Virgin Enchained (Virgin Series Book 4)

by Louisa Trent

  “Paddy, down on the corner of North.”

  Charley nodded, then turned and yelled down the alley, his voice bouncing off the tenement walls and echoing, “Let ‘em pass, boyos. Our friend here is after getting his good leathers cleaned and buffed. You do not want to tangle with him tonight.” Under his breath he added, “Or any night.” With that declaration, our ambusher made to leave.

  My companion pulled him back. “Mind, Charley – if you or any of your gang further delay me or this lady, thereby causing us to be even a minute late for my appointment, you will see me back here again before the night is through – minus my good leather boots. I think rubber hip boots would be better suited for the messy job I have in mind.”

  Charley visibly shook. “Not the rubber boots.”

  “One and the same.”

  With that, the companion who I thought of as meek and mild, tucked my arm back into his elbow and proceeded down the alley.

  At the end, and without missing a step, he yelled over his shoulder, “Evening to you, boyos.”

  Even those benign words contained an unstated warning. I could hear it in the timber of his voice. All superficial pleasantries aside, he would be out for blood should this happen again, be it a mistake or otherwise.

  Finding myself included in that threat was surprisingly satisfying.

  Chapter Four

  “So – the clap and the French disease too?” he said after a time had passed. “An over-achiever, are you?”

  I tilted my head to one side as I digested this. “Why – did I lay it on too thick, sir?”

  “One cock rotting ailment would have done it, I should think. Anything more sounds like bragging.”

  “You should talk. Rubber boots?”

  “Bloodshed destroys leather. And I speak from experience here.”

  “You win, sir. Next time, I use another scourge.”

  “No next time, not for you. The Irish gang has been duly warned. Here on out, you are strictly hands-off.”

  Our little discussion had broken the ice, and I could no longer maintain our easy silence. Only mere seconds perhaps passed – I was the impatient type – when insatiable curiosity prompted me to fill in the gaping holes in our introduction.

  “Sir – you said your meeting was close to the dancehall…where exactly?”

  “I live and work here, inside the city proper.”

  “And your meeting tonight, I take it, is also there? For caution’s sake, I need to see if you have more than a single pair of rubber boots on your shoe rack.”

  “Just the one. They wash off real easy.”

  He had told me very little, and I was getting very perturbed. And afraid. All over again.

  “Try evasion again, and you will regret it.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I dance the cancan. Or, at least, I used to dance the cancan. I can raise my knee really high. High enough to reach your man parts. Do not make me show you.”

  “I would never…”

  I had heard that song and dance before, so I promptly interrupted, “If I may be so bold, sir – you are awfully tight-lipped. Must I drag every word out of you? Where exactly inside the city are you taking me? Unless…is your place a hotbed of illegal activity?”

  “Yes.”

  “What!”

  “I am the owner/proprietor of an illegal establishment. And that is all I will say for now. You are not the only one taking a chance here. You could snitch on me to the newspapers and no amount of bribery paid to the police would save me from their Yellow Journalism. I would be shut down. So trust me. Please? For only a few more blocks. We are almost there. I keep a large apartment upstairs. Ten rooms in all, on two floors. I envision using the space for formal entertaining. Much more convenient. No shoe rack. Too fussy for me. My shoes are all kept next to the basement kitchen, right on the floor, like the uncivilized heathen I am. We can go there first and I can show you the one pair of rubber boots.”

  “And risk your arriving late for your precious appointment? I would not dream of it.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence…”

  “You misunderstand. No vote of confidence. Show me afterwards, sir. Afterwards is soon enough.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “It means I agree to give you a chance, sir.”

  He said pensively, “Tonight was such a pleasant evening. Nasty habit is cigars, cheroots, pipes, and all the rest. I thought to clear my head by taking a walk before my meeting. Then, I heard the music. Not the cancan music. Swan Lake. So I ventured inside and saw you and stayed longer than I should have.”

  Aha! So his ‘clients’ must smoke a great deal. That told me…

  Nothing. Sewing sweatshops to quasi-fine restaurants were smoke-filled in the Red-light District.

  A new tact: Perhaps if I volunteered details of my life, he would return the favor.

  Unfortunately, I had already told him most everything. There was not all that much to confide, most of it uninteresting. Still I could sum it all up, make a clean breast of it, so there would be no question of my hapless beginnings. He would never make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear. His right to know it.

  I jumped right in, feet first. “I can bake and dance, and that is about all I can do.”

  “No baking.”

  “What else is left for a woman in the Red-light District? Oh, I know…whoring. How could I ever have forgotten?”

  “My, but are the glib one.” He patted my hand again. “What I mean to offer you is a bonifide respectable position. And your glib tongue will serve you well in it.”

  “In an illegal establishment whose business you are too uncomfortable to reveal yet.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  After our encounter with the toughs in the alley, fear was still strong in me. So explained my barreling along the walkway, my breath shallow.

  He stopped me at a gas-lit street corner. Looking down into my face, he said, “Deep inhales, long exhales. Relax. You are safe with me. No need to race.”

  After waiting for a carriage to roll by, he led me across the street at a much slower pace. “I realize you must have questions. Go on. Ask them. To the best of my abilities, I will answer…but I will only give you so much information for now.”

  My brow furrowed in confusion. “A bonifide respectable position as what? You mentioned no whoring and no baking. You left out dancing, which is how I support myself. But the only burlesque revue in the Red-light District I know of is Milton’s…”

  “I need a hostess,” he said, still cagey. “A live-in hostess. A classy lady like yourself.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “The skepticism in your tone of voice and your facial expression tell me you do not see.”

  “Did you not hear me cuss like a sailor on shore-leave at those ruffians?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Ladies do not curse. Ladies have no knowledge of the language I used. Ergo, I am not a lady. I thought you understood that.”

  “A lady would have pissed her drawers back there. It was a testament to your courage that you did not. As to being lady– that is not something you can pull on and off, like say, manners. Your ladylike qualities are bone deep. So is your ability to bounce back in a frightening situation. You held your own against Charley and his gang. I admire you all the more for your feistiness.”

  And I admired him all the more for having the good sense to admire me but truthfully…

  “I acted a part, sir. A citified Annie Oakley, if you will. But without the firearm.”

  “Act it enough and the role becomes real.”

  I frowned. “Is that what you try to do – act a role hoping it will become real if done often enough?”

  “Stop fretting,” he said, ignoring my question. “The position will suit you. The way I figure it, you can use your earnings and go to Europe, learn the ballet ropes, and then try your hand – or perhaps I should say your feet – at being one of
those ballerinas again.”

  His goal for me was so farfetched, I could have laughed. Though, his faith in my dancing abilities did move me. Or perhaps his faith in me simply stroked my vanity. Alas, though I enjoyed his society immensely, I was more a realist than a conceited fool.

  “Not wed, are you, sir?”

  “Christ, no.”

  “Despite your incredulousness, perhaps you should consider that as a viable alternative to what you propose – whatever the hell that is, which still confuses me. You intimated that I would live in – sounds as if you need a wife, sir, not hired help. I mean – go wed some insipid young thing. A socialite fallen on hard times who will gladly do your bidding so long as you provide a ring for her finger and a comfortable standard of living.”

  “And destroy her life? Not me.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, prickly as all get out. “You are averse to destroying her life but it is quite all right for you to destroy mine. I suppose because my life is of lesser value in your eyes than hers.”

  “That is not at all what I meant. And why are you getting so blasted riled up over some non-existent socialite?”

  “Maybe if you were not being so all-fired cagey I would not have to be so all-fired defensive. What is this really all about? You know me to be desperate, sad too, but do not try and take advantage of me. You cannot pull anything over on me.”

  “Milton did.”

  He was so right. And perhaps I needed to hear that brutal truth too. Nevertheless, I felt myself start to blubber again. And, once again, I stopped the waterfall in the nick of time.

  He blew out a breath. “I am fouling this up. Saying the wrong things. Words never did come easy to me, which is why I need someone – a hostess, I thought – to do my speaking for me.”

  “Speak for yourself here. Make me understand.”

  Another breath, more blustery this time. “Here goes: We all have our dreams, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some females, I imagine, dream of making a happy marriage.”

  “Not very persuasive, sir. Better to say all females. Makes for a better argument.”

  “I am not arguing with you. That would be impolite.”

  And that had just made his argument, and rather succinctly too. He could indeed use a spokesperson.

  “Go on,” I said with a sigh.

  “You probably dream of something else. Like ballet. I am offering you a shot at that. I will pay you well to make a favorable impression on my clients. Reassure them of their safety while on the premises through your classy and ladylike presence, that sort of thing.”

  “And why do these ‘clients’ feel the need for such reassurance. What are you up to, sir?”

  “Some gents require such reassurance while in the Red-light District.”

  “Not good enough, sir. Too evasive. Try again. You already told me whatever it is, it is illegal.”

  “Are you afraid I aim to strong-arm you? Is that the reason for your orneriness? If laying a hand on you was my intention, we would be at the dancehall’s back alley right now. But it is not my intention. In plain English – I can get a fuck all over, including at Milton’s.”

  “And where do you actually get those fucks, sir? I admit to curiosity, but I also think the information might be pertinent to the discussion at hand. And, by the way, I prefer your ‘plain English’ to your stuffed shirt variety English. More to the point.”

  He led me down what looked to be a short, private street. Before a well-kept residence I could tell had once been an adjoined brick row house so common in Boston but was now a free-standing townhouse in style and dimension, he stopped walking.

  “Well, here we are. This is it. After an eventful night, we have arrived. Home.”

  Not my home, I thought resentfully. I had never had one of those. But I would recognize a real home if ever I saw one.

  This was not it. If he was trying to impress me with its grandeur, he had failed. There was something suspicious about this place. I could smell it. This man was keeping a secret, all right. Perhaps more than one.

  Then again, I should talk. I had kept one or two secrets in my own life.

  After releasing my elbow, he leaned back against a high granite wall that might actually overlook a yard, with grass and so forth. If I was tall enough to see over it, I would know for sure.

  Being the curious sort, I went immediately to tip-toe.

  At a glance, I knew I had been mistaken about the green lawn. Instead, I found a well-tended garden, lit from an outside light located at the corner of the house and directed at the lush raised beds planted within. A pretty but odd sight in this rough and tumble part of town.

  Relaxing against the stone barrier, my rescuer stuffed his striped black woolen trousers pockets with his ungloved and ring-free hands.

  As much as I would like to have been able to deny it to myself, his marital status had suddenly taken on tremendous ramifications. Yes, I had already asked. And yes, he had already answered. But who did I deal with here?

  Not a saint.

  He stared me down. “In answer to your question…I get my fucks the usual places.”

  “Humph. At whorehouses, I daresay.”

  “No. I keep a mistress. A very nice and happily married woman whom I respect and have faithfully visited for the past five years.”

  “If she is so nice and happily married, why see you? Why stray from her marital vows?”

  “Financial necessity.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Regardless how pretty the pigments with which you paint the scene – the landscape still remains repugnant. Your mistress is an out-and-out cheat, not worthy of your respect at all.”

  “Judgmental child. How old are you anyway – twenty?”

  “Almost twenty-two. And nothing condones bad behavior.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Spoken like a young miss who knows little of the world. Or, of hardship. Life can be cruel to folks who in no way deserve the calamities fate tosses their way.”

  As an orphan who grew up in a hell hole, where child abuse and neglect were rampant, I knew first-hand all about such injustices.

  Rather than defend myself against his unfair charge, which would have given more of my undesirable background away, I said nothing. He understood I was no lady, for I had told him so. He knew I was an orphan as well for the same reason. He seemed to hold neither against me. Still, why show him my scars? Some damage would never heal, and the balm of a few well-intentioned words did nothing to help.

  And that was enough of that. Self-pity only dragged a person down.

  My expression impassive, I took in the garden, enjoying the solace it wordlessly offered.

  “Let me explain,” he continued.

  I tore my eyes away from a particularly regal plant. Leave it me to like the most snobbish flower in the bunch.

  “Yes, explain,” I said loftily. “Please do, sir.”

  “In a nutshell – my mistress happens to love her husband dearly. Unfortunately, he has been ailing this last decade. Now, his condition is rapidly deteriorating. She cares for his every need. But the rent must be paid.”

  I had thought similar words about myself.

  He had hit too close to home. I was the one to talk about bad behavior! I had almost whored this night in order to pay my rent.

  In my upset, I spun away from him. Faltered at the street curb.

  A large hand reached out and balanced me before I landed on the cobblestones. “Why would a female as graceful as yourself stumble over her own two feet?”

  I refused to answer. Like a hemmed-in alley cat, my back was up. No retreat, I was ready for a fur-flying tussle.

  “You have no neighbors,” I accused. “What happened to the abutting buildings, one on either side of your place? And do not think to tell me yours is a townhouse that was never adjoined. Although there are windows on both ends, they look newly installed. Also – I can clearly see the markings on the sides, where the other row houses w
ere once attached to yours.”

  “Those buildings had been neglected for years and required demolition. Had I been able to, I would have saved them. As it was, I bought them both anyway. My building, the residence once in the middle, was not in the same state of disrepair. I had it rehabilitated. I prefer rehabilitation to tearing down. And I like my privacy, so I am not building new structures. ”

  “The work must have cost you a fortune.”

  “Worth it. My business has profited from its isolation.”

  “That hostess position you proposed, sir. Never have I heard the like.”

  “You would get used to the idea in due course. And the compensation would more than justify your accepting the offer.”

  “I am a professional dancer. Just as you are a professional…whatever it is you do. That means something to me. Surely you are of an age to settle down. Pardon my rudeness, but what is your age – late forties?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  I shrugged. “The silver threaded through your hair ages you.”

  He shook his head in denial. “Life has aged me.”

  Be that the case, my hair would have been snow white, not raven black, by the time I was five.

  “Nevertheless, sir – you can find some other woman for the position. Or, as I said previously, get a wife, for goodness sakes.”

  “I chose you.”

  What a flatterer. Still, I smiled.

  Then, he went and spoiled the fairytale I was weaving by adding, “You have guts.”

  Lovely. His comment had nothing to do with my grace or beauty or even my pretend aristocratic pedigree. My slimy entrails were what he was after.

  He seemed to know what I was thinking. “You have shown a remarkable ability to handle yourself. Your serenity is enviable.”

  “Hog wash. I was not so serene back there in that alley.”

  “Not there. Now. With me. Telling me to go fuck myself might have hovered on the tip of your tongue, but rather than let me have it, you smiled.”

  He was right there, but for all the wrong reasons. Having him fuck himself was not quite what I had in mind.