Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  "No. Absolutely not” They were becoming Brandt's three favorite words.

  "I think it's a splendid idea,” Mary Xavier put in. “It may be a bit awkward, but it's sure to work."

  He glowered at the two women and resumed shaking his head. They were insane, both of them. Willow with her outlandish ideas, and Mrs. Xavier for going along with them. And Mrs. Xavier had only been brought into the plan because Willow needed her help coming up with the right accoutrements for tonight's masquerade.

  "Cook is sure to have some things we can borrow,” Mary continued. “And anything else, I'm sure we can alter."

  "We have to hurry.” Willow moved around the room, collecting articles of clothing and assembling them on the bed. “We have to get our ensembles ready so that we can take them along with us this evening and change right after the play. We won't have much time, so everything has to be nearly perfect before we leave for the theater."

  "I'm not doing this,” Brandt argued again. “I know what I said back in Robert's office, but this is going too far. I'll stay back with the other men."

  A sparkle of amusement entered Willow's violet eyes and a dimple creased her cheek. “Oh, no,” she practically crooned. “You promised Robert that you would stay with me every moment, and I'm holding you to it."

  Brandt sat back on the bed with a plop and crossed his aims mutinously. He wouldn't go through with this. He wouldn't.

  "I'll go down and see what I can get from Cook,” Mrs. Xavier said, obviously ignoring Brandt's wishes altogether. “You start getting ready and we'll have him suited up in no time."

  She moved to the door and had already opened it a crack when she turned back. A flash of pain fluttered over her face for a moment. “I can't thank you enough for this,” she told them quietly. “It means the world to us that you're working so hard to find out who hurt our Yvonne.” Her voice broke on the last few words of her statement and she quickly left the room.

  When Willow's gaze met his, he saw sadness there, and an iron determination. At that moment, he knew all of his arguments were for naught. His pride, his resolve, the fear that someone would see him . . . None of that mattered when he recalled Mary's declaration and looked into Willow's eyes.

  He was going to do it, despite his earlier blustering. Please, God, let it be quick and painless.

  "So what do we need to do?” he asked.

  Willow's face brightened at his resolve. “Get undressed and we'll see what I have that will fit"

  He unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his boots, and began shrugging out of his pants while she gathered several items from the pile on the bed. With him standing in nothing but his drawers, she studied him.

  He pulled the muscles of his abdomen in a fraction. He knew there wasn't an inch of excess to be found on his hard, lean frame. But with Willow perusing his nearly nude body like a shank of beef at the meat vendor's, he wanted to present his very best form.

  Her detailed scrutiny sent a bolt of desire rippling from the marrow of his bones out in every direction. His hunger rose another notch as he watched a tinge of pink darken her cheekbones and knew she was feeling the same deep longing as he.

  "We have a few minutes before Mrs. Xavier gets back,” he hinted. Though he knew the suggestion was futile; Mary was just downstairs running a quick errand and liable to return at any moment. If she hadn't been, Brandt would have plucked Willow up by the waist, deposited her on the bed, and kept her occupied well through both acts of the play they were supposed to attend that evening, as well as the lengthy intermission.

  Willow shook her head and answered in a thick, passion-laden timbre. “We can't."

  She cleared her throat, apparently hoping to douse the firelike sparks of sexual awareness flying between them—that always flew between them—and quickly returned her focus to the matter at hand. But not, he was pleased to note, without a great deal of effort.

  "I don't think we should worry about stockings and shoes. You can wear your socks and boots and we'll try to be sure the skirt is long enough to cover them."

  Being brought back to the task before them—rather unpleasantly, at that—Brandt fought a snort.

  "We have to do something about your chest, though."

  She came at him with the most frightening object in her collection and he took a step back. “What are you going to do with that?"

  "Your shoulders are too broad and your hips are too narrow; we need to even things out a bit. Add curves in all the right places."

  She fiddled with the strings until the material was as loose and wide as possible, then she held it near the floor and tapped the back of his bare calf. “Here, step in."

  He muttered and cursed beneath his breath but did as she ordered. The sides caught on his drawers, but she tugged it the rest of the way up until the stiff material rested around his waist and rib cage.

  "All right, now hold it here,” she said, and moved behind him. “Take a deep breath.” She waited. “Now blow it out and suck in your stomach."

  He did, and she pressed a knee to the base of his spine and gave a yank that nearly toppled him over backwards. “Jesus,” he gasped.

  Willow laughed. “Don't be a baby. Women go through this every day."

  He didn't know how. The one time he'd seen the marks the whale bones left on Willow's skin, he'd condemned the blasted feminine undergarment. Now he was wearing one. And she was right; no one could draw a full breath while wearing a corset. “In case you haven't noticed, I am not a woman,” he pointed out very succinctly.

  "Oh, I noticed,” she cooed with a laugh and let her hand brush the curve of one taut buttock as she readjusted her hold on the corset strings.

  "Take another breath,” she told him. When he exhaled, she yanked again, and again he swore. “There,” she said, circling around to inspect her work. Moving to a drawer, she pulled out several pairs of his thick, woolen socks and began stuffing them into the loose front fabric high on his chest.

  "Careful, sweetheart,” he said with a drawl, “or mine might end up bigger than yours."

  Her laughter tinkled through the room like chimes as she tucked in another pair of socks. “Don't worry, as long as your bosom is in proper proportion to your size, I promise not to turn competitive.” She threw him a saucy grin. “Besides, if I become too envious of your generous attributes, I can always make use of my newly patented bust-improver.

  "Now turn around,” she said, shifting him in front of the full cheval glass arranged against one wall. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed."

  Brandt caught a good look at himself and nearly keeled over in mortification. He stood encased in cotton drawers and a woman's corset with his very masculine bare arms and legs sticking out on all sides. The fact that his sock-laden bosom now rivaled that of the most well-endowed matriarch did little to lift his spirits.

  "I cannot believe I'm doing this. I look like my mother, God rest her soul. She and my father both would turn over in their graves if they saw me prancing around in women's underclothes."

  "You're not prancing,” Willow said, trying to allay his misgivings. “You're adopting a disguise to further our investigation. Your parents would be proud that you're willing to go so far to catch a killer."

  "You didn't know my parents,” he muttered.

  "Lord!” Mrs. Xavier gasped as she came back into the room, clutching a small pile of clothes to her breast. “We'd better get these things on you. No one will take you for a woman, standing there like that. I've never seen such hairy legs,” she said, and then made a point of looking anywhere but below Brandt's waist. “Even James's legs don't have that much fur on them, and he's a hairy man, he is."

  She bustled forth and handed Willow several large, nondescript garments as they both began dressing him. Mary pushed his arms through the long sleeves of a once-white blouse, while Willow wrapped a dark skirt around his waist. And then Willow delivered the coup de grace, a flowing blond wig that had come from her personal collection—bought and paid for by t
he Pinkerton National Detective Agency, of course—which she attached to his head with several sharp hairpins.

  When they finished, he almost looked like a female. A large, not very attractive, not overly feminine female, but nonetheless, he could pass for a woman from a distance. He hoped.

  "We don't have time to fix your face,” Willow told him. “You'll have to shave before we go to the theater to avoid any signs of a beard, and then we can both change clothes in the carriage on the way to the docks."

  A beard was the least of his problems. Right now, he was more concerned about getting enough air to avoid passing out.

  "How am I supposed to breathe in this thing?” he questioned the women, giving the clawlike contraption an uncomfortable tug.

  "Very carefully,” they answered in unison, and then shared a chuckle at their mutual understanding.

  "He's going to need a shawl to cover those big arms and chest,” Mrs. Xavier commented, and bustled out of the room to find one.

  "I hope you're enjoying yourself,” he said darkly, staring at the top of Willow's head while she fussed with the pleats of his skirt. “Because when we're finished, I'm going to make you very, very sorry for doing this to me."

  She looked up, meeting his eyes as she crouched in front of him, her face even with the general area of his groin. Corset or no corset, a man's body had no choice but to respond to a woman in such a position.

  "I'll look forward to it,” she returned saucily, then gifted him with a grin that would drive a saint to sin.

  And there, before the full-length mirror, in women's clothes, a bulge appeared at the front of his skirt that in no way would help him pass as a female.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  No matter how many of these filthy harlots he dispensed with, a dozen more seemed to take her place. His task would never be done unless he increased his efforts.

  And he was beginning to feel it was a mistake to concentrate on only the overt sinners. Granted, he had ended dear Yvonne's wickedness, but that hadn't been planned. He hadn't recognized her true corruption until he'd caught her en flagrante with that young upstart Parker Cunnington. Until that moment, he'd thought Yvonne pure of heart, unsullied. He'd intended to join with her and make their marriage one of pureness, dedicated to the eradication of evil.

  He regretted having had to kill her. She had been a beauty. And down deep, he still believed there had been a touch of purity in her soul. But sinners must be punished, regardless of their comeliness or standing in society.

  Which is why he'd begun to look more closely at those around him. Prostitutes could be found at any time down by the docks, but there were whores all around him, dressed in fancy finery, holding their heads high, secure with their social status. Yet they corrupted community mores from the inside out, perhaps more insidiously even than those who sold their wares so blatantly to any man with a few coins and a place to carry out their dirty deeds.

  A face took shape before his mind's eye. A delightful piece, if ever he ‘d seen one. He ‘d spotted her at several assemblages lately and had been told she was married to the strapping fellow who seemed to never be far from her side. Yet he still suspected her of great transgressions against God.

  She was too exquisite not to have sinned. And she was more brazen than was wise for someone so young. Why, he ‘d been standing just around the corner when she ‘d boldly told Claudia Burton that she and her husband were leaving the party early so that they could go home and fornicate.

  He would watch her carefully. It wouldn't be hard, considering the couple seemed to be at all of the same functions he attended.

  And soon, after Outram disposed of the body that even now occupied the dark cellar room, the time would be right to rid the world of another transgressor, and he would make sure it was Willow Donovan.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "I don't know how you stand these bloody things,” Brandt complained for the fourth time in ten minutes, digging at the lower edge of his corset.

  She experienced an almost sadistic glee over the fact that someone else—especially a man—was suffering the same nuisance she usually did. Of course, Brandt was much more vocal about his discomfort than the women who trussed themselves up in similar trappings every day of their lives.

  For once, Willow wasn't wearing a corset herself. She was dressed in a rather shabby, dull brown skirt that fell to mid-calf and was pinned to the side at her knee to show even more of her stocking-clad leg. Her camisole, with pink ribbon woven into the border, left her arms and much of her chest bare, and the faded gray shawl draped about her shoulders acted as more of a shield against the chill air coming off the waterfront than a cover for her exposed skin. Her hair was knotted at the top of her head, with several long strands left to straggle around her face in what she hoped was an alluring yet beggared style.

  "I don't want you wearing this monstrosity anymore,” he put in, still on the fevered topic of corsets. “Or anything like it. I don't care if you grow as fat as a suckling hog. To think of you in this kind of pain for the sake of fashion. . .” he growled, tugging at another part of the garment. “No. I'm burning this damn thing and any others you have as soon as we get back."

  Even though she'd come to much the same conclusion the night of the Burtons’ ball, she wasn't about to let Brandt begin dictating to her. It would give him a false sense of authority and possibly lead to other demands she would feel less charitable about carrying out. So she thrust her hands on her hips and cocked her head in what she hoped was a challenging pose. “Just because you're laced up in my best girdle, don't think you can start dictating how I'm to dress, Brandt Donovan."

  He huffed but didn't argue. Instead he concentrated his efforts on scratching at a particularly annoying stay, and grumbling all the while.

  "Will you please hush. You're going to draw the wrong kind of attention to us. And can't you pitch your voice a bit higher? No one is going to believe you're a woman with that gruff tone."

  "How's this?" he asked, two octaves higher and with a distinct Southern drawl that Willow couldn't help but find funny.

  She turned away to keep from bursting into laughter, even though she couldn't stifle a chuckle at both his histrionics and the way he fluttered his lashes coquettishly.

  As much as he'd balked at dressing in women's clothing for this assignment, he was now playing his part to the hilt. Throughout the night, he'd added a wide sashay to his walk, primped his long blond hair, and adjusted and readjusted his false bosom. Even his razor stubble seemed under control, since he'd shaved just before they left for the theater not four hours before.

  She was about to comment on how often he reached a hand between his legs to feel his member—as though checking to see that is was still there, even though he was wearing a dress—when she heard a carriage approaching.

  "Listen,” Brandt whispered.

  "I hear.” She stepped away so they wouldn't appear huddled together and watched for the advancing vehicle. Letting the shawl fall to her elbows, she put her hands on her hips to tighten the front of her sleeveless camisole and accentuate her chest. A move Brandt would no doubt chastise her for later, having warned her more than once not to be too enticing.

  But the coach stopped several yards away, in front of a woman who had been standing in the same warehouse doorway all evening. A well-dressed gentleman stepped out of the black landau, and Willow noticed immediately that it was not Virgil Chatham. Her heart plummeted; she had so hoped he would appear and do or say something to convince them that he was, indeed, the killer.

  "La, but it must be Thursday if the likes of you are visiting me,” the prostitute said with a seductive smile, moving forward to place a hand on the man's chest.

  Brandt's voice reached her ear from just over one shoulder. “Isn't that Martin Proctor? The fellow we met at the Wellington soirée who announced every five minutes, rather vocally, how much he adored his new bride?"

  "Hello, Ginni.” The man pressed a kiss to the
back of the woman's hand, as though he was greeting a lady at a party rather than picking up the prostitute he paid to pleasure him. “I've been anticipating this all week. Shall we?” He stepped back and ushered her into the carriage, and Ginni went willingly.

  Willow took a closer look. “So much for wedded bliss,” she replied dryly, realizing Brandt was right. “I wonder if Mrs. Proctor knows how her husband spends his Thursday evenings."

  "Doubtful. Highly doubtful,” Brandt answered.

  She released a sigh of regret, realizing that this assignation was an old and routine one, not something she and Brandt needed to be concerned with. And not someone they needed to follow.

  The coach drove off, and Brandt went back to alternating between checking his masculinity and “puffing” his breasts. Willow stared out across the water, well used to the fish- and rubbish-laden odor by now.

  It frightened her to think of the poor, defenseless women who had been murdered here. Or possibly picked up here and murdered elsewhere. But it frightened her even more to think of the women who hadn't been killed, the ones who were still forced to sell their bodies for money.

  Because it could so easily be her. There but for the grace of God, as the saying went. If it weren't for her job with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, she might very well be in the same position, especially with Erik to care for.

  And it wasn't so far-fetched a possibility that when Francis Warner finally got his way and edged her out of the Agency, she could still end up here.

  Her teeth clenched, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She wouldn't do so willingly, she vowed. She would do anything else first—be a governess, a laundress, enter into a loveless marriage to a wealthy man—but it was not unfathomable that she could one day find herself in the exact same situation as some of these women, just trying to make enough to buy food, keep a roof over their heads, provide for their children.