Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him. “I paid in advance for those, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but when you weren’t so…drunk,” Cookie mumbled.
“Drunk?” she laughed bitterly. “I’m not drunk, not yet.”
She heard a sigh, but didn’t care who it came from. They could judge all they liked; it wouldn’t make a difference. She was still drinking it all.
“Are those all for me?” she asked, somewhat hopeful that their crate was for her.
“No,” Cookie baulked. “You’re not the only one who needs to have a few drinks around here.
” His sharp tone made her sit up on her elbows.
She knew the pair of them were good-looking but seeing them both carry the crates of alcohol showed the definition of their arms through their colourful dressing gowns.
It was sticking to their damp skin from being outside in the downpour that was still lashing against her window.
Not only did they carry the crates from their source and up the flights of stairs, but they weren’t even winded.
As suspicion started to seep in, Milk said, “we’ve got some time before clients tonight. Lucy said you might like a distraction.”
Eleanor rubbed her eyes as she thought about what they were offering.
They… Stars …Lucy…and Lucy’s cock.
Cookie chuckled. “Yeah, Lucy’s cock.”
“But do you want a real one instead?” Milk asked.
Her stomach twisted as the marquis’s face flashed before her eyes.
No, not him.
“To be honest, it was hot hearing what you did for Hugh,” Cookie admitted.
As he leaned closer, Milk's earring, catching the candlelight, sparkled brilliantly. “I could be a good boy for you, if you wanted that.”
The offer was tempting. She could forget about him for a few minutes, and then…what? Fuck herself satisfied?
Her stomach twisted further until it was painful.
It felt like a heavy knot that was almost suffocating.
What she was feeling couldn’t be solved by a quick fuck.
It’d make her feel worse for using the lads in an attempt to feel better.
She couldn’t bring herself to do that. The thought of bedding either or both of them made her want to vomit, cry, and stab something.
She didn’t know if she wanted to do those things simultaneously or none at all.
It was confusing. She needed more drink.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m good,” she croaked.
“If you change your mind, you know where our room is,” Milk replied, before they both left her alone once more.
Eleanor expected Madam Grace’s imminent return to force her back to work.
An event she would embrace only if she had drunk enough.
Until now, the madam had not bothered her, as her benefactor had paid handsomely for her.
She had tried asking Iris if she’d overheard a lord’s name being used one too many times, but there were none that sounded familiar.
No matter how much she drank, her mind kept returning to the looming presence of the Marquis of Laerus. Which reminded her of the marquis’s party, and subsequently Verena’s words would follow, along with finding the necklace in his library, making Eleanor groan and drink more.
However, the not knowing gnawed away at her, until eventually, she couldn’t take it any longer and forced herself to make the trek to the madam’s plush and warm office. Eleanor demanded answers, but the madam only repeated that someone had paid her and refused to say who.
Eleanor had a sneaking suspicion it was related to the marquis. It was either wishful thinking, or her wine-addled mind had convinced her it was the marquis.
At first Eleanor had anticipated a visit from the marquis, himself. She’d thought he’d come to The Ladies Grace to see her, but as her bottles diminished, that fantasy vanished. Her irritation grew with each passing day, along with her list of grievances she’d be confronting that man with.
He knew she was a courtesan, and yet he was stopping her from her job. He was taking control of her life, and he was nowhere to be found.
He hadn’t even had the balls to tell her in person he’d paid for her.
She felt like that made it all the more worse, that he’d paid for her and he hadn’t even bothered to see her, just left her.
By inviting her to his private party, she’d mistakenly thought he had wanted to get to know her.
In that moment in the carriage she’d believed that he could want her…
stupid, stupid . But this had been what she wanted wasn’t it, to be left alone, but why then did it feel so hollow?
As she was drinking her way through whatever number bottle it was—she’d lost count at some point—she thought there was something worse: finding the necklace in his possession.
Those thoughts grew darker. Of course, the marquis was responsible for the missing woman, Linnet.
He wasn’t opposed to betting on women. To her knowledge, he’d already done it twice.
What was to stop him from making other bets?
Was it some sick game he was playing, and potentially Linnet was part of it, somehow?
What was to say it was solely the marquis?
There could be a group of those aristos making macabre bets.
There were enough courtiers for them to do so.
Before those grim thoughts spiralled too much, Iris had appeared in her room. She’d been a frequent visitor, more so than Eleanor would have liked. Each time Iris visited, her fragrant scent would linger, and the newly ordered vibrant gowns made the woman bloom in the drab grey of the room.
In Eleanor’s unsober state, she knew Iris was checking on her.
She’d take a few swigs from whichever bottle Eleanor was currently drinking, but she’d know not to ask too many questions.
Albeit Iris’s main reason for visiting last night was to tell Eleanor that the Collection had begun, which meant a week of the lord’s bidding for their new Favours.
Eleanor felt bitter at that, but like everything else, she didn’t want to pay attention to it.
Since it was the Collection, palace attendance wasn’t obligatory for the courtesans, so boredom consumed them with nothing to do. Iris had her hands full keeping everyone in line at breakfast, and with all the gossiping and sniping, Eleanor didn’t lament missing the mid-morning rituals.
Julia was the only other visitor. She would collect as many empty bottles that’d fit into her basket and leave just as silently as she’d entered. A sour bitterness twisted shamefully at Eleanor when the girl came, so she stayed still on the bed, pretending to be asleep.
She had more time alone than she’d realised, which inevitably led to her drinking more, even if it was the cheap watered-down wine of the version she’d appreciated from her time at court.
She cursed herself one evening, finding herself wishing to have spent the evening with him rather than drinking by herself.
Madam Grace was probably hoping the marquis would bestow his patronage on her, but Eleanor bitterly knew that wouldn’t be the case. Eleanor had been a pawn in their aristocratic games at her expense.
She was disposable, a mere courtesan. It made her loathe them, with their fine clothes and pretty jewels.
They played with people in their games, as if others were living breathing toys for them to break on a whim at a moment’s notice.
Only this time, they’d… he’d toyed with her, and Eleanor had been through worse.
This wouldn’t break her. She just wanted to be alone with her wine, regardless of its terrible quality.