Dejectedly, Athena sank into a sheet-covered chair. She was no closer to learning why she could not win the heart of Calvin. Whatever it was, she would not find what she needed to know in Countess Cavendish’s book. Despite her abrasiveness, Lady Ponsonby was right. Those pages were a waste of pulp.
She looked around at the empty room, full of the ghosts of pleasure-seekers and pleasure-givers. Athena would wager that those courtesans knew what men wanted in a wife, and they were entirely prepared to give it to them . . . for a short time and for the right price. If only she had been here when the bordello was in full bloom. Within these four walls was a veritable academy of knowledge as to how to nurture a husband—regardless of whose he was. Athena was no debutante—she was a dilettante, a mere amateur in the pursuit of a man’s devotion. Had she been a courtesan, she would have long since learned the secret to snagging a man’s heart.
She sighed. But men don’t marry courtesans, do they? They marry ladies of quality. She shook her head. That’s all wives were fit for, it seemed: breeding. Men sought wives only to bear children; they gave their affection to ladies of the night. Was it possible to have both? Was it possible to be the one he loved and the one he made love to? Was it possible for a woman to become both wife and mistress to a man? Was it possible for Athena to learn to be exactly what a man like Calvin desired, and still remain above reproach?
Suddenly, an idea occurred to her, one that she almost didn’t want to claim. But it seeded in her despairing brain and began to grow before she had a chance to uproot it. There was a way to learn to become a lady-courtesan. But it would require capital. And cleverness. And, above all, daring.
Athena walked out the front door, and lifted the FOR SALE sign off the hook. She came back inside, walked to Lady Ponsonby’s parlor, and flung open the door.
“Teach me.”
FIVE
“A school for spinsters?”
Mason Royce lowered his newspaper and peered at Athena. She sat down on the upholstered chair opposite him.
“A finishing school, Grandfather. An academy for marriageable ladies of a certain age, wherein the gentle art of the acquisition and nurturing of a husband is taught. All using Countess Cavendish’s methods.” But there was a hidden curriculum, one that she had absolutely no intention of telling him.
His grizzled eyebrows drew together. “But I thought you said that the book was a monumental insult to literature.”
“No.” She thought quickly. “I said it was a monument to the institution of literature.”
He removed his round spectacles. “But you don’t know anything about running a school.”
“Well, I didn’t know how to paint until I tried it. I’m only thinking of the great need there is for this sort of learning. There are many ladies in Society who are believed to be past marrying age, and I want to offer them another chance at refining those advantages they possess and improving the ones they lack. Take, for instance, Joy Isley—she can play the piano and sing, but would be totally inept at managing a gentleman’s household. Or Violet Teasdale, that Baron What-sit’s oldest daughter. She’s a complete bluestocking on all things Egyptian but a grating bore at the dinner table. Countess Cavendish’s book will work wonders on them.”
“What about Calvin Bretherton? Aren’t you going to marry him?”
Athena stiffened. “Calvin will have to wait. This is more important. If Countess Cavendish’s book can improve me so much that I can get a handsome earl’s proposal, I owe it to women like me who have lost all hope.” She put on her most earnest face, the one she used when her lies were greatest. “I’ve already written to Countess Cavendish to get her blessing, and she is most excited about the prospect. She even said that once we get the school up and running, she might be able to lecture there from time to time.”
Her grandfather ran his hand through his sparse hair. “What sort of things will be taught?”
“Only the most ladylike pursuits. Art, literature, and keeping gentlemen entertained at the dinner table.” But Athena had other things planned. The lectures would also focus on the art of seduction, the literature of Eros, and keeping gentlemen entertained under the dinner table.
“It’s a noble endeavor, to be sure,” he said with a sigh. “But we don’t have any money. How much is this going to cost?”
Athena smiled inwardly. “Nothing at all from us. Hester has the wherewithal, and has already agreed to invest in the school. I already have the location picked out. It’s in the heart of London, not far from the City. The building is for sale, and from the look of it, no renovation will be necessary. And the owner is anxious to sell. If all goes well, as I predict it will, I may be able to start classes in a couple of weeks.”
“Very well.” He disappeared once more behind his newspaper.
Athena stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then walked off, afloat in victory.
“What does Her Grace say?”
Defeat replaced triumph. “I . . . wasn’t aware she had to be consulted.”
“Well, she’s your sponsor now. She’s done us the favor of helping you get affianced. Until you’re married, you must make certain that any enterprise you undertake carries her blessing.”
“I wish you’d just marry Bretherton and forget these notions.”
Athena walked over and perched herself on the arm of his chair. “Do you remember the stories you told me when I was little? About Cinderella and the prince?”
Mason leaned back, awash in pleasant memories. “Of course I do.”
“You used to tell me how poor Cinderella never got noticed, living as she did in her rags. But when she put on that exquisite dress and slippers, the king’s son couldn’t help but fall in love with her on the spot.” Athena put her arm around her grandfather. “There are princes aplenty for women such as these Cinderellas. They just need a godmother to show them what to wear to the ball. Do you see, Grandfather?”
He sighed audibly, patting the arm that embraced him. “I suppose I’m just a stupid old man who loves you very much. You have my blessing.”
My dear Lord Stockdale,
I have just learned the reason Miss McAllister has not been receiving you. Apparently, she chanced upon you in flagrante delicto with a woman at Vauxhall.
Whilst I am in no position to pass judgment on the morality of your actions, I do take exception at your carelessness. To undertake such a tryst in public with our protégée in the vicinity was a foolish mistake. You must understand the sensitivities of a woman such as Miss McAllister. Although her reduced circumstances may have tainted her appeal to a man of means, her spinsterhood is not a result of them. In fact, even if she were to be endowed with wealth, position, and beauty, making her the most attractive prospect in Society, she would still not marry for any reason but love.
She already has calf eyes for you, so you must nurture this. Express your own devotion to her, or she will seek her love elsewhere. You must not let that happen.
Please apprise me of your progress.
Yours,
Margaret, Duchess of Twillingham
Within a month’s time, Athena and Hester had opened the doors on Countess Cavendish’s School for the Womanly Arts. And had made a grand success of it.
Athena had conscripted a series of brilliant lecturers to speak on a number of relevant subjects: an estate manager to discuss the intricacies of household and servant management; a deposed French countess to talk about deportmen
t and high fashion; a well-known American author and bon vivant to illustrate the flair of discourse; a curator from the British Museum to teach the substantive aspects of art appreciation; and several others. This collection of lectures comprised fully one half of her tutelage for shaping a woman into a charming and sophisticated companion and marriage prospect.
But the other half of the curriculum was much more clandestine, and those lectures took place after the sun set on the former bordello. Athena had sent discreet missives to Mr. Gallintry and Lord Rutherford, gentlemen of a certain notoriety who were renowned for their powers of seduction. They were men whom no self-respecting lady ever entertained alone but whom no self-respecting hostess ever left out of her party. Athena engaged these rogues of the realm to teach her students the right way to seduce a man: what words to use to inflame a man’s desire, how to kiss a man like bad girls do, how to touch a man without going too far.
Her inaugural month-long course had drawn a small number of interested applicants, half of whom were older governesses, and the other half, ladies of Athena and Hester’s acquaintance. Within a few weeks of the end of that course, six of the seven spinsters were either engaged to be married or had strong prospects. Word had spread; at the beginning of the second course, Athena and Hester had three times as many applicants as before.
Miss Athena McAllister had become headmistress of a school that taught good manners—and wicked conduct.
And things were about to get a little more wicked. She put quill to paper, and penned an advertisement for the Times.
Marshall Hawkesworth crumpled the letter in his large fist and stormed out of his study.
“Justine!” he shouted up the grand staircase, pacing the marble floor like a caged lion. “Justine!”
A maid had emerged from the dining room, but wisely turned back until her master had done away with whatever had displeased him.
“Justine, get down here this instant!”
A woman with sandy brown hair and caramel-colored eyes leaned over the banister. “Yes, Marshall?”
“I want a word with you, please. In my study.”
Justine tightened the shawl around her shoulders as she gingerly stepped down the staircase. “What is it?”
He placed the rumpled piece of paper into her hands. “Read this. It seems your fiancé has called off the wedding.”
She glanced at the disfigured paper. “Herbert? But why?”
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s what I would like for you to tell me.”
She preceded him into his study, a room of dark wood and polished brass. She perched herself on a leather chair. “I don’t understand any of this. Why would he cancel our betrothal?”
“The letter puts it plainly. He questions your morality and your character.”
“My morality?”
“That is a gentleman’s code word for saying that he thinks you a loose woman.”
“But that’s preposterous. I’m not a loose woman.”
“I am aware of that. What did you do that would have given him cause to believe that you are?”
Justine was silent a long time. “I was . . . demonstrative.”
His brows drew together. “Demonstrative? How?”
Justine’s face sank. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You bloody well will talk about it.”
“Marshall, you’re my brother, not my father. I don’t owe you any explanations.”
He leaned forward over his desk. “Now you listen to me. When Father died, I detached myself from the Royal Navy—in the middle of a war, mind you—just to look after you and the estate. My one remaining duty, before I can return to my ship, is to see you married off advantageously. And now that I’ve convinced Herbert Stanton, a man who owns half of Buckinghamshire, to ask for your hand in marriage, you turn him away with your ‘demonstration.’ Do you now think you don’t owe me an explanation? I suggest you reconsider.”
Justine’s chin trembled. “I am not some task for you to tick off your list, Marshall. Go to your precious ship. Just leave me be.”
“You know perfectly well I can’t go back to sea until you are under a husband’s protection.”
“I don’t need a husband. Miss McAllister has no husband, and she is perfectly respectable just as she is.”
“Who’s Miss McAllister?
“She’s the headmistress of the academy that Mother sent me to, Countess Cavendish’s School for the Womanly Arts. I completed her course last month.”
Illumination dawned on Marshall’s features. That was the trouble with educating females. Some dry old spinster pretends to be better off for never marrying, and all the impressionable girls decide they too don’t need to be wed. “What else did this ‘Miss McAllister’ tell you?”
“She taught us that there is much more to being a lady than just what can be done in the parlor room. A lady is someone who plays by her own rules.”
“Is that what you were doing with Herbert Stanton? Playing by your own rules?”
“As a matter of fact, it was. Herbert always thought of me as some sort of living doll . . . just some ornament to festoon his drawing room. I wanted to show him that I was a living, breathing woman with needs and desires . . . someone who could be a partner and companion to him, an equal in thought and reason.”
Marshall shook his head. “Herbert Stanton is one of the most conservative traditionalists in all of England. He doesn’t want an equal . . . he wants an obedient wife to sire his children.”
She banged the arm of the chair. “Well, in that case, I’m not sorry he called off the wedding. I don’t like him, Marshall. I never have. I want a man who will love me and who will let me love him.”
“Justine,” he said, his teeth grinding, “you don’t have the luxury of waiting for an advantageous marriage that happens to inspire love in both of you. You have an obligation to marry when we find you the perfect man.”
“And Herbert is the perfect man? A man who wants his wife to be no more than a glorified servant or some brood mare to sire his purebred foals?”
“He’s your only choice, Justine.” His voice softened. “Your only chance.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Well, if he’s my only chance, then I won’t be married to any man.” She balled up Herbert Stanton’s letter and dropped it in the wastepaper basket before she slammed the door behind her.
He was not accustomed to such insolent behavior, even from his own sister. Discipline and respect—those were his hallmarks, as well his men knew. He would have gone after Justine to make her take her leave in a more civilized way, but the poor girl had left in tears. And he didn’t know how to handle women with leaky faces.
Marshall threw himself in the chair behind his gleaming mahogany desk. He stared across the expanse of desk at the ship in a bottle he had fashioned, an exact miniature replica of the Reprisal. As smelly and uncomfortable as life aboard a ship was, he missed it dreadfully. He found the parlor rooms of England far more tedious than muster at sea, and the rebelliousness of his sister infinitely more tiresome than an insubordinate sailor’s. With Justine’s engagement, he was mere weeks from getting back aboard his ship and being called Captain Hawkesworth again. He held up the glass bottle and peered inside. Now, his greatest desire seemed to be floating farther away.
It was all the fault of that academy for girls. A finishing school indeed! It certainly finished his plans. Imagine telling a woman that it was acceptable for her not to marry! It was outrageous. A perversion of society. A flagrant and intentional upset of the established order. Well, he wasn’t going to allow this to go on. That headmistress had a lot to answer for. And if she failed to satisfy him, well . . . his ship would not be the only Reprisal.
SIX
Marshall Hawkesworth jerked on the reins, forcing his horse to an awkward stop. He curled his gloved hand around the pommel and flung himself off the stallion.
His scowl blackened as he looked up at the redbrick structure
. The door was painted a cheery blue, and geraniums lined the windows beneath lace curtains. But he had just been made aware of the house’s sordid past, and irritation threatened to choke him all over again. This was no place for his sister to be seen in, let alone taught in.
He took the stairs two at a time, and rapped on the door with his riding crop. A diminutive maid opened the door and curtsied. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see the headmistress.” He gave her his crop, hat, and gloves.
“This way, sir,” she said.
Marshall reluctantly followed behind the maid, who had the stature of an overgrown pixie, though he was more inclined to jump over the girl’s head and charge ahead of her. But as he didn’t know where the headmistress was, he thought it best to school his temper. Until, of course, he met the woman responsible for giving his sister a scandalous education that had rendered her unmarriageable to a most advantageous prospect.
They came to a door at the far end of a grand salon, and the maid knocked on it. “One moment, sir. I’ll announce you.”
“There’ll be no need,” he said, and opened the door himself.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows at the far end of the sitting room, casting squares of light onto the green carpet. The walls were papered in a light green silk frothing with tiny pink and blue blooms. A cherrywood table sat in the middle of the room, its legs curving down to the floor. Sitting behind the desk was a redheaded young woman who looked up from her ledgers to frown at him.
“You’re late,” she said, placing her quill into its stand. “I was expecting applicants at noon.”
He shook his head dismissively. “I’m here to see the headmistress.”
“Then it is a happy coincidence that you’ve found her. I am Miss McAllister.”
Marshall blinked in a shudder of surprise. “You? You’re in charge of this school?” He expected a bookish lady, wizened in face and feature, her curves disfigured by the ravages of time. Not someone like—