Gentlemen And Rakes
Chapter Seven: The Pretty Whore (Andrew's PoV)
John had disappeared. He'd literally just vanished—one week he was stealing my coffee and persuading me to run off to Europe with him, although he was elusive as to whether he would return, and the next I hadn't even seen him popping in to steal my bacon and entertain me with more tales of his mother betrothing him to French aristocrats. This abrupt silence had lasted for well over a month, and seeing as he always paid a visit about once a week, give or take a few days, since I was removed from Winchester and properly educated at home (seeing how most of the schooldays were devoted to gambling, drinking, and various other forms of depravity).
Worried, I'd tried calling at his home, but his mother was too distraught to receive any visitors—I'd heard she'd taken to her bed. Actually, the entire Raven household was frantic, and I knew not why—neither the servants, nor John's numerous siblings, nor any other relatives that had migrated suddenly to the beautiful townhouse that was the Ravens' London residence, would even pause to glance at me. I saw a glimpse of John's three glamorous sisters: the ethereal Eva, sapphire-eyed Christina, and Hispanic Elisabetta, talking amongst themselves—Elisabetta, though the youngest, but by far the most aggressive, was snarling at a dark-haired aristocrat that was obviously looking at turning whatever tragedy had befallen the Raven kin to his own advantage, whilst the eldest of the sisters, Eva, distinctive as she was the only of the Raven women with her father's pale yellow hair, was sobbing into Christina's arms.
"Andrew!" a woman's voice called as, defeated, I'd started down the street. Turning, I saw Christina, swathed in unadorned amethyst satin, her long black hair curling over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes wide with worry in her golden face. "Have you heard from John?" she'd whispered, as though ashamed at even asking after her brother.
"No," I'd answered, frowning.
She'd looked at me. "I know he trusts you," she stated accusingly.
"But I haven't heard from him for near two months," I'd replied.
"Good, for that's exactly when—" and here she stopped, turning away, refusing to say anymore. "If you do see him, you'll tell us, won't you?" she asked docilely.
"Of course."
"Thank you, Andrew," she murmured, and immediately scuttled back. Watching her ascend the stairs, I saw her speaking to the eldest of John's brothers, Charles, as he apparently interrogated her on what she had tricked out of me, before he placed an arm around her shoulders and led her back into the capacious home.
It didn't take me long to come to the conclusion that something was wrong. And naturally, I also realised that John was to blame; out of all of his siblings, I think he was the only one to have "accidentally" blown up his headmaster's office…
So where the hell did he go? I knew that he had a fair number of acquaintances spanning across practically every level of society (excluding the more superior of the aristocrats; although addressed as "lord", they despised any man without an actual title) so he could have been anywhere in London or the surrounding counties, unless he'd sailed out of London on a merchant ship and was now somewhere along the coast. Hell, he could've been in Bristol, to the west. This was how he'd so very effectively disappeared, the cunning bastard.
Of course I was concerned; he was probably my only friend, very rare for a dying man with contagious madness. I also wanted to find out exactly what he'd done that was so awful his family, even his loving mother, had turned him away. A male aristocrat could get away with anything, from adultery to murder; women, of course, were another matter entirely. Well, last I checked, John had been a man.
…Well, he was getting there. He was almost a man. Half-man. He'll become a complete man when he gave up this ridiculous notion that he could make it as a whore, or more specifically, a fashionable courtesan. Courtesans tended to be women, or so it was said…
That was when it hit me: whatever it was John had done, it was probably something that the gentry would have, at the very least, frowned upon, whereas his humbler companions would have been in no position to take a risk for fear of sneers from their betters. If John had taken refuge with a friend, he wouldn't have stayed with them for long. So where else could have gone next; who could he have turned to that wouldn't have refused him?
I was, of course, thinking about the ironically-named "nunneries" of St James' Street. The brothels would have been an ideal sanctuary for most men, had they been able to afford it; not only were they full of willing women at beck and call, but the more aristocratic bordellos were isolated islands in the sea of London's gossiping society, uncaring of what was happening in the rest of the city, unless a wealthy girl or woman had been brought to ruin and disowned by their families because of—well, the fashionable term popular amongst women was "faux pas". The average nunnery remained blissfully unaware of what happened outside of their doors; all the women, unless they had secured the position of favourite mistress of a wealthy gentleman, stayed indoors, away from the prying eyes of London. Who could these women associate with? They had the mannerisms and interests of the upper classes, yet they plied the trades of the street, unable to fit into one category or the other. All they had was each other.
Of course, there were more fashionable brothels off of St James', such as Covent Garden, but when one was in search of a more stylish establishment, it was the best place to start. Although the "Turkish" bathhouses called the bagnios seemed to be gaining popularity, but I think I'll be sticking with the old favourites for now. Unlike John, I was extremely naïve when it came to businesses of that particular nature.
Another thing about the nunneries; when it came to their customers, they were extremely confidential and unwilling to divulge information of any nature. For whorehouses, they certainly had a very high sense of morality. Good for John, but not for me, seeing as I was attempting to find him.
The buildings themselves were very beautiful, extremely large, and of the latest fashion; the interiors, judging from the receptions and hallways, were simply but elegantly decorated, and could have belonged to any number of aristocratic London homes, excepting the portraits adorning the walls, which were simply advertisements for the women that resided there; fashionably dressed, or in some cases, undressed, nymphs stared from the walls, reclining provocatively on chairs or divans, eyes either meeting squarely with my own, or looking elsewhere.
"Lord Raven?" a middle-aged madam asked of me. "John Raven?" She looked suspiciously at me. "No, sir, I'm afraid I've not seen him."
"Has he ever been here?" I continued to enquire, a note of desperation in my voice.
"That's neither here nor there; he isn't here now, is he?"
I felt my shoulders slump in disappointment.
"Who wants to know, anyway?" she asked.
"Andrew Wilson," I said, turning to leave.
"Andrew Wilson?" she asked sharply. "Not the eldest son of the Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Lord Yorkshire, are you?"
I turned back and narrowed my eyes at the impertinent woman, certain of what was to come next. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," I told her.
Her suspicious air immediately dissolved, and she smiled at me. "So you came here for Señorita Esperanza, then?"
I just stared at her. "…Yes," I lied, wondering what this Señorita Esperanza could possibly have to do with John. "Is that her name? John never told me her name, just where to find her…"
"Oh, she's a pretty one, Miss Esperanza," the madam agreed. "Your Lord approached us about a month ago, perhaps more, asking for accommodation for his mistress, as he was currently lodging with an unnamed friend."
I was still trying to get my head around the fact that John had a mistress, much less that he actually cared about her enough to make certain that she was safe whilst he was on the run…
"Well, I'd heard from a landlord that he'd approached that—"
"Yes, he did say he'll be sending you to fetch Miss Esperanza," the madam agreed. "Should I call for her?"
"No!" I said a little too quickly. "No, Madam, I did not come to retrieve Miss Esperanza now, I merely came to speak with her concerning her… patron." It wasn't a complete lie; I was planning fully on speaking with Esperanza about John, now that I'd realised that there was someone who might have known what exactly became of John. But what I was surprised at most was the that fact never once had John mentioned Esperanza, who clearly must have been very important to him. Perhaps she wasn't his mistress at all; perhaps she was a cousin on his mother's side, or an illegitimate sister that he was quite close to, seeing how the other Raven children weren't exactly affectionate towards him…
The woman led me through a hall lined with unobtrusive landscapes, up a wide flight of stairs, stopping at a plain, unremarkable door. "In you go, Mr Wilson," she said with a delicate curtsey. I knocked twice and, swallowing nervously, slipped in.
There were two women in the large, simply-furnished room; one was a pale, delicate redhead with wide, innocent brown eyes and fragile features that likened her to a china doll, the other, a darker woman with shorter, straight black hair that was looking at me in a mixture of astonishment and mortification. I guessed this last was the enigmatic Esperanza.
"Oh," the redhead said with a glance at the shocked Spaniard. "Is this your patron, Esperanza?"
Mutely, she shook her head, still staring at me.
"Should I leave, then?"
Esperanza nodded, still staring at me in horror. I supposed that John had told her about me, and my little… illness…
"Very well," she said, picking up her silken skirts and slipping away. I heard the door click quietly shut into place, and then it was only me and the pretty Esperanza, still sitting in her chair with that horror-struck expression on her face. I found myself thinking how arrogant John was, choosing a woman that looked a little like him as his favourite, as we stared at each other in silence.
"So… How do you know John?" I asked of her.
Her brown eyes widened, and at last she spoke, in a hoarse whisper, "How do I know John?"
"Yes," I affirmed.
"You… You are asking me how I know John?"
"Well, yes."
"How I know John?"
"Yes."
Suddenly, she started laughing, clutching at her simple ruby bodice and laughing as though there was no tomorrow. When she'd gotten her chuckling under control, her brown eyes met mine, amusement still sparkling within my depths. "Why, do you think I'm not beautiful enough to be Lord Raven's favoured mistress, sir?"
"No; on the contrary, you're actually quite lovely…"
That set her off again. Esperanza was very strange…
"Do you really think so? Do you think I'm a pretty whore?"
"I never said you were a whore—"
"Yes, but I'm asking if you think I'm pretty?"
"Well…" I said uncertainly. I mean, Esperanza was quite beautiful, but I just wasn't attracted to her. "Yes!" I said quickly when she made as though to cry.
That just set her off cackling again. Of course John's mistress would have been insane; she had to be, to be able to deal with him.
"So… So you think I'm a pretty whore, then?"
"Yes, I think we've already established that I find you attractive!" Except I didn't, but I'm sure men less idealistic than I most certainly would have.
"So you admit that I make a pretty whore?"
What kind of self-loathing woman would call herself a whore to a man she'd just met?
"I suppose…"
"So," Esperanza said brusquely, straightening up and meeting my eyes, "now that we've established that I can, in fact, whore myself out until I'm filthy rich, d'you think I should do it respectably and marry a lovely heiress, or just take the more fun route and become a celebrated courtesan?"
…I should have known that Miss Esperanza was actually John in a whore's dress, like he'd forced me into only three years earlier… Except John, worryingly, seemed to be enjoying himself…
"I'm quite concerned about you," I told him for what felt like the thousandth time.
"Well, if I were you, I'll be more concerned about myself finding my best friend attractive than the fact that said best friend was wearing a dress."
"…But I wouldn't have found you attractive if you hadn't been in the dress in the first place," I pointed out.
"A mere technicality," he waved away. "So, do you think I should embark on a life of vice and intrigue?"
"Not in that dress."
"Why not in this dress?" he asked, hurt.
"It's just not your style: Too subtle, and the neckline's too high."
He did a double take, staring at my matter-of-fact expression. "Are you saying that my breasts are one of my best features?"
I curbed the grin threatening to pull at my lips. "No, not at all," I told him sorrowfully. "Actually, the best aspect of your body would be your rear, and as far your face is concerned, I think that you have a lovely smile: really lights up the room…"
"Alright, now you're starting to scare me." A pause as he unsubtly made certain there was absolutely no way his best bodily feature was on display. Frowning, his brown eyes darted back at me. "What's wrong with my legs?" he asked sounding hurt.
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, it's just you said I've a nice arse, but why didn't you mention my legs?"
"Your legs?"
"Yes, my legs. Are they not long or graceful or attractively-shaped?"
"…I tend not to notice men's legs…"
"Just the arses, then?"
I shrugged uncaringly. "I've never really thought of legs much—they've just always been there, you tend not to notice them…"
"Yes, but my arse has always been there, why did you notice it but not my legs?"
"Because your arse doesn't actually serve a purpose!"
He just looked very strangely at me. "Are you saying that I have a useless arse?"
"In a sense, yes—"
"That's so cruel! What a harsh thing to say about an arse!"
Only John would disappear for two months before suddenly popping up in a brothel as a whore to talk about the uses of backsides for half the night. When I'd eventually left the brothel at about two in the morning, I was none the wiser as to what happened to make him leave his family, his home and his comfortable life in the first place.
-x!x-
AN: Believe it or not, but this chapter was actually relevant to the plot. A little bit, anyway. Sorry for the longer wait in updating this, I've less free time to myself now, so I'm looking at updating every two weeks or so, if I'm lucky. Also, I'll like to point out that I'll be working on this a little more than How My Perfect Life Was Inverted 'cause I'm at that point in the story where I'll like to bring in Jack's PoV on things, so I need to get the chronology sorted out there.
TigerTiger02: Well if you have the rough plot all sorted out, then you've got about half the story done; I'm no expert or anything, but I find that it's easier to write when you have something to work towards. So once the main plotline's sorted out you can just create a couple of subplots (or not), characters, whatever else you feel like throwing in, but feel free to ignore me, I'm sure you don't need me giving you amateur advice… Anyway; I always thought that Jack came across as being quite a tolerant person, so I wrote him as having modern views in an eighteenth-century world, where people's beliefs were only just beginning to mature from the Middle Ages; in other words, Jack's just ahead of his time. Will's holier-than-thou attitude seriously annoyed me as well; he's so stereotyped and two-dimensional, and besides, I prefer complex characters who have a darker side to them, which I think was the main reason I disliked him. In the next couple of chapters Jack will be changing his name from John Raven to Jack… Well, I don't think Sparrow should come in straight away, so he'll just be Jack Duck or something… Jack Duck in drag… Suddenly I'm really intrigued…
Anne la Jordanie: The guy in your French class sounds blind. Or he has very bad lighting in the morning. Or there was an accident in the washing-machine and all the colours ran. I could think of thousands of reasons, but I'm too lazy to list them… I see you've discovered the charm of Andrew; whereas Jack's just hot and charismatic and a smooth talker, Andrew's all polite and shy and a little innocent… Or he was a little girl in a past life… I'm totally intrigued by Jack being a whore; it's one of those things that will just come back to haunt him…
blushingbeauty86: I think Jack's whoredom should make a reappearance in my other fic, seeing how it is quite intriguing, and see what Sierra and Pearl makes of it, but maybe that would just scar the daughter for life… Maybe Pearl could have tattooed the bunny onto Jack's ankle; little kids like fluffy animals, don't they? Don't worry about the Lord Raven thing; I just put it in there as a link between both the two stories, and it was only mentioned once, so it's not actually vital to the plot…