Page 21 of A Courtesan Countess Worth the Scandal
“Everyone, bow your heads. These fellows are walking to their execution!” another shouted. “Pay your respects now for, if their wives have their way, we shall not see their kind again!”
“Do not let your wives or children leave the house for at least a year, until this scandal dies down!” A third cackled. “And regret that you ever taught them to read!”
Sir Arnold blanched. “Is this t… true? Miss B… Black has really done this?”
“I have the proof.” Carlton grinned, utterly gleeful at the misery of these other men. He produced a pamphlet and pushed it across the table. There, emblazoned on the front, were the words, “The Exploits of a London Butterfly—a scathing serial detailing the bawdy adventures of a famed courtesan, and the gentlemen who paid for her charms. Look inside to find Part One of this scintillating memoir.
A sketch adorned the rest of the page, depicting a gowned lady with torn butterfly wings, holding a mask to her face to conceal her identity. But there must have been something within the name of “London Butterfly” that had these gentlemen fleeing. Liam did not understand how they knew it was Miss Black, but he was somewhat intrigued to find out.
“There is no mention of Miss Black.” Liam watched as Sir Arnold flipped open the pamphlet, to reveal the first part of this courtesan’s exposé.
The rotund gentleman unleashed a choking sound and clamped a hand to his chest. “That venomous serpent! How dare she do this! How dare she vilify me upon the scandal sheets!”
Curious, Liam’s eyes flitted across the paper, and he was not disappointed by what he found:
Sir Arnold Montgomery of Belgravia Square, London, first requested my companionship on the Fourth of May, some three years ago. With fine manners, sweet compliments, and a rather pleasing physique, he presented himself as the military hero that gained him his knighthood. Although, where others would allow merits and honors to go to their head, he has rather allowed them to go to his gut since our encounter.
We dined at the townhouse of one of his acquaintances, where I rather thought I treated him with fondness and courtesy. By the end of the evening, his was the name upon everyone’s lips, and the name already being added to their list of invitees to the next soiree. I upheld my part of the exchange and made him the talk of all London when he had failed to do so of his own accord. His fame had been languishing for some time, so I thought it prudent to bolster his reputation.
Throughout that pleasant evening, he behaved as though I were a young lady that he intended to woo. Perhaps, for a while, he forgot that he had paid for me to be charming and accepting of his “courtship.” And, perhaps, he forgot that I was not quite so young a lady, and nor was I in the market for wooing.
Yet, though he has no land or estate of his own, and a wife who adores him for reasons that must only be known to her, he revealed his true nature as we departed the townhouse of his acquaintance… he is a gentleman—though that may be too reverent a word—who is unused to not getting what he wants. You would think that a fellow who is accustomed to taking orders on the battlefield would understand when it is imprudent to “charge the enemy.”
When I went to say my farewells, for the evening had ended and the contract of my fee was complete, he behaved like an infant whose favored toy had been stolen away. He pouted and stomped and threw a rather ear-splitting tantrum about the injustice of my wanting a good night’s rest… alone, I might add.
“I have paid for you and I will have you!” he cried… his cheeks puce with petulant fury. And, oh, how his jowls did wobble like aspic when he stomped and huffed. “You are no lady, and I will not treat you as such! Do you think I am unaccustomed to the coquettish whore? If you would prefer force, then I am only too happy to oblige. But Ishallpartake of you this night.”
Is that not what you do? I hear you shout. Do you not sell your body for coin? Well, I am about to deliver an illuminating revelation. I do not. I sell my company. I sell my wit, my humor, my (fading) beauty, and my charisma. That is what the coin of these gentlemen pays for, and I inform them of that consistently, so there can be no misunderstanding. But you know gentlemen—they are forever misunderstanding, if it does not benefit them.
Oh, he howled, and he wailed, and he pawed at me with his plump fingers. That reminds me, I must write this quickly so I may take my breakfast sausages out of the frying pan. Though, perhaps, I shall feed the smallest one to the dog, for the sight of it will turn my stomach now that I am detailing this.
You see, he continued to refuse my refusal… and when I tried to flee from him, he grasped me around the neck like a brute, and squeezed until I was quite unconscious. The next thing I know, I am trapped inside his carriage, which he has seen fit to hide down a shady alley, among the urinating drunkards and stray cats. Alarm followed, as I found him grunting and wheezing atop me, my skirts pushed up to my face. I felt very little, other than violation, but he seemed rather pleased with his efforts.
He squealed like a piglet as he concluded his wretched endeavor, and sank down onto me like a sweating, odorous boar. Fumbling to close his breeches, he opened the carriage door and kicked me out. I do not mean that in the figurative sense. His boot collided with my ribs, breaking two, and sent me careening out onto the filthy, fetid cobbles of that alleyway. I hit my head as I fell and wore a rather nasty bruise for several days.
And yet, I counted myself fortunate because I was not dead. Had I been an unknown whore, from any of London’s bawdy houses, I might have been a corpse for the Bow Street Runners to find in the river, or in a ditch, or simply on the street, with my undercarriage on show for all to see. Only my fame saved me, I believe, and that is why I must use it now, to reveal to you all what monsters and devils live among you, wearing the faces of innocent, heroic, well-respected gentlemen.
To Sir Arnold Montgomery’s wife, you have my deepest sympathies. Your husband crowed at the dinner party of his countless exploits in London’s brothels, and I pray that you have been spared any venereal disease. To his children… I pray they do not read this.
For those who will undoubtedly call me a liar—Sir Arnold, I am talking to you—I shall grant further proof. Above Sir Arnold’s hip, he has a somewhat faded smudge of a tattoo, that must have been placed there during his time upon the battlefield. He also has a scar above his navel, shaped like a scythe, and he has a truly foul mouth when he is in the heat of his lust.
I do not write this to smear a national hero, for I happen to be fond of England’s soldiers. I write this to tell you all that, beneath the façade, he is no hero at all. For the countless women he has abused and injured, he is a villain. To Mrs. Arnold, if you are also one of those wounded women, I would urge you to do what you must and abandon your scoundrel of a husband. He does not deserve you.
I shall leave you, dear reader, to ponder this first installment, and I do hope you look forward to the next…
“London Butterfly”
“Do you know who wrote this?” Liam felt compelled to have the suspicions confirmed.
Sir Arnold glowered at him. “Of course I do!” he barked. “It is that vile viper, Miss Black! I remember the night as though it were yesterday.”
“Then… she did not lie?” Carlton purred, clearly thrilled by this turn of events.
Sir Arnold scoffed. “I paid for her. She is a whore. There is only one outcome in such an exchange, and if a bawd does not give willingly, then it must be taken, or else it is theft of my money.”
Liam felt sick to his stomach, hearing this rogue speak so brazenly of assaulting a woman, as though it were somehow his right. Even if Liam had not seen the encounter with Lord Westleigh, his thoughts would not have altered. No man had a right to force a woman, paid or not. The fact that Miss Black had clearly set out the terms, and refused him within the bounds of their exchange, only made it worse.
“Did you not receive a letter from Miss Black?” the man at Denninson’s side asked.
