A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man

by Celeste Bradley

  The funny thing was, it didn’t even matter. Any attempt by Linc to sabotage her career would pale in comparison to what she was already doing to herself. So what if Linc ended up with Piper’s job? If she were no longer employed here, it would be none of her affair.

  About two hours later, Piper took cold comfort from feedback about the exhibit—it was going to be a smash, everyone said. Even Frosty Forsythe came up to shake Piper’s hand and compliment her on her attention to detail and the creative use of documentation. “That Ophelia was a multifaceted lady—ahead of her time, I’d say, connecting the fight for women’s rights and an end to slavery.” He lowered his voice a bit. “If this doesn’t steer Claudia Harrington-Howell—and her money—to the board of trustees, I don’t know what would.”

  “Uh, thank you,” Piper said. “So we’ll see you both tomorrow night?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Paulette said.

  At long last, Piper ushered everyone out and began to shut down the lighting and audio. It was 10 P.M. They had nine hours to redo the exhibit and lock up before the morning security guards began their shift. She took a moment to stand before the facsimile of the Harringtons’ Bowdoin Street parlor. She stared at the pianoforte, Ophelia’s cherry writing desk where she composed many of her speeches, her favorite quill pen, the framed silhouettes of their three children that adorned the walls.

  And Piper wanted to kick herself. She’d desired what Ophelia had—an abiding love, a family, a story that her descendants could tell with a mix of fascination and pride. But she’d tied that dream to Mick Malloy—the man of her fantasies. Had that been a mistake?

  She blinked back the tears. Crying was pointless. Feeling sorry for herself was a waste of time. This wasn’t 1825. Piper could carve out a perfectly wonderful life for herself as a single woman. On her own terms. With her own skills.

  She didn’t need Mick for that. And she certainly didn’t need him here tomorrow night. After all, what could he do when the shit hit the fan except hold her hand?

  Not that there was anything in the world better than the feel of her hand in his …

  “Miss Piper?”

  Melvin Tostel had poked his head around the entrance to the exhibit. “I thought you might still be in here. Mr. LaPaglia’s gone. Your friends are here. I just waved the truck into the loading dock.”

  Piper nodded. “Thanks, Melvin. Thank you for everything.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing, Miss Piper?”

  For some reason, that question struck her as insanely funny. She laughed all the way down to her basement workroom, where she’d change clothes and begin the real work of the night.

  * * *

  She’d been perfectly pleasant. Mick was sure that in everyone else’s eyes, Piper was simply focused on the job at hand, and if the two of them weren’t as affectionate as they usually were, it was easily explained.

  But he knew better.

  And as Mick leaned up against a partition and watched Piper talking to Baz and Brenna, his chest felt full and heavily weighted.

  “I honestly didn’t know the English were so feckin’ randy,” Cullen said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I’m telling ya, the only thing that ‘bood-war’ over there is missing is a trapeze and a pommel horse.”

  Mick laughed and slapped his brother on his back. “You’ve been a real help tonight. We’re almost done—you can head on home if you need to.”

  “Trying to kick my arse out?”

  Mick shook his head. “Of course not. I just thought you’d—”

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve bollixed this thing up with your girl.”

  “Shh, would ya?” Mick shot him a sideways glance. “She’s a little pissed at me at the moment, but she’ll—”

  “Feck no, Magnus! You didn’t! You did not decide to go to Los Angeles instead of stay here with Piper! It’s a big night for her!”

  Mick was suddenly quite angry at Cullen. He pulled on his brother’s shirtsleeve and yanked him out into the south gallery lobby, away from everyone. He was breathing hard with the effort it took for him to keep his voice, and his temper, at a polite level.

  “The network’s not playing around, Cullen. I need to sign that contract if I’m going to help you with the pub. I promised you—”

  His brother just stood there, his arms crossed over his barrel chest, shaking his head slowly and deliberately.

  “What?” Mick hissed.

  “Magnus,” Cullen said, laughing softly. “You’re standing in the river dying of thirst, boyo.”

  “What the feck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not seeing what’s important here.”

  “I gave my word to you and Em. I’ll lose the series if I don’t show up tomorrow afternoon—shite, it’s already today!—and then I’ll have broken my word to your family … my family! I think that’s pretty feckin’ important.”

  Cullen nodded. “You’re an eejit, Magnus. You don’t understand women.”

  He had to laugh—things had gotten mighty desperate if he was accepting romance advice from Cullen.

  “You probably gave your word to Piper, too,” Cullen went on. “And even if you didn’t say it flat out, you know she assumed you’d be here for her. That’s how women think. So if you’re in Los Angeles and not here with her at this feckin’ unveiling or whatever it is, she’ll think you don’t love her.”

  “But I do love her!”

  Cullen waited a beat before he grinned. “I knew it!” He reached up and draped an arm over Mick’s shoulders and steered him down the hall. “See, here’s the thing,” he said, clearly enjoying his role as adviser. “Do you know why you could even offer to help me and Em and the kids?”

  Mick frowned at him.

  “Because there is a me and Em and our kids.”

  Mick stopped walking.

  “Fine, I admit it,” Cullen said with a laugh. “Sometimes I can be a stubborn pain in the arse. But I always put Emily first, followed very closely by the kids. That’s the way it has to be, Magnus, because my love for Emily is where it all begins and ends. Everything else—and I mean money and illness and the pub and whatever else gets thrown at us—it has to take a backseat to my girl.”

  Mick didn’t know what to say. Never in his life had he ever heard his brother bare his heart like this.

  “Ah, shite,” Cullen said, wiping his eyes. “I’m gonna make myself cry. I gotta get home. Just remember what I said.” He started toward the exit but turned around to give Mick a quick tight hug. “I love you, you fool. You’re a good man.”

  By 6:30 A.M., they were done. Brenna and the others had taken off. Piper had just gone through the exhibit one last time with her eternal checklist, making sure nothing had been left out. And Mick was running the vacuum, picking up all telltale dust and packing peanuts that had littered the carpet during the switch-out process.

  Ten minutes later he and Piper were out in the parking garage. He walked her to her car and made sure she got in safely. He leaned in to kiss her, and it shocked him when she grabbed him by the back of the head and laid a big, juicy, full-mouthed smack on him.

  She let him go, then immediately turned the key in her ignition. “Thank you for everything, Mick.” She smiled at him, but Mick could tell her outer shell was about to crack.

  “Piper—”

  She put the car in reverse. “Good luck tomorrow with the network. Have a safe trip. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

  As he watched her little rusted-out Honda round the corner of the garage, Mick realized he’d never felt more adrift in his life.

  Thirty-two

  London

  The morning after my first night in Newgate Prison, the Swan came to see me.

  “I had to bribe the turnkey,” she said with a mystified frown. “He wanted to see my bare feet.”

  I raised a brow. “Goodness, you wanton creature! Go away. We don’t want your kind here.”

  She wrinkled
her nose. “I can scarcely blame him. I do have lovely feet.”

  But my amusement was short-lived. I was exhausted from my wary night on the hard bench. “I do not know if I can last a fortnight here,” I whispered.

  She reached out to brush a strand of my hair back from my face. “You must keep your spirits, dearest. I called on the solicitor who handled Eamon’s will. He is trying to arrange a private cell for you. He can bribe the guards to bring you better food and drink, he told me.”

  I blinked. “Such kindness. Now I feel terrible that I can never remember his name.”

  The Swan smiled. “He is kind, but he is also a man. He is coming over to dine with me this evening.”

  My jaw dropped. “A night with the Swan? I will have a cell made of silver and gold.”

  She shrugged. “He is unobjectionable. And he was most complimentary about you. I think he envied Eamon his happiness. I have asked him to seek a very good barrister to speak in your defense. He seems to think it will be difficult to convince anyone to take your case.”

  I crumpled just a little. “No law in London for the likes of us.” I sighed. “What of the news sheets? I must be selling like ice in summer. Are they profiting from my misfortune?”

  The Swan’s lips went thin. “I brought one for you to see because I felt you should prepare yourself.” She took a folded article out of her reticule and handed it to me.

  I read it in silence, then handed it back to her. “So I am already convicted in the public eye.”

  “Lord B____ has been very busy.” Her voice was tight.

  I looked away from her for a long moment. “Have you heard anything from Sir?”

  She hesitated. I turned to stare at her. Her blue eyes shifted away from mine. My dearest friend in the world was contemplating telling me a lie.

  “What is it?”

  She looked extremely unhappy. “Ophelia, you must realize that he cannot come here.” She waved a hand. “Can you picture the turnkeys’ response to a man in a mask?”

  I clenched my jaw. “You have spoken to him. He does not wish to come.”

  “The newsmongers are all around the prison. He would surely be exposed.”

  “He went out in public for you.”

  She practically writhed with discomfort. I was forcing her to choose between two friends. I had no mercy in me. I grasped her hand and made her face me. “He has abandoned me forever, then.”

  She raised her miserable blue gaze to meet mine. “He cannot.”

  “You mean he will not.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot explain it any better than that.”

  I relented and released her. “At least I have you on my side. And little what’s-his-name.”

  She leaned her head onto mine. “There, see? Your case is practically won already.”

  “Of course it is.” I allowed her to comfort me, although I was beginning to doubt.

  * * *

  The first day of the trial dawned bright and clear. I should have preferred rain, I think. Or at least some sign that the world cared about this act of injustice!

  The turnkeys escorted me from Newgate to the Old Bailey, where my trial was to be held. There were curiosity seekers outside the Bailey in throngs. A barker was doing a brisk business in figs. Another offered pork pies from a steaming cart.

  “How lovely,” I murmured. “A grand day out.”

  Once inside the Old Bailey, however, an expectant silence fell. The courtroom was a large space, almost like a theater. I stood in the raised “dock,” facing the witness stand. Beyond the stand sat two rows of benches for the judges and barristers. Those concerned with the case could sit in another low box on the floor. I assumed it was for the party of the accused and the party of the accuser. This was borne out by the presence of Miss Wainwright and Lord B____ seated on one side.

  On the other was seated the Swan and the little solicitor, what’s-his-name. There was no tall, dark man with them, of course. I was led to the stagelike stand, to be stood there on display. Stage or cage, it amounted to the same thing.

  On the advice of the solicitor, I had assumed the character of a respectable woman wrongly accused. The Swan had obtained a dowdy brown dress that fit me in a fashion. I wore no cosmetics and my infamous hair was wound tightly into a style most grandmothers would be pleased to sport. I kept my eyes downcast but for a few curious glances around the court. They would find no fault with me. I was no courtesan. I was a gently born woman with an undeserved reputation. At least, that was what I kept reminding myself.

  The first hours of the trial were an exercise in patience. First one, and then the other barrister would stand and debate the tiniest points of law for the judge. It took an hour to establish the fact that I was, in fact, Ophelia Harrington, otherwise known as the Blackbird. I tried to look more like the Pigeon. The awful dress did its part.

  It took another hour to establish the fact that the deceased was indeed Mr. Eamon Wainwright of Bannerfield Hall and not some other poor bastard found dead in a whore’s bed.

  My barrister objected to the term and the two of them were off again. In the meantime, my legs were trembling from weariness. Despite the fact that the little solicitor had indeed managed to procure a private cell for me, I had not yet learned to sleep through the riotous nights of Newgate.

  Surely a slight sagging of my posture would only serve to further the Pigeon’s disguise? I let myself lean wearily on the railing of my pen.

  A bailiff strode up to me and struck his billy club sharply on the railing, narrowly missing my hands. I snatched my hands back and straightened.

  It did not look well for me that day. Every reference to my “profession” incited nasty giggles from the gallery. There was not a dry eye in the house when Alice’s barrister movingly described her overwhelming grief at the loss of her beloved father. I cried along with everyone else.

  Lord B____ managed to have a chance to speak. He spent a good while affirming everyone’s opinion that I was a gold-digging villain of the highest magnitude. I can only imagine that he used himself as an example to follow. He confessed before the entire world that we had once been involved, or, as he put it, that he had once fallen beneath the evil thrall of the Black Bird (emphasis was everything, it seemed) and had only narrowly escaped with his morals still intact.

  How nice for him.

  The long day drew to a close without my having the opportunity to defend myself with a single word. The judge banged his gavel and declared a continuance until the next day, when more witnesses would be called.

  I could not imagine who. The Swan? She looked as puzzled as I. The solicitor? Well, he did rather like me, so his character reference might help a bit.

  Then I spotted a man in the nearest gallery to me. He was positioned a few rows back, where the gallery was half cast in shadow, so I could not see him clearly. All I knew for sure was that he was tall and broad-shouldered and dark.

  Was it Sir at last?

  Before I was led back to Newgate, I was allowed a few moments to confer with my solicitor and his companion. The Swan immediately pulled me into a trembling hug. The solicitor looked very grave, indeed. I knew then that the dire leanings of the proceedings were not in my imagination. I pulled away from the Swan’s embrace and glanced back up in the gallery. The man was gone.

  “Did you see him?” I asked the Swan. “The tall, dark man, standing up there.”

  She frowned and blinked at me. “I saw a man such as you describe, but I thought you despised Lord Malcolm Ashford.”

  Oh. I sagged a bit. “I thought—”

  The Swan raised a brow in comprehension. “You thought you saw Sir.”

  “I feel ridiculous.” Then I frowned. “Whatever is Ashford doing here?”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity? You are, after all, the one that got away.”

  I snorted. “More like gloating over his near-miss with disaster.” I closed my eyes wearily for a moment. The room seemed to tilt behind my lids.

&nb
sp; The turnkey approached. “Time to go, miss.”

  I wanted to flee, to run screaming down the halls of the Old Bailey like a bedlamite, to scratch and claw and froth at the mouth, anything rather than to return to the cold stone cell. To the iron bars.

  On the walk back, we passed the gallows. We had passed them that morning, but that morning I had believed in the power of simple innocence to sway a court. Now it struck me that I might actually be hanged.

  Hanged by the neck until dead, dead, dead.

  The wooden gallows creaked in the wind. For a second I imagined a body hanging from the rope noose—a plump, dark-haired body with really excellent breasts.

  I don’t want to die.

  Yet it was becoming very clear to me that there was a strong possibility that I would be convicted of Eamon’s murder and become yet another public attraction, like Vauxhall Gardens or the swans in Hyde Park.

  Dizzy with the grimness of my own probable fate, I allowed myself to be pushed into my dimly lit cell. I slumped on my cot, too horrified to weep. Was I sorry I’d lived my life to the fullest? Was I sorry I hadn’t been an obedient female and wed the odious Ashford on command?

  A month ago I would have laughed at the very idea.

  I was not laughing now.

  Thirty-three

  Boston

  The roar of the Boeing 737 had lulled him into a dull trance. Mick paid no attention to the other passengers on the Southwest flight, busy with their laptops and gadgets, looking successful and important and serious about the travel required to get wherever it is that successful people must go. As he stared out at the blue sky at thirty-two thousand feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going the wrong way.

  The plane may have been on its way to Chicago, but his head and heart were looking back over his shoulder toward Boston.

  He couldn’t use his cell phone on the plane, which made him fairly insane because he had no way of finding out if Piper had returned any of his texts or calls. Just for the comfort of it, he reached in to retrieve his phone from his pants pocket, and instead pulled out the little box Piper had given him the evening before.