him in that unnerving way of his. They’d been friends since university, longer than either of them had known any of the other courtesans. If there was anyone who could claim to know him best, even better than his uncle, in fact, it was Ben. Which was why he had no hope of hiding his turmoil and confusion. Nick didn’t even know why he’d bothered to try.
“Do I need to put an end to this contract?” Benedict whispered, his voice low but with steel bolstering every word. “Of all the men working for this agency, you were always the one I worried about the least. But, this woman—”
“Is a client,” Nick snapped. “Like any other. I am still the last courtesan you have to worry about losing his head over a keeper. If you need someone to wring your hands over, I suggest you set your sights on Aubrey.”
The man in question was bent over the pistols with David, the two laughing and nudging one another while reloading, so he didn’t overhear. However, Benedict cut his eyes at Aubrey with a slight frown. Nick hadn’t been so preoccupied with his own affairs that he hadn’t noticed the changes in their friend. The oldest of them, he had a family and a business to care for, and Nick had never thought his tenure as a courtesan would last. It wasn’t a matter of if Aubrey would ever leave them to settle down, but when.
“You know the rules about complications,” Benedict ground out. “Whatever romantic notions you have concerning Miss Barrington, I suggest you disabuse yourself of them immediately.”
As much as he wanted to shove a fist down Benedict’s throat for that, Nick held back for two reasons. Firstly, his friend was a champion bare-knuckle brawler with lethal fists and a quick temper. He’d lay Nick out flat without breaking a sweat.
Secondly, Benedict was right. It was foolish of him to think he could ever be anything to Calliope but a means to an end.
However, deep down, that didn’t stop him from wanting her to be more. Nor did it prevent him wishing he stood a chance.
The unease in Calliope’s stomach faded as the carriage rolled through the wrought iron gates of her father’s rural property in Surrey. With the sprawling acreage and spacious architecture one couldn’t find in a London residence, it lacked the vast intimidation of the viscount’s massive country estate. Her father preferred it here, close enough to London that he could sojourn there when necessary and retreat here when he wished for peace and quiet. He had once confided to Calliope that the country seat he’d inherited after the death of his brother made him feel as if he lived in the shadows of ghosts. He hadn’t been born to become the viscount, and resented his title as much as he did the circumstances that had forced him to accept it.
The place was just as she remembered it, and being able to arrive a full day before any of the guests settled a sense of peace over her. She had only been here a few months ago for a visit, but felt as if a lifetime had passed since then—as if a different person entered these gates than the one who had left through them. Tomorrow, the house party would commence, and she would go back to feeling worn thin and stretched in a dozen different directions. For today, she would enjoy the serenity of being near her father and her aunts—who, though they often taxed her patience, she loved dearly.
Her spirits lifted even more at the sight of the man standing at the foot of the front steps of the three-story Palladian house, the breeze tousling a head of hair that seemed to grow more silvery with each passing month. Calliope was the first out of the carriage, not bothering to wait for a footman to place the steps before she had jumped down and dashed into her father’s waiting arms.
“Papa!”
Aside from several more gray hairs and a few additional age lines around his eyes, the viscount was just as she’d last seen him—healthy and bright-eyed, his grip as strong and sure as ever as he lifted her off the ground and twirled her just as he had when she’d been a little girl. He wasn’t much larger than she was, but he had always seemed like the strongest man in the world to Calliope. His wiry form was now accentuated by a slight paunch that spoke