convince herself that she needed him. Before she knew it, he would be able to control her every move. He’d change. Become brutal.
She’d never go through that again.
Even so, as she lay on her small bed, she yearned to be held by Oliver again. He’d opened a door that she’d thought closed for good—one that Duncan had slammed on her—and how was she to lock those feelings away again?
She would, she vowed. She must.
* * *
That night Cecilia entered the club through the rear door. The Maison D’Eros was located near the Palais-Royal, which, at this late hour, became quite a different place from the one she’d strolled through with Oliver. She was glad Oliver would never know she was a part of this world. At night courtesans, departing from the theatre, promenaded with their patrons. Prostitutes strolled, hoping to attract clients.
Cecilia might have been one of those unfortunate creatures had she not been rescued by Vincent, her one French ally. When Vincent found her that first desperate night at the Palais-Royal, she’d spent her last sou. Her search for employment had been futile. No Frenchman wished to hire an English lady for any reason—except the most wretched and shameful one. So she’d been reduced to that circumstance that night.
Until Vincent took pity on her.
Dear Vincent, the one man she felt comfortable with. Vincent was like a bosom beau and unlike anyone she’d ever met before. A man who adored womanly things, but preferred men to women. He was the very safest sort of ally. He took her under his wing and brought her to the Maison D’Eros, talking the manager into letting her serve drinks for tips.
‘You must flirt with the rich gentlemen so that they buy more drinks and pay you more tips,’ Vincent had told her, then he showed her how to do it. She managed it by pretending she was someone else, not Cecilia Lockhart. The men started calling her Coquette, so she became Coquette.
Coquette was brave. Coquette could tease men and put them in their place. Coquette could laugh at their silly jokes and admire their braggadocio. Coquette could sing bawdy songs and dance seductively. Coquette spoke only French.
Soon men were begging for her favours and Vincent devised another plan.
‘I have a way you might become the rage of Paris! Paris’s most selective courtesan!’ he’d said to her one night.
She’d been scraping by on her tips. ‘I told you, Vincent, I do not wish to be a courtesan. Bedding strange men is abhorrent to me.’
He’d sighed. ‘Abhorrent to you, but my greatest pleasure.’ He’d placed his hand to his heart for a moment. ‘But, never mind. You will not have to bed anyone.’
‘How can one be a courtesan without the bedding?’ she’d asked.
He’d explained it to her.
And so Coquette became Madame Coquette, Paris’s most selective courtesan, selling her favours a mere two nights a week—without selling her favours at all.
Tonight Vincent greeted her in the back room wearing a purple coat, a deep blue waistcoat and a bright yellow neckcloth—his work costume. His blond hair curled around his boyish face and his lips and cheeks were tinted a pale pink.
‘Madame Coquette, chérie!’ He kissed both cheeks in his flamboyant manner. ‘You look ravishing.’
‘As do you, mon cher.’ She kissed him in kind.
‘Who do you entertain tonight?’ he asked.
‘Monsieur Legrand.’
Legrand was a wealthy merchant who had made it a point to ingratiate himself with those in power during the restoration of the monarchy. It was said he courted favour with the Duke of Wellington, but now, with the Occupation near to its end, he’d turned to Frenchmen who were likely to come to power. Procuring a night with Madame Coquette was, no doubt, part of how he intended to impress.
‘Legrand,’ Vincent repeated. ‘He is no challenge at all. You will wrap him around your little finger in no time.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But Hercule will remain nearby, will he not?’
Hercule, large, strong and intimidating, was employed as a flash man to make certain none of the working girls suffered mistreatment. He stayed within shouting distance in case things did not go as planned.
‘But of course.’ Vincent threaded her arm through his. ‘Time to turn yourself into Madame Coquette.’
They walked up the servants’ stairs to a room on the first floor where the dresser arranged Cecilia’s hair and applied just a light dusting of rouge on her cheeks and lips.
‘What dress today, Coquette?’ the dresser asked.
‘The red, I suppose.’
The red gown was made of fine silk, its neckline, sleeves and hem trimmed in gold embroidery. The neckline dipped lower than what Cecilia would wish, but it was perfect for Madame Coquette. Her gowns were fine enough for a high-priced courtesan, but they were not hers. The manager of the club paid for them.
Once in her gown and slippers, Ceclia said au revoir to the dresser. In the hallway with Vincent, there was nothing left to do but meet her customer.
Vincent held her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Deep breath!’ he commanded. ‘Breathe in, Madame Coquette!’
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let herself become her alter ego.
Lifting her chin, she opened her eyes again and nodded to Vincent who turned her towards the door that led to the drawing room and gave her a little push.
With a slight sway to her hips that had not been there before, she entered the drawing room and made straight for Monsieur Legrand as if she were eager to be in his company.
He gaped at her as she approached him, almost spilling his glass of wine and only remembering to stand when she drew near.
‘Legrand,’ she said in a voice deeper than she usually spoke, emphasising the grand. ‘It is my pleasure to entertain you tonight.’
Legrand was a man in his fifties, who obviously enjoyed the fruits of his labour. His round stomach strained at the buttons of his waistcoat, which was well tailored and made of the finest cloth. His nose had the red hue of someone who enjoyed too much wine and his neck disappeared behind his jowls. Yet he displayed himself to her as if she would find him irresistible. No wonder so many courtesans had their beginnings in the theatre. It took a great deal of acting to convince a man such as this that his company was desired.
He’d paid a great deal for this night with her, although the manager of Maison D’Eros took the lion’s share. Her goal was to save enough for a modest living somewhere, ideally back in England, for which she was always homesick—even more so since spending the day with Oliver. It would take her a long time to amass such a sum. Years, perhaps. She’d been building Madame Coquette’s reputation over the last year and a half and she had little more than what travel expenses to England would cost her.
‘Shall we retire to my room?’ she asked, taking his arm.
‘Yes.
