her hair and put on her shoes. She walked down to the clerk of the hotel.

  ‘Pardon, monsieur.’ She spoke in French. ‘I have heard there is a club near here for playing cards where ladies may also play. Do you kn
ow where it is?’

  ‘I have heard of it, madame,’ the man answered. ‘It is on this street, they say, but I do not know what house.’

  ‘Are you certain you do not know?’ she persisted. ‘I will not tell anyone else, if that is what worries you.’ Really, how could a man who worked on this street not know this?

  ‘Nothing worries me,’ he snapped. ‘I know nothing of this club.’

  Now he knew nothing of it. Before he knew it was on this street.

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’ There was no point in pressing him further and making him angry at her.

  She would discover the club on her own.

  * * *

  When it turned dark, Cecilia donned her cloak and her half-boots and walked out of the hotel and onto the street.

  The pavement was illuminated by the soft glow of gas lamps, an innovation that made this time of night as busy as the day. Pedestrians filled the street, older men with young women on their arms, younger men and their friends, laughing and stumbling from too much drink, women, not unlike herself, unaccompanied, walking with swaying hips and skin exposed. Carriages rumbled by, fine carriages with crests painted on the side and humbler hackney coaches.

  It was difficult to discern which of the many houses on the street could be the gaming club for which she searched. She assumed the club would have people coming in and out the door, but people came in and out of several doors.

  She walked the street four times and soon received some interested stares from some of the men she passed. Her heart raced. Surely no harm could come to her in such a crowded place?

  A man stepped right in front of her. ‘How much, doxy?’

  She stepped back to get around him and bumped into another man. ‘We can pay,’ the other man said.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘I am not game.’

  The first man blocked her way. ‘I’d say you are as game as they come. What say you, Samuel?’

  His companion replied, ‘I’d say she ought to give it for free now for causing us trouble.’

  She tried to step around, but they would not let her. The first man reached for her.

  She jerked back. ‘Do not touch me!’ she cried in a loud voice. ‘Leave me alone and let me pass!’

  ‘Not tonight, doxy.’ He seized her arm and she readied her heel to come down hard on his foot.

  Suddenly, though, the man was pulled back. Someone had seized his collar and nearly lifted him off the ground.

  ‘Leave her!’ a man shouted, shoving her assailant into his friend and knocking them both to the pavement.

  Other people stopped to watch.

  ‘Leave,’ the man commanded. ‘Before you regret it.’

  The two scrambled to their feet, pushed their way through the spectators and disappeared down the street.

  A woman approached her. ‘Are you hurt? They did not hurt you, did they?’

  Cecilia wrapped her cloak around her. ‘I am not hurt.’

  She saw now that her rescuer was a well-dressed gentleman and his lady, a petite young woman with blonde hair and the kindest eyes Cecilia could ever recall.

  ‘Go now,’ the gentleman said to the onlookers. ‘Nothing to see any more.’ He spoke to Cecilia. ‘Are you certain you are unharmed?’

  Cecilia nodded, though her knees began to shake as the enormity of what could have happened to her struck her.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible fright,’ the lady said. ‘Come inside with us and we will get you something to drink.’ She turned to the gentleman. ‘Won’t we, Jake?’

  ‘We certainly will. Come with us.’ He walked up to an impressive black-lacquered door and sounded its brass knocker.

  A large man opened the door.

  ‘We are back, Snyder,’ the gentleman said.

  They escorted her inside to a drawing room off a large marble-tiled hall. Cecilia sat in an upholstered chair in front of a warm fireplace.

  Almost immediately the blonde lady poured her a glass from a crystal decanter. ‘Have some claret.’

  The lady sat on a sofa near Cecilia’s chair. ‘I am Rose,’ she said. ‘And this is my husband.’ She gave him a worshipful look.

  He laughed and placed a fond hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘You are not yet used to introductions, are you, love?’

  ‘I am perfectly aware of the correct way to do things, but she doesn’t need any fancy introductions, Jake,’ his wife retorted. ‘Not after what she’s been through.’

  Cecilia looked from one to the other. ‘What fancy introductions?’

  The gentleman extended his hand. ‘Duke of Westmoor.’ He inclined his head towards his wife and his voice grew soft. ‘And my duchess.’

  Cecilia felt her face drain of blood. She’d never before met a duke. ‘Your Grace.’ She shook his hand. ‘I am Mrs Lockhart.’ Her real name slipped out instead of her alias in her shock.

  The Duke, a handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes, sat next to his wife.

  Cecilia glanced around the room, which appeared nothing like she’d expect a duke’s house to appear. On the walls were large paintings of naked Roman gods frolicking in lush green gardens. A statue of a nude in a very suggestive pose stood in the corner.

  ‘I know you must wonder why I was out by myself.’ Cecilia felt she owed them some explanation. ‘I—I am staying in a hotel nearby and I was looking for—for a place I’d heard of.’

  ‘What place?’ the Duke asked, looking eager to help.

  She took another sip of her claret. ‘I was looking for a gentlemen’s club. A gaming place.’

  The Duke and Duchess exchanged glances.

  ‘I know it sounds scandalous,’ she admitted. ‘But I am in rather straitened circumstances and I thought perhaps I might find employment there.’

  They exchanged glances again.

  ‘Perhaps you have heard of such a place?’ she went on. ‘I believe its name begins with a V.’

  ‘Vitium et Virtus,’ they said in unison.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps.’

  The Duchess laughed. ‘You have found it!’

  ‘This is Vitium et Virtus.’ The Duke made a gesture that encompassed the whole room. ‘It is closed tonight. It is not open every night.’

  The Duchess looked sympathetic. ‘Tell us about your straitened circumstances.’

  ‘I—I was widowed—my husband was a soldier. He fought at Waterloo.’ British people were impressed by Waterloo veterans, even though Duncan’s career as a soldier was nothing heroic. ‘I was stuck in France for a while, but when I came home, the only relative I counted upon could no longer help me. I am quite alone.’ It was all true, but certainly not the whole of her story. ‘I’ve worked at a club before.’

  ‘What did you do at the club?’ the Duke asked, with the slightest edge to his voice.

  He wanted to know if she was—was what the two men who accosted her thought she was.

  ‘I worked as a hostess,’ she said. ‘I flirted with the men, eased their time at the club, brought them drinks and food, made them comfortable, urged them to spend more money. The more important the man, the more attention he received. I never sold my favours, though. Never.’

  Explaining Madame Coquette would be too difficult and who would believe it?

  ‘A hostess?’ The Duke looked thoughtful. ‘We’ve never had a hostess. What do you think, Rose?’

  What did he mean we’ve never had a hostess?

  His wife smiled, making her look even lovelier. ‘I think it sounds like an excellent idea. And it will help Mrs Lockhart.’

  The Duke extended his hand once more. ‘You are hired, madame. We are closed tonight, as you can see, but you may start tomorrow. We have a gambling and entertainment night tomorrow.’

  ‘She
should come before then to meet everyone?’ His wife turned to her. ‘Come around six in the evening. Six would be good, would it not, Jake? We will introduce you to everyone.’

  Cecilia shook her head in confusion. ‘I am perplexed. Why does a duke hire a hostess for a gentlemen’s club?’

  The Duke smiled. ‘I am part-owner. It is a long story and we do not have time right now. Our carriage is waiting. Tomorrow? Come at six.’

  ‘We cannot allow her to walk back to her hotel alone,’ the Duchess protested.

  ‘Indeed we cannot.’ The Duke stood and faced Cecilia. ‘You must ride in the carriage with us.’

  So Cecilia rode back the short distance to Grenier’s Hotel in a duke’s carriage.

  But she had a job and a chance to work out what to do next.

  When she lay in her bed a little while later, sleep eluding her, she pressed her hand to her abdomen. ‘We’ll survive, petit bébé. We will survive.’

  Chapter Seven

  The next evening Oliver walked through the public rooms of Vitium et Virtus, checking on the preparations. The game room was set up with several tables for cards, a hazard table and a faro table. It was important to Oliver that the atmosphere be elegant, tasteful, even if unapologetically bawdy in its painted ceiling, a bacchanalian scene they’d commissioned from an Italian artist.

  Oliver continued on to the ballroom, which was set up with a stage at one end. There would be musicians in one of the balconies and the songstresses would appear on the stage.

  In his youth, Oliver enjoyed the naughty songs sung at the club. The singing had been one of his favourites of the club’s offerings. He’d even joined the women, lending his voice to theirs.

  She’s Tall and Slender,

  She’s Soft and Tender,

  Some God commend her,

  My Wit’s too low:

  ’Twere Joyful plunder,

  To bring her under,

  She’s all a wonder,

  From Top to Toe.

  But now it seemed rather juvenile. Some of the songs were extremely graphic and those were the ones their members liked the most. Some of the club’s employees liked to sing them, too. The women used the songs to entice willing gentlemen to spend more money on them. The women poured compliments in the men’s ears, making them think it was their manliness that attracted and not their money.