Chasing Benedict (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 5) Read online

  Chasing Benedict

  The Gentleman Courtesans Book 5

  Victoria Vale

  Contents

  Chasing Benedict Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Chasing Benedict Playlist

  The Gentleman Courtesans

  More by Victoria Vale

  About the Author

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  Chasing Benedict Playlist

  Click here to listen on Spotify!

  Fall Into You by Rosehardt

  Hello by Jade Novah

  Walk Away by JMSN

  To Me by Alina Baraz

  Do U Remember The Time by JMSN

  Be by Daley

  Bring Me Back by Marie Dahlstrom

  Falling Like the Stars by James Arthur

  High Hope by Patrick Droney

  I Won’t Give Up by Jason Mraz

  Distance by Yebba

  Fall On Me by A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera

  Stay With Me by Sam Smith

  For Me, It’s You by Lo Moon

  Mad by Adele

  Prologue

  Eton College, 1797

  The frigid air of a November evening permeated the bedchamber like an invisible, smothering fog, making every hair on Benedict Sterling’s body stand on end. As he lay shivering beneath a pile of thin, scratchy blankets, he imagined himself surrounded by the comforts of home. A warm fire and his heavy, damask counterpane, his hound Caesar laid across his feet. His father had boxed his ears on more than one occasion for sneaking the dog into his bed, but it was never enough to deter him. Viscount Sterling was abominable as father’s went. Still, Benedict would gladly have endured the man’s dismissal and harsh punishments in exchange for rooms warmed by blazing fires, and the decadent warmth of a cup of chocolate heating his belly.

  Curling his knees into his chest, he willed sleep to claim him. Once exhaustion pushed him into unconsciousness, the cold would no longer matter.

  Mrs. Culpepper—the dame over the boardinghouse he inhabited with twelve other boys—was as stingy with coal and tapers as she was with smiles or kindness. The lives of some lads could be made easier by the generous allowances. Those who came from families with deep pockets had the blunt to afford such niceties that could lessen the discomforts of life at Eton. However, while Benedict came from a family with an illustrious name and several fruitful estates, his father’s parsimony rivaled Dame Culpepper’s. The viscount believed that the rigors of school life were part of what made a boy into a man. In his day, he had endured the same sparse accommodations, grueling schedule, and harsh physical punishments—and he expected his sons to do the same without complaint.

  Benedict suffered in silence, determined that his father be given no further ammunition toward his scorn. Viscount Sterling was a hard, uncompromising man, but proved doubly so regarding his youngest son. For years, Benedict had thought it simply the matter of being neither the heir nor the spare, but time had proven otherwise. It was as if Benedict’s father could sense something was wrong with him—something that should be crushed and obliterated to make him into the sort of man a father could be proud of.

  That his mother doted on him to compensate for cruel treatment only made matters worse. The viscount hated what he saw as ‘coddling,’ and did everything he could to come between Benedict and the one person in the world who loved him without condition or requirement. The viscount had insisted that once his sons were placed in the care of a tutor rather than a governess, the time for cosseting was over. Only a man could make boys into men, and the early years of suckling at the viscountess’s teat were behind them.

  The viscountess had done her duty by providing sons, and she was now meant to step aside and allow the father to mold them into gentlemen. But Agatha Sterling had been the first friend Benedict had ever known, the only one to accept him without condition. For that, she had Benedict’s devotion, and there was nothing his father could do to break it.

  Slipping one hand beneath his lumpy pillow, Benedict fingered the edges of the letters he kept there. On the pages were the viscountess’ words, written with love and care. He only needed to survive the next six weeks before the term ended and he could travel home for Christmas. While there, he might at least pretend he would never have to return to this hellish place ever again.

  He conjured his mother’s image—soft and pretty with dark blonde hair and velvety brown eyes that shined with the light of a jubilant soul. Benedict had never been brave enough to ask his mother if the viscount made her happy, but then, he was certain he already knew the answer. Her light was dimmed whenever the viscount was near, as if the candle of her soul had been blown out. She became silent and docile, eyes lowered, voice soft.

  She’d been a coveted debutante her first Season, pursued by all manner of titled, upstanding men. Marriage to his father had been practical, a good match by the conventions of society. She was the consummate viscountess, upholding the image of a titled family as she had been bred to. But she was most happy when painting, dressed in an old gown and smock, fingers dyed from her watercolors, hair in a haphazard knot. Benedict loved to sit and watch her paint, wanting to absorb the moments of peace and serenity she was allowed when immersed in her art. She would often pause in the midst of her work and smile at him, lighting up the entire room.

  “Come and help me?” she would ask, inclining her head to beckon him over.

  Her tinkling laughter always made him smile as she used her smock to wipe the paint splatter from his chin.

  “You’re a work of art all on your own,” she would croon, kissing his nose. “You need no enhancement.”

  Benedict stiffened at the sound of scuffling, trying to determine if he heard footsteps or the scurry of mice. Or perhaps it was one of his roommates going to use the chamber pot. Both assumptions were proven wrong when the blankets were snatched away, exposing him to the cold and dark. Benedict thrashed and swung his fists, determined to fight off the hands that accosted him. There were multiple boys, strong fingers tightening around arms and legs to stretch him taut as something coarse and heavy fell over his head. His breath came in panicked gasps, this form of darkness far more frightening than that of the room itself. It suffocated him, making it difficult to fight as he rolled off the bed and crashed to the rough floorboards.

  Jerked to his feet, his wrists were bound behind his back even as he struggled fruitlessly. Then, a kick in his rear propelled him forward. Chuckles and low, boyish whispers came muffled through what he assumed was a gunny sack.

  Benedict had no choice but to go along with whatever prank was being played. He knew from experience that calling for Dame Culpepper—the old shrew—would only get him a verbal tongue lashing before the guilty parties cornered him at an opportune moment to deliver retaliation. Whatever this might be about, it was best to go along with it and let the other lads have a laugh at his expense.

  The pounding of several pairs of boots would have been enough to wake the dead, though everyone knew the dame wouldn’t stir if the entire house fell down around them. Her love of gin ensured she went jug-bi
tten to her bed every night. Benedict’s stockinged, frozen toes ached with every step, and the clench of the binding around his wrists made his fingers throb.

  He visualized each part of the house as they passed through it—the corridor and stairs, the entrance hall, then out the front door. The air outside was only slightly worse than in his room, but the ground was damp from this afternoon’s rain, soaking through Benedict’s stockings. His abductors became rowdier the farther they drew from the house, laughing and joking in voices he could hardly tell apart.

  “Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  An elbow jabbed him in the ribs as he renewed his struggles, causing him to trip and stub his toe on a stone.

  “Don’t worry, Benny,” a voice taunted in his left ear. “Nothing to worry about. We have a nice surprise waiting for you.”

  “Yes … a nice … warm and wet surprise,” another boy quipped, producing more laughter.

  “Come along, Benny-boy!” someone said from his right. “Step lightly! Jolly Jemima won’t wait for you all night!”

  Dread curled low in Benedict’s gut as he realized what was happening. “Jolly” Jemima Thacker was the daughter of a local tavern owner, notorious among the boys of Eton. By day and early evening, she worked as a barmaid in her father’s establishment, but when the old man had turned in for the night, and all within the village went quiet, she plied a different trade. Having just passed his fourteenth birthday, it was Benedict’s turn to have a taste of Jolly Jemima—courtesy of the other boys who had already drank from that coveted, overused well.

  The stench of horses and manure infiltrated his senses, and the prick of hay through his stockings told him they’d entered a stable. Shivering and seething, he was brought to an abrupt halt, then the sack was yanked away. Benedict blinked against the sudden burst of light from a lantern hanging on a nail. He stood in a—thankfully clean—stall surrounded by mounds of hay.

  There was much murmuring and jostling as the other boys fought for a clear view. Benedict’s eyes flared wide at the sight of Jemima Thacker, hands braced on her hips as she stood before him wearing nothing but a thin chemise, stockings, and a pair of worn shoes.

  “’Bout time you lot showed up,” she grumbled while hitching up her hem. “I’m freezing my bloody dugs off. But you’ll make me nice an’ warm in no time, won’t you, lad?”

  Benedict could only stare, numb with disbelief as she disrobed without a modicum of shame. She was a petite woman, with an unremarkable face and a head of stringy, lifeless hair. However, everything south of her neck made her popular among the young men—her wide hips and heavy breasts, the thick bush of dark hair between her thighs.

  Morbid fascination gripped him, as he had never before seen a nude woman in person. His schoolmates traded books and bawdy prints, and Benedict had glanced over them all in a quest to understand the fascination of other boys with the opposite sex. While he could certainly appreciate a pretty face or the efforts of a well-dressed lady, he wasn’t nearly as obsessed with body parts and erotic functions as the others. It seemed yet another thing that wasn’t quite right about him, but the depth and meaning of it escaped him whenever he dwelled on it.

  “Well? C’mon then,” she prodded when he failed to act on her indecent display. “Night’s already paid for, an’ time’s waistin’!”

  Benedict stumbled when he was pushed farther into the stall, his heart thudding wildly against his breastbone. He had never given much thought to the inevitability of tupping his first woman, but certainly didn’t relish doing away with his virginity in a stable with a gang of other boys looking on. Jemima advanced, but he backed away as if recoiling from the strike of a venomous snake.

  “No,” he protested, bumping against the wall of boys blocking his only way out. “Let me go.”

  “What’s the matter, Benny-boy?” someone taunted, poking at his spine with a bony finger. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. She doesn’t bite.”

  “Not unless he wants me to,” Jemima quipped, prompting more laughter. She grinned, showing a black gap where one of her front teeth ought to be.

  “I said no,” Benedict snapped, fighting to keep his voice from wavering as he spun to face the others. “Stand aside.”

  Among them stood his most hated foe, Lionel Blackburn. Like Benedict, he was larger than the other boys—tall and wide through the shoulders. His face was composed of arrogant lines and harsh edges, with dark, menacing eyes that showed his disdain for anyone he thought beneath him. Benedict, he had decided upon their first meeting, was perfect prey for teasing, insults, and cruelty.

  “Now, now,” Lionel chided with a sneer. “We went through all this trouble for you. The least you could do is say thank you.”

  Benedict ground his teeth, fists clenched at his sides as he stared at Lionel. He had never wanted to plant someone a facer as badly as he did Lionel.

  “No, thank you,” he growled. “Get out of my way.”

  “Here now!” Jemima exclaimed. “You told me the little shit was eager to ’ave me!”

  Lionel inclined his head, as the other boys elbowed one another and grinned. “He ought to be … unless there’s some reason our friend Benny doesn’t fancy a willing woman.”

  Benedict scoffed. “I’m not putting my prick anywhere yours has been.”

  A palm slammed into Benedict’s chest, throwing him off his feet. With the wind knocked from him, he was helpless to avoid the hands of half a dozen boys divesting him of his meager clothing.

  “He’s just a little shy,” someone bellowed as he was stripped of first one stocking, then the other.

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” another added. “Just lie there. Jemima will do all the work.”

  Laughter and ribald jokes floated through the air as Benedict scuttled away from his assailants, stark naked and freezing.

  “Sod off, the lot of you,” he snarled.

  Lionel grinned, raking Benedict’s nude body with a knowing gaze. “Something the matter? You’re as limp as a dead fish!”

  Humiliation washed over him as the other boys took in the evidence of his disinterest. He hadn’t so much as stirred at the sight of Jemima.

  “It’s bloody freezing,” he countered. “And I’ve already told you, I’m not interested. Now get out of my way!”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Lionel laughed. “I told you there was something wrong with him. He’s backwards … broken.”

  “I’ll break you if you don’t stand aside,” Benedict roared, his face flushing hot. Fingernails digging into his palms, he shook with rage.

  “You ungrateful little shit,” the boy to Lionel’s left spat.

  Everything happened so fast that it was nearly over before Benedict could make sense of it. Lionel’s fist slammed into his gut, making him double over. Another blow snapped his head back, and he lost his balance.

  “The little cunt thinks he’s too good for the likes of Jemima,” one of the boys joked as they all converged on him at once, fists and feet swinging with vicious intent. “It is our duty to defend her honor.”

  Benedict curled into himself, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out as he was assaulted from all sides. Back, belly, legs, face … none were safe as the boys went at him with the ferocity of a pack of wolves. He could only cup his hands around his privates to protect them and pray for it to end.

  “What’s the matter, Benny?” Lionel taunted, his voice booming over the jeers of the other lads. “If Jemima wasn’t what you wanted, you should have simply said so … I would have happily arranged a renter for you instead.”

  Benedict reared to his feet, rage boiling up from his gut to scorch his throat, making him feel as if he could spew fire. His fury lent him strength as he lunged through the phalanx of boys trying to pummel him, sights set on Lionel. He chuckled and kneed Benedict in the groin, throwing him back to the wolves.

  “Now, now,” he chided with a click of his tongue. “I am flattered you wish to throw yourself at me,
but poor Jemima’s freezing and needs someone to warm her up. Since you aren’t man enough …”

  Benedict slumped onto a mound of hay, his attackers’ interest in him waning as Lionel strutted toward the waiting prostitute like a preening rooster. Benedict’s entire body ached, and the trickle of blood into one eye obscured his vision. Swallowing past the urge to vomit, he looked away from the unpalatable sight of Lionel lowering his breeches and sprawling over the waiting Jemima.

  Swiping blood out of his eyes and crawling toward his discarded nightshirt, Ben did his best to avoid drawing attention back to himself. He quietly slipped into the garment, wincing at the throbbing in his ribs. Raising his arms caused enough pain to nearly render him unconscious, but Benedict remained on his feet, determined to make his escape.

  He stumbled out into the night with both arms wrapped around his middle, the world around him narrowing to a single pinpoint. Staying alert felt essential to his survival, so he placed one foot in front of the other, refusing to give Lionel and the others the satisfaction of finding him unconscious in the mud. Dame Culpepper’s house loomed just ahead, and the notion that he would survive if he could only get inside gripped him tight.

  The dame’s snores echoed through the corridors as he trudged up the stairs, his blood-soaked stockings staining the carpet as he went. He was bleeding from several places—his lip, his brow. His nose gushed like a geyser, making his nightshirt and stockings unsettlingly warm and sticky.

  That he reached his bed felt like some sort of miracle, and relief swept over him as he fell face-first onto the mattress and lost consciousness.