The Rake's Proposition

by Bess Greenfield

  He ignored them and kept moving toward that voice. The stifling heat and stench of perspiring bodies and cheap wine assailed him as he stepped inside. The place was so crowded he couldn’t see the stage at first so he stood by the door and drank in the sound, somehow distinct amid the din.

  The song told a dark tale about a good woman whose life spirals downward after she is seduced and betrayed. From the depth of raw emotion the singer imbued into the story, he could easily imagine she was speaking from experience.

  These sorts of dreary tales might be popular in Paris right now, but American audiences preferred lighter, happier fare. There was no point in remaining, yet he moved closer, determined to see her face.

  As the girl continued with her next verse, her despair and sense of isolation seeped inside him and dredged up long buried feelings rarely expressed or acknowledged. This should have depressed him further, but instead he felt oddly comforted. Her voice laid him bare and soothed him at the same time. The earthy sensuality of her tone resonated with him on a more primitive level.

  A few more patrons left, giving him a clear view at last. His eyes fixed upon the girl standing center stage. She wasn’t a beauty. He hadn’t really expected her to be, not if she worked in a place like this.

  The sight of her tragic, overly rouged face saddened him. Her rounded cheeks and innocent, wide-set eyes made her appear young, eighteen or nineteen at the most, too young to know of such heartache. The lush curves of her figure, on the other hand, elicited thoughts that were far from innocent. The conflicting, confusing jumble of impulses discomfited him.

  “Monsieur, I have a fine table right here for you.” A flamboyantly dressed, ginger-bearded, stocky man extended his arm to indicate a vacant red leather booth by the wall.

  Leo found it difficult to shift his focus away from the girl. “I’d like to sit closer to the stage if you don’t mind.”

  “You like the entertainment,” the man replied with incredulity. Then he shrugged as if he were accustomed to dealing with idiots. “She is new and most likely temporary.”

  At closer range, Leo could see the girl’s features more clearly and realized that beneath the layers of artificial coloring, she might well be lovely. Her eyes exuded intelligence and sensitivity, and there was a charming indentation in the middle of her full lower lip.

  She could be a real heartbreaker if she knew how to carry herself, but she didn’t. She hunched her body as if the tin ceiling were collapsing, danced as though there were lead in her bustle, and sang mostly to the floor.

  She might as well have been singing in a closet for all that her audience noticed her. These jaded gentlemen, and assorted other types, couldn’t be bothered to stop yammering about the Panama Canal scandal or the direction of the Bourse.

  Leo found nothing remarkable about the bribes taken by members of Parliament to keep quiet about the Panama Company’s financial difficulties, the loss of a billion francs, or the ensuing cover-up. He’d learned long ago to trust no one because people were at heart self-serving.

  He far preferred to study the girl. Her blonde wig was atrocious, completely wrong for her coloring. Brown hair would have complemented her dramatic features far better. He would be willing to bet she was a brunette.

  He would also be willing to bet she was hiding from someone. He’d seen it before. The entertainment business was full of women looking for a way out of one predicament or another. More often than not, the predicament involved a man.

  The business side of his mind began to churn with possibilities. This girl wouldn’t be ignored in America. A previously undiscovered talent, a foreign accent, and a fresh face would be just the thing to create a stir. He could have new music written for her. He could transform her, maybe even make her his star attraction at The Elysian.

  He generally left hiring decisions to his managers, but this had to be fate. If he didn’t act, he might always think back on this night with regret. She might be his greatest discovery yet.

  Or she might be a complete disaster. It would certainly be a risk, but he enjoyed taking risks and he could afford to do so. If she failed to fill seats at his newest theater, he could send her out to the smaller ones on the circuit and still see a good return for his investment of time and effort. It wouldn’t be an easy existence for her, he knew firsthand, but it would a vast improvement over working here.

  The question of her acquiescence to his plans troubled him little. She could be nothing other than thrilled by such an opportunity. She would earn an excellent salary for a woman and be revered rather than demeaned or ignored at sleazy boîtes like this one so it would be an ideal arrangement for all.

  He made eye contact with the girl, and she looked away at once like a true innocent. But one never knew. Women were good at feigning this air or that, especially women who made their living on the stage. In any case, she was adorable.

  But no wonder she was a flop. Without eye contact, no performer could expect to engage an audience. Whether she meant to do so or not, she made everyone in the room feel unequal to her, not worthy of her attention.

  She only needed guidance. His vocal coaches, choreographers, and costumers would take care of that. With the proper training, she could be spectacular.

  Her youth and inexperience might turn out to be a good thing. No one knew anything about her. He could mold her into the sort of female entertainer audiences adored: cheeky and alluring, yet fresh and unspoiled. It was a nearly impossible balancing act, but he sensed she was just the girl to carry it off.

  That old excitement from his early days sparked deep inside him. This was the instinct that drove him to purchase his first struggling music hall, turn it into a profitable venture within a month, and expand his business model into an empire within three years. This was the instinct that had made him a rich and respected man.

  Chapter Two

  Claudine tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Perhaps if she showed no recognition, he wouldn’t know her either. Why was he here? Had he been sent to retrieve her?

  No, that was impossible. No one in her family was speaking to him now. Leonardo Barnett was a greedy, dissolute scoundrel. Even worse, he was a disloyal son.

  He was only here by chance, fate once again proving to be no friend of hers. All she had to do was avoid eye contact, and the threat would pass.

  But she couldn’t help herself. It was remarkable how little he’d changed. His hair was still dark and wavy, and his olive-skin showed only the faintest trace of aging about his deep-set eyes. How well she recalled the exact angle of his jaw, the slight indentation in the firm line of his chin, the set of his mouth that was both defiant and suggestive…

  From all the stories she’d heard of his excesses, she’d imagined he would look dissipated, or at the very least, paunchy, but his tall, athletic frame had not gained an ounce of flab. His dark suit, a stark contrast to his high white collar, fit him to perfection.

  She hated to admit the selfish bounder had only grown more attractive in the years that had passed since he’d betrayed her parents’ trust, deserted his poor mother, and disappointed everyone who knew him. Where was the justice in that?

  He obviously didn’t recognize her. His face revealed neither surprise nor shock as he watched her performance with an unnerving degree of interest. How ironic that she’d finally won Leo’s attention when she no longer desired it.

  She couldn’t imagine what he found so fascinating. His serious expression did not suggest admiration. Rather, he looked as though he were contemplating a challenging problem. Most likely, his mind had drifted, and he didn’t mean to be staring at her at all.

  Sparse applause gave her a dim awareness that she’d come to the end of her song. In the midst of her stiff curtsy, she noticed several members of her audience looking toward the door. They couldn’t wait to leave. She was going to be sacked for certain.

  She looked over at her employer, who’d been watching her from the curtains. He too turned toward the door. His
weathered face registered alarm. Instantly, she followed the direction of his gaze.

  At least a dozen men in navy uniforms crowded inside. Their short brimmed, canister-shaped hats bobbed as they marched forward and surrounded the perimeter. Several brandished batons. Voices quieted until the only sound in the room was that of chairs scraping the floorboards.

  “Everyone remain where you are!” a burly officer commanded, assuming a wide-legged stance by the entrance.

  The crowd did the opposite. Pandemonium erupted as the gendarmes charged ahead and weaved among the tables. Someone shrieked. Couples who’d been cozily ensconced now elbowed each other as they scrambled to find exits or hiding places.

  Claudine froze in astonishment and fear. Two policemen herded a group of singers toward the door. Some of the women protested in the crudest of terms. Others pleaded. Nicolina marched by with a resigned, cynical expression. Why were they being arrested? What would become of them?

  Claudine rushed off the stage and hid under the first table she could find. She chose poorly. The table was occupied by a plump gentleman who’d taken off his shoes. Apparently, he’d settled in for a long evening of entertainment in the comfort of his reeking woolen socks. The stench made her dizzy, but she didn’t dare seek out a fresher refuge.

  Feet rushed by, tables overturned, glasses shattered, and the shrieking and shouting continued as more women were apprehended. She tucked her head against her knees, compressing her body into such a tight ball she could see nothing, and stayed perfectly still. This couldn’t last much longer.

  A hand grabbed her upper arm so hard she cried out as she was pulled from her odiferous hiding place. “I’ve got you now. Caught you in the midst of an indecent act, I suspect.”

  The voice was harsh and grating, unduly menacing in her opinion. So was the officer’s expression. What act was he accusing her of committing? The shoeless gentleman looked as appalled by the accusation as she was.

  “I did nothing wrong, monsieur. I’m a singer,” she protested. You’d never know it by her voice, which now sounded as sonorous as a rusted horn.

  The officer smirked at her. His narrow head did not fit his burly body, and his elaborate moustache only called attention to extensive pockmarks. “I’m sure you all sing a pretty tune indeed for the right amount of coin. I see nothing wrong with a woman doing what she must to survive, but you cannot flagrantly disobey the law.”

  “I assure you I’ve broken no laws, monsieur.”

  “Have you passed your health examination? Have you registered?”

  Examination for what? She nearly asked before it dawned on her that he thought her a prostitute. The very idea left her speechless.

  “I thought not.” He yanked her in the direction of the door, bottlenecked with policemen and frightened young women. “To the wagon with you, along with the others! You’ve a long night ahead with the inspectors!”

  Was she to be wheeled through the streets in a wagon like a criminal? “How dare you! Upon what basis do you make your insulting accusation?”

  “Firsthand accounts from dozens of unsuspecting gentlemen. This place is an infamous breeding ground for syphilis, a menace to public health.”

  “I’m certain you are mistaken,” she protested, a little less certain with every passing second. She’d only been working here a few days. What did she really know of these people?

  “If you’d bothered to register, there would be no problem so you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “But I have nothing to register for!” The futility of convincing him of her innocence made her desperate and terrified. She struggled against the man’s hold using every weapon at her disposal: her kid boots, her nails, her fists.

  Despite her wild exertions, he continued to pull her along with him through the wreckage. When she finally landed a solid blow to his shin, he released her to clutch his injured limb, but a smaller gendarme grabbed her by her wig, pulling a handful of her real hair in the process.

  “You’ll suffer for that! I’ll be damned if I don’t see to it,” the first one said, viciously twisting her arm behind her. Pain and shock buckled her knees, and she crumpled to the floor before another man’s feet. How could this be happening? In a daze, she noted his shoes were uncommonly stylish for a policeman’s, well polished and narrow at the toe.

  When she felt hands upon her again, lifting her, she was too sore, dizzy, and humiliated to resist. Resigned, she waited to be carried out into the night, the waiting wagon, and wherever this health examination would take place. She hoped to fall unconscious before she got there.

  But instead she was hoisted up and cradled against a broad, hard chest. She struggled to make out the features of the man holding her aloft, but the room was spinning. Whoever he was, he smelled divine. His warm lips tickled the rim of her ear as he murmured in formal French, “Let me handle this. Don’t say a word.”

  There was something familiar and reassuring about the deep, melodic voice. She tilted her head and squinted. A square chin and confident curving mouth came into focus. Entrancing hazel eyes gazed down at her with concern. Dazedly, she realized her rescuer was none other than the corrupt and greedy Leonardo Barnett.

  The idea wasn’t utterly intolerable. Despite all the damning evidence weighing against him, she knew he would never hurt her. He’d shown her how to plant tomatoes when she was three and taught her how to waltz when she was eight. At one time, he’d practically been part of her family.

  Their mothers had grown close when they’d been neighbors in Montmartre and continued their friendship even after Madame Barnett and her son emigrated to America. Madame Barnett managed the Manhattan settlement house Maman had founded with her inheritance. The Valencourt family visited the Barnetts there every other summer.

  Leo always seemed older, more responsible, than other boys his age. He assisted his mother with everything from diplomacy between rival immigrant gang members to giving tours to city officials. He could charm anyone.

  Claudine considered him the cleverest, bravest person alive. Her youthful fascination had gradually matured into something much deeper in her teen years, but he’d treated her with the same surface charm he presented to everyone he met. There was nothing personal about it.

  “This slut has broken the law,” the man with the drooping moustache pronounced, looming over her. “You do neither her nor society any kindness by trying to protect her. The most heinous of diseases are spread by filthy whores like this one.”

  Claudine gasped, frightened by his rancor more than his harsh terminology.

  “How dare you cast aspersions upon my wife?” Leo made his outrageous claim with an authority that would have made the mayor of Paris take heed.

  Why would he go to the trouble of helping her? Such kindness didn’t comport at all with his reputation. She tried to read his face, but he was no longer looking down at her. All she could see from this angle was the underside of his prominent chin, which looked prickly with stubble. No doubt he was too busy leading a depraved and decadent existence to shave.

  The gendarme’s pale complexion grew paler. “Your wife, monsieur? Surely not… I found her servicing a gentleman under a table.”

  Everyone within hearing distance turned to inspect her recent hiding place. The unremarkable round wooden table hardly looked like a venue for anything so sordid. The shoeless man was gone.

  “We only came here for a lark, but we had an argument earlier and got separated,” Leo continued in the same calm but commanding tone. “You and your comrades probably frightened her with your shouting and rough tactics so she sought the nearest place of refuge.” He looked down at her with warmth and affection as though she really were his beloved.

  That’s all it took to awaken the long dormant longing inside her chest. All the pain and hopelessness of her first and only infatuation stirred to life as well. The sickening brew of unwanted emotion left her feeling sick. She’d thought herself well beyond that childish foolishness. She wasn�
��t fourteen anymore, and he was nobody’s hero.

  Oblivious as always to the anguish he caused her, Leo continued playing the part of the concerned husband. “I told you it wasn’t safe for you to go off on your own here.” His middle finger gently dabbed the corner of her mouth, and she gasped more in shock from the intimacy than pain. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

  His focus darted back to the officer. “Look what you’ve done to her. Her lip is bleeding. There will be an accounting for this!”

  The two gendarmes faced each other. “I know what I saw,” the angry one insisted.

  “You were mistaken,” Leo firmly replied.

  At last she found the courage to speak. “This has been a most upsetting evening. Please take me home. I wish to leave now.”

  Though his expression remained deadly serious, Leo’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked down at her.

  The officer glowered, especially at her. “You’re not going anywhere but the Bureau of Information. He’s lying to protect her,” he added to the shorter gendarme.

  “I’ve had quite enough of this,” Leo said. “That is my ring on her finger. Is that not proof enough that she belongs to me?”

  All eyes fell upon her left hand, which had somehow come to be splayed against his blue silk waistcoat.

  “She admired it so I gave it to her. I’m helpless to refuse my lady anything she desires. My initials are etched on the inside. L.B. Why don’t you check and see? I can show you proof of my identity if you wish.”

  Claudine held up her hand and examined it as though she’d just sprouted an extra digit. A gold signet ring with an engraving of a lion’s head encircled her ring finger. How had this heavy piece of jewelry, obviously meant for a man, come to be there without her knowledge?

  They all stared at the ring, a tangible object so much more persuasive than words. Each man silently drew his own conclusion. The officer looked back at Leo with chagrin. “That won’t be necessary, monsieur. Our deepest apologies.”