He snorted. “You may be right.”
“Anyway, I was just thinking … well, I might have the answer to your dilemma. But I don’t think you will like it.”
Roger sat up straighter in his chair. Any venture that promised a large sum within the next month or two was ideal. “What is it? I’m desperate.”
Biting her lip, Beatrice stood and paced. “Before I tell you, you must promise not to think poorly of me. Even if you decide you don’t wish to take part … I beg you to understand that being a widow is miserably lonely. Most men never think of it, but a woman has needs too. We require love, and affection, and … and other things that cease to exist once a husband has died and left us all alone.”
Roger frowned, uncertain where her convoluted speech was leading. “All right. I will not judge you. Just tell me.”
Beatrice took a deep, slow breath and turned to face him, hands folded before her. “I’ve been having an affair with a man ten years my junior. He’s handsome and funny, and while I cannot pretend our connection is based on anything other than physical lust … well, he’s made me very happy.”
Roger raised an eyebrow, but didn’t allow his face to betray him beyond that. Within, he was hiding a plethora of reactions, not the least of which was the urge to find this man—whoever he was—and wring his neck. He reminded himself that Beatrice was not only a woman grown, but one who had been married and widowed. She was beyond him in such experiences, and it was not his place to question her decisions. Besides, Beatrice was hardly the first widow to indulge in a little fun and frivolity. As long as she was discreet, she could enjoy her life however she saw fit and Roger had no right telling her otherwise.
“I see,” he murmured.
“You must wonder what my confession has to do with a solution for your problem.”
Roger’s only response was a dip of his head, prompting Beatrice to go on.
“You see … David is … well, he is a courtesan.”
Giving his head a swift shake, Roger told himself he couldn’t have heard her correctly. “What do you mean … he is a courtesan? Courtesans are women.”
Beatrice snorted. “Of course you think that. Apparently, there were at least a handful of men out there who recognized the need for courtesans of the male sex. Because they do exist and they operate right under your nose.”
It would seem this day would be full of surprises, as this was the first Roger had heard of such a thing. He wasn’t a gossip or anything so undignified, but since he rarely spoke in public settings, he often overheard things. People talked about a number of subjects with Roger standing within earshot, because his silence had relegated him to the status of ‘inanimate piece of furniture.’
“I see,” he replied, still fumbling for words—and not because he thought he might stutter, but because he literally couldn’t think up an appropriate response.
“The Gentleman Courtesans operate in complete secrecy,” she went on, speaking faster as if afraid he might stop her if she didn’t press on. “And for their discretion and expertise, they are compensated handsomely.”
Roger’s curiosity was piqued, though he could never allow himself to consider such a scheme. There were a number of reasons it would never work.
“I applaud these men for their ingenuity.”
Beatrice grinned. “Don’t you see? You could be one of them!”
“You’ve gone mad,” he quipped, though beneath his amusement, anxiety lurched within his gut. “You cannot be serious.”
“But I am! David mentioned that the agency is stretched thin by a growing demand. As word spreads among the women of the ton, they are running out of courtesans to service them.”
Roger pursed his lips in distaste. “Service. You make it sound so … sordid.”
Beatrice shrugged. “It is no more than the men get up to behind closed doors. How many men of your acquaintance have mistresses? How many spend their evenings in brothels? Even you cannot claim to be innocent.”
“Right.”
There was nothing more he could say, lest he risk divulging the truth. While she might have no problem telling him about her affair, Roger wasn’t keen to inform her that his lack of experience made him unqualified to serve as any woman’s paramour.
“You are averse to the idea,” Beatrice said, shoulders sagging. “I knew you would be, and I cannot blame you.”
Roger forced a smile for his cousin’s benefit. “I think no less of you, cos. In fact, I am glad this man has made you happy.”
“You could make some lucky woman just as happy.”
“Bea—”
“Come back tomorrow evening to meet David. Let him explain how it works. If you are interested, he can introduce you to the proprietor of the agency. This time of year, I imagine there are many women desiring companionship.”
“I’m not certain that is wise.”
Arms folded across her chest, she gave him a knowing look. “You haven’t asked me the most important question yet.”
“What question?”
“How much I’m paying David to be at my beck and call. You really want to ask me how much.”
Roger knew it was a bad idea to give in to curiosity on this matter. He wouldn’t do it, so what did it matter if she told him how much money could be made? Still, he never decided anything without having all the facts, so it couldn’t hurt to know. He doubted it would be enough to provide Emily with a dowry. How much money could a man earn selling his body?
“How much?” he asked.
As it turned out, a man could make quite a lot of money in the bed of a wealthy woman. Enough, in fact, to provide a young lady with a dowry with a tidy sum left over. Roger couldn’t stop the downward drop of his jaw when Beatrice rattled off an initial payment, along with a monthly fee to be paid as long as she wished to retain David’s exclusive services.
“Of course,” she added with a furious blush, “David’s services come very dear because he’s considered … a special commodity. His skill set is … well, I don’t think you wish to hear such details.”
“No.”
“I only meant to say that if you have any … unique sorts of talents that might make you an attractive prospect for a potential client, it can only increase your value.”
Roger nearly burst out laughing at that. She’d likely be shocked if he told her just how ‘special’ he was among his peers, and not just because of the effort it took for him to string a sentence together. No client of this agency would want to hire him once they found out he’d never bedded one woman—let alone enough women to be considered courtesan material.
And yet, he wasn’t ignorant of the mechanics. He’d read enough books and studied the depictions of erotic etchings to know how things were done. God knew he had fantasized endlessly about finally applying his knowledge with a willing woman. A whore, a mistress, a wife … as the years passed, he’d begun to think any woman would do if he could only push aside his crippling fears. Compounding them was the one and only time he’d made such an attempt. The humiliation Roger had suffered afterward stayed with him still, over a decade later.