“Are you blushing?”
“Of course not. I am merely warm,” Francesca lied, her hands clasped in her lap.
“I prefer far less cosmetics. The girls here are elegant and underdone.”
Francesca was startled. Then she shrugged. “Whatever pleases you, madame.”
“I never accept anyone without a written reference,” she said calmly.
Francesca smiled, reaching into her bag. She was prepared for this, oh yes. “I have several references,” she said, pleased with being so clever. She handed them to Solange.
The minutes now ticked slowly by as Solange read the three letters, clearly word for word. Francesca began to worry a bit and to fidget. The first was a brief note from Rose. The other two were fabrications written by Francesca herself. Surely Madame Marceaux could not tell that the last two were sheer lies. Francesca had made up two fictional madams and was claiming to have worked for the past four years in London. That was a reference that could not be easily checked.
Solange Marceaux finally looked up. “So you have been in London until last monh,” she said, studying her closely. “I adore London.”
Francesca smiled, hoping she was not about to be outwitted. “So do I.”
“Then why return to the United States? Clearly you are American,” she added.
Francesca did not hesitate. “One of my clients fell in love with me—unfortunately.”
“Really? Only one?”
“Oh, I have had dozens of men beg me to marry them,” Francesca continued baldly, “but this was different. This man was very prominent in public affairs, and our liaison could only hurt him. You see, I liked him. He was a gentleman. I left so he could enjoy his reputation, unsullied and untarnished.” And at that moment, she thought about Rick Bragg with a small, sad pang.
“How noble of you. And what was this gentleman’s name?”
Francesca raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon. That is information I will not reveal.”
“I see.” Solange did not bat an eye—it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Then she said, “I have spent several years in London. In fact, I believe we were there at the same time—in 1899. While I have never heard of Madame Tiffany, Mrs. Stanton was a good friend,” she said.
Francesca had made up Mrs. Stanton, and she almost fainted. But she quickly recovered, smiling. She had not provided any details with her supposed reference—no address, no establishment name, nothing. “What a small world we are in.”
“Yes. In ’99 she was operating from a fine townhouse in Belgravia. Is her club still there?”
Francesca continued to smile, her mind racing. She decided to go for broke. “Actually, as you probably know, there was quite a stir in the neighborhood and a bit of police interference, so Mrs. Stanton decided to move to Knightsbridge.”
“Really?” Her pale brows rose again.
Francesca wondered if her smile had turned to plaster. “The new establishment is actually nicer than the first.”
“Knightsbridge is a pleasant suburb,” was all that Solange Marceaux said.
Did she know? Did she know that Francesca was an impostor? Was there really a madam named Mrs. Stanton? Her brother traveled frequently—had he made an offhand reference that Francesca had somehow subconsciously retained? Or was this a game?
As Hart had said, this woman was undoubtedly a master poker player.
Solange broke the silence just as it became strained. “You seem very well educated, Miss Baron. May I ask if that is the case?”
Francesca did not hesitate. “Yes.”
Solange looked questioningly at her.
Francesca shrugged. “My family was genteel. However, it is not my nature to marry, and I was disowned.”
“I see. I have heard this story before. You are not bitter?”
Francesca smiled, looking away. “No. I like relations,” she added. And images from the night before invaded her mind.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” Francesca lied.
Solange stood. “You are an interesting woman. And your references are impeccable.”
Francesca also rose to her feet. Clearly the interview was at an end. Was Solange Marceaux being sarcastic? One could not tell, as her face never changed expression.
“I am willing to try you. I warn you, however, that our customers are demanding.”
Francesca also stood, breathless and giddy with delight. She had won. “How demanding?” she breathed.
Solange looked at her. “I see this excites you. That is very good.” She smiled then, a smile that finally brightened her pale blue eyes.
“How demanding?” Francesca asked again.
“The gentlemen who come to this establishment are looking for pleasure denied them in more conservative brothels. We cater to every need. You will have to be very daring, Miss Baron. The only thing we do not allow is extreme physical punishment. I prefer my ladies alive,” she added.
Francesca thought that a good idea. “What should I prepare myself for?”
She did not hesitate. “Costumes, whips and chains, several gentlemen at once, several ladies, orgies, lower-level brutality, bestiality, opium, heroin, cocaine.”
Orgies, brutality, bestiality . . . Francesca nodded seriously, hoping she hadn’t paled. Dear God, Hart had been right—this was a very sordid place.
And what if something happened tonight, something she could not get out of?
Francesca dismissed the thought, but for the first time, she was alarmed and anxious, even though she carried Daisy’s potion in her purse.
“You will enjoy yourself, I think. Of course, some of our clients prefer straight sex or to merely watch their friends carry on wildly.” Solange Marceaux shrugged, as if she could not comprehend it. “When can you start?”
“Tonight,” Francesca said, hoping it did not sound like an eager question.
Solange nodded. “You receive ten percent of what I charge for you. I always charge exorbitant amounts for the new ladies. Very few retain that pricing. Right now I am pricing you at three hundred dollars an hour—or a thousand dollars for the entire evening. If you prove to me you are worth it, we will keep that price.”
Francesca blinked. That was a fortune! But she said arrogantly, “I am worth it.”
“I doubt it. Be here this afternoon at four. I will show you to your room and you will have plenty of time to prepare yourself for the evening. We open at nine, but we do have some preferred customers who may arrive earlier.”
Francesca followed her into the reception hall, tingling over her good fortune. “Thank you, Madame Marceaux,” she said.
Solange nodded, amusement finally flickering in her eyes. “A word of advice,” she said. “You are new. You can expect to be busy for most of the evening. The new ones are always eagerly gobbled up.”
Her choice of words—and the look in her eyes—was odd. Francesca was suddenly afraid. But she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I am always in demand,” she said.
“I hope that is the case,” Solange Marceaux said.
“Adieu, Miss Baron.”
Francesca managed a bright smile. “A bientôt,” she said.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1902—3:00 P.M.
“SIR? THIS CAME BY messenger. The boy said it was urgent, but there is no name on the envelope.”
Hart had just concluded four business meetings, back to back. He was very pleased with the results of two of them—one would enable him to expand his shipping operation to Singapore and Hong Kong. In the other, he had acquired his first van Gogh. He had just begun to smoke a cigar, his intention to enjoy it and the moment of triumph immensely. But it was impossible. For, his day almost done, his thoughts instantly veered to Francesca.
He had done his best to avoid any thought or memory of her all day. Last night he had locked himself in his private den, reviewing the facts he would need to conduct his business the following day. He’d
stayed up until four, and then, exhausted, he’d found himself unable to sleep in his bedroom—in the bed they had shared. He’d slept on a sofa in the adjacent sitting room instead.
He’d slept a single hour, washed and shaved, skipped breakfast, and been at his office at half past six. His first meeting had been over breakfast at a private club at eight. He hadn’t stopped to breathe—or think—all day.
He jumped to his feet. He did not want to think about her. He did not want to think about how ingenious and clever she was. He did not want to think about how sensual and sexy she was. He did not want to recall her eyes, her smile, her laughter, her touch. Damn it.
“Sir?”
He had forgotten his clerk was standing there on the threshold of his huge corner office. Beyond relief, Hart expelled the thick, rich Cuban smoke. “Did you get word from the hospital yet?” he heard himself ask. He’d sent a clerk over to Bellevue three times thus far that day. Leigh Anne had taken a turn for the worse.
Edward, a lanky young man with thin blond hair and a darker mustache, now entered the spacious room. He was holding a sealed envelope. “Rodney should be back at any moment, sir.”
Hart nodded grimly, more images flashing in his mind. Leigh Anne, as still and pale as a corpse, with Bragg grimly hunched over her unmoving form.
“Let me see that,” he said, putting down his cigar. Once, he would have been mildly interested and somewhat amused by an unsigned and hand-delivered note. It would have signified an unusual business deal or the beginning of an illicit affair. Not anymore. Now, he could not care less.
He slit the envelope with an ivory-handled knife and pulled out a costly sheet of creamy stationery. The script was flawless and floral. His eyes widened slightly as he read.
My dear Mr. Hart,
I have been able to resolve the matter we recently discussed. Please stop by my place of business at your earliest convenience, tonight if you wish.
Sincerely,
Solange Marceaux
Hart carefully folded the letter, his mind racing, smiling a little now. Solange Marceaux had procured a child for him. He would go by the Jewel that evening and, he hoped, end this sordid case once and for all. How he wanted to tell Francesca.
But that was not a good idea. Not when she must be given a chance to follow her own heart. He stood. It was time he paid a visit to his brother anyway. “Edward, have Raoul ready my carriage. Cancel my last appointment. I am going to Bellevue myself.”
She had stopped crying a long time ago. Bridget sat on the floor in a corner of a bare room, furnished only with one bureau and a big bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She continued to shake sporadically, convulsively, and even her teeth would chatter then. The two men who had captured her had deposited her on that bed at least two hours ago, while untying her and removing the hood. The moment she was free, she had scrambled off the bed and into the corner, where she had been sitting ever since. They had left immediately, locking the door behind them, but she remained frozen with fear.
The dead boy had been dropped on the floor, not far from the door.
Bridget looked at him and threw up, not for the first time. A tear crept down her cheek.
She was so scared. How would Mama find her and save her? She knew what those men wanted; she had seen it in their eyes. She wasn’t a fool. She had seen Papa in bed with Mama, quite a few times, and even if she hadn’t, she’d heard them often enough, because their cottage in County Clare had had one room, and their bed had been separated from hers by a thin curtain. She’d even seen Mama, once, by the brook, in the earl’s arms. Mama had been smiling. Bridget had never seen her so happy. She’d been as beautiful as an angel.
The earl had been smiling and happy, too.
Bridget choked. She was never going back home, not to that horrid little flat, but to Ireland, and she’d never see Papa again, but even worse, she’d never see Mama, and Mama would die from the grief of it.
She screwed her eyes closed shut. How long did she have until those men came back? Mama wasn’t going to save her. She had to think, but it was so hard because she was so scared. She had to think of a way to get free.
Something made a sound in the room, by the door.
The noise had been a slight scratch, and Bridget froze, looking around warily for a rat. She hated rats. Some were bigger than small dogs. If there was a rat in the room, it would eat the dead boy. She had to find something to kill it.
She heard a soft sigh.
Bridget climbed slowly, shakily, to her feet. She scanned the room but didn’t see a rat. Her gaze slammed back to the boy. And this time, he moaned.
For one moment, she froze, disbelieving—first the two brutes, then a rat, and now a ghost? And then she saw his thick sooty lashes flutter.
The boy wasn’t dead!
Bridget ran to him, gasping in relief. She sank to her knees, cradling his head. There was so much blood from where the fat man had punched him. “Boy? Boy?” she whispered urgently, and then she gave up. She knew his name—she’d only pretended not to because he was always ogling her. “Joel! Wake up! How badly are ye hurt?”
He groaned, long and low.
She held him in her lap, wanting to slap his face because he had to wake up before those two men came back, but hitting him seemed mean, even cruel. She shook his thin shoulders instead. “Joel, it’s me, Bridget! Bridget O’Neil! Please wake up! We got to get outta here!” she cried.
His eyes slowly opened and he gazed up at her, clearly unfocused.
Had the blow to his head made him daft? “Can ye see me? D’ ye know who I am? Talk t’ me, ye fool!”
And she saw the comprehension begin to fill his gaze. “Bridget?” he whispered in some confusion.
“Thank God yer alive—I thought they killed ye, I did!” And she hugged him hard, then realized what she was about and backed away, still on her knees beside him.
He sat up stiffly, wincing, his hand going to his head. The color was returning to his face, thank the good blessed Lord. He then took his hand from his head and looked at it as if he didn’t know his own hand. It was bloody.
Instantly Bridget ripped off a piece of her skirt. The material was so thin from so many wearings and washings that it tore easily. “I thought ye were dead,” she said, moving closer. She quickly wrapped the strip around his head. “D’ ye remember what happened?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said hoarsely, his eyes turning dark.
Their gazes met.
Bridget saw the fierce determination in his eyes and she shuddered.
“How long have we been here? Ouch!” He shoved her hand away.
“Let me knot it, brat,” she said firmly, but inwardly she was thrilled. The boy wasn’t dead, and from the look if it, she had a partner to help her—them—escape.
He shoved her hand away and stood, no longer appearing at all shaky. “You’re younger than me an’ that makes you the brat,” he warned. He tied a knot in the bandage himself. “Well? How long have we been here? An’ where are we?”
“I think it’s been a few hours. It’s hard to say,” she said, also getting to her feet, the side of her skirt exposing her stocking-clad calf and the holes in it. “I don’t know where we are. They put a smelly old sack on my head and I couldn’t see a thing!”
Joel walked over to the door and tried it.
“It’s locked,” she said, aware she was stating the obvious.
He gave her a dismissive look. “Give me a hairpin,” he said.
“I don’t got any hairpins, me hair’s in a braid,” she said, hands on her hips.
He looked disgusted, but he went over to the bed, wrinkling up his nose as he tossed up the thin sheets.
She instantly understood. That bed had been used by a man and a woman—even she could smell the sex—and he was looking for missing hairpins. How clever he was!
He grinned at her, holding up a long but misshapen hairpin. “Look at that.”
She began to smile, then frowned. “What us
e do you got for a hairpin?”
“I’m gonna pick me a lock,” he said with another smug grin.
She was incredulous, and she watched him straighten the pin and then march over to the door. She hurried, following and standing so close behind him that her budding breasts brushed his back. He jerked a little and she stepped back, watching as he slid the pin into the lock, gently moving it about. The lock snapped open almost immediately.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Are ye a burglar then?”
“Naw, I gave up them days when I met Miz Cahill,” he said, giving her a look. “Stand back. I need to make sure no one’s outside the door.”
Bridget hurried to obey.
Joel slowly cracked open the door, inch by inch, until he could peer outside. And then he closed it as slowly—as soundlessly.
“What’d ye see?” she breathed.
“Ain’t no one about,” he said, “and there’s a stairs at the end of the hall and a window to our left.”
She nodded, uncertain. “But do ye want to simply march out? Surely those horrible men are downstairs?”
“We’re going to jump out the window,” he said.
Bridget swallowed nervously. “All right,” she whispered.
“C’mon.” He took her hand. “Maybe there’s a tree outside.”
She prayed they were on the second floor and that there was big fat oak tree outside the window. Even more, she prayed they would not be caught while escaping. Joel slowly opened the door again, still holding her hand. His grasp was warm and reassuring. He was so brave that she had to sneak a real glance at him.
“C’mon,” he whispered.
They slipped into the empty hall and hurried past several closed doors and to the closed window. Joel released her hand to push it open, a task that took him a long moment, as it was stuck. Finally, the heavy glass slid upward. Bridget strained to look past him and cried out. They were very high up and the tree in the backyard was too far away to be of any use. “We’ll break our necks!” she cried.
Joel hesitated before facing her. “You stay here. I’ll climb down as if it’s a cliff. Then I’ll get help.”
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