A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (39 page)

I looked up to see that he had withdrawn into the shadows once more. “That,” he said, “is what you should have worn yesterday.”

I let my fingers trail over the gown, caressing the fine silk like an old friend I had dearly missed. I stood and held the dress up to me. It was deliciously daring and ruthlessly fashionable. I smiled then, a wild, wicked grin of old.

The Blackbird was back.

Thirty-five

Boston

Well, that hadn’t taken long.

The scrim had gone up. A young, nearly naked Ophelia Harrington appeared, her hair in disarray, the tendons of her neck pulled taut as she struggled to escape the silk ropes that tied her to the auction block. The audio kicked in, and an Englishwoman’s voice cried out in surround-sound glory,
“I had to fight to remember my humanity when all others saw me as something less!”

Front and center, in strikingly designed lighting, hung the exhibit’s new title:

THE COURTESAN CRUSADER: THE LIFE, LUST, AND LIBERATION OF OPHELIA HARRINGTON.

Piper heard the sound of shattering glass, and figured someone had dropped their highball. Claudia Harrington-Howell’s face turned the color of half-dried cement. LaPaglia cried out like a man being pulled to pieces on the rack.

Piper flipped the switch that illuminated the six chambers of the exhibit, beckoning them in. No one moved. No one breathed.

She sighed and folded her hands upon the silk of her gown as she watched Claudia flee from the exhibit hall, holding a hand over her head as if she were at a loss for words at what she’d just seen, then parting the crowd with wide swings of her long arms.

Thirty-six

London

I took the stand in that daring crimson gown. My hair rippled loose down my back, a declaration as obvious as a pirate flag. I licked my lips and smiled at every man attending, daring them to deny that they wanted me. I even wiggled my fingers in greeting to a few blokes in the gallery, making their jaws drop as their friends punched their shoulders in congratulations.

The judge reddened beneath his powdered wig. Lord B
____
glowered. Next to him, to my surprise, sat the man who’d come closest to caging the Blackbird. Lord C
____
. Ah. That explained a great deal. I had wondered where a wastrel like Lord B
____
had gained the ear of the court. Lord C
____
had power and wealth to spare for this act of vengeance. He glared at me malevolently.

Now I wished he’d been awake for Kiri’s whipping. I thought of his reddened buttocks and smiled knowingly at him. His sneer faded slightly and his gaze shifted away.

As the trial continued, the London coroner stood to give his statement. I watched him with wide eyes and a sultry fingertip in my mouth. Barely able to tear his gaze from my bosom, he stammered over the lie about the suspicion of poison, turning such a furious shade of red that his testimony became entirely unbelievable.

My barrister, thrilled at the first chink in the prosecution’s armor, leaped to his feet and began to rip the rest of the testimony to shreds. Unfortunately, he could only progress as far as turning “foul play” into “undetermined causes” before the judge shut him down with a glower and a blow of his gavel.

Next, I smiled through several gentlemen standing up and claiming that they had sometimes felt ill after dining or drinking in my presence. Since every one of them was an over-imbibing glutton, this fell somewhat flat upon the ears of those in the gallery, especially after the doubtfulness of the poison theory.

Wisely, the prosecution dropped that tactic and decided to concentrate upon the fact that I would inherit giant piles of gold from my alleged felony. I did my best to portray a woman who didn’t need money, but the notion cost me a great deal of sympathy with the crowd. Neither a rich woman nor a gold digger was appreciated by the masses.

As the afternoon wore on, I struggled to maintain the Blackbird’s saucy insouciance but my fury was growing. I no longer delighted in playing the coquette. I didn’t want to disturb and manipulate. I wanted to be
believed.
Yet how could I ever be heard if I were not allowed to speak?

The prosecution’s final statement was more twaddle about how I had seduced and manipulated an upstanding man, then poisoned him for profit. My barrister shuffled his papers for a moment, then shot me a hopeless glance.

That, I realized, was the last straw. Even my own defender did not think the fight worth fighting. In that moment I realized that the fight was
always
worth fighting. I glared at my barrister. “You’re sacked.” Then I stood. “I shall be making my own statement in my defense.”

The judge shot a nervous glance in the direction of the seething Lord C
____
, then pounded his gavel. “You have not been asked to testify, Miss Harrington!”

I folded my arms, which incidentally displayed my bosom to perfection, and faced him down. “Why is that, my lord? Why have I not been allowed to speak? Do you not think that these fine citizens…”—I waved a graceful hand to the crowd in the gallery—“deserve to hear what I have to say?”

A grumbling began above us. The judge eyed Lord C
____
and raised his gavel once more. Then his gaze was caught by, of all people, Lord Malcolm Ashford, now sitting in the area reserved for my supporters. I saw Lord Malcolm shake his head ever so slightly. The judge slowly lowered his gavel.

“Miss Harrington shall be allowed to speak,” he said grudgingly.

I tilted my head. “Thank you, my lord.” Not even the snoozing bailiff missed my ironic tone. “How nice to see that you are able to put the past behind you. I recall the first time I turned down your suit … and the second … and the third…”

Snickering began in the gallery, and in truth, on the bench itself. The judge flushed and shot his recorders each a quelling glare. “That is not pertinent to this trial, Miss Harrington!”

I smiled widely. “Isn’t it? When we strip away all the lies, isn’t that precisely what’s behind this trial? You pledged your entire fortune for one night between my thighs. If I remember correctly, you even offered to clap your lady wife into an asylum so that I might take up residence in the Lord Recorder’s House. How are your knees, my lord? As I recall, you spent a great deal of time on them, begging.”

The judge’s upper lip twitched and his knuckles whitened on the gavel, but he only shot a single livid glance at Lord Malcolm before he sank back warily.

Thus emboldened, I straightened in my box, determined to skewer the hypocrites, all of them. “My only crime has been to be a woman with a mind of my own. Because of that I stand accused of a murder I did not commit. And who are my accusers?”

I scanned the packed courtroom and pointed to the offenders.

“The judge, a man who has unsuccessfully courted me for more than a decade, a man known to grovel at my doorstep, only to burst into sobs when I sent him away. And the men bringing these charges…”

I pointed at the two men seated on the prosecution’s side. “Here again we have two men whom I refused. Lord C
____
paid Lord B
____
to deliver me bound and bartered to his bed, so desperate was his obsession with me. Yet not even betrayal, silk ropes, and a guard outside the door could induce me to allow him to lay a finger upon me!”

The crowd loved it. I leaned my hands on the railing and leaned far forward, giving half the courtroom an instant erection. “How did you like being whipped, C
____
? You must have had to sit on a cushion for a month!”

Lord C
____
paled at the roaring of the crowd, his face set in wrinkles of helpless fury. I turned my gaze upon Lord B
____
. “This is the wastrel who tried to sell me into sexual slavery years ago, only to beat me severely when I escaped his control.”

The courtroom erupted into gasps and murmurs. Yet I was not done. I stood in the witness box and raised my voice high and clear. “Enlighten us, Lord B
____
. How did you explain your absence to your betrothed the day you drove me out to Lord C
____
’s orgy to sell me to the highest bidder?” Oh, I was so very finished with keeping all their dirty little secrets! “And that night, on the sixteenth of May, seven years ago, when you beat me nigh unto death? How did you explain away the bruises on your knuckles the next day?”

Alice’s eyes widened and she turned to gaze at Lord B
____
in alarm. He glared at me even as he patted her hand reassuringly.

I sneered at the bench and the prosecutor alike. “This trial is naught but a temper tantrum thrown by enraged and undisciplined little boys, all of whom are in dire need of a good spanking!”

I smirked at Lord C
____
. “Or in your case, my lord,
another
spanking!”

The gallery exploded with glee. I was aware of glares directed at me by several of the aforementioned gentlemen, but none were so malevolent as Lord B
____
’s blue gaze. He waited out the snickers and guffaws, never taking his eyes off me. Standing, he bowed unctuously to the judge. “My lord,” he begged in his most earnest tones, “I beg to be allowed to refute such obvious lies.”

The judge waved a hand. “Of course, boy. You have the right to speak on your own behalf.”

Odd. Where was that right for me during the last two days?

Lord B
____
nodded graciously. “I can prove that all this is nothing but the last desperate fabrication of a murderess about to be condemned. On the seventeenth of May seven years ago, I spent the entire afternoon with the woman who is now my affianced bride.”

All eyes shot to Alice, whose pale face and vulnerable beauty made every man in the room bridle in her defense. Alice gazed back with horror at being made part of the spectacle. Lord B
____
bent solicitously toward her.

“Do you not recall, my dear? That was the day I rescued that kitten from the thornbush. You bandaged my hand afterward.”

Alice blinked and nodded. “I remember the kitten, of course. I still have that cat.”

Her statement, uttered in her high, childish voice, brought an indulgent laugh from the crowd. I wanted to roll my eyes. What was it about spineless women that was so appealing? I would never understand.

Lord B
____
straightened with a smile. “She bandaged my hand, my lord, so she could not have missed such bruising as Miss Harrington describes. It is all a lie.”

The judge seized upon the notion eagerly. “Well, I have had enough of listening to this woman’s mad falsehoods!” He raised his gavel. “I sentence thee—”

“Stop!”

Silence fell as all eyes turned. Lord Malcolm Ashford rose to stand before the bench.

Thirty-seven

Boston

Mick almost crashed into Claudia Harrington-Howell. She was hurrying from the museum’s main lobby as he was racing in. The rigid set of the woman’s jaw—and the echoing silence coming from the exhibit itself—told Mick all he needed to know.

He couldn’t get to Piper fast enough. His heart felt as if it were ready to burst from his ribs. He loved her. He’d made the wrong decision. He hoped she’d forgive him.

Cullen had been right. For an educated man, Mick was a slow learner when it came to matters of the heart.

Mick weaved through the crowd of frozen, silent gala guests, most with their mouths hanging open, some holding cocktails in midair. Everyone had gone so still Mick felt as if he were navigating a maze of formal-wear mannequins. At last, he reached Piper’s side.

She gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head but didn’t meet his gaze.

“I love you, Piper,” Mick whispered directly into her ear. “I got off the plane in Chicago and turned around because I love you. I canceled the meeting in L.A. I was wrong to go.”

Piper adjusted her stance, giving him the back of her elegant neck and magnificently bared shoulders. It might not have been the best time to get sidetracked like this, but Mick couldn’t help but notice Piper’s dress. It had a low, square neckline, a high waist, tight short sleeves, and yards of shimmering red satin with hints of black lace, and all of it hugged every curve of her bust before cascading loosely to the floor. He was no fashion historian, but to him it looked like something Ophelia Harrington might have worn in her courtesan days.

As he stared, Mick wanted desperately to stroke her right between her shoulder blades. Her skin looked as soft and juicy as a pale summer peach. Her dark hair was gently gathered up, tendrils falling soft at the nape of her neck.

She was so lovely. He felt like a complete shitehawk.

Mick noticed the crowd had begun to defrost. Murmuring started, followed by a few chuckles, then a wave of whispers. Suddenly, all hell broke loose, and Louis LaPaglia released a gurgling sound of fury as he pushed his way to the front, shouting for someone to turn off the exhibit lighting. Linc Northcutt volunteered so quickly and with such glee that Mick was worried he might wet himself with the excitement of it all.

“Piper,” Mick whispered into her ear.

“I can handle this on my own,” she said, speaking over her shoulder and over the noise of the crowd.

“I know there’s nothing you can’t handle on your own.” Mick sighed. “But you don’t have to, Piper. Not tonight. Not ever.” He reached for her, brushing his fingers against her cool hand.

She spun around. Her expressive green eyes were on fire and her color was high. Mick knew with certainty that he’d never seen a woman as fiercely beautiful—or pissed—in all his life.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please!” LaPaglia stood in front of the now-dim installation entrance and shouted over the crowd, waving his arms. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but
please
!” He tugged at his tuxedo collar as the panic raced across his mottled face. The guests only got louder.

“Everyone!” he shouted. “I must ask you to move into the lobby area!” LaPaglia gestured with both hands. “This way! Your cooperation is appreciated!”