Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3) Read online

  “Ah, don’t blush so, girl,” Madam sneered. Her cigar flared in the darkness as it moved. “Not for that simple request—not after three years.”

  Honora snapped back, in the silence of her mind, that she still had her dignity and her sense of shame—but she fought the urge to speak and merely completed her circle. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the gentleman’s face, settling instead on his knees, patched and frayed.

  She needn’t have worried. He had already shifted his focus.

  “Now you, my pretty. You know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir, I do indeed,” the woman simpered, turning around slowly with her hips in a seductive wiggle, lowering her arms and allowing her gown to slip ever so slightly down her shoulder.

  Honora still battled to hide her emotions, but now it was merriment. Mabel was absolutely incorrigible, but she needed the coin for her daughter. She would do anything—within reason—to get it.

  If Honora was any judge, this gentleman was about to be utterly taken, but he had no idea what he was in for. If Mabel turned her usual tricks, the gentleman would be out like a light within twenty minutes and wake to find himself a little lighter in the pockets.

  “Cor…” he breathed.

  Honora risked a glance to his face and saw all the signs of a man half won. Eyes wide, jaw slightly dropped, hands loose, and body tilted toward her. All Mabel had to do to secure him was—

  “Oh, no! You must excuse me, sir,” Mabel breathed, her breasts heaving as she elegantly dropped a handkerchief to the floor.

  The gentleman rushed as though in a race to catch the scrap of lace before it hit the grubby carpet and held it out to Mabel with a look of adoration.

  “H-Here you go, girl.”

  Mabel reached out and allowed the softest stroke of his skin with her fingers as she took the handkerchief. “You really are too kind, sir.”

  She smiled, and the gentleman smiled back, utterly transfixed. It wasn’t until Madam gave a hearty cough that he came to whatever senses he had and stepped back to his place.

  “And the third?” Madam prompted. “Do you wish to inspect her?”

  There was a quiet sob in the corner. Honora peered down the line and saw Abigail, the new girl, shaking like a leaf.

  The gentleman was punch drunk after his encounter with Mabel but nodded.

  Abigail looked at Madam, terror etched on her features. She shook her head.

  Honora sighed. It was Abigail’s first gentleman’s choice, and the girl was clearly regretting coming here in the first place. Oh, they thought they could make a little coin, be adored and respected by men, and leave whenever they chose. But Madam was charging them rent, wasn’t she? And food and drink, of course. And candles. And bedding. When all was said and done, a girl builds up a debt, doesn’t she? And it turns out, the only way to pay it is to keep working.

  It was the easiest trap in the world, and Madam set it every day and caught fresh meat. Some of them stayed, tried to make the best of it. But not all girls were ready, and not all girls were here willingly.

  “Come here, you trollop.” Madam reached out a rough hand and forced the girl to turn around.

  She could not have been much more than fourteen, by Honora’s reckoning, and it was all too much. Abigail burst into tears.

  The gentleman glared at her, disgruntled. Honora sneered at him silently in her turn. Yes, is it not disappointing to find out the woman before you, nay almost a child, does not wish to service you?

  But Mabel was already taking a small step forward. “Do not worry about her, my kind sir, poor child is not feeling well.”

  He glared, unmollified. “Not well?”

  Mabel smiled and tilted her head. “No. But I am feeling wonderful.”

  Honora counted to five under her breath—or at least, started counting to five. She reached three when she was interrupted.

  “Good,” he snapped. “You. Her then.”

  This last was said to Madam, who nodded. With that nod, Mabel was permitted to touch the gentleman—and the experience started here. Reaching forward, Mabel took his hand and pulled him into her arms, bestowing him with a passionate kiss.

  When she released him, his eyes were hazy, and there was an unmistakable bulge in his breeches.

  “Mabel, take him upstairs,” barked Madam, breathing out cigar smoke. “I’ll have another gentleman in here soon, and I need the space. Go on with you.”

  Mabel curtsied and led the customer up the stairs. Only when the door closed behind them did Honora allow her shoulders to sag with relief—relief he had not chosen her, and relief it was Mabel. She needed the coin more than any of them.

  It was impossible not to feel disgusted by the whole sorry business. As though a gentleman should be standing before three girls choosing a companion for the night—like a cattle market or choosing your favorite ribbon to buy in a haberdasher. They were less than a cow, less than a ribbon even. Bought and sold for six shillings.

  “Go back to your room,” snapped Madam, glaring at Honora. “And you!” A resounding slap echoed around the hallway. “Why are you crying? Is this not what you wanted? Did you not come to me and ask for the chance to earn your shillings?”

  Abigail was crying harder and looked over to Honora with horror.

  Honora opened her mouth to say something but closed it. There were no words. This was their life. The sooner she came to accept it, the better.

  If she thought back to those three years ago, had she been any different? Had not her first gentleman’s choice been filled with agony, too?

  She could remember that first day so clearly; the pain of the succeeding years had not dimmed it. She could recall the painful cut of the rope in her wrists, the disorientation when pulled from the carriage where she had spent hours with her mouth gagged—her throat sore, parched. And she had been dragged here, into the hallway, and across into Madam’s parlor—the first and only time she had entered it.

  Madam had instructed the silent gentleman who watched her in the carriage as though he was undressing her with her eyes—and Madam had told him to strip her, and the terror had become a reality, and she had cried as she stood, utterly naked, to be inspected.

  The shame, the terror. Madam had pronounced her ready, told her what to expect, and warned her if she tried to escape, she would be caught. They were miles away from anywhere, Madam told her, and it would not be difficult to find her.

  And when she was found, she would be dragged back, beaten—or shot.

  “Will you heed my words, you hussy, or will I need to shout louder?”

  Honora jumped. Back in the present, Madam was just as distasteful, just as demanding. Spittle caught in the corners of her mouth, and her puffy cheeks were streaked red.

  Dropping into a brief curtsey, Honora grabbed Abigail’s hand and pulled her up the stairs. The girl tugged her arm free and ran down the corridor into her room.

  Honora’s room was the first on the left, Madam’s pride of place, the largest bedchamber. It was still small compared to her home, and there had been no opportunity to make it comfortable.

  There was the large bed in the center of the room, her trade, which had received the most care. Silk hangings of green adorned the sides, and she did her best to keep the linens clean. Two chests of drawers sat on either side, with a candlestick on one and a small pile of magazines—bartered from another girl—on the other.

  There was not much else. With five shillings from every six going to Madam and food charged as extra, there wasn’t much opportunity to put aside funds in this brothel.

  The solitary window was boarded up inexpertly, allowing a few shards of evening light to fall through into the room and onto Ellen.

  “Do you mind?” Honora said with a smile, shutting the door behind her. “I was rather under the impression this was my room.”

  Ellen grinned from the bed and flicked a page of the magazine she was perusing. “Not picked then?”

  Honora shook her head and cla
mbered onto the bed. “No, but to be honest, I am relieved. That gentleman was at least twice my age, perhaps more so, and was every inch not the gentleman. Mabel got him.”

  Ellen wrinkled her nose. “Poor thing.”

  “No, she went for this one,” said Honora, picking up a magazine from the scant pile and turning to the gossip pages of society. “And it made more sense for Mabel to have him—she’s got her daughter to think of, and by my reckoning, he’ll be out like a light within five minutes. He jingled when he walked, but he’ll jingle a lot less when she’s through with him.”

  Ellen’s smile grew wider, revealing the gap in her teeth and a dimple in her cheek. “Mabel always did know how to pick them. But no amount of coin she can send that daughter of hers will ever remove the ignominy of having such a mother.”

  Honora sighed. It was true. Mabel was one of the few mothers under Madam’s roof. Her own skill was her downfall, and with every passing month, her daughter, somewhere out in the world cared for by a foster family, was growing older with—if God was good—no knowledge of her mother’s profession.

  “Praise, God, I have never fallen with child,” she said fervently into the silence as she cast her eyes down the Bath lists that season.

  Ellen nodded absentmindedly. “And you never will if you keep following my instructions, girl—I was at this work when you were a nipper, so you listen to Aunt Ellen.”

  Honora snorted. Ellen was a few years older than her nineteen years—or was she twenty? She had not been permitted outside since she was dragged here, and it was hard to tell when one month ended and another began. Yet, Ellen acted as though she was head and shoulders older than the rest of them.

  Not that Honora begrudged it. There were plenty of girls in here who survived because Ellen had taken them under her wing, and Honora was one of them. You needed someone like her if you wanted to live and not be heavy with child within a month of arriving.

  “Did you see this?”

  Startled from her reverie, Honora saw Ellen pointing at a paragraph in the gossip pages of her magazine.

  “We are pleased to announce,” read Ellen slowly, “that Lady Charlotte St. Maur, daughter of the fourteenth Duke of Ax…Ax…”

  “Axwick,” completed Honora automatically.

  Ellen looked up. “How do you know that?”

  There was an awkward silence until Honora said distantly, “Oh, I have read that one before.”

  Ellen’s look of puzzlement faded. “Oh. You read she has got married then. They call her a spinster-chaperone, poor love, that’s no way to treat a lady.”

  It was all Honora could do to control her expression. She had seen Lady Charlotte once—oh, years ago now, but she could barely remember her except for her kind eyes. She had seemed old even then, it was hard to imagine her as a bride.

  “It says here the bridegroom is delighted, it will be a wonderful day …” Ellen turned a page and squinted at the next paragraph. It had been one of Honora’s joys, teaching Ellen to read. “Here, it says the wedding will be at Stone…Stonehaven Lacey. What a posh sounding place, eh?”

  Honora grinned, hiding the memories flooding back. She had worn a beautiful gown then, all silk and cream with a few pearls around the cuffs. They had been in a ballroom, the heady mix of masculine scent wafting on the air mingled with the smoke from the card room.

  She looked at the filthy gown she was wearing now. Torn and frayed in patches, over-mended and under-cared for. Designed to reveal far more than she was comfortable with, it would never be acceptable in polite society.

  It was all a thousand years ago, that other life. Unable to leave, never able to truly see the sun, it may as well have been a decade. She could never return to that life, for it had been taken from her and would never be given back.

  The bell rang loud and clear. Ellen sighed and threw down the magazine.

  “We could ignore it,” Honora said quietly.

  Ellen snorted. “That would never work, not with—”

  Her words were interrupted by a scream.

  “Will you layabouts get down here right now, we have a gentleman caller!” Madam’s screech echoed around the room.

  Ellen reached out and squeezed Honora’s hand. “It’s not forever, chit. One day, all of us will leave here, you wait and see.”

  Honora squeezed back. She was tired, desperate to sleep, not to entertain, but she had no choice. Neither of them did.

  As they walked down the stairs and took their places in the line, Honora glanced at the gentleman talking to Madam. He was tall, wearing a greatcoat in significantly better repair than the previous gentleman, and held himself differently, too. Greater poise, elegance, even from behind.

  He turned around, and Honora’s eyes widened.

  “Now then, girls,” said Madam, detaching herself from the gentleman and glaring at them as her cigar burned. “This is Mr. Josiah.”

  Chapter Three

  Josiah knew his cheeks were crimson. What was he supposed to do with his hands? They were hanging like untied rigging, and he felt an absolute fool.

  Was it always this…callous? Mercenary? He had not understood the bell until doors slammed above him and three women—and one of them had barely entered womanhood—trooped down the stairs and stood in a line before him.

  Did his cheeks have to burn like this? God’s teeth, he was the man here; he was meant to be the one in control.

  But he certainly wasn’t the one in charge. He could feel the hot smoke of Madam’s cigar on the back of his neck. It made him itch, to want to turn around and stub out that awful smell.

  One of the women before him looked bored, a dimple in her cheek.

  What should he do with his own face? Should he be looking at them or the madam? Should he step forward, or would they approach him?

  Turning his head, Josiah caught sight of Madam, who raised an eyebrow. God’s teeth, this had been a mistake. He had always been berated by his friends for his impulsiveness, and he had never seen a problem with it until now. He had galloped off as soon as it had been polite from Mercia’s wedding, once the thought had struck him, and now he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

  He should have asked someone about this—but who? It had been excruciating enough asking, Miss Emma Tilbury, where she had started. Getting the address had been uncomfortable, but this was far worse, standing here with the three of them staring at him, eyeing him up, weighing him in their minds.

  He had not even thought to ask Miss Tilbury what he should do when he arrived.

  “Well?” Madam glared, and Josiah jumped. There was a giggle, and he swung around but could not tell which of the three had laughed.

  Pulling himself up and drawing on seven generations of proud Chesters, he said in a condescending voice, “I beg your pardon?”

  His superciliousness did not ruffle Madam. If anything, it made her smile broader. “I can see this is your first time, sir,” she said under her breath. “All you have to do is pick the girl you like the look of the most. That is all. She will then take you to her room and the rest…is between you. Mind you leave six shillings with her, for she’ll know what to do.”

  Josiah coughed. He did not usually carry money, for it was not necessary as the Earl of Chester. Oh, debts were paid, just not by him—usually through a bill sent over to his butler. He had been forced to borrow a pound in shillings from Miss Tilbury, and it had felt strange having so much coin in his pocket.

  Not nearly so strange as paying for a person. This place, utterly female, all blue and soft with candles around the room and gentle laughter—and not so gentle grunts—pouring down the stairs.

  Pick the girl. That was the first step. All he had to do was pick one.

  Josiah raised his eyes to look at the first woman on the left. She was tall, slender. She smiled through her lashes, as though treating him to an unknown pleasure right here at the outset, the dimple reappearing.

  Josiah did not return the smile. He had seen fifty of this sort
of woman before—elegant, yes, but with little depth to her beauty. He was not interested in average tonight.

  The second was darker, more curvaceous, more like some of the French girls soldiers had brought back over the years from the wars there. She tilted her head to one side as she smiled.

  Josiah sighed. It was all the same story, all the same lies. Trickery through their bodies or deceit through their words. Why were women so complicated—couldn’t they understand he was here for the opposite of that?

  Both of these women were so ordinary. If he had wanted ordinary, he could have gone to any brothel house. He had asked Miss Tilbury for a recommendation precisely because she was the opposite of ordinary, truly unlike any mistress he had ever encountered.

  His gaze slid over to the last woman, and something painful juddered in his chest. Was his heart skipping a beat? Was his stomach turning over? All the clichés of poetry Harry made him read sprung to his mind, but none of them did her justice.

  She woman was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Not in looks—she was pretty, certainly, but unlikely to win any awards. No, it was the way she stood. Silently, unmoving, not meeting his eyes, and evidently not interested in attracting him.

  He had seen that look before but never so consciously. A woman, waiting in line at the baker’s, bored and tired. A woman hearing her child prattle the same story a hundred times.

  But her? High cheekbones and pink lips that offset her pale complexion. There was something sparkling in her eyes, intelligence, something he did not understand.

  The more he looked, the more Josiah saw real beauty—and still, she did not raise her gaze.

  Josiah swallowed. There it was. He did not have a word for it and could not have described it, but he had found it.

  He was drawn to her in a way that the flagrant sexuality of the other two did not attract him. She evidently did not want him and seemed unaware or uncaring of her beauty.