A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (5 page)

Piper shrugged. “It’s pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think? The one you’re holding is the middle of her three journals. In my mind, I’ve been calling it her ‘Britney Spears Years.’”

“But…” Brenna stopped, sat up straighter, and cocked her head. It had been a long time since Piper saw her eloquent friend speechless.

“Basically,” Piper continued, “Volume One is ‘The Deflowering,’ while Volume Three—that’s the shortest one and the one that has all the details of the murder charges and the trial, not to mention an absolutely mind-blowing twist I never saw coming—I like to think of that one as ‘The Morning After.’”

Brenna’s brow knit together in bewilderment. “But this can’t possibly…” She paused, taking a second to rephrase her words. “Are you sure this is the same Ophelia Harrington?”

Piper nodded. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“The abolitionist? The one whose portrait is hanging in every elementary school in Massachusetts?”

She nodded again.

“Claudia handed these over to you?” Brenna shook her head in confusion. “It took that woman three months to agree to let the museum borrow the family candlesticks! Why in the hell would she give you something as … as …
incendiary
as this?”

Piper chuckled. “Yes, well, there’s a story behind—”

Brenna waved her hand through the air, cutting her off. “Wait!”

Piper knew what was happening—her friend’s mind was barreling down a single track of inquiry and it wouldn’t be slowed or stopped until her relentless curiosity was sated. It’s what made Brenna an outstanding scholar and an often annoying conversationalist. (Just ask any of her former boyfriends.)

Brenna scowled. “You told me once that it didn’t make sense that the courtesan put on trial in London back in 1825 was
your
Ophelia Harrington. You said there was speculation, but no proof.”

“I did say that.”

“And you said there was some innuendo about Ophelia Harrington’s having a mysterious past, but that nothing could be substantiated.”

“And it never was,” Piper said. “Not until about seven o’clock Friday evening, when I bit a pen in half, broke my glasses, and tripped over Ophelia Harrington’s travel trunk, and out fell diaries that had been stuffed in a false bottom for the last one hundred and eighty-seven years.”

Brenna sucked in air. Ever so carefully, she extended her hand and returned the document to the coffee table, almost as if she feared the pages would break. “Where are the originals?” she whispered.

“Locked away in the BMCS climate-controlled document room, buried in Ophelia’s household accounts.”

Brenna scrunched up her mouth. “Her accounts? You mean with, like, her grocery lists?”

Piper smiled. “Exactly. ‘Stop by the butcher. Swing by the greengrocer. Fuck Lord Wellington’s brains out after tea.’”

Brenna smiled softly, then nodded while she thought over the situation. “You know you’ve hit the mother lode, right?”

Piper smiled back. “I’m aware of that.”

“Who else have you told?”

“Not a damn soul.”

“Probably a wise move.”

It went without saying that Brenna was a brilliant woman. Only brilliant women were full professors in Harvard’s Department of Sociology by the age of thirty-four. So when her eyes shot over to the copy machine and back to Piper without missing a beat, Piper knew she’d figured everything out.

“You brought the journals home, didn’t you? You copied them here in secret instead of at the museum.”

Piper nodded, half expecting a reprimand.

But Brenna laughed. Not only did she laugh, she grabbed Piper’s ink-stained hands in her own and screeched like a kid. “You broke the rules!” she shouted. “Hot damn! Piper Chase-Pierpont colored outside the lines!”

Piper laughed along but ended up yawning. The exhaustion was impossible to suppress.

Brenna’s worried expression returned. “You haven’t slept since Friday, I bet.”

“Not much, no.”

Brenna dropped Piper’s hands and snatched Volume One from the coffee table and began leafing through the pages, stopping to read a passage here and there. She tapped a finger at all the handwritten notes along the margins. “You’ve done about a month’s work in three days.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Would you like some iced tea or something?”

Suddenly, Brenna’s hand slapped down on Piper’s forearm. She dug her fingers into Piper’s flesh the way she used to do in the front row of Mick Malloy’s ethnoarchaeology class.

“Holy porno, Batman,” she mumbled, not removing her eyes from the page. “This shit is flaming hot! It’s like a two-hundred-year-old guide to releasing your inner harlot!”

Brenna jumped from the couch and began to pace, Miss Meade eyeing her from her perch on the back of the Queen Anne chair, tail swishing. Piper watched, too, as Brenna quickly skimmed over the document, gasping at one point. She glanced at Piper, her eyes narrowed.

“The Seven Sins of the Courtesan?” she asked, flipping through the pages again. “Lust, Appetite, Idleness, Covetousness, yadda-yadda?” She looked up at Piper, amazement in her expression. “And she does all this with a dude who never takes off his mask and who tells her to call him ‘
Sir
’?”

Piper giggled.

Brenna’s mouth fell open momentarily. Then it snapped shut. When she spoke, it was with the cadence of a sexologist. “What you’ve got here is a brilliant example of nineteenth-century Western European
kink.
”

Piper nodded. “Yeah. It’s pretty over the top.”

“It’s
The Story of O-phelia
!”

Piper smiled. “I guess it is.”

“This is like finding out that Susan B. Anthony dropped some acid with Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock.”

Piper laughed loudly.

“But I still don’t get the name,” Brenna said, scowling. Piper could tell her mental engine had just gone from zero to sixty. “How could she be the unmarried Ophelia Harrington on trial in England and the married matron Ophelia Harrington in Boston? Did she keep her name? That was unheard-of then! Impossible!”

“It’s complicated,” Piper said.

“And does she ever discover her tutor’s identity?” Brenna held the copied journal out to the side of her body and glared at it. “Does Sir ever ditch the mask?”

Piper knew her friend well. She knew that among Brenna’s most violent pet peeves were people who revealed the ending of a book or movie before she’d had a chance to experience it for herself. In fact, Piper recalled how Brenna had once broken off a perfectly lovely two-year relationship because the man let slip that Dumbledore died at the end of the sixth Harry Potter book.

“Let’s do it this way,” Piper said, rising from the couch. “You read Volume One in its entirety. When you’re done, tell me if you want me to cut to the chase for you or if you’d rather take the ride yourself.”

Brenna’s eyes flicked toward the coffee table.

“It’s a great ride, by the way,” Piper added.

“Fine. Don’t tell me how it ends.” Brenna stared at Piper again. “But what was the second thing? You said a
couple
things happened back-to-back that left you shaken up. I’m assuming the diaries are one thing, so what’s the other?”

“Ah,” Piper said. She glanced longingly toward her bedroom, knowing it would be hours before she could retreat to the refuge of her cool cotton sheets. She made sure her voice sounded far more perky than she felt. “I ran into somebody interesting today at work, is all. I’m going to make a pot of coffee. Want some?”

Piper headed into the kitchen. Brenna followed on her heels.

“Really? Who?”

She turned to face her friend, remembering how wonderful Brenna had been that night so long ago, after Piper’s failure to seduce. Brenna had held her hand as she cried. She’d even held her head over the commode as she heaved up the remnants of seven glasses of cheap Chardonnay.

Clearly, Brenna deserved to know that the man solely responsible for Piper’s decade-long dating drought was suddenly, horrendously, back in her life.

Piper waved Brenna away and stepped into the kitchen. “I ran into Mick Malloy, okay? He’s putting together a fund-raising campaign for the museum. He’ll be in town for six months.”

Piper looked over her shoulder in time to see Brenna’s mouth fall open. She said nothing.

“You can stop with the lecture,” Piper said, taking coffee from the cabinet shelf.

Brenna remained silent.

“Stop making such a big deal of this!” Piper slammed the cabinet shut. “I’m over him! Completely over him! Sure, he destroyed whatever self-esteem I had at the time, but I’m totally over it.”

Brenna blinked.

“Frankly, it took me a few minutes to even recognize the man today. Let’s just say he hasn’t aged well.”

Piper poured water into the coffee maker. “Plus, he’s probably let his fame go to his head. Another mediocre male intellect hiding behind a bloated ego! Great! Just what this town needs!”

Still, Brenna said nothing.

“And the answer to your question is no, his ass is no longer worthy of your top bottom spot.”

Piper heard Brenna inhale sharply. She spun around to see her friend bite her lips closed.

“What?” Piper demanded. “Just say it.”

Brenna began to speak but stopped herself.

“I shouldn’t have even mentioned this to you,” Piper snapped. “You’re making way too big a deal of it.” Piper grabbed the half-and-half from the refrigerator.

“Piper?” Brenna whispered.

“I know! I know!” Piper threw her hands into the air. “What am I going to do? Look at me! I’m totally
screwed
!”

*   *   *

Mick plopped down at the bar and watched Cullen fill the ice bin, noting that his older brother’s hair was as thin as the Monday-night pub crowd. Mick shouted out his order for a pint of Murphy’s and then laughed at the way Cullen raised his eyes, primed to deliver one of his cheerful obscenities.

“Get it yerself, you uppity dosser,” Cullen said.

Mick laughed again as he got up and made his way down the bar, ducking under the flip-top. He grabbed a pint glass from the shelf and edged the Murphy’s tap forward expertly, admiring the surge of liquid gold topped by a layer of foam. How many thousands of times had he seen his father perform this very ritual back in County Kerry, and then here in Boston?

Mick took a long sip of the cold, smooth Irish lager, eyeing his brother over the top of the glass.

“What’s up, Magnus?” Cullen asked him, throwing a bar towel over his shoulder. “How was your first day at the Museum of Wealthy Dead Boston Protestants?”

Mick nearly spat out his mouthful of Murphy’s.

“That good, eh?” His brother grinned. “Something to eat, man?”

Mick shook his head. “Nah. Thanks. Just wanted to stop by and see if you needed any help tonight.”

Cullen let go with a loud guffaw, gesturing grandly at the dim interior of Malloy’s Pub. The crowd—all three of them—glanced up nervously, fearing they were about to be tossed into the street by a daft pub owner. “I do believe I can fight back the throng me’self tonight,” he said, exaggerating his accent.

Mick drained his pint and put the empty glass into the sink of suds. Despite Cullen’s joking, he knew there was nothing funny about the bar’s declining daily receipts. Cullen had taken out a second mortgage to pay off the medical bills after Da had passed two years before, but business had been so slow that he’d barely been making enough to cover the payments, let alone send his three kids to the parish Catholic school and keep his own modest household afloat.

Mick had a plan to ease some of his brother’s burden, but he couldn’t say a word to Cullen about it yet. He couldn’t get his brother’s hopes up unless the reality show was a done deal.

The agreement currently on the table would give Mick $25,000 an episode, with a promised run of sixteen episodes on the Compass Cable Network. The agent brokering the deal for Mick recommended he hold out for more, but Mick was ready to accept. No,
Digging for the Truth with Mick Malloy
wouldn’t make him a billionaire, but it would generate more money than any Malloy on either side of the Atlantic had ever laid eyes on.

And Mick knew that whatever fame and fortune came his way was as much Cullen’s doing as his own. Not once in the five years Da was sick did Cullen complain about taking care of him. Never once did Cullen point out that Mick was running all over kingdom come looking for treasures from the past while Cullen stayed put, ran the bar, and handled all the problems of the present—including caring for a demanding old man slowly dying of cancer.

Whenever Mick would try to help out financially, Cullen would tell him to put his money away. Whenever Mick would attempt to confess he felt guilty, Cullen would have none of it.

“Quit your daft tommyrot,” Cullen always told him. “You’re the only Malloy to ever have all those letters after his name, and you’re feckin’ going to put them to good use if I have anything to say about it.”

The trick would be navigating his big brother’s pride. Mick would have to find a way to make sharing his good fortune look like more of a collaboration than a handout. Mick made a mental note to enlist the help of Cullen’s wife, Emily, when the time was right.

“So? Did you see her?” Cullen asked. “Your girl? That piece of college fluff from all that while back. The one you mentioned worked at the museum.”

Mick returned to his stool on the other side of the bar, confounded. He had only mentioned Piper to his brother once. Trust Cullen to make a big deal out of the smallest offhand comment.

His older brother leaned his elbows on the shiny mahogany bartop and peered into Mick’s eyes. “So?”

Mick nodded. “Yeah, I saw her.”

“And?” Cullen reached for a clean pint glass and was about to pour Mick another when he stopped him.

“No. No more for me. I gotta go.”

“Bwaah!” Cullen barked. “Hot date?”

“You’re insane,” Mick told him. “You’ve got this completely arseways. She was a friend. A student of mine. That’s it. Nothing ever happened between us.”

“A shame,” Cullen said, shaking his head. “Turned out to be a real loosebit, eh?”

Mick ignored that comment. Cullen was fiercely loyal to his wife and family, went to mass every Sunday, and worked like a demon. But when it came to the fairer sex, he’d never been the world’s most evolved man. Back when Mick was in primary school and Cullen was preparing for his senior leaving certificate, Mick had already been indoctrinated to his big brother’s philosophy on females. In Cullen’s mind, there were two kinds of women—saints and
hoors
—without much gray area between.