Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “Oh?” Serena said, her tone colorless.

  “What kind of inquiry?” Consuelo asked sharply.

  “Just the kind you think.” Pearlie allowed herself an unpleasant smile. “Not that it was the only one by any means. There have been men clamoring at my door all day to know when our delectable Serena is going to be available. But this particular inquiry I spoke of was special.”

  “Are we to learn what it is all about, or are we to guess?”

  “I fail to see, Consuelo, how this concerns you, but if you will stop interrupting, I will most certainly tell Serena of her conquest. The man who is so interested in your exact status here at the Eldorado is none other than Nathan Benedict. I take it he has been in the East on business for some weeks, and had never seen you in here before, until last night. He was disappointed to hear you had been Ward’s girl, but he recovered quickly, fast enough, at all events, to tell me that he wished to reserve your time tonight, and to ask as to the availability of a room at the parlor house.”

  “You — you can’t mean it,” Serena whispered.

  “I can, and I do. I told him you were still staying in Ward’s rooms, but he seemed to feel that it would be wrong of him to have a tryst with you there. I was obliged to promise him my back parlor, and against the possibility that he might need it, one of the front bedrooms upstairs.”

  “You led him to think that I — that I might be agreeable?” Serena could not keep the dismay from her voice.

  “All you have to do is talk to him, listen to his offer. Who knows? You may be more agreeable than you think when you have heard him out.”

  “It’s impossible. I can’t!”

  “Oh, but you can,” Pearlie said, a dangerous undercurrent in her voice. “And you most certainly will. I will see to that.”

  “So that’s what you are up to,” Consuelo said, her eyes narrowing. “That’s what you intended from the start, to get Serena into the parlor house before Ward comes back.”

  Spots of color appeared on Pearlie’s cheekbones. “Be silent!”

  “Not I! You think Ward is so fastidious that if he finds Serena has been next door he will wash his hands of her. It won’t matter then how she got there, or why.”

  “Ridiculous,” Pearlie snapped. “You are only jealous because Nathan Benedict took you upstairs once or twice this summer. You see your big chance with him slipping away, and you would spoil Serena’s chances if you could; I saw that last night when he led Serena outside.”

  “That isn’t true,” Consuelo said, rising to her feet.

  Serena stared from one woman to the other, her mind in turmoil. Who was right, Consuelo, or Pearlie? With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she recognized it was most probable both were. Where that left her, she could not be certain. Did it mean that Pearlie was acting without Ward’s approval, that she had lied when she had said that he was tired of her and wanted her to find her own way, or was the accusation Consuelo had made a ruse to discourage Pearlie from going through with the plan that would deprive the Spanish girl of Benedict’s patronage? Either way, it made no difference. If she met with Nathan Benedict it would be here, with people all around them, not in a private parlor in a house of prostitution. He would most certainly have no use for the front bedroom he had ordered.

  Pearlie stared at Consuelo. “Take care what you are about, you greaser tramp,” she hissed, “or you will find yourself looking for another place.”

  “Ladies,” Timothy said, beginning the bass roll that prefaced the nightly entertainment. “Ladies, no time for quarrels now. It’s showtime!”

  The first act on the bill was an arrangement sung by the chorus of girls of “The Sidewalks of New York.” It was followed by a provocative dance involving parasols and the gradual disappearance of the skirts the girls were wearing. Serena was to be next. She stood waiting in the dark area at the side of the stage, a space too cramped and small to be called wings. Her gaze was on the girls twirling their parasols behind them in mock demureness, when a man, a batman in a white apron, spoke at her elbow.

  “Excuse me. Timothy sent this to you, He said tell you it was good for a dry throat.”

  “What is it? Not some of his warm beer?”

  “No, ma’am, just sarsaparilla with a touch of brandy.”

  Serena accepted it with a doubtful look. It sounded an unpleasant concoction, and it was. She tasted it with a grimace. From where she stood she could see Timothy at his piano below the stage. Catching her gaze, he sent her a wink and nod. He was only trying to be helpful, to bolster her spirits. Smiling at the Welshman, she lifted her glass and, with a deep breath, drank down the contents.

  Her stint upon the stage went easily enough. There was a bad moment when, looking out over the audience, she saw the tall shape of Nathan Benedict at the back of the room. She glanced away without a sign of recognition, shielding her face with a flirtatious gesture of her fan. She was aware of disappointment where Ward’s friend was concerned. She had expected more of him than this. His connivance with Pearlie, his headlong rush to secure a room to which to take her, seemed a betrayal after his pretense of quiet understanding the night before. She did not know what she would say when she came face to face with him again, but she had a strong inclination to see that he did not get off lightly.

  The roar of the men, the whistles and shouting for an encore could not be ignored. Another Stephen Foster ballad did not satisfy them, nor did yet another. It seemed, in fact, that nothing would. Serena was sweeping into her final curtsy when giddiness seized her. She swayed a little as she rose. It was the tension of appearing in public, she told herself, or else the strain of breathing deeply enough to sing against the pinch of her corsets. She had not noticed the problem the night before, but then the room had not been so crowded or so filled with smoke. She must get off the stage at once, and out into the fresh air.

  Before she could move, a man in the first row of tables leaned toward the stage and threw something toward her hit her skirts and fell onto the stage with a metallic clank rolling to a stop at her feet. It was money, a twenty-dollar gold piece. In an instant the air was filled with flying silver and gold. It struck her bodice and her arms, thudded on silk of her gown, clanking, clattering, a rain of wealth that glittered in the light of the footlamps. Serena retreated before it. It was a compliment, she knew, these riches thrown at her feet, and yet she felt nothing but horror. Smiling valiantly she curtsied once more, bowed, and then ran from the stage.

  “Well done!” Consuelo whispered, giving Serena a brief hug as she brushed past her, ready to make her entrance for her torrid Spanish dance. “Don’t worry. A batman will collect the money for you.”

  Serena murmured her thanks, but did not stop. Behind the backdrop to the rear of the stage, amid the ropes and pulleys that controlled the raising and lowering of the curtain and other scenic booms, there was a door that led into the storeroom. On the other side of that room was a wide outside door used for unloading the drays and freight wagons, a place where she could reach fresh air without going through the noisy clutching crowd.

  It was dark in the storeroom and cold. The smell of dust and spilled beer was strong. Groping her way past kegs and barrels, Serena felt disoriented, increasingly dizzy. She had to reach the door.

  The rough wood panel was under her hand. She felt down it for the knob. Behind her, she heard a scraping sound, followed by a thump and a curse. Her heart leaped in her chest. Frantically, she ran her hand over the door. It seemed to be moving under her fingers, receding and coming closer. From far away she could hear the flamenco music of Consuelo’s dance. It was overlaid by a rushing in her ears and the soft thud of the blood pounding in her veins.

  Then the doorknob was under her hand. She tried to turn it, but she had no strength. She could only cling to it for support, a sob in her throat. A footstep sounded behind her. She felt the animal heat of a body. She smelled the acrid stench of sweat, then hard hands clutched her arms, digging into her flesh.
/>
  A scream, piercing, desperate, echoed in the dark chambers of her mind, then faded away to soft silence. She never knew it did not reach her lips.

  11

  “Serena?”

  She lay still, scarcely breathing. Her bones felt locked in place, though the rest of her body was without feeling. The voice that called seemed to come from far away. There was an anxious sound in the quiet, masculine timbre, but no particular hope.

  “Serena? Open your eyes, dear girl. Please, I am so sorry.”

  That voice, so familiar. If she could only — Her eyelids felt glued tight. Her mind groped, prodding her sluggish memory. Nathan. Nathan Benedict. In disappointment, she let her mind sink back once more into darkness.

  “Here. Drink this, Serena. Drink.”

  The cold rim of a glass was against her lips. Liquid wet her mouth and trickled down her cheek.

  “Stupid fool of a woman, to think I would want you like this. If there is permanent harm, I swear I will—”

  Slowly, as if there was a great distance between her brain and her mouth, Serena opened her lips to take a little of the medicine offered her. Immediately she coughed, choking on fiery liquor. A strong arm beneath her shoulders raised her higher. Her head was against a man’s chest.

  “Another sip, please, Serena.”

  She tried, and this time was successful. Regardless, she could not seem to open her eyes or support herself. The strains of the “Beer Barrel Polka” sounded in the distance, punctuated by a woman’s shrill laughter.

  “Wake up, Serena. You’ve got to wake up.”

  She was lowered once more, then she felt the friction of her hands being chafed. It seemed important to do as she was bid, no matter the effort required. Suddenly a shiver ran over her. She was cold. There was icy dampness on her face, and she seemed to feel the brush of open air as from an open window. A crackling sound came like wrapping paper, then she felt the cool smoothness of satin, the softness of fur beneath her chin.

  By slow degrees, Serena opened her eyes. She was lying on a chaise lounge of the type known as a fainting couch. It had been drawn up before an open window, and cold wind laden with the breath of snow lifted the panels of Brussels lace that hung in the frame. She seemed to be covered by the glossy, brownish-black pelts of beaver made up in a cape. Kneeling beside her on the floor was Nathan Benedict, his eyes searching her face in a look of mingled relief and regret.

  “What — happened?”

  Her voice came out as something less than a whisper, and she had to repeat the question.

  “You were drugged,” Nathan said. “Laudanum, I think.”

  Serena stared up into his face. “In the sarsaparilla?”

  “I expect so, if that is what you had.”

  With a suddenness that made her eyes widen, Serena remembered. Pearlie and this man, the room at the parlor house. “Where am I?”

  “At Pearlie’s place, I’m afraid. I am sorry, more sorry than I can say, Serena. I asked her for a place where I could speak to you in private, no more. I never expected this, never wanted it. You must believe me.”

  His hazel eyes were shaded with pain, though their gaze was steady. In the angular lines of his face there was something firm and dependable, aligned to a fine simplicity that could not harbor deceit.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “Yes,” she whispered,

  “Thank God,” he breathed, and bending his head, pressed her fingers that he held to his lips. After a moment, he looked up once more. “I — do you think you can walk?”

  “I can try.”

  “You’ve been here a long time, three hours at least. When I first walked in here and saw you, you were so pale I thought you were dead. Your laces had to be loosened so you could breathe.”

  Serena had not noticed, but since he spoke of it, the looseness of her dress, the ease with which she could expand her chest, made it obvious “That’s all right,” she said slowly.

  “If you will allow me, I will help you fasten your clothing and we will get out of this place.”

  Serena gave a nod, and tried to sit up. In the end, he had to help her. The movement made her feel groggy. She sat clutching the fur in her lap, her eyes closed as she turned her back to him. He was slipping the tiny buttons of her mother’s ivory silk into place when there came a noise at the outside door and a draft of cold air eddied in the room.

  The sliding panel that closed the parlor off from the hall slammed into its recess with a crash. In the ceiling, the lusters of the red hobnail hanging lamp jangled with the reverberation. Serena jerked, startled, and her eyes flew open as she twisted toward the door.

  Ward stood in the opening. The heavy coat he wore was caked with ice. As he reached up to pull his wide-brimmed hat from his head, snow cascaded from it, sifting to the floor.

  “Well,” he drawled, tossing the hat onto a table beside Nathan’s homburg with a gesture of contempt. “Isn’t this a pretty picture? Claim jumping, Nathan?”

  “Ward,” Nathan said, getting to his feet. “It isn’t what you think.”

  For an answer Ward strode forward. When he was less than two feet from Nathan, he drew back his fist and drove it into his friend’s face. Nathan fell back against the couch. As Ward reached for him again, he held up his hand without attempting to protect himself.

  “Ward, no,” Serena cried, reaching out to him, trying to catch his arm.

  He flung her off, and so weak was she that she slipped from the couch to huddle on the floor. There was a flurry in the doorway, and in whirl of skirts, Consuelo came into the room.

  “Por Dios!” she exclaimed. Her face flushed, she rushed at Ward, dragging at his arm with both hands, jerking him around. “You fool of a bastard! Can’t you see nothing is between them? May you be damned, Ward Dunbar, if you don’t know Nathan better than that!”

  An uncertain look came into Ward’s face as he stared at the Spanish girl, glancing from her to his friend, and then to where Serena sat on the floor.

  “I don’t blame you for being ready to kill over this,” Consuelo went on, “but I thought you had better sense than to believe what Pearlie says.”

  Ward swung back to face her. “Pearlie may have told me what was going on, but I saw what Nathan was doing, and I saw the look on his face.”

  The Spanish girl glared at him with bitter contempt. “And why not, as far as that goes, since you went away and left Serena to the tender mercy of that she-dog who is your partner? What man would not want to protect such as she, your so-beautiful Serena? But no, Nathan did not seek to take advantage of her weakness. I know, because until a half hour ago, when I left to dance in the final show, I was here with him. He sent for me to help him loosen Serena’s laces. I don’t know what you saw, but I know you are wrong.”

  “He saw me fastening the buttons of Serena’s dress for her,” Nathan said, coming to his feet, straightening his coat and tie. Without a glance in Ward’s direction, he leaned to help Serena, lifting her back onto the couch.

  Serena thanked him in a low tone. She slanted a look at Ward, The slow rise of anger was beginning to rout the gray fog that enveloped her, and yet she felt detached. The black scowl that drew his thick brows together, the suspicion that clouded his green gaze, only added to her growing sense of ill-usage.

  “And that?” Ward asked, indicating the gleaming fur that lay at Serena’s feet.

  “I bought it for her,” Nathan admitted. “The cape she was wearing wasn’t suitable for this climate, and I saw no reason to let her catch pneumonia. I bought her this too, something else it seemed she needed.”

  Nathan bent to pick up a mahogany box lying on the table beside the couch. He flipped the top open to reveal a small pistol nestled in a bed of green velvet. With a chased silver barrel and an inlaid pearl handle, it was a fine example of the gunsmith’s art, as beautiful as it was deadly. Turning, he gave the box into Serena’s hands, then swung back to face Ward.

  “I suppose
you mean something by that?” Ward ripped open the buckles that held his coat down the front with angry jerks.

  “I do, though it has nothing to do with you.”

  “What then?”

  “I think it will be better if I let Serena tell you, and it appears the best thing I can do now is to leave you to thrash this thing out between you. That is, if that’s what Serena wants?”

  The look he turned in her direction was questioning. After a moment, Serena nodded. “You have been exceedingly kind to me,” she said, a soft expression in her blue-gray eyes. “I won’t forget it.”

  “If there is ever anything you need,” Nathan said, a ragged edge to his voice, “you have only to call on me.” He sent Ward a look that conveyed the essence of a challenge. Turning stiffly, he strode through the open doorway. A moment later, they heard the snap of the latch as he left the parlor house.

  There was a deep silence. It was Consuelo who broke it. Stepping to the marble-topped table, she picked up Nathan’s homburg he had left behind on the polished surface.

  “He — he left his hat. I’ll see if I can catch him.”

  “While you are at it, you can give him this, too,” Ward said. Stooping swiftly, he picked up the fur cape and thrust it at the Spanish girl.

  A frown flitted across Consuelo’s face as she took the fur in her hands. “Yes,” she said, then leveled a hard glance at Ward. “Serena has suffered much through no fault of her own since you have been away. You will remember it?”

  “I fail to see how it concerns you.”

  Consuelo made a slight movement of her shoulders. “So do I, but it is so. This, also, you will remember.” Without waiting for his reply, she whirled and went quickly out the door.

  With slow, even steps, Ward moved to stand over Serena. “It appears,” he said, a brooding tone in his voice, “that you have gained not one champion, but two.”