Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  “Anyone with eyes in his head can tell you can do better than this, Miss DuPont. What you do here is damnably dangerous”

  “Up until tonight, I owed the house my performance and some socializing afterwards. But I overstepped the bounds. I danced the ballet. And a reprimand from the theatre owner was the consequence, and so here I am soliciting you.”

  “I know Milton. A hothead, that one. He owes me one. You might even say – he is deeply indebted to me. After I drop a few words in his ear on your behalf, this misunderstanding between you two might all blow away.”

  My mind racing ahead to other matters, I only half-heard him. “You know, sir, some men consider cancan dancers common. Immoral slatterns available for hire. Please know – I am not that person. Usually.”

  “No need to explain. Life is hard. Cruel, as well, at times. We all do what we have to do to get by. The way you hold yourself speaks for itself. How your chin tilts upward as you talk about what must be a difficult subject, your carriage unbowed. A customer would take back a bruised hand after daring to pinch your bustle. I wager few ever make the attempt.”

  “Actually…none, sir. The stiff cage I wear under my street clothing is French in style and more than a little off-putting in that regard.” Feeling ever so much better, I giggled.

  “I take it you are unaware, Miss DuPont, that this place panders to specific male fantasies?”

  I frowned. “Well…girls do go into the back alley with customers. I never had before, but tonight…well, tonight, all that was about to change. My rent is due in advance. On Saturday. Without the dancing position here, I would have had no way to pay for this coming week.”

  “Where do you to stay?”

  I named the boarding house.

  “Christ,” he cursed under his breath. “That place is a known rat nest. You rent there?”

  I nodded. “My room is almost but not quite affordable.”

  “Milton should have done better by you. Living hand-to-mouth is uncalled for. He can well afford to pay his girls more.”

  “In that, you are mistaken, sir. Milton can barely keep the doors to this dancehall open.”

  “Nonsense. This theatre is a well-known purveyor of female flesh. Prostitution at the ready is why these gents become regulars. There is plenty of money to be made here.”

  I shook the dimness from my brain. “I beg your pardon. Nothing so open as all that! Constables patrol these floors nightly to make sure everything is kept lawful.”

  “All for show. The police force is on the take here, as well as at every other business on these city streets.”

  “On the take? Heavens! What on earth does that mean?”

  “For a price, police close their eyes to certain irregularities, only conducting a walk-through to make everything appear to be on the up-and up. This dancehall is no different in that regard. Nothing is as it seems down here. Few establishments are legitimate in the Red-light District. Bribes are the price of doing business.”

  “But…but…yes, we have regulars…repeats who return again and again, owing to the high quality of the performances. And yes, there are men looking for cheap thrills – peepers – but they are everywhere, all walks of life.”

  “How do you explain the steady influx of new young dancers here and the exit of the more experienced ones?”

  “Well…young talent arrives with high expectations, I suppose. Like myself once, they probably view this place as a way to further their ambitions. They most likely believe if they work hard enough and are talented enough, some mysterious agent will discover them and invite them to New York City to audition, then offer them a position in a famous European dance troupe, French or Italian or who knows where else? Save here, in America, where classical dance has yet to become popular. When their discovery takes too long, these would-be ballerinas become disappointed. With a flounce of their tutus, they leave. This is pure conjecture on my part, you understand, sir, as I know none of these girls personally.”

  “Yes, they do leave, Miss DuPont…with a reference to one of the many brothels in the area in hand.”

  “I beg pardon...what!”

  “In particular, this dancehall is a training ground for Risque, the most profitable and decadent and dangerous whorehouse in all of Boston, a place no working girl like yourself should ever do business. Knowing their reputation, Milton still refers girls from here over there...for a kickback, of course. And that place sends bags to the city morgue at least once a week. Stay away from back alleys. Stay away from establishments like that as well.

  “Those whorehouses have reputations for not treating their girls right. You can do better. Much better. And remain safe while you turn tricks.”

  I gasped, “Not one of the other dancers has ever divulged any of this to me. Why would they not confide?”

  Of course, I already knew the answer:

  Owing to my snootiness, they would not confide.

  “Look the truth in the eye, Miss DuPont, chalk up your losses for wasting too many months here. Cease waiting for some New York City agent to discover you, and get on with it.”

  Save – get on with what? This – dancing – was my it.

  Long ago, I had abandoned the prospect of a simple life, wed to a good farmer in the rustic surroundings where I had once toiled. Striving for more than kitchen work, I left the countrified estate of the gentleman farmer who employed me to take private dance lessons from the friend of Madame Madeline. Those lessons had landed me this cancan position in Boston.

  Not the stepping stone I had once envisioned, but something all the same, a foothold in the future, experience I could point to for a better dancing position down the line. I was no whore!

  After trying to solicit this gent, what was the point of protesting my innocence to him? His faulty perception of me was one I had created myself. Apart from that – my conduct tonight would only disprove whatever I said. He would never believe me. I would come off as a liar as well as a prostitute.

  The gentleman dropped his voice to a low rumble. “You should know – Milton is running out of patience with you. He aims to collect a finder’s fee for your placement at Risque from the madam who operates the place. He is not about to give that up.”

  I looked at him blankly. “ Kickback? Finder’s fee?”

  If his pause was any indication, my ignorance discomforted the gentleman. Nevertheless, he explained, “A substantial sum for your agreement to whore at Risqué for a minimum of twelve months, the standard length of a prostitution contract.”

  Now that he spoke plainly, I understood. But how did a respectable gent like him know all that?

  “Look – should you decide to stay here at the dancehall, be on the lookout for more and more coercion from Milton. Also, should you later decide to leave, you may find every other tavern and eatery in the city suddenly in need of no additional staff, for all than an employment sign hanging out front says otherwise. All will refuse to hire you. You may never find a position again within city limits. Such is the extent of Milton’s influence in this town. My top hat is off to you – you held out against his strong-arming longer than most of his girls.”

  “Balls,” I scoffed.

  I had said worse indelicacies. And I could not bring myself to pretend I had not, not with this man. I had learned style from Madame Madeline and discipline from the dance master she had referred me to, but those were mere affectations going only skin deep. Deep down, I remained a child of an orphanage, with the street language to match my humble origins.

  This gentleman did not look askance at my crude language.

  Despite what the dancehall marquee out front said, I was not a real lady. Such a relief, his knowing this about me. But I was no whore either. And arguing my lack of carnal experience was useless when all signs indicated otherwise. I had solicited him after all.

  “I could do better by you, Miss DuPont.”

  “Are you offering me a position elsewhere?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “Of course, you already realize I am not French, sir. Know this too – everything about me is also a lie, fabricated to ensure ticket and drink sales. Before you stands a complete fraud.”

  As if my confession were of no import, he shrugged. Then reaching toward me, he gently pulled up on my bodice, thereby tucking my exposed nipples back in place. He never inquired if he might do so. And had he touched me, had his knuckles skimmed my flesh, I would not have jumped back, either horrified or offended. I understood little about carnality, but a man’s familiarity with my person was not entirely unknown to me.

  “That appointment I mentioned earlier is only a brief walk from here.” He removed his cloak from the back of his chair and swept it over my bare shoulders. “We leave straight away.”

  Not a question – a statement of purpose. My, he was awfully sure of himself.

  Sure of me as well.

  And rightly so.

  When he crooked his arm, I leapt at it as a drowning victim grabs hold of a lifejacket.

  Chapter Three

  We had gone but a short distance when the gentleman at my side turned to me. “I must apologize. My carriage is back at my business establishment, only a short stroll from here. Do you mind walking?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  So nice to have one’s opinion asked. Some gents were not as liberal-minded. Those types assumed the lead, and that was that. For all of his robust masculinity – he towered over me and his coat sleeves stretched to encompass impressive arms – he appeared at first blush to be an enlightened male. The kind I would find at my monthly woman’s suffrage meetings.

  I sighed with pleasure over his company. “The night is quite mild. And besides, I am always on foot.”

  Would he contradict me? Would he snidely say I was more often on my back?

  But no, he chuckled in agreement. “As a dancer, I imagine you are. On your feet, that is. Very well, then. Walk we shall. Take care, though. This part of town is rife with neglect. The gaslights are rarely lit. The cobblestone streets are hazardous at the best of hours. Inebriated drivers at the reins of a horse and buggy seem determined to run pedestrians down. Keeping to the uneven brick sidewalks is just as likely to earn a walker a sprained ankle as guarantee safe passage, a disaster for a performer such as you.”

  I shrugged. “Who knows if ever I will dance again?”

  “Chin up.” He patted my hand, still resting atop his arm. Not an excuse for a grope – a compassionate touch. “You will dance again.”

  “Not in these ballet slippers.” I struck out my foot – an unorthodox move, baring one’s ankle in public, and another sign of my lack of gentility. “See? Ruined.”

  I had left the dancehall on my companion’s arm, a proper escort by a proper gentleman, and so I remained, his much longer stride considerately slowed and shortened to match mine. After rehearsing all day and performing at night, I should have been beyond tired. But no. I was as tight as an over-wound timepiece. After all that had transpired this evening, I knew the additional exercise would do me a world of good. Hopefully, I might even get to sleep before daybreak.

  At any rate, walking had always been my pastime of choice, especially when I needed to think. That certainly applied here. My rescuer felt no need to fill in the silence with silly small talk. Such a relief! Though we were strangers to one another, somehow the quiet between us felt companionable, rather than strained.

  With much to think about tonight, I appreciated the quiet. Solitude had always been my friend, not my foe. And truthfully, I was in a state of shock. My head was absolutely spinning. Had he known silence was just what I needed? Or, was I giving him too much credit? After all, we had only just met. I knew nothing about him. Could be he was just the strong and boring type.

  Best to remain silent until I regained my lost composure – lest I come across sounding like a dithering booby. Hopefully, my usual levelheadedness would return soon. He had offered me employment and I needed to ask him a million questions about the opportunity…when I could frame them.

  I knew my limitations. At the moment, I could make him no sensible inquiries. And so, I held onto his arm, remained quiet, and let him guide me.

  The only fly in the ointment was our present location. Particular care was required in this general vicinity if one were a woman, specifically if one were a woman alone. However, I was with a male, who, though soft-spoken, was also extremely large and fit under his gentleman’s wardrobe.

  My normally keen vigilance slackened off a tad. So long as we stayed away from the isolated alleyways, I saw no reason for undue anxiety. Now, had he taken me down any of the numerous dangerous passageways, I would have had good call for concern and would have instantly spoken up and said something. Warned him off. Done something! After all, the worst criminals in all of Boston called these dark footpaths their stomping grounds. And I did not mean drunken hooligans, either. I meant unsavory thugs – those who would knife their own mothers in the back, thieves who regularly preyed on the weak. After pouncing on their victim, they would drag their prey to their lairs – for the most part, abandoned tenements they claimed as their own. And, in fear of retaliation, no one would either step-in to prevent these attacks or simply bring the crime to the attention of the police.

  Rapes were commonplace and went unreported. As did murders. And not only were females targeted. Men also ran a risk. Roving gangs did not discriminate by gender. Anyone who looked as though they had money on their person was subject to attack. Those who struggled to hold onto their property were the ones viciously killed.

  At a noise over to the side, my usual vigilance reappeared. I prickled with awareness now. My jitteriness magnified every sound and had me nearly jumping out of my skin. With each step taken deeper into lawless territory, I felt my fear grow by leaps and bounds. Yes, I was not alone. Yes, my companion was muscled and tall and obviously fit. But a knife could still enter his flesh too, perhaps not as easily as it entered someone small and scrawny – still, why go looking for trouble? Was there not a safer way to his establishment?

  Overwrought, I drew my borrowed cloak closer around me to hide my abbreviated costume, crimson ruffles and feathers abounding, tacky finery befitting a prostitute. Prostitutes carried large sums of money on their persons, until such time as the proceeds were passed to a pimp.

  I fit a whore’s description but the man at my side did not resemble a pimp, not in his tasteful black tailoring. Small comfort when my companion unhesitatingly entered an alley, the darkest one we had thus far passed, one grimier and more isolated than all the rest, one I knew for a fact was a warren of mazes that crisscrossed in every direction. Getting lost, then trapped, then ambushed by knife-wielding desperados, then left for dead after repeated stabbings, was a real possibility. Oh, I had heard the stories! Even a man of his size and build would stand little chance against a gang…should we be set upon.

  I covered my nose at the noxious fumes – tobacco and whiskey and Lord only knew what else. In a panic, I broke our easy silence. “Return to the street, sir,” I protested, digging my flimsy ballet slippers into the slimy filth under foot. “Please, go no deeper within.”

  “Nonsense. This is a shortcut. Otherwise, I will arrive late to that appointment I told you about.”

  “Appointment? Oh, I thought that a tall tale invented to rid yourself of the burden of me if you felt the need.”

  “I never lie.”

  Self-righteous prig. Did he take me for a gullible twit?

  Everyone lied. Especially men.

  “And because I adhere to a strict code of conduct,” he continued, “which I shall explain to you later, I would never have left someone as upset as you to her own devices tonight. You required assistance. I am providing you with that assistance. Furthermore, you are no burden. We all require help from time-to-time. I received my fair share as a lad.”

  Bully for him! I preferred not to be placed in a vulnerable position this evening. This evening, I was thinking of pleading for a
cup of warm milk from my landlady to calm my nerves, followed by a hot bath…if I found the communal WC empty.

  The thought to break his hold on me and make a run for the street had just passed through my mind when someone, a burly man dressed from top-to-bottom in nearly the very same black palette as my companion – and most likely not for reasons of fashion – jumped out at us from a hidden doorway.

  What a pathetic commentary. We had not even passed the alley’s halfway point before we were targeted. This desperado must have thought us sitting ducks, an easy take, and my robust companion seemed either not to understand our danger or incapable of reacting to the threat.

  Oh, for some kitchen cutlery, a professional chef’s cleaver, preferably French. Although I had been a pastry baker, I could dice and chop with the best of them.

  I untangled my elbow from my mild-mannered companion, stepped out in front of him, and held up my hands in an attitude of surrender. “See? No reticule. I carry neither money nor valuables.”

  Upon hearing his rout would be a waste of time, I thought our ambusher would move onto better game for robbery. But no. He merely grinned insultingly at me.

  My mouth twisted. “Also, I…I…have the French Disease. Perhaps, the clap, as well. So back the fuck off, you cretin, lest I give it to you and your little thingie falls offs.”

  From behind me came a completely impropriate chuckle. “Listen to what she says, Charley McDougal, and get the fuck out of our way. Kicking your arse six ways to Sunday would take the shine off my boots, and I just got these polished today. And you know how I feel about my footwear.

  “As to your thingie – considering its dainty size, you would never miss it. And nor would any of the pretty colleens I have had to cheer up following their disappointing assignations with you.”

  Our would-be assailant replied with a thick Irish brogue. “So damn dark out tonight, I failed to recognize ye, sir. ‘Course, your size should of given yer identity away, so sorry about that.”

  Charley tilted his head downward. “Nice job on the boots, by the way, sir. Even without much of a moon out tonight, they shine like the shoes of a sodden Boston Brahmin. Who did ‘em for ye?”