The Courtesan's Bed

by Sandrine O'Shea

  At the mention of his family, Valendry’s bravado trickled away. His shoulders slumped, and he sank back down into his chair, sitting there in reflective silence for a moment. Then, with a shaking hand, he reached into a desk drawer. Darius tensed, fearing he was going to pull out a pistol and shoot him. But he took out what looked like a withdrawal slip.

  Valendry held out his hand. “I’ll need the savings book.”

  Darius handed it over reluctantly, ready to snatch it back if the man tried to destroy it.

  The subdued banker consulted it, appeared to make some kind of mental calculations and wrote in an amount. “This should cover both her savings and this month’s interest. You may take this slip to any teller, and they will make out a bank draft.”

  Darius took the slip and stuck it in the savings book. “My honor is satisfied, monsieur.” He put on his top hat and tipped it. “A pleasure doing business with you, Valendry. Good day.”

  He turned and left.

  Régine was still waiting for Darius when Molly returned with the pastries.

  “No sign of his lordship yet?” she asked.

  “He’s only been gone for an hour,” Régine replied. “Perhaps Monsieur Valendry kept him waiting. It would be just like the mean old bastard.”

  “I’ll go make the tea.”

  Molly bustled off to the kitchen.

  While Régine waited, she paced the drawing room, stopping by the windows at every turn to check for Clarridge’s carriage.

  Molly appeared carrying a heavy silver tray set with a fine Spode tea service Régine’s last English lover had given her, silver spoons and a plate of dainty pastries.

  Just as she set down the tray, the doorbell rang.

  “At last.” Régine rushed to answer it.

  She flung open the door, smiling in anticipation. Her smile flickered with disappointment for a second, and then returned in full force. “Anatole. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  The journalist stroked his pointed beard. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Of course not.” She gave him a welcoming kiss on each cheek. “Come in. It’s always a joy to see you, my friend.”

  The minute Anatole Beaucaire stepped into the foyer, his sharp reporter’s eyes noticed the bronze figurine immediately. He set his hat next to it. “Ah, something new and quite exquisite. Monsieur Valendry always did have excellent taste.” He arched one brow. “Or is it from the persistent Count Dragomilov?”

  Régine gave him a reproachful look. “Shame on you. If I ever accepted anything from the Russian, he would think he owned me, body and soul.”

  “Everyone in Paris has heard about the diamond necklace.” He chuckled. “I wish I could’ve seen the expression on de Groument’s face when you told him to take it back.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Now how on earth did you ever find out about that?”

  “I am a journalist, remember? There is precious little in this great city that escapes me.” He smiled and bowed. “And I never reveal my sources, even to one as lovely and charming as the Queen of Fire.”

  She shook a warning finger. “You must promise me that you shall not include that in your column, Anatole, or I shall be very displeased and have you banned from Maxim’s.”

  He shuddered in mock horror. “Anything but that!” He took her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I value our friendship too much to jeopardize it for the sake of a story.”

  “Molly and I were just sitting down to tea. You must join us.” She slipped her arm through his and drew him toward the drawing room. Perhaps the journalist’s visit was fortuitous after all. His popular Le Figaro column, which reported on the grand horizontals, their beautiful clothes, lavish jewels, lovers and scandals, was eagerly devoured and discussed by every level of Parisian society, and would be the perfect place to announce that Régine Laflamme, the Queen of Fire, had found a new protector.

  Once they were seated and Molly discreetly headed for the kitchen, Régine poured her friend some tea. “I want you to be the first to know that I’ve broken off with Luc Valendry.”

  Anatole started, and a few drops of his tea sloshed into its saucer. He stared at her in shocked, wide-eyed silence.

  Régine laughed in delight. “You should see your face. You are positively aghast, as if the statue of the Virgin Mary in Notre Dame suddenly came to life and started speaking to you.”

  He cleared his throat. “My dear Régine. I don’t know what to say. I’m quite at a loss for words.”

  “But you won’t be for long. After all, words are your stock in trade.”

  “Yes, yes they are.” He took a deep breath and let it out in an audible gust. “This is quite astounding and unexpected. What brought this change about?”

  Régine placed her right hand on her chest. “A handsome, rich young nobleman won my fickle, mercenary little heart, why else? And no, it’s not Dragomilov.”

  Anatole helped himself to a raspberry almond cake and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And how did Valendry take the news of his replacement in your affections?”

  Régine rolled her eyes. “Not well, but I wouldn’t wish to embarrass him or cause a scandal by relating the particulars for you to print in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “You wound me deeply. You know that I would never write whatever you do not wish to see in print, Régine.”

  “Forgive me if I’ve offended you.” And because she trusted Beaucaire and treasured his friendship, she told him of her visit to Luc’s bank and his refusal to return her money.

  His eyes narrowed, and his face turned red. “That’s despicable, and thoroughly unworthy of a Valendry. His father would horsewhip him naked through the boulevards if he were still alive.”

  “He quite caught me by surprise. I never expected him to act so—so churlishly.”

  Anatole stroked his beard. “Perhaps you should let me print the details in my column after all. Your legion of admirers would be in an uproar, and the scandal might force him to return your money.”

  “I had thought of that,” she admitted, “but I think it would do more harm than good. Luc has suffered enough humiliation, and I certainly don’t need him as an enemy.”

  “So what do you intend to do?”

  “My new protector is demanding the return of my money even as we speak.”

  The reporter nodded in approval. “Any man who is truly a man would. Who is your new knight errant? Do I know him?”

  “You were sitting next to him at Maxim’s the other night.”

  “Sacré bleu! The charming Englishman who bought me champagne?”

  “The very same. Darius Granger, the Earl of Clarridge.”

  Anatole frowned. “Humph. When I offered to introduce him to you, he declined, saying his pockets weren’t deep enough for the likes of the Queen of Fire.”

  “He was merely being a modest, circumspect Englishman. I can assure you that his pockets are quite deep enough, even for me.” She omitted the fact that Darius wasn’t a stranger.

  Anatole ate another pastry with obvious relish. “So when will you appear at Maxim’s to officially announce your liaison to all of Paris?”

  Régine tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Most likely tomorrow night. This evening, the earl and I will be indisposed.”

  Her friend grinned and shook his head. “Ah, l’amour, sweet l’amour. I do envy your Englishman for as long as your liaison lasts.”

  “I’m sure we shall suit famously until one of us grows bored with the other, as lovers invariably do. We’ll go our separate ways without regret, and I shall find another protector.” Suddenly that thought made her inexplicably sad.

  Anatole set down his teacup. “Do you think you will ever marry some respectable bourgeoisie fellow and give up this life of boundless pleasure? Many courtesans have, you know. Society doesn’t hold their profligate pasts against them.”

  “Perhaps one day when I’m older and my looks start to fade,” she replied blithely, trying to shake of
f her unexpected twinge of melancholy, “but I still have a few good years left.”

  “You will never lose your looks because you shine with inner beauty,” he said softly, his eyes bright with feeling that she knew went deeper than simple friendship.

  She patted his hand. “You are sweet for saying so, but all the inner beauty in the world can’t make up for what I am and my wayward life of sin.”

  Anatole was spared commenting by the faint ringing of the doorbell. Régine rose and excused herself. When she opened the door to find Clarridge standing there, an expression of triumph lighting his handsome face, her knees nearly buckled with relief.

  He stepped into the foyer and was about to pull her into his arms when he spotted Anatole’s hat on the hall table. His arms fell to his sides. “You have a caller?”

  “Just my dear friend Anatole Beaucaire of Le Figaro, whom you met at Maxim’s the other night. We were having tea and indulging in the most delicious gossip. Would you like to join us?”

  “Of course.”

  Régine took his arm. “He knows all about us and Luc’s reprehensible behavior, but don’t worry. He won’t publish anything. Anatole is the most discreet journalist I know.”

  Darius didn’t look convinced. “I hope you’re right.”

  “We’ve been friends ever since I first came to Paris, and I trust him.”

  When they walked into the drawing room, Anatole rose and extended his hand to Darius. “A pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Granger. I commend you on your excellent taste in women.”

  Darius eyed the journalist warily as he shook hands. “Beaucaire. Good to see you too. I enjoyed talking with you at Maxim’s the other night.”

  Beaucaire wagged a reproachful finger. “Though you did mislead me about your interest in Mademoiselle Laflamme.”

  “I thought it best not to reveal my intentions until I knew I could trust you,” Darius said.

  “A wise move.” Anatole looked from Darius to Régine. “Well, I’m sure you two would like to be alone, so I will take my leave.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Thank you for the tea and pastry, my dear, and I shall see you both at Maxim’s tomorrow night.”

  Regina was surprised that her friend didn’t ask if Darius had been successful at Luc’s bank, but she appreciated his discretion. “You know you’re always welcome here, Anatole. Come. I’ll show you out.”

  “No need. I know the way.” Then he and Darius said goodbye, and he left.

  The minute they heard the door close, Darius reached into his frock coat’s breast pocket, took out Regina’s bank book and removed two pieces of paper tucked inside. “This is a bank draft for the full amount of your savings, and the other is a draft drawn on my London bank for the first month’s allowance I promised.”

  Regina took the drafts with trembling, expectant fingers, and read the amounts. One was for her life’s savings, plus interest, and her first month’s allowance from Darius was a princely sum on top of that. Her excited shriek filled the parlor. “You did it! You got my money!” Still clutching the drafts, she flung herself into his arms. Laughing, Darius caught her around the waist and spun her around effortlessly. When her feet touched the ground, she breathlessly added, “Thank you so much, Darius Granger, thank you!”

  “Your smile makes it all worthwhile.”

  Molly came running into the room, still wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “What’s all the commotion in here, miss? Is everything all right?”

  “It is now.” She danced excitedly from one foot to the other, and waved the bank drafts in the air. “Lord Clarridge got my money back from Monsieur Valendry. We’re rich again!”

  The color returned to Molly’s white, pinched face. “Oh, God bless you, sir. For a minute there, I thought we’d both be out on the streets.”

  “I’d never let that happen, Molly,” Darius said.

  Her heart still soaring, Régine said, “This calls for a celebration. Molly, will you put some champagne on ice?”

  Darius glanced at the tea service. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer a celebratory hot cup of tea.”

  Régine flashed him a teasing smile. “How very English of you, Lord Clarridge.”

  He gave her a deep, pointed stare that heated her blood and made her shiver in anticipation. “Save the champagne for later, mademoiselle.” When they finally consummated the physical part of their agreement.

  Molly bustled over to take the tea service. “I’ll brew a fresh pot.” She left them alone.

  Still holding her bank book and the two drafts, Régine sat on the settee and patted the place next to her. “So, how did you convince Luc to release my savings?”

  Darius sat down and told her of posing as a potential depositor, to Valendry’s initial refusal to return Régine’s money. “So I told him that if he didn’t, I would challenge him to a duel.”

  Régine gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth. “A duel? You didn’t.”

  “I most certainly did. Pistols at dawn in the Bois de Boulogne, that sort of thing. And I assured him that I’d fought several in my Oxford days, which was, of course, a whopping huge lie, since I have no desire to break the law and wind up in prison with a man’s death on my conscience. He turned so red, I feared he would have a fit of apoplexy and die at his desk. I added that even if he survived the duel, I would personally see to it that he became the laughingstock of Paris. He finally wrote you a check for the full amount of your savings, plus interest.”

  Régine looked down at the draft in disbelief. “I wish I could’ve been there to see your performance.”

  “Confronting him was my finest hour, and I got what I came for.”

  “You certainly did.” She leaned over and kissed him, hard this time. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  Blatant desire darkened his eyes to smoke. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  She ran her fingertips along the top of his thigh, causing him to catch his breath in surprise. “Oh, I can be very inventive.”

  She pulled back her questing fingers just as Molly returned with their tea. Darius gallantly invited the maid to join them, and they all shared tea and cakes to celebrate his success.

  Régine delicately licked an errant spot of raspberry cream from her upper lip and rose. “As pleasant as this company is, I am going to leave for a short while to open a new account at another bank. I’d like to get this money safely under lock and key before Luc can change his mind and stop payment on it.”

  “I think he’s too terrified of me to resort to such tactics now,” Darius said.

  “I don’t want to take any chances.”

  After she pinned her hat in place, put on her wrist-length cape, and was about to walk out the door, she whispered to Darius, “Do you wish to spend the night with me tonight, my lord?”

  His possessive gaze held hers as he took her hand and kissed it. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Her heart sang. “What time?”

  “I have a few errands to run, so would seven p.m. be acceptable?”

  That would give her plenty of time to set the scene for his seduction. She surprised him again by taking his hand and kissing it. “The courtesan’s bed awaits. I shall see you at seven o’clock.”

  She planned to give him a night he would never forget.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Régine arrived home after depositing her money with another banker who welcomed her patronage, she found Molly pacing the foyer, her face flushed and every inch of her tense body radiating anger.

  Régine tugged off her gloves and set them on the table. “What’s wrong?”

  The maid stopped and faced her. “It’s that Russian bastard again.”

  “Calm yourself. He’s not worth an apoplectic fit.” Régine placed a hand on Molly’s elbow and gently directed her toward the drawing room. “Sit down and tell me what Dragomilov did this time.”

  Once the agitated maid was seated across from her and sipping a restorative sherry, she relaxed. “The count cal
led an hour ago, pounding on the door like a madman, demanding to see you. Not asking, mind you. Demanding. When I said you weren’t here, he barged past me like I didn’t exist.” Her voice shook. “He nearly knocked me to the floor, he did.” She took another deep pull of sherry. “When I ran after him, telling him to leave at once, he ignored me and said he’d wait.” She shuddered. “The look he gave me…” She drained her glass, making her eyes water. “I should’ve gone for the police, but I was so afraid of what he’d do.”

  “You were wise not to antagonize him.” Régine rose to refill their glasses. “I’m sure he was here to berate me for refusing his necklace. When did he leave?”

  “Twenty minutes ago. He finally got tired of pacing and stormed off in a huff. He threatened to return, miss.” Molly’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’ve never seen a man in such a rage, and I’ve seen my share of hotheaded men.”

  Régine made a dismissive gesture. “I can’t worry about some fool of a Russian. Not tonight of all nights.” She set down her glass and rose. “Make sure to keep the doors locked at all times, and if he calls again, don’t let him in. Then after supper you can forget all about Dragomilov and help me get ready.”

  For her night with Darius.

  Darius stood on Régine’s doorstep, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. He was finally going to make love to the object of his obsession. Anticipation made him giddy and hardened his cock.

  The door opened. “Good evening, your lordship,” Molly said. “May I take your coat?”

  Darius greeted her, set his hat on the hall table and handed her his coat.

  “Miss Régine is upstairs, third door on the left. And now I’ll bid you good night.” After he wished her good night as well, she turned and bustled off down the hall.

  He took the stairs two at a time, and when he reached the landing, strode down the hall to the third door.

  He hesitated in the open doorway, looking for Régine in the candlelit boudoir.

  “What are you waiting for?” she said from somewhere inside the room. “Come in.”