The King's Courtesan (2 page)

She started home with frozen toes, a smile she was sure would never go away, and the feeling she was walking on air. When she wasn’t humming to herself she broke into laughter or sudden bursts of song. Halfway there, she met two of her mother’s ladies accompanied by a burly doorman. They hurried over, breathless. They had been searching for her al morning. Her mother needed her at once.

The brothel was always humming with energy and noise. It rang with the sound of song and laughter, though the singing was drunken and off-key and the laughter often shril . It smel ed of braised beef, brandy and ale, stale perfume and stale sex. Silks and petticoats rustled up and down the stairs and in and out of the secret exit for those guests who preferred anonymity, and wel -dressed gentlemen and partly dressed ladies wandered its hal s.

Several of those who lived there were her friends. Her mother’s ladies often told her stories as they taught her how to mix perfume from oils and flowers, and how to paint her face and fix her hair. She wasn’t terribly interested in those lessons, but many of them were country girls and she loved their tales of princes and princesses, magical folk who granted wishes and careless girls who got lost in the wild.

And now I have a story all my own.

They had told her other things, too, over the years. Things about men, though her mother had been careful to keep her away from the customers. How to soothe them, how to excite them and how to give them pleasure. How to use a beeswax cap or silk-covered sponge to prevent an unwanted baby, and a sheath to protect against a man who appeared diseased. Between their frank talk and what she’d witnessed through open doors, around corners and in supposedly quiet corridors she’d seen enough of naked husbands and great lords, cal ow young men and randy soldiers, to feel she didn’t need or want to learn any more.

That’s not love.
Love was what
she
wanted. And she’d found her true love today.

Not that her mother would approve. From early on, her mother tried to instil in her the importance of wise commerce. It was how she herself rose from the ranks of drabs prowling London’s streets, working in al eys with their backs against a wal , to become a prosperous woman of affairs.
But I don’t have to be like her. I don’t and I won’t
.

She was hurried up to her room with a great deal of fussing and clucking, only to find her mother waiting with a warm smile and a cup of hot chocolate. She eyed her warily and clutched her kitten defensively. Her mother was not one for kind gestures or maternal concern.

“Wel , here you are, lovey. And just in time. Today’s a very special day for you indeed.”

Hope blinked, confused. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“You’ve grown up within these wal s, girl. You understand.

Today you take up your duties as a woman. You’ve had a roof over your head al these years and plenty to eat, too.

That’s more than many a poor lamb in London can say. But you
are
a woman now. Your courses started last month.

Your great est possession besides beauty is your maidenhead. A jewel that is. A thing of great value.

Something a woman can give only once, despite what certain lying sluts might do or say. But it needs proper management. Just like arranging a good marriage. Don’t look so shocked, child!” She reached out a gnarled hand to pat her shoulder in an awkward and unconvincing display of motherly concern.

“You’re a whore, my dear. Born into it right and proper, though I was married to your father for al that. You’d best get used to the idea because you can never be aught else.

You’ve no breeding, no property, and there’s no chance any decent man wil have you. A girl like you won’t ever be married and who would want it? Your own father was a useless bastard. But for al that you’re a rare beauty, with his raven hair and very fine eyes indeed. And you’ve charm and a quick wit. Such gifts are wasted on a wife. She’s no need of them to catch a man, provided she has money, and she’s nay al owed to make use of them once she’s married.

Property she is. Broodmare and slave.”

Hope was too shocked to speak. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with this stranger who’d once been her mother, and it was not the awkward declaration of love she’d both dreaded and longed for. She blinked back tears, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.
She didn’t keep
me safe to protect me, but to add to my value.
She wanted to feel contempt and hatred but she couldn’t move past a soul-kil ing pain.
I should have known. I should have
known.

Her mother stroked her hair as she spoke, taking no notice of how it made her flinch.
Is this how she recruits new girls?

Stroking and cooing like a beady-eyed pigeon? Is this all I
am to her?

“Now look here, at the pretty dress his lordship has sent you!”

The dress, with its white satin underskirt and sleeves shot through with silver braid, looked like a wedding dress but for the indecently low-cut bodice. She knew what it meant.

There would be no prince for her. No choice. No happy ending.

“Which lord?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Let’s leave that as a surprise for now. It wil add authenticity to the undertaking.” Taking her silence for acceptance, her mother rubbed her hands together and nodded briskly. “Good girl! The anticipation is building, child. We’re to have an auction tonight and you are the prize. There’s naught to fear. You’ve seen enough of what happens here to know that, and only my best gentlemen wil take part. Remember what al the other girls have told you and use it wel . You’l fetch a fine price, my dear. Half to you and half to the house. You’l be off to a grand start in life. No daughter of mine wil be a common whore. You’l be a rich man’s mistress. You’re a lovely girl. Sharp and lively, too.

You’l climb higher than I ever dreamed or dared.” There must have been something—a flash in her eyes, the stubborn tilt of her chin that hinted at rebel ion—because when her mother left she locked the door behind her and positioned a doorman in the corridor.

They bathed and perfumed her, and then tamed and combed her unruly hair so it fel like a dark silken river to her waist. They ushered her into a paneled room where her mother and two of her “ladies” sat in attendance, as if she were a bride. There were at least five gentlemen present, though al she could see were their boots. She kept her eyes on the floor, wil ing them al to disappear, imagining if she but closed her eyes and opened them again the day would start anew.

But it didn’t, and she stood red-faced and mute as they joked and murmured, waiting for the bidding to begin.

There was no doubt as to the outcome. Sir Charles Edgemont would have her. ’Twas he who’d provided the dress. Nevertheless, her mother knew an auction would raise the price he paid for her “dowry” and had refused to spare her the humiliation when several hundred pounds might be at stake. Two of the ladies stripped her of her bodice and overskirt as the bidding heated up, leaving her tearstained and trembling, standing in her shift.

Inflamed by the sight of her and determined no other man should see naked what was meant to be his, Edgemont rose and bid two thousand pounds, raising howls of protest from the other gentlemen but effectively quel ing the game.

She looked at him then, from under her lashes. His hair was dark and close-cropped, interspersed here and there with flecks of grey. His eyes were cold, his face harsh, his jaw square.

Furious at being duped when he’d expected a private negotiation, but too proud to back out in front of his friends, Sir Charles took her wrist in a cruel grip and jerked her toward the door, stopping before he left to toss a heavy purse on the table. “This wil have to do for now, madam. I had not expected the price to soar so high. My man wil bring you the rest tomorrow.”

“But of course, my lord. You are known throughout London as a man who pays his debts. I shal await your pleasure. In the meantime, take the girl and enjoy her.” It was clear the auction had raised far more than even she had anticipated, and the poorly concealed smirk on her face and hard-edged gleam of avarice in her eyes almost made Hope retch. Instead, she placed a delicate hand on Sir Charles’s chest and leaned into him, shivering, tucking her head against his shoulder. His lips twisted in annoyance, but he released his grip on her wrist and removed his coat, wrapping it around her. She spoke for the first time since entering the room.

“You must only give her one half of it, my lord. For the rest was promised to me.”

“You’re as greedy and canny as your mother, girl,” he growled. “If you’re a virgin stil , I’m Archbishop of Canterbury. But I’l have my money’s worth from you nonetheless.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. Amidst her mother’s furious squawking and the laughter of the other men, a grim-faced Sir Charles bit back a reluctant chuckle and bundled her out the door and into his waiting coach.

The day she met her own true love was the day her mother sold her. It was the day she lost al hope of him. The day her childhood ended. She never saw him again. She never spoke to her mother again, and she stopped believing in happy ever after. Her mother had named her Hope. It seemed a cruel jest, but she did the only thing she could do.

She took the name and made it a talisman. She did what she needed to keep her own hopes alive. The day she left her mother’s doorstep she stopped dreaming about what couldn’t be, and started planning for what might. The only thing she couldn’t stop was asking herself one question.

What kind of parent puts a price on innocence and sells
their child like a slave?
It stil had the power to steal her breath.

Nevertheless, what started as a cruel betrayal and felt like the end of the world was the start of a journey that transformed her into a wel -spoken, smartly dressed, wel -

educated young woman. An accomplished dancer with a smattering of French and the attention of a monarch.
How
dramatic and shortsighted we are as children
. Along the way she let go of her fantasies of true love and imaginary princes, and found herself a real one, with al his flaws and imperfections. If from time to time her heart ached for something more, for someone else, no one knew it but her.

Cressly Manor, Nottinghamshire, 1662

HE DARTED AROUND
a corner, his pursuers snarling at
his heels. It was dark, the sky an impenetrable blanket
smothering a ruined town blackened and seared by fire.

Pockets of angry flames licked the sky and bodies littered
the street. Those who’d survived the inferno and escaped
the sword huddled in cellars, wells and ditches, hushed
and trembling, waiting for the storming of booted feet to
pass them by.

He sprinted toward the town center and ducked down a
secluded street that was little more than an alley. There
was no moon and no illumination other than the reddish
glow of torchlight. The path he’d chosen led nowhere but a
wall too high to climb. He’d reached a dead end.

Straightening, he turned to face his pursuers. They slowed
and stopped, suddenly wary, something in his face, his
stance, turning anticipation into confusion and fear. He
growled low in his throat. Ferocious. Triumphant. This was
the moment he’d been training for, waiting for,
living
for.

They stumbled over each other, slowly backing away; all
but their leader, who seemed oddly bemused. They’d
understood too late. They were the prey.

He might have got off two shots with his pistols in those
first moments of stunned surprise, but this wasn’t an act of
war. This required intimacy.
This
was personal. His eyes
flashed and metal sparked as he drew a gleaming sword,
attacking with a lightning-quick savagery fueled by hatred,
fanned by a lust for vengeance and nursed over the
course of several years. One man took the blade to the
throat before he could ready his weapon. Another fumbled
with a pistol only to stagger backward, ashen-faced with
shock, before falling.

Their leader hadn’t moved. A handsome man with graying
hair, he stood waiting, sword at the ready, curiosity rather
than fear in his eyes. “We have met before. How do I know
you?”

“Cressly,” he hissed, leaping forward, slamming him hard
against the wall. He pinioned him by the throat with one
arm as the longsword drove under his guard between
breast and back plate and thick buff coat, cutting through
leather, skin and bone. The man’s eyes showed shock
and bewilderment but it wasn’t enough. He leaned into
him, turning and twisting the hilt of his sword with sadistic
force, not bothering to stifle the man’s shrill scream of
agony.

“’Twas Cressly in Nottinghamshire we met, Lord Stanley,”
he growled against his cheek. “My name is Robert
Nichols and this is how I want to be remembered. Her
name was Caroline…and
this,”
he said as he twisted
again, “is for her.” He saw it then, the startled flash of
recognition. He gave one final thrust, jerking the earl’s
body up and nearly off the ground before pulling out his
sword and stepping back, letting the lifeless corpse slide
down the wall to join the refuse that littered the blood-slick
pavement. He felt strangely empty. There was no
satisfaction. No thrill of righteous retribution or sense of
justice done. But Stanley was just the first. There were
three more yet to go. Perhaps then she’d let him be.

He regarded his handiwork, face impassive, before
turning to look at a huddled form, mewling in the corner.

Off in the distance, Prince Rupert’s forces were still hard at
work, fanning through the town, routing out those who had
run too late, stayed too long, or hadn’t found a place deep
enough to hide. The night echoed with sporadic musket
fire, shrill screams, drunken laughter and desperate cries
of
“sauve qui peut.”
The rumble of cannon fire
reverberated through the city. Strange now the walls were
breeched and the battle done but for the looting. He
cocked his head to one side, assessing, and then he
spoke. “Run!” Somewhere, impossibly far away, a young
girl cried….