The Devil of Whiskey Row

by Renee Rose

  * * *

  Cora woke with a jerk, disoriented in the new bunk. She coughed, her lungs still aching from the smoke the night before. The gambling hall was silent, save the sounds of gentle snores. She slipped out into the main hall to look around. It was so much finer than Smoochy's. The construction was solid wood rather than the sticks that had barely kept out the wind and rain. The floors were wide plank, swept clean from the activity of the night before. The gambling tables were clean, too—polished wood frame and green felt covering. She wondered if Diggory would let her work one of the tables instead of whoring. But no, she needed the money. Eight dollars a day he had estimated she might make. With those kind of wages, she could save up to make a new start, somewhere far away. For Joaquin, too, if he wanted, though with the way Josefina had taken him in, he might prefer to stay.

  She walked the length of the large hall. There was a stage on one end, with the piano sitting below. It was Diggory's piano and even never having set foot in his place before, she knew how well he could play. His music would fill the wide streets of Dorado Hills, carried all the way to Smoochy's place if the wind was blowing right. She used to sit on the porch to listen, when she could get away with it without Smoochy yelling at her.

  She stood over it now, her fingers brushing the keys without pressing them.

  “I wouldn't touch that, if I were you.”

  She started and whirled around. Josefina was standing in the doorway, with her hands on her hips. “Daddy Diggs doesn't let anyone play his piano.”

  A shiver ran down her spine, but she refused to show fear of the Devil Diggory. “I'll take my chances,” she said stubbornly and gazed back at the woman until she shrugged and left the room. Actually, she was more than a little frightened of Diggory. It wasn't that the spanking had been so awful—she wasn't even sore today—it was more the humiliation of it. Somehow, having her bottom bared for such a childish punishment, and the way he'd pressed a finger in her back hole like hooking a fish, was far more intimate than Smoochy's drunken pokes had been, and possibly more of a deterrent than his angry fists.

  She sat down on the bench and stroked the keys again, pressing one very slowly, listening as the note reverberated through the instrument. She loved music. Always had. Before they'd left their home in Chicago to join the gold rush as investors, her parents had owned a piano. The memory of her mother patiently teaching her produced a dull ache in her chest. What would her parents think of her now? They'd been members of polite society—a lady and a gentleman in their hometown. Out here in California, they were just rich targets for murder. Only they hadn't been so rich, had they?

  As an optimistic and wealthy financier, her father had moved the family to California at the first discovery of gold in 1849 so he could lend money to the various mining operations and business enterprises springing up. He'd been particularly enthusiastic about the new engineering methods of hydraulic mining that used water to flush gold out of the hills. He had lent out money to almost every operation in Dorado Hills, yet so many of those operations folded, that when he was murdered by unknown assailants, Smoochy owned every note, and held some on her father to boot.

  She touched the keys, running a few elementary scales. She plunked out her first basic lesson: “Hot Cross Buns.” Then she explored the notes, trying to play a song her mother used to sing to her. Hush little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird…

  Her fingers sought the keys, seeking and choosing the notes to cobble together the lullaby. If that mocking bird don't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  Almost, not quite. She tried again. Then again. After several attempts, she'd found the right notes. And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

  She closed her eyes, memorizing the location of the keys as she sang softly, picturing her mother, who sang like an angel and was more beautiful than one. The sound of a new chord made her jump and open her eyes. Diggory was sitting beside her on a second stool, next to hers.

  “Don't stop,” he said softly, the fingers of his left hand dancing over the keys in harmony with her simple tune. “Go on, try it again.”

  Tension tightened every muscle in her body and heat pricked her skin. Reluctantly, she picked back up with her plucking tune.

  “Sing for me,” he urged in a low voice, his head so close to hers she felt his breath in her ear. She wanted to resist, but his voice picked up the words and she was stunned to stillness, surprised he would know her song and that he could render it so tenderly with his deep voice. When he fumbled the words, she corrected, joining in to sing the melody again while he added the rich tapestry of his elaborate counterpoint on the piano, making it sound like the most sophisticated and beautiful song imaginable. His right arm stretched around behind her, adding to her notes on the upper keys as well. She was intensely aware of the warmth of his body, the faint smell of smoke still on his skin, and the muskier, manly smell. She shivered at the feel of his hot breath on her neck. She stopped playing, allowing his notes to take over, singing to his tune, but he stopped, picked up her hand, and replaced it on the keys. His hand was huge and warm where it covered hers and she felt an instinctive desire to capture his fingers between hers and keep his hand there.

  “Keep going, Cora,” he murmured in his rumbling brogue. “You're doing well.”

  His praise should not have felt so satisfying, but his musical ability was so intoxicating, the need to be a part of making music with him so desirable, that she forgot her reservations and fear.

  She kept at it, feeling silly for her lack of skill, as Jake Diggory made the most incredible sounds all around her. When she'd sung the entire song twice and even improvised her own words to a few phrases, she stopped. Diggory went on, playing his exquisite composition, winding it down to a beautiful ending. As he allowed the last note to reverberate, he turned to her and smiled. It was the boyish smile again, the one that changed his look so completely.

  “You like music?”

  She found she could not speak. She nodded like a fool.

  His smile widened. “I will give you lessons, if you like.”

  She sat stock still. “You… would teach me?”

  “Aye, lass. If you like.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, before her better sense stopped her. “I should like that very much.”

  He smiled again, as if amused by her eagerness. “After breakfast, then. Every day. You'll have to commit to practicing after each lesson. If you don't, I'm not wasting my time.”

  “I will,” she assured him.

  He tousled her hair like she was a small child. “Good girl,” he said. “Come, breakfast will be ready in the kitchen. No lesson today.”

  Breakfast was a self-serve sort of affair of beans and eggs warmed on the stove. Diggory ate quickly and then beckoned to Joaquin. She strained her ears to listen. “Eat up, I'm going to take you on a ride today.”

  Was he getting rid of the boy? Concern tightened her chest. “Where are you taking him?” she demanded.

  Diggory stopped and gave her a warning look. He touched a finger to his ear. “You'll mind your tone when you speak to me, lass.”

  She felt herself flush, knowing without being told he was threatening another spanking, and worse still, fearing everyone in the kitchen knew it, too.

  She shrank under his domineering gaze, her breath rising and falling quickly in her chest, but she refused to apologize. If he was taking Joaquin somewhere, she had a right to know what his purpose was. They stood staring at one another, Joaquin's eyes wide, the tension in the room growing.

  “Would you care to try your question again?”

  She was horrified to feel tears sting her eyes at being treated like an errant school child. She pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly until she'd recovered. Taking a breath, she made her tone sweet. “May I inquire where you're going?” she asked with exaggerated politeness.

  “Certainly,” he said immediately, as if nothin
g awkward had transpired. “I have an errand to run out at Thomas Sirey's ranch, and then I thought I might teach Joaquin how to shoot a gun.” He turned to look at the astonished boy. “Would you like that?”

  “Yes, sir!” Joaquin said immediately, eagerness and wonder echoing in his voice.

  “Oh.” She felt foolish for questioning him when he was clearly acting for the boy's benefit. To cover her embarrassment, she admonished Joaquin to follow directions.

  “Escúchate bien, no?” She'd picked up enough Spanish over the past five years at Smoochy's to be able to sound like she was fluent, even though she wasn't.

  “Sí, claro que sí,” he assured her.

  She nodded dismissively and caught the slightest flash of eyebrows from Diggory—an acknowledgment that she wasn't fooling him for a moment.

  It was probably impossible to fool that man.

  * * *

  Jake pressed his forehead against the rough plank wall in his room as his hand moved up and down his shaft. This confounded act made him feel like a pubescent teen, hiding in the stable loft for privacy while dreaming of getting under Eliza's petticoats. His need for release since he'd sworn celibacy in her honor had been so infrequent his arm now grew tired from the repetitive motion.

  Why must self-pleasure be so steeped in guilt?

  Hurry, dammit.

  He pushed the self-condemnation out of his mind in favor of getting it over and done so he could get back to matters of real concern. Squeezing his eyes shut, his mind went blank. But that did not help his goal of finishing.

  To hell with it, then.

  He brought to mind the image of Cora sitting at his piano, her eyes shining with admiration, her rosebud lips parted in earnestness. He could almost smell the scent of her skin as he'd reached behind her to play the piano; he could hear the sound of her sweet soprano song.

  Closer.

  Her spanking then. Ah, God. He always kept spanking separate from sex. He justified it as discipline. But her sweet little arse. The gift of her submission—it had been worth more to him than he cared to admit. And yes, it turned him on. He'd wanted to bend her over, spread her legs, and explore that bottom with a different appendage.

  Oh God, yes.

  Yes, she'd feel so warm and inviting, she'd look over her shoulder at him with those big, blue…

  Ahhh.

  He finished, panting. Then, disgusted with himself, he put his cock away, buttoned his pants and tucked in his shirt. Donning a leather waistcoat, he banged out of his room before his breath had returned to normal.

  Downstairs, he stationed Joaquin behind the bar where he could start learning from Susanna how to pour drinks and make change. On their ride and shooting lesson, he'd found the boy bright and quick to follow instructions. He'd said Cora had taught him to read and write and considering he spoke English and Spanish fluently, he might be a real asset in just a few years.

  Other than Hank, he had all women working at his place—a true anomaly in gold rush California. In addition to the five prostitutes, counting Cora, he had five more women employed working the gambling tables, tending the bar, and cooking and cleaning. Susanna had been a prostitute until last month when her pregnancy became noticeable. Janey had quit whoring after her second baby was born, and her contribution was mostly just caring for her children, with the plan that she would care for Susanna's babe, or any others that were born, when the time came. They were all like family to him and he took care of his “girls” and their children like a Daddy should.

  Jake made the rounds, checking on all his employees, greeting a few customers and finally, settling at his piano where he could lose himself for a few blessed hours of the day. Cora traipsed down the stairs with the other four women. Like the rest of the girls, her lips were painted in the red pigment the French lasses had brought with them—a mixture of beeswax and plant dye. Though it was provocative on all of them, on her it seemed even more so, perhaps because her face was so otherwise wholesome, with her dimples and big baby blue eyes with long, curling lashes. She was wearing one of their dresses, a light blue satin with black ruffles, cut away to show off her black stockings and garters. He drew in his breath and shifted on his stool, his cock gone rock hard despite his earlier release. It was an odd sensation, because at the same time his mind completely rebelled at seeing her dolled up. In fact, he hated it. It wasn't her.

  Olive, Margaret, and the French girls loved what they did at Daddy Diggs’. They loved the power they held over men, loved pleasing them, loved taking their money. But Cora—Cora had a look of stone resignation on her face. A blankness in her expression, her eyes dead, the cords in her neck standing out with tension. It made him want to order her straight back upstairs and refuse to let her work his floor. It made him want to take her over his knee and spank her for doing something she hated. But that wasn't fair. He'd seen the hunger in her face when he spoke of wages. The poor girl had been living in practical slavery with Smoochy, and it was no wonder she was desperate to earn some money and buy herself freedom.

  He watched as the girls circulated around the room, stopping to chat with the men, sitting down when offered a coin for their companionship.

  “She's pretty,” a voice at his elbow reached him. It was Hank, hovering over him, also keeping a sharp eye on their flock. “But she don't look like she's any good at it.”

  Damn straight she's not.

  But that was foolish. She was a whore. She had been for the past five years. Why did the idea offend him so much? He'd never had any scruples about women filling one of the most lucrative positions available to them if they wanted. Except she didn't want to, and that was at the heart of his disquiet over seeing her sell herself. He brought his song to a conclusion and sat watching as she crossed the room. Her figure was lovely—breasts pushed up by the corset so that they were half spilling out of her gown, waist cinched to a small circle. She floated through the room gracefully, but like a ghost. Almost as if she wanted to disappear so badly she had somehow made herself transparent.

  She pressed her back against a wall and stood watching a faro game, until one of the men grabbed her by the arm and forcibly pulled her to sit down next to him.

  Chapter Three

  Cora's backside connected with the wooden chair so hard her teeth slammed together. She took a shaky breath. She could handle this jackass. The trick was to do it in a way Diggory wouldn't notice. She didn't want him to think she was turning customers away, but there was no way in hell she'd be entertaining this smelly miner tonight.

  “Whassamatter princess? You think you're too good for me?” he slurred.

  She crossed her legs and stroked a soft satin ruffle on the dress they'd let her wear. “No, sir. I just wasn't ready to sit yet, that's all. Are you buying me a drink?”

  “Depends on how betting goes,” he grunted. “Hopin' to win enough to take you upstairs, honey.”

  God, no.

  She feigned interest as she scanned the other men at the faro table, hoping for a better option. They all ignored her attempts at eye contact.

  Well, shit.

  It wasn't like she hadn't serviced plenty of men by whom she was disgusted. Actually, that described all of them. But this one would be absolutely revolting. The smell alone would make her wretch. Her best chance might be to encourage his drinking so he was too drunk to win any bets or take anyone upstairs. “Would you like me to get you another drink?” she asked sweetly, starting to stand up. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back to her chair, hard. Once again, her teeth rattled in her skull. Ugh. She rubbed the place on her arm where he'd grabbed her, then started as the imposing form of Jake Diggory darkened the green baize of the table. He was dressed in a fine, well-fitted waistcoat over a crisp, boiled white shirt and cravat. His black leather ankle boots were shined to a gleam. He looked every inch a gentleman. Her eyes flew to his face, trying to judge if he was angry with her. He looked grim, but his focus was on the man next to her.

  “Did you just handle
one of my girls?” Diggory asked in a deadly tone.

  The dirty miner looked up hazily. “Wha—?”

  Diggory walked around to her and offered a hand. Surprised, she placed her hand in his large one and stood up with his assistance. Diggory gave her hand a squeeze before he released it.

  “I said,” he began slowly, as if speaking to someone who didn't understand English. “Did you just handle one of my girls?”

  Sensing a threat, Dirty Miner stood up from his chair and scowled at Diggory. “I wuz jus' inviting her to sit with me.”

  “Did you pay her to be your companion at the faro table?”

  “Wha—? No! You gotta pay a girl just to sit with you? That's bullshit!”

  Daddy Diggs stepped in front of her, placing his body between her and the miner. “Listen closely. I'm going to give you two choices. The first is you sit down and shut up and don't touch another girl here unless she invites you. The second, I throw you out of my place and you never come back. Now, which is it?”

  Dirty Miner's head took a belligerent angle and his fist swung out in a wide, ill-aimed arc. Diggory ducked and landed a punch of his own in Dirty Miner's gut as he moved in close to the man. A second punch knocked the miner to the floor, and then Diggory hauled him to his feet, already dragging him toward the door. Though Hank stood nearby at attention, he did not look concerned with his boss's ability to handle the situation.

  Diggory strolled back into the gambling hall as if nothing had happened. Arriving at her side, he grasped her elbow and firmly guided her out of the room. Her heart picked up speed. Was he angry she'd not wanted to entertain the miner? He had defended her, but maybe he had words for her, as well. Maybe worse than words. Her chest began to heave as she fought against her corset for breath.

  When they arrived at the base of the stairs, in the area where only employees went, he turned her to face him, lifting her arm and examining the angry red marks left by the miner's fingers. He rubbed them. “Are you all right?”