Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (8 page)

“What do you mean you paid for the privilege? If you wanted the job so badly, why didn’t you just tell Madame Duval? Or does she charge her studs if for taking on clients?”

Dutch clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping and his temper in check. He hadn’t thought anything could surprise him, but Mrs. Smithfeld had, several times. He stared at the now smiling woman with the death grip on her bodice.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Studs don’t pay to work, and I don’t have truck with whores. This whole thing is Duval’s deal. She tricked me into publicly paying for your services in an attempt to ruin my business reputation. She just might succeed if I don’t get out of here without being seen. I’m tying these sheets together so I can climb down from that window without breaking my legs.”

“You don’t have truck with whores?” The woman’s voice rose again, and her smile fled.

“Ssssh! Do you want the entire city to hear you?”

She ignored him and continued raving. “Just what kind of stud are you? I’ve a good mind to ask for my money back.”

Dutch had had enough. He dropped the sheets and turned on her.

The woman retreated one step.

“Miss, Mrs. Smithfeld, whoever you are, I keep trying to tell you that I am not a stud. I’m the very reluctant winner of your supposed virginity. The virginity Duval auctioned to the highest bidder tonight.”

The woman’s spine straightened and her chin tucked. She hauled back and slapped him hard enough to ring his ears.

He saw it coming, and if he’d believed she’d follow through, he might have stopped her.

“How dare you question my virginity! You don’t even know me. I, sir, am no whore!”

He put his hand to his stinging cheek and checked to make certain he could still move his jaw.

The slap re-lit his simmering temper, and he advanced on her, retribution his primary goal. She cradled the hand she used to hit him against her waist, using the other to fight a losing battle with her décolletage as step for step she backed away.

The raw panic on her face cooled his ire a bit.

The sinking dress dragged the floor. She caught a heel in the hem, pulling the dress half off her body.

He put out his hands to keep her from falling.

“No!” She raised her arms as if to protect her face from his fists, giving up all hold on the recalcitrant bodice.

He let his hands drop and closed his eyes to get a mental grip. Finally he understood what the woman had been saying all along. She wasn’t a whore. No whore behaved like this woman — well except for dropping her clothes. Whores did that all the time but not when running away from a client. Whores ran toward clients, and drugged up or not they didn’t act in ways guaranteed to make a client angry.

He opened his eyes.

“I’m not gonna hurt … ” His jaw opened and shut. He couldn’t pull his eyes from her naked form. “For Pete’s sake, put your clothes back on.”

He bent, tugging at the cloth around her feet.

“No. Don’t do that.” She batted at his arms and twisted downward, trying to rescue the dress.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled. “You’ll tear it.”

She succeeded in getting a grip on the dress but cracked her head against his. She staggered into him.

“Ow.” He jerked upward, the dress still in his hands.

“Noo!” Already off balance, her tangled feet slid out from under her along with the cloth. Then her head hit the floor.

For the third time in almost as many days, Dutch had a female at his feet. He stared at the woman sprawled before him. She was beautiful. Beautiful and naked and not moving. How had he gotten into this situation, and who would believe it if he told them? “Get up. Virgin or not, I’m not fool enough to get down there with you.”

Nothing.

She didn’t twitch.

He looked at her chest to make certain she was still breathing. Rosy nipples atop small ivory mounds shifted.

Dutch swallowed.

Yep, she was breathing.

He knelt beside her and grasped a surprisingly soft hand. He waited. She didn’t jump him. He felt for her pulse. It was steady and strong. He bent close to her face and lifted an eyelid. The pupil was dilated. Drugs, concussion, or both, it didn’t much matter. Despite his inspection she remained still as stone.

Now what? What if she were seriously hurt? It could be hours before anyone came to check on her. He couldn’t just leave her. He was almost convinced she wasn’t a prostitute, at least not a willing one. If it cost him his business and his hard won reputation, as long as he had the means, he wouldn’t allow Duval to ruin another innocent.

The noisy hallway had gone silent, all the clients and whores busy with the same activities they imagined he enjoyed. So any ruckus he raised would be ignored. Damn. He’d have to take her with him. Then what? He couldn’t, wouldn’t keep her. He’d have to figure that out later. Right now he had to get out of here. Cerise wouldn’t be happy that he’d left with her newest acquisition, no matter what fee he’d paid.

He looked from the woman on the floor to his makeshift rope and the window through which he’d planned to escape. Carrying her while trying to climb down those tied sheets was not an option. That left only one escape route.

He wrapped the filmy dress around her body and hauled her over his shoulder, holding her steady with one hand. With the other hand he cracked the door open. Cautiously he checked, finding the dimly lit hallway empty. For the first time that night Dutch felt lucky. Unseen, he slipped out of the doorway and headed for the back stairs.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Edith woke with a splitting headache. Blinding sunlight streamed in through the open window. She shut her eyes and gently probed her throbbing pate with one hand. Her fingers encountered a bandage. Even that small touch hurt too much, and with a moan she stopped.

Blocking the light with a raised hand, she cracked her eyelids and tried to peer through her lashes at the room. A thin blanket lay folded on a spindly chair near the far wall. Last night’s horrid dress was slung over the chair’s ladder back. She would have liked to cover herself, but she doubted she could sit up let alone walk across the room and back.

This certainly wasn’t Madame Cerise Duval’s bordello. Dingy unpainted clapboard made up the walls. Cracks showed through here and there in the crude woodwork. Who put this place together, she wondered? As a six-year-old, she’d built better structures out of sticks and stones.

Her arm grew tired, and her head continued to throb. She drew her hand back to cover her eyes, trying to imagine where she was and how she got there. The only possibility that occurred was that Mr. Trahern had abducted her. For what nefarious purpose she could only imagine. He’d seemed so nice at the railway depot. She’d even felt guilty about deceiving him, but he was a wolf cloaked as a gentleman. At her first opportunity, Mr. Debaucher of Women Trahern would learn the consequences of abducting a Boston Alden. If he was typical of the populace, then San Francisco certainly was different the Boston. That thought reminded her of a greater difficulty. To find Kiera, Edith had to get back to the bordello. Giving the duplicitous Mr. Trahern his comeuppance would have to wait. The first step to leaving was to find out where she was.

Banging on the door interrupted her musings.

“Missee, you dressed?” The voice came from the opposite side of the door.

Edith chanced a look down at herself. In the stark light of day her nudity caused her to shudder. The shudder hurt her head, and she moaned once more. What had she been thinking last night? How had she imagined she could persuade a man as dastardly as Mr. Trahern to conduct a pretended liaison? Success might have been possible, if he’d been the gentleman he pretended to be at the depot.

The door latch rattled. “Missee, you sick? I come in. Help you.”

“No,” Edith breathed. “Wait, please.”

She hauled herself into a sitting position. She might be in pain, but pain never killed her before, it wouldn’t now. Her stomach churned, and her head swam. Resting her elbows on her knees, gingerly she lowered her head to her palms. She had to get to the blanket. She had no idea if the low pitched voice on the other side of the door belonged to a man or a woman. Whoever it was, she didn’t want to be seen in this naked state by another stranger.

As if by magic the blanket settled across her back and shoulders. She clutched the edges and drew them closed in front of her. Cool, dry fingers touched her chin and lifted gently upward. Edith found herself looking into the black-on-black eyes of the strangest female human being she had ever seen.

The woman was oddly beautiful, small and round with upward tilting black eyes and smiling generous lips in a heart-shaped face. Her skin was fine-grained, and she had a smooth, golden complexion. A long, black braid hung down her back, reaching past her knees.

“Tsung so sorry Missee hurt. Bring you food and water. You feel good-good soon.”

Amazement kept Edith silent. Her broken head kept her docile as the woman brought forward a basin and began to tend Edith’s injuries.

When the basin was removed and her head was re-bandaged, the woman brought a tray that held a covered bowl, a tall glass of orange juice, a napkin, and a spoon.

“Who are you?” Edith asked as she removed the cover from the bowl. A stench similar to soured laundry beat at her nostrils. She re-covered the bowl before her stomach could betray her disgust. “Where am I?”

“I Tsung, and you in Mista Dutch house.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No need beg pardon. Mista Dutch bring you. Is okay you be here.”

Edith shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. The oddly named Tsung obviously did not understand. “I need to get back to Madame Duval’s bordello. And,” she cast a glance at her blanket covered form, “I need my clothes.”

“Missee, you got all clothes you come with. Mista Dutch say Missee Duval bad. You no go there.”

“I don’t believe you understand. I must get to Madame Duval’s. Please take me there this instant.”

“Oh no,” said Tsung Tsang, backing away with tray in hand. “I not have Mista Dutch throw temper. You stay. I lock you in.” Tsung reached inside her voluminous blouse and drew out a long chain with a key dangling on its end.

“No. Don’t lock that door.” In her lifetime, Edith had been locked into too many rooms.

“You promise no go to Missee Duval.”

Edith considered her opponent. Tsung’s narrowed eyes and jutting chin dared defiance.

“I promise.” Edith swallowed. “But, please, I need something to wear. Can you go to Madame Duval’s and get my trunks?”

Tsung shook her head. “I stay here. Promise Mista Dutch I look after you.”

Edith frowned. “I don’t call letting me sit around with only a blanket to cover me looking after me very well, and so I shall tell Mista Dutch when I see him.”

Tsung’s golden skin paled. “You make Mista Dutch angry. He throw temper. Break Tsung head. Who look after you then?”

Edith didn’t much care if Mista Dutch threw the world’s worst tantrum. Frustration would serve him right. She fully intended to give him a healthy piece of her mind the moment she saw him. And the slap of her hand on his handsome, devious face. She’d probably leave the servant out of it, but Edith didn’t need to tell the woman that. Not as long as Mista Dutch and his temper could be used to get what Edith wanted most immediately — clothing that covered her. “I can, when necessary, take care of myself,” she said evenly. “Can you?”

Having backed all the way to the door, Tsung swallowed. “I get clothes. You wait.”

Before Edith could protest, Tsung disappeared through the door. The lock clicked, and Edith was alone. Alone with a throbbing head, a dress she wouldn’t wish on a prostitute, and no way to change her circumstances until a debaucher with a temper descended on her.

• • •

Dutch paused outside his front door. He dreaded going home at night. Not because he’d be alone, but because Tsung — the Chinese woman who less than four days ago had attached herself to him and insisted on taking care of him — was a terrible cook. The only consolation was that her cooking was better than his.

Tonight he had additional reasons for not wanting to cross his threshold. The judge remained in San Francisco but hadn’t shown up for their meeting. So Dutch didn’t know for certain if his younger brother was being coerced into working for the Chinaman or if Trey — for some unknown reason — had turned willingly to a life of crime. Was he really in danger, or was that simply the excuse the judge had cooked up to get his eldest son to cross Duval’s threshold? Somehow going home before he ensured his brother’s welfare and innocence felt like admitting defeat. Until Dutch got food and rest the most he could do was send Father Lucas Conroy a note asking for help locating and protecting Trey.

Then there was the problem of his unwanted guest. Father Conroy’s response to the plea for help reached Dutch at his business office and assured him of assistance looking for Trey, but the priest had also expressed concern about rumors that Dutch was keeping company with whores. The padre questioned Dutch’s dedication to the cause of cleaning up the Barbary Coast. He sent a reply assuring his friend and mentor that the rumors were false but hadn’t been able to reach Conroy to explain thoroughly. What explanation could he offer when his spare room housed a woman he’d taken from a whorehouse? Although that problem would be solved as soon as his business partner returned from visiting his in-laws. The woman Dutch rescued could go live with Smiley and his wife until more satisfactory arrangements were made.

Dutch opened his front door and paused. Strange scents assailed his nostrils. Pleasant scents. Odors redolent with spices and herbs. Oddly absent was the stench of charred meat.

He shut the front door and strode for the kitchen. Tsung met him at the swinging panel that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.

“Mista Dutch. Good-good, you home. Go sit in dining room. You have dinner now.”

“But … ”

“No buts.” The diminutive housemaid pushed Dutch toward the dining room table. Despite his every protest, the woman had taken over his life until she could save his as she said he’d saved hers. “You eat. Talk later.”