She smiled, a cynical twist to her painted lips, thinking of the rogues she’d serviced over the years. They’d never wanted the truth. Nay, they’d wanted to be cooed over and coddled, and complimented on how virile and handsome they were even if they were on the far side of seventy. They all had their fantasies. And every fantasy began with a lie.
April Duprey wasn’t even her given name. She barely remembered the name she’d been christened or the chit she’d been before her drunken sod of a father had bartered her to a whoremaster in exchange for the bill he’d owed. She’d been eleven at the time.
That had been a long time ago, of course. April knew a cool satisfaction over surviving those early days. After that brutal first year, she’d put aside girlish dreams she no longer remembered and ruthlessly applied herself to becoming a skillful courtesan. She had the looks and the wits to become more than a streetwalker, although she’d done her share of back alley tumbles with drunken rakes. She’d been clever enough to do it for a coin or two, not a tipple of gin. She’d ended up in an academy for a time, until she’d craftily seduced one of the coves into setting her up in her own house.
It had been a lovely time, that. Of course, she’d never been so foolish as to believe it would last. In her world, nothing lasted. She’d hoarded her coins and jewels, worked on her speech and manners. When her protector had found a younger mistress and given her congé, she’d bought the house on Bacon Street and acquired a small selection of girls. It had taken her years, but she’d built her business as brothel keeper. She might not offer the most exclusive demimondaines at her academy, but she’d carved out a solid reputation by catering to a broad range of tastes.
Now as she spun away from the window, she caught her reflection in the beveled glass mirror across the room. For a brief moment, she saw a pale, golden-haired Cyprian in a diaphanous blue empire-waisted gown. The candlelight helped weave an illusion of youth and beauty. She knew the truth.
One lied to the clientele; one never lied to oneself.
At thirty-five, she had long since parted ways with youth. If she looked closely into the mirror, she’d see that the years had caught up with her, leaving a web of fine lines around her eyes and forehead. Her figure was still good, lush and round, but she could no longer conceal a certain hardness in her countenance or the shrewdness in her eyes as she was tallying up a business transaction.
It was just as well that she’d given up the role of prostitute to be an abbess. She preferred it, if truth be told, although she wasn’t above servicing the occasional request. She believed in keeping the customers happy. That’s why she’d loaned out Lydia.
When the chit hadn’t returned, she’d assumed the worst, that the little bitch had sunk her claws into one of the bucks to become a chère-amie. April had to confess that she was surprised to learn that the girl was dead. Surprised, but not necessarily shocked. Such things happened; some games, she knew, went too far. Yet the way she saw it, she was owed reparation.
She moved to the table where she kept the decanters. Pouring a splash of scotch into a glass—she allowed herself just two drinks a day, her father having cured her of any desire to use spirits to sink into oblivion—she took a quick sip, the taste strong and sharp on her tongue, as she considered the matter.
It would involve some delicacy. But surely the gent would see the inconvenience he’d given her? Replacing Lydia would require some diligence on her part. Not to mention the expense of dressing a new whore. And she had to lie to a Runner. Silence didn’t come cheap.
Taking another swallow of scotch, April sat down at her desk. She wasn’t dealing with some thief down the street. There were proprieties to be observed with the fancy. Best to send him a note outlining her dilemma. She reached for a foolscap and quill pen. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Odd how life worked, she mused with a thin smile. Lydia’s unfortunate demise might actually turn out to be her most profitable transaction yet.
24
It was probably something of a world record, to be demoted from lady’s maid to downstairs maid, and then promoted to lady’s companion within a five-day time span. It certainly caused a stir below stairs, as everyone regarded Kendra with shock and a new sense of mistrust when she made her way to Mrs. Danbury’s office.
“This is highly irregular, Miss Donovan,” the housekeeper said, staring at her from across the shiny expanse of her desk. She then murmured, as though trying to explain to herself what motivated Lady Rebecca’s unprecedented behavior, “Though Lady Rebecca has always been charitable, even as a child.”
Maids, Kendra deduced, did not become hired companions. Ever. That, apparently, was reserved for women of rank who’d fallen on hard times. Sort of like a nineteenth-century welfare system for the privileged.
The housekeeper shook herself out of her reverie, straightening her narrow shoulders. Her lips tightened. “Nevertheless, if Lady Rebecca has indeed taken you on as her companion, arrangements will need to be made.”