Page 5 of Portrait of a Lady
“It would be a firestorm of scandal if anyone found out,” he declared.
“That’s why we will do everything we must to ensure that does not happen,” Aubrey argued. “Think of it, Dominick, all your gambling debts erased, your pockets filled with your own money instead of your father’s; this will make it possible.”
Dominick frowned, running a hand over the stubble overtaking his jaw. “Iaman excellent lover.”
Hugh gave a dry snort. “That assertion does not count when it comes from the mouth of a whore. She’s being paid to tell you that you are excellent.”
Dominick gave Hugh a black scowl. “Perhaps I ought to ask your mother whatheropinion is. She’s still a handsome woman. Do you think—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll beat you black and blue,” Hugh growled, curling one hand in to a fist.
“Oh, do lighten up, Hugh,” David said, shoulders shaking as he tried to smother a laugh. “Dominick knows very well your mother wouldn’t have him.”
“Perhaps not,” Dominick agreed. “But the women of thetonwould.”
Aubrey arched an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll join us?”
Dominick’s wary expression remained, but he rose to his feet to join the others. “Dash it all, why not? Like David said, it isn’t as if we have anything else to lose.”
Benedict became stone cold sober as the anticipation of setting his plan into motion superseded all else. Instead of finding his bed to sleep off his inebriation, he now wished to ensconce himself in his study, where he could plot and plan in peace. A wicked sense of satisfaction washed over him as he thought of this as just another way to thumb his nose at his father. He hadn’t wanted to go crawling to the man to ask for funds, and now that eventuality would be taken firmly off the table. He couldn’t wait for the viscount to ask him where his funds were coming from, only for Benedict to refuse to reveal his methods. The old man wouldn’t be able to stand it, and anything that irritated the viscount brought Benedict boundless joy.
“This calls for a toast,” he declared, ambling to the sideboard covered with depleted decanters.
The brandy and sherry were all gone, but he found just enough port for each of them to partake. Pouring five measures into cut crystal glasses, he passed them out, then raised his own.
“To our new enterprise. May it bring us wealth.”
“May it bring us beautiful, rich, insatiable women,” David added.
“May it save Dominick from having to don a dress and court the favors of Lord Walsingam,” Hugh said with a chortle.
Five glasses were raised amid boisterous laughter, and Benedict took a sip of his port. As the other men fell into conversation about the sorts of women they hoped to service, Aubrey took his arm and pulled him aside.
“Ben, are you certain you are up for this?” he asked, voice lowered so no one else could hear. “The rest of us will not have a bit of trouble with the particulars involved, but you—”
“Relax,” Benedict cut in. “I predict there will be a very...singular sort of clientele I can cater to. Just as there will be those who wish for your particular brand of dominance. As the person I trust most, I hope I can rely upon you to help me ensure such clients are taken care of. I assure you I am more than up to the task on my end.”
Understanding his meaning, Aubrey gave a slow nod. “Understood. Whatever you need from me, count it done.”
He’d always been able to rely on Aubrey to keep his secrets, and this would prove no exception. He and Dominick had been friends the longest, but he and Aubrey shared the sort of friendship that ran a bit deeper than his connection to the others. Whether it was because, at times, they proved far more serious than the rest of their set, or because they shared a kinship due to being different from other men of their acquaintance, Benedict felt closer to Aubrey than anyone else in the world. He proved the only man who had never scorned him once learning the truth he kept hidden beneath a veil of debauchery and cynicism.
“Very well then,” he said, raising his glass once more. “To the Gentleman Courtesans.”
With a smile, Aubrey clinked his glass against Benedict’s. “To the Gentleman Courtesans.”
Chapter 1
2 years later …
“As we near the halfway mark of the Season, I know we are all looking forward to the annual Summer Exhibition by the Royal Academy of the Arts, where only the best of London’s up and coming artists will have their work displayed. I have it on good authority that one son of the Earl of P will throw his hat into the ring for his third year in a row. This writer shall certainly be in attendance to find out whether the third time really is a charm!”
-The London Gossip, 10 March 1819
Closing the leather-bound portfolio at his fingertips, Hugh rose to his feet and gathered the collection of sketches depicting various parts of human anatomy. Tucking it—along with the matching case holding his pencils and charcoal—beneath one arm, he filed from the classroom along with the other young men who had attended today’s lecture. Amid the expressions of his fellow students, he identified all too well with those who portrayed disappointment and frustration. The human body, their instructor had said, proved one of God’s most beautiful and complicated designs, which was why so many of them failed at adequately capturing it on paper. Within his own portfolio were images of the parts he’d been working to master for years now—eyes, noses, lips, hands.
Fucking hands, he thought with a scowl as he followed the corridor toward the entrance to Somerset House, within which was housed The Royal Academy of Arts.
Human hands had been the bane of his existence since he’d begun his instruction, perhaps one of the most difficult body parts to sketch or paint with any amount of skill or accuracy. Four fingers and a thumb; one would not expect it to be so bloody complicated. He’d taken to eyes like a fish to water, and he prided himself on the ability to inject the windows of a person’s soul with just the right amount of emotion. But, hands...they could be broad or slender, possess knobby knuckles or beefy digits, and could portray the same range of moods or personalities as eyes could. There were the smooth hands of the young and the gnarled claws of the old, the pretty hands of a fine lady and the calloused paws of a bare-knuckle brawler.
