A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

by Diane Gaston

  What would happen if Oliver arranged for Don Giovanni to be performed here one night? Something beautiful rather than bawdy.

  He suspected it would not do well.

  Snyder, the porter, came to the door. ‘The new woman is here, Mr Gregory.’

  ‘New woman?’ He knew nothing of this.

  ‘His Grace hired her last night,’ Snyder said. ‘Told her to come at six.’

  ‘Hired her? Where is Jacob? Is he here?’ Oliver asked. If so, he’d like to speak to him and ask what the devil was she hired for?

  ‘No, sir,’ Snyder said.

  ‘Well, where is Mr Bell? Have Mr Bell deal with her.’ Mr Bell was, by title, the club’s butler, yet in practice more of a manager. He and Mrs Parker, the housekeeper, saw to most of the mundane details of running the club.

  ‘Mr Bell is delayed,’ the porter said. ‘And Mrs Bell is on an errand.’

  ‘Zounds, is no one else here?’ Oliver did not hire the staff.

  ‘You are here, sir,’ Snyder said. ‘What should I do with the new woman, then?’

  He blew out a breath. ‘I’ll see her, I suppose. Where is she?’

  ‘I put her in the drawing room.’ He bowed. ‘Must get back to the door, sir.’

  Oliver waited a moment to collect himself. If Jacob had hired the woman, then Oliver supposed he’d go along with it, whatever ‘it’ was, but they usually discussed these matters first.

  He left the ballroom and descended the stairs. He crossed the hall, passing Snyder who again stood at his place by the club’s entrance. The drawing room was directly off the hall.

  Oliver opened its door.

  The woman stood with her back to him, staring at one of the paintings, the one where satyrs cavorted with scantily clad nymphs.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Lockhart?’

  She turned to him and it was as if he’d been punched in the chest.

  ‘Cecilia!’

  ‘Oliver?’ Her voice rose an octave.

  She wore the same green dress she’d worn the day before, the one that made her skin glow and her whisky-coloured eyes gleam. He wanted to tell her how glad he was to see her here, how he’d searched for her, both the day before and earlier this day, how he’d hired a Bow Street Runner to help find her.

  But what was she doing here?

  ‘I expected the Duke and Duchess.’ She sounded affronted.

  She knew Jacob and Rose? She’d told him she knew nobody. ‘How do you know the Duke and Duchess?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I met them by happenstance last night.’ She took a nervous breath. ‘I will tell you, but I hope you honour me with an explanation of your own. I was looking for this club—to ask for work—and I happened upon the Duke and Duchess who agreed to hire me.’

  He stared at her, certain she was leaving something out. ‘Hire you for what?’

  They had their singers and dancers and their maids. Vitium et Virtus needed no more workers. What could Cecilia do? Especially carrying a child.

  ‘To be a hostess.’

  ‘A hostess? What the devil does a hostess do?’

  She sighed as if she found explaining this role tedious. ‘It will be my job to make the wealthiest of your members as comfortable as possible, to fuss over them, flatter them, bring them drinks, make certain they spend a great deal of money. I should be able to do this for several months until my condition is too evident.’ She paused. ‘I did this work in Paris.’

  ‘You worked in a club in Paris?’ The clubs in Paris he’d visited were gambling dens and brothels. She’d worked in one? That was a great deal to conceal from him.

  ‘That is why I was by the Seine at dawn. I had just left the club.’ She spoke as if he ought to have known that. ‘You will next want to ask if I slept with the patrons. I did not.’

  He’d thought that would go without saying. Not one of the entertainment staff they employed at Vitium et Virtus had refrained from willingly sharing some gentleman’s bed.

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’ he shot back.

  She held his gaze. ‘It is the truth. A hostess is not a courtesan.’

  What need did Vitium et Virtus have for a hostess? ‘Did the Duke explain the nature of our club?’

  She glanced around the room. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘No, you cannot,’ he insisted. ‘We are not a brothel, but we are a place where men and women can be as free as they desire to seek pleasure in all manner of ways. We take no money from the private arrangements men and women make, even if the women are some of our entertainment staff. We do not allow that licence for the maids, footmen and other kitchen workers. For their protection. They are too vulnerable to being misused.’

  ‘Which would I be, then?’ she asked, still sounding defiantly wary.

  ‘You would not be a servant.’ He could never see her as a servant.

  ‘So I would be expected to sleep with the members?’ Her eyes flashed.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘You are free to decide for yourself.’

  She nodded, as if satisfied.

  His anger rose. ‘You say you are with child, but you are contemplating—’

  She held up a hand. ‘I will not sleep with your patrons or with anybody. And after you, I shared no man’s bed.’

  How could he believe this?

  ‘Now it is your turn for explanations.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Why are you running this place?’

  ‘I am part-owner,’ he retorted. ‘With the Duke and—with two more friends.’ Because Nicholas was still part-owner. He stopped himself. ‘Wait, Cecilia. We have unfinished business about this baby.’

  ‘I am thinking of the baby,’ she countered. ‘That is why I need work.’

  ‘You do not need work. I have money to help you. If there is indeed a baby, I will provide for the child.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean “if there is indeed a baby”?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have only your word for it.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘And I have only your word that you will provide for my baby. Your baby! Do not prevent me from working, Oliver. I need this job.’

  The desperation in her voice was very clear. It tugged at him.

  He softened his voice. ‘I won’t prevent you from working.’ He rubbed his face and changed the subject. ‘How did you learn of this place?’ he asked. Vitium et Virtus was exclusive and secret.

  She took a breath before answering. ‘I met a gentleman in Paris who told me of it.’

  Oliver’s heart pounded. Could she have encountered Nicholas? He took an eager step towards her. ‘Who was this gentleman?’

  She stepped back. ‘Sir Nash Bowles.’

  ‘Bowles!’ He spat out the name.

  Just when he thought this could not get worse. Sir Nash Bowles. The man who’d nearly ruined Frederick’s Georgiana. Bowles always had been a nasty character, even at school.

  ‘How do you know Bowles?’ Oliver demanded.

  She cast him a wary look. ‘I do not know him. He came to the club in Paris. I saw him one time. Why?’

  Oliver frowned. ‘He is not a good man to know.’

  ‘Then I am glad not to know him.’ She glanced towards the door. ‘May I see where I will work? Unless you have changed your mind about my employment.’

  ‘I have not changed my mind.’ Oliver was a man of his word.

  She lifted her chin again. ‘I will work only for tips if you do not wish to pay me.’

  She was starting to irritate him again. ‘Of course we will pay you.’

  They paid all their people generously. They could afford to do so. Cecilia would be well compensated.

  She looked down at her dress. ‘I am not dressed for an exclusive gentlemen’s club. Do yo
u provide clothes for me to wear?’

  ‘Yes.’ He extended his hand. ‘Come. I will show you the club.’

  * * *

  Cecilia flinched when he touched her arm to guide her from the room. He released her, which was good. Even though he was obviously not happy to see her or hear of her condition, he still possessed an allure that made her susceptible to him.

  As they approached the stairs, he asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

  She became wary again. ‘Why do you need to know this?’

  He blew out a breath. ‘Only to inform you that our employees are not allowed to entertain in the house when the club is not open. We are not open every night.’

  ‘I will entertain no one.’ How many times must she say so?

  They climbed the grand staircase.

  He spoke in the tones of a displeased tutor. ‘Our club is a secret one. Every member is anonymous, so to attend the club each member must wear a mask. Masks do not always perfectly disguise the wearer, of course. Most members know who is behind a mask, but they are honour bound never to disclose who attends. If you learn the identity of a member, you must swear never to disclose who they are.’

  She lifted her hand. ‘I swear.’

  Masks seemed a bit childish to her. But the British were much more concerned about what other people thought of them than the French had been.

  ‘Do I wear a mask?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But the masks worn by the female workers are more decorative than disguising.’

  He brought her to what looked like a ballroom with sofas and divans arranged for an audience. Like the drawing room she’d just left, the ballroom was decorated with paintings of nude gods cavorting in idyllic gardens. The fireplace mantel was a clever sculpture of two couples engaged in copulation.

  ‘Tonight we will have a concert.’ Oliver gestured to a raised platform at one end of the room. ‘Our singers will perform before mingling with our guests. I warn you the songs will be bawdy.’

  Bawdy songs did not distress her. She’d followed the drum, after all. Soldiers rarely sang hymns.

  ‘We always have gambling,’ he went on. ‘I’ll show you that room. Other nights we feature tableaux.’

  ‘Tableaux?’ This was something new to her.

  ‘Our ladies pose—let us say that it is our version of Lady Hamilton’s attitudes minus the veils and scarves.’

  He meant they posed nude.

  ‘Our ladies dance, as well,’ he went on. ‘As I said before, the singers and dancers are free to accept arrangements with our male patrons. We also do not interfere with the private decisions of our members who wish to be private with each other.’

  She bristled. ‘Why do you keep saying this to me? Is this expected of me or not?’

  He turned to her and grasped her arm. ‘It is not. But you must know how matters exist here. We believe everyone should be free to decide for themselves.’

  She averted her gaze. ‘That is good, because I decide for myself what I will and will not do.’

  His lips thinned. ‘As you decided with me?’

  Her body flushed with the memory. She pretended to ignore his question, but the moment seemed to make the air crackle between them.

  They continued through the club’s elegantly appointed dining room, featuring small tables for intimate repasts. He brought her up another flight of stairs to show her the private rooms, each decorated to fulfil some erotic fancy. One, all red and gold, reminded her of the room in Maison D’Eros. Another looked like it belonged in an Arabian harem. A third was as dark as a dungeon.

  Next he took her below stairs to meet the cook, the kitchen servants and the footmen who served the food and drink.

  She watched the other workers carefully as Oliver greeted them and they spoke to him. They seemed pleased and comfortable with him and he with them. That was good.

  She’d been shocked to see him in the club, to discover he, of all people, was one of the owners. Now she must face him every day she would work, when she’d already decided it was not safe to see him ever again. It made it worse to see him through the admiring eyes of others, to have her body flare in response when he touched her.

  But she would endure this. She had a job. She’d earn money. And he said he’d give her more.

  She and her baby were safe for now.

  He stopped in front of a closed door and knocked.

  ‘We call this the Green Room,’ he said. ‘It is the dressing room for the singers and dancers and other female workers.’

  ‘Come in,’ a female voice said.

  He opened the door.

  The room was lined with mirrors and there were clothes’ presses and rails filled with costumes. Seated in a chair facing one of the mirrors sat a pretty young woman dressed in her shift and a wrapper that was off her shoulders.

  She smiled and pulled up her wrapper when she saw Oliver. ‘’Ello, Mr Gregory.’ Her accent was like others Cecilia had heard among ordinary London folk.

  ‘How are you, Fleurette?’ he responded.

  ‘Well enough, sir,’ she answered brightly. Her gaze turned to Cecilia.

  ‘Let me introduce you.’ He looked questioningly at Cecilia. ‘How do you wish to be known?’

  Fleurette laughed. ‘We’re none of us using our given names.’

  Cecilia gave the name that was foremost in her mind. ‘Coquette. You can call me Coquette.’ She extended her hand to the girl. ‘I am happy to meet you, Fleurette.’

  The girl laughed again. ‘Fleurette. Coquette. It rhymes.’ She accepted the handshake. ‘But you can call me Flo. Everyone does.’

  ‘You are getting dressed early,’ Oliver remarked.

  ‘Aw, I’m not gettin’ dressed yet. I—I bruised my arm on—on a door and I’m trying to cover it up.’ She put her hand over her arm, which was already covered by the wrapper.

  ‘Nothing serious?’ he asked in a concerned voice.

  ‘Naw. A bruise isn’t serious.’

  Oliver turned to Cecilia. For a moment his eyes were as warm as when he looked upon Flo, but they quickly turned flinty. She remembered how his eyes had glowed when he’d gazed upon her naked skin. ‘I will leave you in Flo’s care, then.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Cecilia managed.

  He spoke to Fleurette—Flo—again. ‘She needs a dress to wear tonight. Can you find her one?’

  ‘I can do that,’ the girl answered amiably.

  ‘And tell her how things go here?’ he went on.

  ‘I can really do that.’ She smiled.

  He nodded. ‘I will leave you to Flo, then...Coquette. But I wish to see you before the club opens. Flo can help you find me.’

  ‘Very well.’ She was somehow reluctant to let him go, which was absurd.

  At that moment, the door burst open and the Duke and Duchess of Westmoor rushed in.

  Flo jumped to her feet. ‘Rose!’

  ‘Flo.’ The Duchess gave the girl a fond hug. She glanced over at Cecilia. ‘I am so sorry we are late.’

  ‘Estate business.’ The Duke groaned. ‘We got away as soon as we could.’

  The Duchess smiled. ‘I see Oliver has taken care of you.’

  Cecilia curtsied. ‘Your Grace.’

  Rose released Flo and clasped Cecilia’s hand. ‘Please do not be so formal with me. Not here, anyway. I am Rose.’

  ‘Rose was one of us, in a manner of speaking.’ Flo grinned at the Duchess. ‘Before she got so grand.’

  Oliver glowered during this display. He turned to the Duke. ‘May I have a word with you, Jake?’

  ‘Certainly!’ the Duke said jovially. ‘Shall I leave you here, Rose?’

  ‘Oh, please do!’ She laughed. ‘Perhaps some of the costumes need mending!’


  This whole exchange meant nothing to Cecilia. A duchess who was not always so grand? Who was one of the hirelings? Who mended costumes?

  Oliver left Cecilia without even a nod of goodbye, which only fuelled her wariness of him. Perhaps he would not help her. Perhaps he would turn on her eventually.

  ‘We’re to find Coquette a dress for tonight,’ Flo told the Duchess.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Duchess smiled at Cecilia. ‘Come, Coquette. Let us look through the costumes and see what might do for you.’

  They found her a dress, a lovely indigo confection, which she would don later.

  That task complete, the Duchess bade them goodbye. ‘I want to say hello to Mrs Parker and cook and the others.’ She gave Flo another hug before leaving the room.

  ‘Rose worked as a maid here at the club and then she became companion to the Duke’s grandmother,’ Flo told her.

  She went on to embellish the story with all sorts of drama and romance, ending with a big, envious sigh.

  ‘It is almost time for dinner,’ Flo said. ‘We eat in the servants’ hall.’ Her face tensed. ‘I—I am going to tend to my bruise, but you can join them now. No need to wait for me.’

  Cecilia did not relish walking into a room of other workers alone, even if the Duchess might be there. ‘Perhaps I can help you cover the bruises. What are you using for it?’

  Flo hesitated before answering. ‘Pear’s Almond Bloom.’ She handed the pot to Cecilia.

  Pear’s Almond Bloom was a tinted face paint that was supposed to give the face a natural look. Cecilia had used it before.

  ‘Let us try it, then,’ Cecilia said.

  Flo hesitated again before slipping off her wrapper.

  There was not one bruise, but four, all round in shape and reddish-blue in colour. The bruises were on Flo’s upper arm. Cecilia’s hands trembled. She had seen bruises like this before, in this same pattern. She’d seen them on her own arms.

  ‘Did—did you get the bruises here?’ Cecilia asked, trying to sound casual. She opened the pot of Pear’s Almond Bloom and put a little on her finger. She gently dabbed it on one of the bruises.