One Night as a Courtesan

Percy caught hold of his sleeve.

Jackass. Dunstan eyed the hand clutching his black superfine coat through his quizzing glass and Percy recoiled, snatching his hand back as if it had been burned.

“Tonight is her annual auction,” Percy said, his voice pitched an octave too high.

“And?” Dunstan let his quizzing glass fall. He’d seen the invitation. Discussed the possibility of attending with Beauworth, but they’d both agreed they’d seen nothing of interest there in years to make the effort worthwhile. Alistair couldn’t remember the last time a bawdy-house trull had truly aroused his interest, no matter how often he gave it his best effort.

“Blast it, coz,” Percy said. “You know I’ll never get in without an introduction. You told my father you would do everything in your power to assist with my entry into society.”

“I doubt your esteemed pater wants me to sponsor you at the most expensive and ruinous brothel in town barring that of the Wilson sisters.”

Percy pouted. “I just want to see the best ladybirds in all of London. All my friends are going.”

Mrs. B.’s auctions were certainly no place for a green’un like Percy. His father would be furious. Might never speak to Alistair again. Might even stop trying to borrow money. He allowed the flicker of a smile to pull at his lips. “All right. Why not?”

Percy bounced on his toes.

Waiting to go onstage, freezing cold in the skimpy tunic, Julia repeated the same words over and over again in her mind.

One man, one night, one hundred guineas.

The offer had sounded too good to be true when Betty Bentwhistle had proposed it as a way out of her difficulties. Julia went hot and cold by turns when she recalled the dreadful moment of being caught with a stolen skein of lace. The panic. The realization of how low she’d sunk and where she would end up next.

But that little bit of trim had meant the difference between selling a bonnet or going another night without food. A hard choice among many these past few months. The decision to steal had led to the worst choice of all. One night with a man or prison.

The urge to turn and run tensed her limbs. She took a deep breath. One man, one night, one hundred guineas. More than double what she needed to pay her debt to the shopkeeper and the brothel keeper. The rest, used carefully, would end her financial woes. And she wouldn’t end up on a ship to Australia.

Eager for Julia’s acceptance, Mrs. B. had proclaimed all her customers were gentlemen and wonderful lovers. Julia didn’t believe it for a moment. Her now-dead husband had been a gentleman to the outside world. The bedroom had been a different story.

But she had survived him and she would survive this auction and the night to come. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering as two girls rushed off the stage squealing with excitement, their eastern veils fluttering madly.

“Off you go, then,” Mrs. B. said, giving her a push.

Throat dry, palms damp, she adjusted the feathered mask to make sure she could see and hurried across the stage. The bare wood chilled the soles of her feet, the flimsy tunic swirled around her knees with each sway of her hips.

It felt very odd and very naked.

Lanterns along the painted backdrop of Roman ruins lit the stage. At the far end, she stepped up onto a pedestal painted to look like a column. Although muffled by the curtains, the cacophony of laughter and cries for more wine on the other side buffeted her with the force of a gale. Men. Eager to inspect the wares.

One man, one night. The more attractive she looked, the more money she would make. Turning sideways, she cocked a hip in their direction and flicked her hair over her shoulder as Mrs. B. had directed. Julia practiced a sultry smile, hoping the men wouldn’t see the stiffness in her lips, or quivering of her body caused by her rapidly beating heart. The men out there in that room behind the shabby red velvet curtains were all rich and hand-picked by Mrs. B. They were also members of the haut ton.

She could only hope to catch the eye of one that was kind and generous. And hope desperately that he wasn’t someone she knew. The shame was just too awful to contemplate.

Mrs. B. pushed her way through the gap in the curtain. A roar of approval went up. Julia’s rapidly beating heart sounded loud enough to be heard beyond the swathe of red between her and the company beyond.

The beefy man in the wings hauled slowly on the curtain ropes. Julia’s knees shook. She locked them and prayed she would not fall off her perch.

What if no one bid?

Alistair stretched out his legs and palmed a yawn. The girls were just as ordinary as he’d expected. Not even the thought of enjoying two or three at one time excited his tastes for the exotic.

On his right, Percy squirmed in his seat. “Did you see the bubbies on that last wench?” he said in a hoarse whisper. A rivulet of sweat trickled from his temple to his chin. “You should have let me bid on her.”

Alistair gritted his teeth. “Bubbies?” The lad spoke the language of a schoolboy. “Those were breasts. And you haven’t got any money.”

“You could—”

“I could, but I won’t lend you money for a dose of the pox.” Nor would he give a whore as a gift, no matter how much the boy whined. He was finished with being dunned by family members. “You only asked to see the girls. And see them you have.”

Percy mopped his brow with the end of the cravat hanging loose about his neck and quaffed the third ale Alistair had purchased. “I don’t see why you should begrudge me a guinea or two. You’ve far more than you need.”

A familiar cry of envy. When they weren’t thinking up ways to spend Alistair’s money, they bemoaned his meanness and complained about his lack of morals. Percy’s father was the one who’d named him the “Dissolute Duke.”

A waiter approached and leaned close to Alistair’s ear. “Gentleman at the door, your grace. Says he’s here by your invitation. Can I let him in?”

Alistair raised a brow and looked toward the entrance. A big man filled the doorway. Alistair narrowed his eyes. Why the hell had Godridge following him here? All he needed was another bloody hanger-on.

The large Scot caught his eye and jerked his chin in a silent indication of purpose. Alistair sighed. “Let him in.”

The waiter moved off to pass on the reply.

Damn it all. What a bloody bore. Not only did he have to bear-lead his own cousin, but it looked as if Beauworth had shuffled his relative off on him too. He really was going to have to cut the marquess from his diminishing circle of friends.

He sank deeper in his chair and swallowed a draft of his brandy, preparing to give Harry a set down of monumental proportions.

Mrs. B. appeared in front of the curtain. Her head turbaned and her large form draped in enough red silk to provide a tent for a company of infantry, she lifted her hand for quiet.

Percy leaned forward so eagerly he almost fell off his chair. The idiot was drunk on a few pints. Alistair grabbed him by the collar and heaved him backward. “Sit still or you are going home.”

Percy shrugged him off.

“Got your hands full there,” Harry observed, taking the empty seat beside Alistair. Empty because Alistair scared off all potential occupants with an icy stare.

“Beauworth said I might find you here,” Harry continued. “Sends his apologies for chucking you out.”

Alistair yawned. “Kind of you to let me know.”

“No need for sarcasm. He was on his way to find you when he received urgent word from Carleton House. The prince had a question about a horse he plans to purchase. Beauworth suggested you join him.”

The Scottish brogue was soft on Alistair’s ears and the words eased his irritation. “Are you going?”

Harry shook his head. “Above my touch, Duke. Having disturbed your evening, I thought it my duty to deliver the message.”

A man who cared about duty. A rarity among the beau monde.

“Quiet,” Mrs. B. yelled.

The chatter subsided.