Page 10 of Making of a Scandal
“That does it,” she quipped. “You must be with child, and this only confirms it. I’ve heard the condition can affect a woman’s nerves as well as her mind. You must be delirious. Do you feel ill? Should we skip the opera so you can lie down? I’ll send for Hastings.”
Diana let out a short bark of laughter. “You will do no such thing. I might possibly be with child, but I am not daft. It’s the perfect plan! All we need is the right gentleman.”
“And just where do you propose we find this man?” Calliope challenged, bracing her hands on her hips. “Could you imagine the scandal it would incite for us to go about inquiring if any of Hastings’s friends would like to join our conspiracy? I’m enough of a walking scandal on my own, thank you. I don’t think I want to bear more scrutiny on top of that.”
Practically bouncing with every step, Diana dashed across the room toward the chaise longue Calliope liked to lay upon to read. Underneath it sat a stack of her most recent novels, the box containing her charcoal pencils and latest sketches, and a handful of scandal sheets. Embarrassment flooded Calliope as Diana retrieved the sheets, exposing her secret love of the salacious papers. Ekta scorned them as pointless drivel, but they were the only guilty pleasure Calliope ever allowed herself. Just because she’d spent her entire life trying to avoid becoming a spectacle didn’t stop her from enjoying the news of other scandals.
“Ah-ha,” Diana said as she pulled one from the sheaf and held it up.
It was a copy of the most popular paper in Town,The London Gossip.Extending it toward Calliope, Diana pointed at a story that had been setting thetonablaze for months. In it, the anonymous writer of the column had published a first-hand account from a woman who had, supposedly, hired on the services of the men known asThe Gentleman Courtesans. No names had been published, but this column was the first part in what was to be a series of chapters offering a glimpse inside the secret organization. Of course, no concrete proof had been given to substantiate the claims, which meant most of thebeau mondethought of it as nothing more than the amusing fictional writings of the mysterious London Gossip.
“You cannot be serious!” Calliope cried. “There is no proof that these Gentleman Courtesans exist, and even if they did, their purpose surely would not be helping a spinster find a husband.”
Diana glanced about as if she expected Hastings or another servant to come leaping out of the shadows at any moment. When no such thing occurred, she edged closer and lowered her voice.
“It’s true, all of it. I know someone who had an affair with one of them for months after her husband’s death.”
“Diana!”
Her sister shrugged. “Now that I’m married, people talk about all sorts of things in my presence. It has been an illuminating experience. Anyway, the woman was quite explicit in her descriptions, and insists that the courtesans only give the client whatever she wants. An elderly widow once paid one of them to come have tea with her every afternoon and rub her arthritic joints. Another simply wanted someone to lie in bed with her and hold her while she slept. So, you see, the man could be whatever you needed him to be—including a public escort.”
Calliope gaped at Diana, unable to believe what she was hearing. As frustrating as it was to be her age and have people go silent around her when certain subjects came up in conversation, it was even more disturbing to know such things happened every day right under her nose. A society that would cast aspersions on her for being born of an English lord and a Bengali woman—who had happened to be his lawful wife—would really turn a blind eye to such immorality? But, of course they would. Men flaunting their mistresses behind their wives’ backs was par for the course, so why wouldn’t there also be a business catering to the whims of wealthy women?
“These men might be used in any number of capacities, but we all know what their true purpose is,” Calliope argued. “Surely you don’t suggest I allow myself to be seen publicly with one!”
Diana took hold of her hands and gave her a meaningful look, eyebrows raised. “That’s just it, Callie. These men are discreet—they have to be. Despite the odd mention in the gossip columns, have you ever actually heard a substantial rumor about them? Heard their names whispered anywhere in polite society? Known of any woman being publicly ruined by association with one?”
Yet again, her sister had a point. Despite wild speculation, no one could say with any certainty who the Gentleman Courtesans were, how they operated, or who had been serviced by them. If nothing else, Calliope supposed she could admire the cunning of such an enterprise. If the talk about them was to be believed, they had operated in secrecy for years without being exposed.
“Oh, Diana … I don’t know …”
“Just think about it,” Diana urged. “Mr. Lewes has likely arrived, and Hastings will be impatient to depart. But, I want you to consider it. If you decide to go through with it, I know someone who could arrange an introduction to a lady who’s acquainted with the proprietor of the business.”
Calliope nodded, finding that she could form no actual words to respond to Diana’s outlandish idea. As Ekta silently helped her into her redingote, clear disapproval stamped all over her weathered, brown face, Calliope tried to push the notion aside. It was absurd, thinking of paying someone to pretend to be smitten with her in order to snare the attention of another man. It was beneath her, and dishonest, and would be a waste of a portion of her inheritance.
Along with the clothing and jewels of her mother’s Calliope had inherited, there was a great deal of money—a fortune she could live on until she died, in the event she failed to secure a husband. Her father had been incredibly generous, likely knowing how difficult it would be for her as an oddity amongst the other ladies of society. She could spend the money on a courtesan and not miss it, but it seemed like such a frivolous use of funds. Calliope would far rather continue concentrating her efforts and wealth on things that mattered to her—such as the charity organization she took part in—the thing that fulfilled her time and resources for lack of a husband or child to look after.
To purchase the attentions of a courtesan? No, she couldn’t bear to think of it. She was angry with herself for even being tempted by the idea.
However, as she and Diana joined the men downstairs, Calliope’s heart gave a painful squeeze at the sight of the gentleman she wanted. He was achingly beautiful in his black and white evening kit, the austere shades only enhancing his bright coloring. He was genial and friendly as he greeted her, offering his arm to guide her out to the waiting carriage. What she wouldn’t give for him to look at her the way Hastings did Diana, as he lowered his head to murmur something in her ear. Something private that made Diana’s cheeks flush pink and caused Calliope to experience a deep and poignant longing for what they had.
Mr. Lewes did seem to like her, and as Diana said, all he seemed to need was a push in the right direction. It wouldn’t really be so bad of Calliope to use the tools at her disposal to ensure he came to see her as something more than the sister-in-law of a friend?
Would it?
Chapter 2
“I find it galling that wagering has so permeated our society and poisoned the minds of our fathers, brothers, and husbands. From betting books and cock fights, boxing matches and gaming hells … It is my opinion that there is no vice more ungentlemanly than that of gambling.”
The London Gossip, 21 August, 1819
Dominick Burke rattled the ivory dice cup in one hand while holding on to the lightskirt clinging to his shirtsleeve with the other. He blinked eyes made cloudy from drink and shook his head, forcing the two whirling Hazard tables before him to amalgamate into one. The din of the gaming hell faded to a dull roar, and the faces of those crowded around the table looked contorted and warped to his unfocused eyes. He wasn’t certain whether fatigue or spirits were responsible for his present state. Likely both. He’d been here for hours, and was determined not to leave until his luck had changed. After so many nicks, a man had to throw in at some point.
This was it; he could feel it. Anticipation thrummed in his veins. The entire world seemed to fade away, his field of vision narrowing to the table and the dice flying out over the green baize as he released them from the cup.
His breath caught and held, his chest burning as they rolled for several turns before coming to a stop. They were too far away for him to see how they’d landed, and he was far too foxed. However, the resulting groans from the other men gathered around made his heart sink. The banker glanced up from his end of the table, and with grim austerity uttered, “Eleven.”
“Goddamn it,” Nick muttered, gripping the edge of the table and lowering his head.
