Page 25 of A Courtesan Countess Worth the Scandal
“Will you prepare some tea for Miss Black and me?” Mrs. Roberts replied, smoothing down a wayward strand of hair that had frizzed loose from her slick chignon.
Emily dipped her head. “Of course, Mrs. Roberts.” As she walked away, Nora heard her grumbling and immediately felt bad. “As if I don’t have a thousand other things to do.”
“Ignore her. She doesn’t mind it, really,” Mrs. Roberts said, apparently sensing Nora’s discomfort. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve come to gratefully distract me from this tiresome lump of documentation?”
Nora chuckled. “This might sound like a peculiar request, but I was wondering if you knew of anyone who might publish a memoir? Namely, my memoir…” she paused, “you should know, it’s quite a… salacious piece, so it won’t be to many men’s taste. But I thought, if anyone would know of a person, it would be you.”
Over the years they had known each other, Nora had often heard Mrs. Roberts telling stories of her youth, when she had traveled far and wide, across England and beyond. She had even claimed to be the most well connected, yet most ignored, individual on this island, for no one seemed to want to help her when she asked for charitable donations. No one except Nora and, to a lesser extent, Julia.
Mrs. Roberts drummed her fingertips upon her lips in thought. “Ooh, now there’s a question. Does this memoir contain details of your… gentlemen callers?”
“It does, though I’ve taken out quite a lot of names. The ones I haven’t taken out are the ones who deserve to be exposed.” Nora clenched her jaw. “Perhaps that’s unfair, but still… they were given the opportunity to make peace with me. Those who refused cannot expect to be treated leniently.”
Mrs. Roberts chuckled. “You’re quite right, Miss Black. Why, if I were you, I wouldn’t bother with removing any names. Their wives ought to know to whom they are married, in my opinion.” She flexed her wrists. “I never did understand why gentlemen get married, only to chase after the next pretty thing that passes by. If they cannot commit, they should remain bachelors. That way, no one ends up bitter.”
Like my Ma—
Mary Black had never told the full story of why Nora’s father had left them, but Nora was worldly wise enough to be able to fill in some of the details. There had almost certainly been another woman, who had likely appeared as a breath of tempting fresh air in comparison to the weary, exhausted, broken shell that being on the seam had turned her mother into. He clearly had not realized that he was supposed to water the proverbial grass where he lived, to help it flourish, instead of seeking pastures new.
“As for a publisher… hm.” Mrs. Roberts scratched her temple. “Yes, I think I know of someone who might be suitable. He used to translate and publish French novels, back when we English thought they were good for nothing but kindling. Hm, yes, he may be your best chance. I do believe he used to publish anything, so long as you had coin.”
Nora’s heart leaped. “Where might I find him? Is he in London?”
“Oh goodness, no. Do you think a man such as that would be allowed anywhere near civilized society?” Mrs. Roberts laughed. “He had to flee the city when a group of infuriated fathers from high society decided to come to his door, ready to runhimthrough his printing press for filling their daughters’ minds with scandalous French romance.”
Nora’s smile widened by the second. “I’m hoping they didn’t kill him, or my search may be at an end.”
“Last I heard, he was still residing in the village of Northcrop, about… ooh, thirty miles outside London. If you leave the city, take the road toward Oxford, and keep looking for signposts, you won’t be able to miss it,” Mrs. Roberts instructed.
Nora wanted to rush around the desk and embrace Mrs. Roberts tightly for giving her this glimpse of possibility, but she restrained herself, knowing Mrs. Roberts was not the affectionate type.
“Thank you, Mrs. Roberts. You don’t know what this means for me, and what it will mean for my family and this orphanage,” Nora gushed instead. “With the money I have gained from clients who want their names removed, and from the sales I will hopefully make when the memoir is published, I will be able to keep these children fed for years to come.”
The older woman’s eyes widened. “That is why you are doing this?”
“I can’t carry on being a courtesan. It is a life that would surely see me dead before I reach thirty, if I were to continue,” Nora explained, still giddy from the news that someone out there might publish her memoir. “This is my insurance, my security, and our futures. In a way, I think it always has been.”
After all, her first client had taught her to read and write, and he had been the very worst wretch in her long history of cruel, vile men. She might not have been able to tear him down by writing of him in her memoir, lest he take the house away, but she could take some revenge in knowing that he was the one who had made this possible.
Mrs. Roberts reached out and took Nora’s hand. “Then, I wish you the very best of luck, Miss Black. For all of our sakes.” Her eyes shone with tears. “I, for one, shall be the first waiting outside the bookseller to buy your memoir.”
“Ah… yes, I may have to cross that particular bridge when I come to it,” Nora replied. If she had thought finding a publisher would be hard, then finding booksellers who would distribute it was going to be another mammoth task entirely. However, she knew there were more covert ways around that, even if she had to open a shop herself.
“The publisher’s name is Maximilian Fenwick,” Mrs. Roberts continued. “Tell him I am thinking of him, when you find him. That reminds me—when you reach Northcrop, look for the church. He lives in a cottage that sits by itself, on the rise of a hill nearby.”
Nora nodded effusively. “This is going to change all of our lives, Mrs. Roberts.”
“I shall pray that it does.” The older woman smiled warmly. “When will you go?”
Nora glanced at the carriage clock on Mrs. Roberts mantelpiece. “As soon as I can.”
With the gentlemen of London in uproar, she knew she did not have a single moment to waste. For as soon as that memoir was published, her insurance would be ironclad. Not a soul would dare to harm her or her family, lest it confirm their identity, their guilt and, most of all, their villainy.
All this time, her clients had called her the “Butterfly of London.” They had not realized that she was actually a dragon, ready to swoop over the city and lay waste to those who had wronged her. For that was the last detail to her scheme. The men who had forced themselves upon her, and left her body scarred and bruised, would get no mercy. No letter of opportunity would come to their homes. No names or details would be erased from her memoir, just as she could not erase their brutality from her mind, her nightmares, and her skin.
Just like Sir Arnold, they would be left to pick up the pieces of their shattered reputations, and they would know why. They had stolen something from her, and this was her way of taking it back.
Chapter Eleven
