Lisa reached in the drawer on the bedside table and found a match. She struck it and lighted the oil lamp, turning up the wick for a fuller flame. Replacing the glass globe, she held up the lamp and pointed to the dark stain he had uncovered when he rearranged the top sheet. "The young lady you were with this evening isn't entertaining anyone else," she said in icy tones that were every bit a match for his. "More to the point, she's never entertained anyone else.
And it's unlikely she found much in the way of entertainment with you!"
The words were as effective as a cold shower or a pot of black coffee.
He was wide awake. He stared at the dried blood spotting the bottom sheet and felt himself paling. "What the hell's going on here?" he asked, pushing himself out of bed. He dragged the sheet with him, hitched it around his waist, and cinched it. He glared at the madam, then at the man at the foot of the bed, then finally at the woman in the doorway. "I didn't ask for a damned virgin!"
"Oh, I believe you, honey," Megan said. "And if you'd come to the right room, you wouldn't have gotten one.
"Right room? What do you mean?" His brows drew together as he glowered at Lisa Hall. "What does she mean? You told me this was the room. Left at the top of the stairs. Second door on the right."
Lisa's fingers were working nervously on her pearls. She sat down heavily on the bed. "This is awful! Horrible! Do you have any idea what you've done?"
His dark brows rose. "Any idea what I've done?" He paused, his upper lip curling cynically. His black eyes were cold. "If this is a scam, then you've picked the wrong john. I didn't ask to initiate one of your angels and I'm not going to pay just because she's fallen hard."
Morrison set his bag on the bed and spoke up in Lisa's defense.
"No one is trying to take your money. There's been a mistake, that's all. Megan, check the wardrobe. Perhaps she hasn't left." As Megan went to do his bidding, Morrison's eyes alighted on the bottle of Scotch. "I'm Dr. James. Mrs. Hall asked me to come by to see the girl you were with. She... umm, she wasn't well. You didn't answer Lisa's question. Did the girl drink some of that?"
"Most of it."
Lisa's soft groan was smothered by Megan's announcement that the wardrobe was empty.
"What's going on here?" he demanded, taking the offensive. His eyes fell on the doctor's bag and he remembered his own black leather satchel. He looked around for it, first on the table just inside the door, and when it wasn't there, he scanned other parts of the room.
"Where is it?" he demanded. When the others merely looked at him blankly, he repeated the question more harshly. "I had a bag with me.
Almost exactly like the doctor's. What the hell have you done with it?"
"I haven't touched it," Mrs. Hall said. "None of us has."
"What did you tell the girl to do with it?"
"You're mistaken," Morrison said. "If the bag's gone, Lisa didn't have anything to do with it. This is a respectable house."
"It's a brothel."
"It's an honest one," Megan said, offended by the stranger's arrogance.
"Find my bag and I'll apologize," he said with dry sarcasm.
Unconcerned with modesty, he dropped the sheet and pulled on his drawers and trousers.
Megan sighed. "I wish you had found the right room."
He merely grunted, unmoved by the flattery. He slipped on his evening shirt and tucked in the tails, snapping his suspenders in place.
Sitting in the wing chair he put on his stockings and shoes.
Morrison James was eyeing the cut and style of the clothes.
Expensive.
Perhaps he could be reasoned with. "Look, it's not what you think it is. Even so, you don't want your name in the papers, do you?
Be reasonable and let us handle it."
He stopped in the middle of fastening his cufflinks and gave the doctor the edge of his hard, penetrating stare. "That's how it works, doesn't it? The whores steal from their customers and you count on us being too scared or embarrassed to report it." He finished with the cufflink and smoothed the pristine sleeve over his forearm, then adjusted it at the wrist. "Do I appear to be frightened?" he asked.
"Embarrassed?" Neither of his questions garnered a reply. He noted his audience was looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Your whore and you'll understand if I doubt she was the innocent she's being made out to be She was unexpectedly good, but she was not worth twelve thousand dollars."
Mrs. Hall's necklace snapped and pearls skittered across the floor.
Morrison James dropped onto the bed in surprise.
Megan's lower jaw simply fell open.
"You shouldn't be working here," he told them. "There's a play at Wallack's Theatre right now that would benefit from your talents." He slipped on his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and turned on his heel. At the door he stopped. "I don't care if you find the girl, but you damn well better find my bag."
Mrs. Hall gathered her wits as he was stepping into the hallway.
"Wait! I don't know where to reach you.
"I know how to find you." ..But your name . . . it would . .
~ that is . .
His narrow smile was dangerous. Holiday. Connor Holiday." He was satisfied to see it had an impact. As he was closing the door he heard the doctor sigh, "You've stepped into it this time, Lisa." chapter 2
The same evening, a different view She was lost. If someone had told her to accomplish just that task she would have said it was impossible.
She had grown up in the city and considered herself more than passingly acquainted with Manhattan's particular maze of avenues and alleys, boulevards and backyards.
It was true that she didn't walk everywhere but she believed herself to be observant, and she had often noted buildings and businesses as landmarks when she traveled in a hansom cab or in the family carriage.
It was her nature to pay attention to things and she took some pride in it.
Which was why it was so difficult to accept that she was lost.
Nothing was familiar. The houses were clapboarded, built nearly on top of one another, leaning in, without any yard or greenery or fence to distinguish them. Any single row, she noticed, seemed to sag in the middle. At night it was difficult to know their state of repair but she suspected there were roofs in need of shingles and windows in need of glazing. A number of houses had signs at the front door announcing rooms for rent; others were actually saloons or dance halls.
Several, she saw, had red glass globes covering their window lamps.
She was not so naive that she didn't know what they signified.
It was a source of some amazement to her that an evening that had begun innocently at the library was coming to a close in Manhattan's seediest red light district.
Looking around, trying to gauge the distance of the waterfront and get her bearings, she acknowledged that she wasn't prepared to take full responsibility for her predicament. She had been cajoled, harassed, and finally dared to take part in a scavenger hunt and then abandoned when her partner found favor with another. Her sister had a lot to answer for.
She stepped back into the shadows as a door to one of the dance halls was flung open and a boisterous group of sailors staggered arm in arm into the street. Their ribald humor brought a blush to her cheeks.
She was pressed flatly against the darkened porch alcove of a rooming house with no retreat available. She closed her eyes and prayed they would pass without noticing her, or if they noticed, without accosting her.
She dared to peek as their voices faded . . . and found herself staring into a pair of lightly colored, curious eyes. The lopsided smile spread and widened and then he called to his friends, "Come see what I've found!"
She tried to duck out of the way but the sailor's reflexes were not as slowed by drink as she hoped they might be. He thrust out his arms, one on either side of her shoulders, and braced himself comfortably against the alcove.
He glanced over his shoulder, looking for his friends, then back at his captive, a simple grin still plastered on his face. "It appears they didn't hear or they're not interested," he said. He blinked widely, paused, then looked her over from head to toe. "Must be they didn't hear. They couldn't not be interested. You're something to look at.
Not the usual sort for Canal Street."
She sighed. At least she knew where she was now, but it was not as promising a sign as she hoped. She was not likely to be mistaken for a woman of gentle upbringing on Canal Street, not with all those red lights winking at her from the porch stoops and windo ws. She realized she should not be so accepting of her circumstances, certainly not with the drunken sailor leering stupidly in her direction, but her options were strictly limited. She wasn't strong enough to fight him off and only just on the mend after three miserable days in bed with a sore throat and laryngitis, she could hardly raise a whisper, let alone a scream. That left brazening it out.
She, a young woman of twenty-three years, well known for not having a brazen bone in her body, stared boldly back at the sailor.
"You have a place near here?" asked the sailor, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
She shook her head.
The brows lowered as he frowned. "Can't take you back to the ship."
She was relieved. It seemed they were without alternatives. He would have to let her go. She started to push his restraining arm aside.
"Not so fast." He was still frowning, thinking furiously.
"There's the alley."
That was a horrifying thought. "No," she said. Her voice was not much above a whisper, husky with the last remnants of her cold, and more invitation than refusal. "Not the alley."
"Then right here."
Equally horrifying. Her eyes widened as the sailor's calloused hands dropped inside her coat to grab her waist. Before she could move he was taking a step toward her and lifting her against the wall of the alcove. She pushed at his shoulders but it was a futile gesture.
Her feet were no longer touching the stoop. "It's not free, you know," she said.
She was gratified to see that gave the sailor pause. He dropped her.
The moment he thrust his hands into his pockets to find his money she tore past him. Raising her skirts, she ran down the sidewalk and into the street, dodging two draft horses and a beer wagon that had just turned the corner. Running blindly, her sense of direction deserting her again, she darted in a narrow passageway between two houses to catch her breath.
Her chest hurt as she gulped air. She remembered her mother's voice just that morning telling her she should spend another day indoors, that even a trip to the library was not advisable. But she had to study. She may not have been particularly brazen, but she, like every other member of her family, was headstrong. Her mother's words went unheeded at the breakfast table only to echo mockingly now.
Her heart was pounding so loudly that she didn't hear the sailor's approach until the second before she was caught in his embrace.
"Why'd you run?" he asked.
She recoiled from the sour beer smell of her assailant. She turned her head aside and her stomach turned over as she felt his mouth on her neck. Having no real faith that it would work now any better than it had earlier, she pushed hard at the sailor's shoulders.
She imagined the surprise on his face mirrored hers as he was flung aside.
She only had eyes for her rescuer while the sailor dropped to his knees, groaned, then scrambled awkwardly away.
The stranger doffed his hat and made a sweeping bow. "Your servant," he said.
The gesture was grand, unnecessary but appreciated. She wondered where he had come from. "Thank you," she said softly.
"May I?" he asked, offering his elbow and an escort out of the alley.
She hesitated, watching him warily.
Her rescuer understood. "It's natural that your experience has made you cautious, but I assure you, we're not all as loutish as your sailor."
"He wasn't my sailor," she said. She swallowed with difficulty; the back of her throat felt raw.
"You're not feeling well."
She was pleasantly surprised by his observation. Really, she thought, there was nothing particularly threatening about her rescuer's countenance or demeanor. He was a tall man with a narrow face and easy smile. His manner demonstrated concern as he bent solicitously toward her. His dark eyes watched her closely, a certain appeal for her trust in them. "I have a sore throat," she said.
He nodded. "I thought it must be something like that. When you didn't scream "I couldn't."
"Then what we need to do is get you somewhere warm and safe."
She made her decision; she gave him her arm.
They stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Gaslight laid a muted yellow circle around them. When a trio of men spilled out of a nearby saloon she edged closer to her rescuer.
Her action did not go unnoticed. "Harlan Porter," he said, introducing himself.
"Thank you, Mr. Porter." She did not return the introduction.
Sometimes it seemed that scandal was synonymous with her last name, but thus far she had managed not to be at the center of it.
There was no desire on her part to have that change now.
She would not have herself or her family embarrassed if any of this night's adventures came to light. "Will you hail me a cab?"
"I'd be happy to, but we'll have to walk a bit from here.
Hansoms don't generally come this way. Perhaps it's obvious to you now, but this is not the most savory section of the city."
