Stealing Mercy (6 page)

“No, of course not.”

“I think you misunderstand. Not all of the girls made the choice, I’m afraid some were, shall we say, conscripted.”

Mercy leaned forward, her suspicions confirmed and her heart beating rapidly. “Kidnapped and sold. Just as I thought,” Mercy said, her voice hushed, barely audible. “ I don’t know Mr. Steele’s involvement, but I’ve learned most patrons were admitted with a silver token- a four leaf clover, like the one Mr. Steele had given me.”

She slipped the necklace from her bodice and showed it to Georgina. “Until I’d taken it, Mr. Steele had also had a key. I can’t use the key, of course. It’d been one thing to masquerade as a man in my father’s clothes on a ship where I could keep to my own quarters, but I couldn’t very well invade the brothel looking for my lost friends in my father’s cast offs.”

Georgina nodded. “Lucky Island services only Seattle’s finest…or, rather, the wealthiest.”

“Steele fits into the latter category, but I don’t know the significance of the key.” Mercy returned the token to her bodice.

“It does seem rather more momentous than the lucky token.” Georgina looked grim. “Something must be done. Edmond Burke wrote that all that is necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for good men to do nothing. Or, in our case, women.”

“That’s a rather lovely sentiment, but it would have been more useful if Mr. Edmond had provided an idea of what we could do.”

“There’s always something we can do.” Georgina took a deep breath. “First, let’s rally all our thoughts around what we know of your Mr. Steele.”

“Please, do not give Mr. Steele to me. He is not and never will be mine.” Mercy tapped her chin and began to think out loud. “Belle and Melanie, two girls, like myself, without family or ties in New York City, disappeared after a brief courtship with Mr. Steele.” Mercy paused. “What if they’re there? Just right there, on that peninsula, and I can’t, or don’t, do anything to help them?”

Georgina asked, “Do you know any gentlemen you can trust, someone whom you can compel to visit, in search of your friends?”

Trent Michael’s face flashed in Mercy’s mind and she shook him away. How could she trust someone she didn’t know? True, he knew and had kept her secret. Seattle was still a small town, prone to gossip, and Aunt Tilly was its largest monger. If a breath of her tangle with Wallace and Steele had been aired, her aunt would have heard. Mercy dismissed Trent Michaels and shook her head.

“Pity. I do so need a man I can trust if I’m to shut it down.”

“Shut down the brothel?”

Georgina looked determined. “It must be done. If only we could prove him guilty of his crimes.”

“Mr. Steele’s wife committed suicide,” Mercy continued, adding to their meager body of knowledge.

“But what if she didn’t?” Georgina asked. “What if he killed her and staged the suicide?”

Mercy inhaled and felt a sharp pain in her belly. That scenario bordered uncomfortably close to her own. “Would he do that?”

“You did.”

Mercy sucked on her lower lip. “Steele has wealth and prestige, why would he have anything to do with Belle and Melanie? Why kill his wife?”

“Why did he go to your apartment in the middle of the night with a drawn knife?” Georgina tapped her finger on Mercy’s soft blue skirt. “Some of these questions just don’t have answers. It’s extremely difficult to understand evil.”

A snapping twig interrupted their conversation. Mercy looked up as a shadow fell across the bench.

Georgina took Mercy’s hand. “We must pursue this conversation in depth and in privacy. Can you come by my home tomorrow?”

“Ah, Miss Faye, Miss Meyers.” Miles took a deep breath and brushed the hair from his eyes. “I’ve found you.”

“Yes, how fortunate,” Georgina smiled up at him. “We were just talking of evil, and yet here you are, a good man in direct opposition of our conversation. You give us hope, Mr. Carol.”

Miles flushed. “I was hoping to accompany you home.”

Georgina flashed him another coquettish smile and Miles seemed, for a moment, star struck.

“Yes, it’s obvious that you and evil can’t coexist,” Georgina said and although she addressed Miles, Mercy understood that she spoke of herself and Steele.

Mercy nodded. “One of us will have to leave.”

Miles’ stunned look turned to puzzlement.

Mercy stood, shook out her skirts and took Miles’ arm. “Perhaps Mr. Carol’s escort is the answer.”

Georgina winked at Mercy and took Miles’ other arm. “For the moment.”

“We must stop the visitation to lone girls,” Georgina said as they walked towards the city.

“I never --” Miles stammered.

“Not you, dear heart,” Georgina said, her voice silky and smooth. “Evil.”

And Miles, perhaps so shocked at being called dear heart, didn’t utter another word on the long walk back.

CHAPTER 6

In cooking, there’s no substitute for experience. Become acquainted with and understand the peculiarities of your oven and the temperament of your tools. Setting out all the necessary ingredients before beginning is sound advice. But even perfect technique can’t remedy a lack of flavor.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Trent Michaels sucked in his breath. After all these weeks, he’d finally spotted her. And in the most unlikely place. What was she doing outside Steele’s hotel room door? He watched from behind a large potted fern while he speculated. Had Steele invited her? A distant outside door opened and closed sending a cold, stiff breeze blew down the hall. If Steele hadn’t invited her, how would he react to finding her breaking into this room?

Two floors below, the organ crashed into the second act. Soon, his sister Chloe, acting as Lady Persephone, would swoon into Lord Hampton’s arms, and the audience would stomp their feet, spit their chew and bellow their approval. For Miss Faye’s sake, Trent hoped Steele was among those spitting and chewing. He thought of Steele finding Mercy breaking into his room and he clenched his fists.

Where had she been? He hadn’t seen her since that afternoon in the chemist shop and he’d looked. In fact, the promise of seeing her had made his commitment to his grandmother bearable. He’d come to town, watchdog his baby sister, try to find his missing cousin, and he hoped, bump into Mercy Faye. Just as he had that morning by the display of Lifebuoy soup. The scent now conjured her memory; he’d taken to thinking of her whenever he bathed, a thought that even now heated his neck. He’d only held her a moment and their conversation had been brief, yet, whenever he used Lifebouy soap, he thought of holding her. He’d hoped for longer conversations, more holding opportunities.

But it hadn’t worked out that way. Sure, he found the shop where Mercy worked and had been very successful in conversing with the aunt, a middle-aged woman with a generous bustle. But whenever he’d asked after the Mercy, the aunt, a chatterbox, had puckered her lips and the flood of communication hit a dry spot. Stunned by the woman’s sudden silence, he’d left, but the next time he returned with flowers and a heavy arsenal of charm. To no avail. Mercy wasn’t sick, wasn’t married, and wasn’t in.

And now he found her outside Steele’s hotel room, fumbling with the door, and any second the goons would reappear and find her trying to pick Steele’s lock with a bent hair pin. She wore a black gown that looked like it belonged to her barge shaped aunt, the lace and crinoline sagged around her shoulders. He found the ribbon bunching the fabric around her waist unattractive and yet alluring.

She couldn’t be Steele’s accomplice, could she?

He had plans for Steele’s room and didn’t want an audience or interference. Although he had sought out Mercy, he didn’t want her here, in harm’s way. He watched, waited, and hoped she’d grow frustrated and return to her aunt and to a life without Mr. Steele.

Mercy paused, looked around, pushed the spectacles back on her nose and resumed her work. Trent stepped away from the plant for a closer look. Her dark hair had been tucked into a simple bun, but escaped strands curled down her neck. A pink flush stained her cheeks. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

The floorboards creaked and Trent turned to watch Steele’s henchmen, Lector and Orson, amble down the hall. Mercy had also seen them, and when she started, the black dress slipped and exposed a rounded shoulder. She pushed her back against the door and straightened the dress. Despite his impatience, Trent smiled as the bifocals slid down her nose.

He wondered what she would say to the goons. Did she know them? Did they have a working relationship? He considered what they could do and say to her and then abandoned his place behind the potted plant.

“Wrong room, my dear,” Trent said, his voice thick with false laughter. He held out a hand, praying he was a better actor than his sister. “We’re over here.”

Mercy’s cheeks flamed red. She groped the lock behind her skirt, undoubtedly trying to extract the hairpin. “Goodness,” she said. “That would have been embarrassing.” She let Trent take her hand and pull her across the hall, away from the burly men.

Her hand, cold and small, shook in his grasp. She radiated with nerves. Not Steele’s accomplice then. Unless, of course, she was trying to double cross him. Interesting.

Trent bristled under Orson and Lector’s stares. He pulled her to him. “Hand me your key, darling.”

“Pardon?” she stammered, clutching the hairpin.

Trent gave the goons a tight lipped smile and then met her gaze. “Your key,” he repeated, grasping her arm. She felt soft and fragile and smelled of cinnamon. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm when he tightened his grip.

“Of course,” she said, slipping him the hairpin.

Within seconds he’d unlocked the door to room twenty and pulled her inside. He closed the door and locked it with loud click.

She shook off his hand and he let her go. She rounded on him, her voice a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Trent took a step back, but couldn’t help grinning at her. He liked the flash in her eyes. She reminded him of his sister’s fiery tempered cat. “I’m saving you.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “From what? From you?”

“I say,” he said. “This isn’t much of a thank you.”

“I’m supposed to thank you for pulling me into a strange hotel room?”

Her voice rose an octave and he smiled, remembering her practiced baritone. Put that way, she did have a point, but he wasn’t about to concede. “You’re much safer here with me…although, if you’re worried you should have brought your measuring stick. And you still owe me for the shipboard tussle with Wallace.”

She stopped glaring and for a moment looked contrite. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Mercy rolled her eyes. “I thought so. What is it with men? Always squirreling for a fight?”

Squirreling?
If he had to be an animal, he wouldn’t choose to be a squirrel or any other sort of nut collector. “What I’d meant was it’d been my pleasure to help you.”

She blushed, avoided his gaze and glanced around the room. A pile of slips and petticoats sat on the bed. Face paints and bottles of rouge scattered the top of the vanity. A pile of trunks, each bearing a woman’s name, lined the wall. A variety of wigs in a host of colors sat on pegs; they looked like a faceless audience.

“I suppose the cloak and dagger, or should I say breeches and felt hat, is the saner, more feminine approach.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to employ sane or feminine wiles, Mr. Michaels.” Then she asked in a smaller voice, “Whose room is this?”

“It’s the dressing room,” Trent said. “I know someone on the stage.”

She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’d like to leave before someone needs to change.” She dipped her head toward the door behind him. Beneath her breath she added, “Although some change might do us well.”

“You think I need to change?”

She shrugged and looked pointedly at the door.

“I’m not the one in costume,” he told her.

“I’m not in costume.”

He had his own agenda and plans for Steele’s room and he needed to know that Mercy wouldn’t get in the way. He couldn’t allow her to attract the attention of Steele’s henchmen, so he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.

Mercy drew herself up, pushed the glasses higher onto her nose, and braced her shoulders. Although she had impressive height for a woman, he knew she couldn’t match his strength and he doubted that she would want to try. Chloe and her cohorts on the stage had to use paint to achieve this girl’s pale and rosy complexion. He frowned. Besides the glasses, something else had changed since he’d last seen her. “Your hair--”

She touched her hair, tucking the escaping curls back into its knot.

“Didn’t it used to be brown?”

“No.” She shook her head and her eye twitched.

Useful
, he thought, smiling;
she has a tick when she lies
. “Yes,” he said, considering the curls and fighting the urge to reach out and touch a loose tendril. “I’m sure it was a honey color, a hint of red.”