Spent, he lay in the firelight, naked and breathless. He kissed the hollow of her shoulder, his mind a puddle. He didn’t know how their robes had come off. His was under her, but his fingers found her peignoir and he snapped it open. The silk fluttered over them, soft as a gossamer blue mist, sending fresh shivers through his skin. He rested his cheek against her breasts and breathed in the scent of her as her heart pounded beneath his ear. With great care, he spread his body over hers and holding both her hands in one of his, stretched her arms above her head. He kissed one breast, tasting it, savoring it then did the same with the other. She whimpered and shuddered and half-heartedly tried to break free. Ever so slowly he moved. The fire hissed and crackled, glazed their bodies in red-gold light. The pale blue silk of her peignoir flowed over them like a silent waterfall.
“This,” he said as he ran his tongue along her collarbone to the hollow of her throat and moved his body with painstaking slowness, “is for you.” Three times, with control, which surprised even him, he took her to the edge, each time muffling her cries with his mouth. Even when she shook and bit his shoulder, he held back. Only when she voiced unladylike expletives and serious threats of what her Bowie knife could do, did he let loose all his pent up passion. Beneath him, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, she jerked and screamed into his throat. He smiled and kissed her again.
After a long moment, he said, “I love you more than you can ever imagine. You’re my sun and my moon and all the stars.”
She kissed his neck, and the logs on the fire shifted and crackled. “You’ll never love me as much as I love you.”
He hugged her tightly. “Oh Rosie, I wouldn’t take any wagers on that.”
Later, in bed, he held her most of the night and slept very little. Once he knew she was deeply asleep, he checked the house again. He stepped onto the upstairs porch and spoke to the guards, who assured him all was quiet. He brought the dogs back to the room.
At daylight, when he heard rustling throughout the house, he and Summer knocked on Harvey and Amelia’s door. The couple sat by a table near the fire, drinking coffee. Harvey wore a red silk robe that matched his velvet slippers. Amelia, fresh and crisp like always, poured them coffee—only she would have china cups ready for guests at this hour. Harvey looked over a newspaper, spectacles on the end of his nose.
Daniel pulled two more chairs to their table and glanced at Summer. Jack had advised them to not disclose Summer’s part, but earlier they decided to hold nothing back from Amelia and Harvey. The couple exchanged dismayed glances and Amelia took Summer Rose’s hand, holding it tightly in her own.
“Oh my dear! Are you all right?”
Summer nodded. “I am now. My brother’s an army major who works with Allan Pinkerton,” she said. “He posted guards around the house overnight. He helped us and plans to stop by around ten this morning. Would you like to speak with him?”
Harvey lowered his chin. His great shaggy eyebrows pushed toward the center of his forehead. “I would. I appreciate the guards. The two girls who come in daily?” He glanced at Amelia. “Perhaps we should see if they can stay here. Let us know when he returns.”
Amelia reached across the table and touched Daniel’s arm. “You know, none of this can get out. They’d ruin her. You, too.”
Jack arrived at ten sharp and met with Harvey, Amelia, Daniel, Summer, Hal, and Ray in the library. Mr. Stone had lit the sconces and started a crackling blaze in the fireplace.
“We’ll keep the guards here indefinitely,” Jack said. “and I’ll see that the daily maids are moved into the house. I think you’re wise, Sir, and …” He glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of all the men. “The women should have an escort at all times when they leave the house. Sergeant Roth is very capable. He’ll arrange it.” He pointed to his sister. “I want you to stay inside for the next week or so. Don’t give them a target.”
Harvey winked at Summer Rose. “We must give the city’s criminal element a fighting chance.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”
CHAPTER 28
OLD CAPITOL PRISON
When all except Hal, Daniel, and Summer Rose left the library, Jack told them the gist of his conversation with the President. He knew better than to mention that the President or anyone even saw the corset. To the group at the library table, he said, “Trust me, gentlemen, while inspecting brothels is not even remotely pleasant, it’s much better duty than inventorying boxes of firing pins or patrolling along the Rappahannock in the dead of winter. Come with me now. I’m on my way over to Capitol Prison to question the one you hit with the blackjack.”
As the group dispersed, Daniel nodded. “Let me get my coat and send Ned to fetch Chester and Dulcey. Come on Hal.”
When they left, Jack eased into a chair beside his sister.
“Keep him safe. He’s my heart, Jack.”
Jack took her hands. “I’ll make a bargain with you. You take care of yourself. I’ll watch over him. You’re the only relative I have. I don’t ever want to be as frightened as I was last night when I saw you holding that knife with the blood dripping off the blade. I thought…I thought it was your blood…my God, Summer, you’re all I have left.”
Capitol Prison had been built in 1814 after the British burned the original Capitol Building during the War of 1812. Used for about ten years as the Capitol until the original building could be rebuilt, the red brick structure now housed the usual assortment of thieves, murderers, and prostitutes, along with insubordinate Yankees, Confederate spies, the likes of Belle Boyd, Antonio Ford, and Rose Greenhow. Daniel and Hal had ridden by the prison countless times, but now was the first time they’d stepped inside. Dark, damp, smelling of wet straw, unwashed bodies, both animal and human waste, the building gave them shivers. They’d brought the boy to them hooded, and, even hooded and manacled with his hands splayed on the tabletop and his feet shackled to the floor, he wore a chip the size of Ohio on his shoulder. The three men stood in the shadows across from the boy. Jerry Cox was his real name, only nineteen years old and already well-known in Washington’s prison system. Captain Fish, one of the wardens of Capitol Prison, had told them as he led them to the interrogation room, “He’s a tough little nut, slippery as an eel, and mean. Keep him in chains.”
Daniel stepped forward and took the interrogator’s seat. They’d spoken with Jack, and, in addition to Daniel’s rage at Summer’s assault, he and Hal had more experienced extracting information from Confederate spies than either cared to claim.
Daniel withdrew from his pocket the blackjack, a seven inch baton, this one a flexible mesh leather stick packed with fine gauge buckshot, made to fit easily into a man’s hand. Used with strength it could dent a skull with a single blow. Daniel motioned for Hal to stand behind the prisoner. When situated Daniel nodded. Hal whipped off the hood. The boy’s eyes were slits and surrounded by green-black flesh, his face splotched with dried blood. He took a minute to adjust to the light then squinted up at Daniel. From the look that flashed on his face, he recognized him, but he managed a brazen shrug.
Daniel pressed a knuckle between the boy’s eyes, all the time bouncing the blackjack in his other hand. Hal held Jerry’s head still. Daniel said, “Must hurt like hell.” In a swift one-two move, Daniel brought the blackjack down on the first joint of Jerry’s right thumb, crunching the bones, then swung it up so it smashed a glancing blow to his already damaged nose.
The boy screamed.
Jack did too, “Jesus Christ, Daniel. Don’t kill him.”
The words hissed out of Daniel’s mouth. “The only reason this vermin isn’t dead is he has information I want. My wife came within inches of being raped and sliced open last night. Give me a reason not to kill you.”
Blood streamed from the boy’s face, dripped down his chin, and onto his mangled thumb. Tears, which must have burned like hell, made white streaks down his cheeks. Daniel swung the blackjack again, this time smashing the other th
umb.
The boy screamed again.
“You have eight more fingers, ten toes, and a mouthful of teeth, and I have all day. Talk you little worm.”
He stood, nodded to Jack, and stepped partially into the shadows.
Black clouds rolled over the city as they rode by the address Jerry Cox had given them. The high-class brothel, which housed, according to Jerry, expensive whores, and boys and girls who brought top dollar in the world of child prostitution, was not in Murder Bay, but in an out-of-the-way little known section of the city bordering Georgetown. The three story stone mansion sat on a hill surrounded by a couple acres of woods and lawns. The madam, Pearl Mason, Jerry told them, was the premier courtesan of the city with a few select clients.
The three of them reconnoitered the area noting access by both the street and alley.
“We need a plan. I don’t want anything to slip thru my fingers,” said Jack. “Go home, get some rest. We not only need to take care of Mrs. Mason, we have 450 brothels in Murder Bay to inspect. I’ll come by the house tomorrow at 8:00 in the morning. I want to explain to the women what you’ll be doing.”
Hal snorted then said, “This I want to hear.”
Jack’s talk went surprisingly well. No one fainted or screeched outrage, but at breakfast two days later, Grace, out of nowhere, asked the men. “How are the brothel rooms decorated? Is it true they have crystal chandeliers in the bedrooms?”
Every one of the men apparently felt a need to butter their toast at that moment, concentrating hard on getting it exactly right. The drone of whispers from the kitchen ceased. Not so much as a pot banged.
Grace went on. “We know what you’re doing and we’re all curious. I think at the very least you could tell us what those places are like.”
Hal put down his napkin and cleared his throat. “Some have crystal chandeliers. However, Maggie Hall’s place is more like a men’s club: leather chairs, mahogany tables, dark walls, an elegant, marble staircase.”
Daniel had only been inspecting brothels for two days and he hoped to never see another one. He remembered not only the elegant houses, but also the sex cribs that serviced the troops with regimental precision. Twenty-some cots lined along a wall, each separated by a filthy blanket or sheet, girls taking on five boys an hour, beefy bouncers prodding the slow or timid.
“Are they open … for business … in the morning?” asked Grace.
Daniel asked for someone to pass the jam. Harvey studied his soft-boiled egg. Amelia looked excessively pale.
“What do the women wear?” asked Summer.
Hal snorted. “Clothes. Most of the time.
Summer ignored him and fired off more questions. “Do they serve food? How many girls are housed at the Blue Goose? How many at Madame Russell’s Bake Oven? And who on earth made up those names?”
“Is there entertainment? I mean other than …” asked Amelia.
That night in their room, Summer sat on the edge of the bed, watching Daniel undress. “Do they make big eyes and beckon you to them?” She let no emotion at all show in her voice, but he saw, even in the dim light from the candles, a flare of jealousy spark in her expression.
His eyes teased. “I tear their arms off me, and smile back at them and tell them I have the most gorgeous, sensuous woman in America for my wife, and if they’re not careful, she’ll find them and cut out their hearts with her Bowie knife. Maybe their tongues. I tell them you strap it to your calf when you’re not holding it in your teeth.”
He folded her into his arms and rolled across the bed. “Oh, sweetheart, some of the women do offer themselves, but you can’t imagine how vile the cheap brothels are.” He told her of the sex cribs, the filthy curtains, the rancid smells. “The soldiers, kids, old men, crusty sergeants, waiting, lined up all the way down the stairs and around the house. Fifty-cent whores, they’re called. It’s all about money. The girls are exhausted. I doubt any would look at us cross-eyed without first establishing the price.”
The following morning Amelia said, “I heard John Hay frequents those places. You’d think the President’s secretary would be uncomfortable if he were to meet the congressmen and senators he works with during daylight hours in Maggie Hall’s house after hours.”
“You’d think so,” said Daniel. “But in the better houses, the atmosphere is much like a club. I think many go there to rub elbows with the powerful. Some men simply stay downstairs, have a drink, a plate of oysters, or pâté and crackers, then leave. You can order a steak or chops or a cup of snapper soup. Piper-Heidsieck champagne corks are always popping. They drink French wines and Scotch whiskey. Maggie Hall employs a chef. You want an appropriation or a promotion, some kind of deal, Maggie’s is the place to make it.”
He nodded to Hal. “Some have roulette tables, and there’s always a card game. We hold Hal back.”
“Do they change the sheets between sessions?” Fanny asked.
Daniel shrugged. He doubted the sex cribs even used sheets.
Jack found out—from John Hay of all people—that on the 22nd of December, Mrs. Mason planned a discreet, invitation-only, reception from 8:00 to 11:00 in the evening. “I cannot attend. My reputation precedes me, but you two are not only unknown you’re the type she’d like as clients: young, good looking, and rich. John has finagled invitations for you both and will meet you at Pennsylvania and K Street at 9:00 o’clock.”
“I’m not stepping into a whorehouse reception, no matter how elegant or important, without telling Summer Rose. Don’t ask me to deceive her that way.”
“Good Lord. My sister married a man with scruples. Let me talk to her.”
Jack found her alone in the kitchen copying recipes and apprised her of the situation.
Surprisingly she agreed. “I trust Daniel. He knows where I am.” She smiled with all her imp in action. “He can’t get better,” she whispered, “… there.” With a very serious face, she continued, “I’ve found if one gives anything full concentration, one becomes very skilled at whatever it is, whether it’s throwing a knife, knitting, or what happens between the sheets with your husband.”
Jack blushed to his collar. He was so very glad she was married.
After dinner of the 22nd, Summer lit the library fireplace and curled up on the leather sofa with Les Miserable. A pot of tea and teacup sat on the end table. When Daniel, decked out in his dress uniform with sword and sash, came to say goodbye, she stood up and kissed his cheek. “Don’t sit down and ruin those knife edge creases in your trousers. You know how hard Becca worked to get them there.”
He chucked her under the chin and kissed her forehead. “Remember, I love you.”
The minute the door to the courtyard closed, she ran to the window and looked down on them mounting their horses; she wished she’d kissed him hard and said something less inane than the comment about his trousers.
CHAPTER 29
THE HOUSE ON THE HILL AT
HAMMER ROAD
John Hay, in evening clothes and high spirits, met them at the appointed time; they rode the few blocks to the house on Hammer Road. Chester took an immediate dislike to the groom so Daniel sent Hal and John Hay ahead into the house and walked Chester along the fine gravel path to the stone stable. He found a young black boy Chester did like who showed them to a stall. Commodore, his father’s horse, stood in a stall two down from Chester.
He wasn’t surprised that his father was here, but he felt awkward. How does one greet their father at a whorehouse? I’m certainly not here for sex. Perhaps he has other reasons, too. “What the hell,” he muttered as he made his way to the house. “I hope the whiskey’s good.”
It was. And the infamous Mrs. Mason was stunning and lush as the room surrounding her. She stood near the blazing fireplace while the room hummed with chatter and glittered with the light of hundreds of candles. A towering Christmas tree stood in one corner, a bar in another. At least fifty men in evening clothes or dress blues surrounded her, all like gulls in the wind pointing
to the prize. Before stepping down into the large octagonal room, Daniel paused in the archway. A silence hushed the room, and she motioned him over as if he were an old friend, and led him to the Christmas tree.
The exotic scent of spices and tropical flowers drifted about her; her skin glowed the color of coffee with cream and a hint of pale pink. Her enormous chatoyant eyes shone silver, her thick, dark hair was drawn back into a mass of curls at the nape of her neck. She was beautiful. Dressed in a heavy ivory silk dress with a triple strand of pearls, she smiled at him, made him feel a little lightheaded. The points of her breasts pressed against the taut material of her bodice. Whores, the good ones, he’d learned in just two days, knew exactly how to smile and what to say, how to make a man feel like a prince. She was lovely, as gracious as Amelia. She extended her hand, and the diamond and ruby bracelet—the one Summer had found in his father’s carriage —slid to her wrist.
He took her hand and bowed slightly, not kissing it. The bracelet had been as effective as a bucket of ice water. “I am Daniel Charteris, but I believe you know that already.”
She half smiled, her eyes twinkling and still holding his hand, she responded. “I’m Pearl Mason, and I believe you know that, also.” Her speech held just a tinge of the deep South, and her laughter tinkled like silver coins spinning on marble.
His stomach turned over, remembering what Jerry Cox had told them. She runs a dozen top-dollar girls through her house, but always keeps a kid or two for the truly sick. Charges a fortune for them, too. Gold. Always gold for the kiddies. She looks real sweet, acts like a lady, but she’s evil. She trains the kids—boys and girls—good on how to please a man. Or a woman. Calls them her little golden geese. When their peachy smooth skin grows hair she ships them over to Murder Bay to the crib joints. She owns a number of those. By then the girls are addicts. The boys…become whatever they can to survive.
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