The Irish Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “Thank you.” Viola deposited the basket on the same table she’d used earlier that morning and followed Lily Mae past an elegant music room with a new Steinway piano, and into a very small front parlor. She discreetly studied her first view of what the parlor house’s clients saw, admiring the heavily carved rosewood and ebony furniture against silk wallpaper. It was a page from the fanciest illustrated ladies’ magazine brought to life on the harsh frontier.

  Yet despite the elegant decor, the air reeked with cigar smoke and other smells that she preferred not to guess at. Had anyone ever opened those velvet draperies and the windows beyond to air out the room?

  A framed Currier & Ives lithograph reflected a lovely, well-dressed woman in the doorway watching her. Viola lifted her chin proudly, determined to show no embarrassment at her own shabby clothing, and took refuge in the proprieties drilled into her from childhood. “Good morning, Mrs. Smith.”

  “What a pleasure to see you here, Mrs. Ross. Would you care to sit down?”

  “Thank you.” Viola settled herself on the elegant rosewood chair indicated. She held her back straight and her chin high, as befitted a social caller and not a destitute widow.

  Carrie Smith evinced no curiosity about the unexpected visit, instead taking the astonishing step of discussing the weather. Viola followed her lead, cloaking her shock at polite conversation in a brothel. Every time she shifted, the chair’s horsehair stuffing rustled like a jury sitting in judgment.

  There was a quiet knock before Lily Mae entered to set a silver tray down on the table in front of Viola. She left just as silently and the door shut with a soft, but distinct, click.

  “Would you care to pour?” Mrs. Smith’s soft soprano voice was more suited to the bedroom than to giving orders, even when phrased as a request.

  Viola nodded and reached for the pot. Hopefully, her hand wouldn’t shake enough to spill anything. The entire scene reminded her far too much of her mother’s lessons in deportment, sessions which usually began and ended in a bitter attack from her mother on Viola’s hoydenish conduct. “Cream? Sugar perhaps, Mrs. Smith?” she asked as if she was hosting the finest lady in town.

  “Both, thank you.” Mrs. Smith accepted the proffered cup and waited for Viola to serve herself.

  “What superb coffee, Mrs. Smith,” Viola complimented her hostess after a sip. “How do you manage fresh cream? It’s such a marvel in this hot climate.”

  “One of my clients brings it every time he comes to call.”

  Viola flushed at the thought of what the man received in return.

  “What brings you here, Mrs. Ross?” The madame’s voice had a stronger edge now.

  “I find that I must immediately leave the laundry business, Mrs. Smith. I have returned your property so that you can find someone else to accommodate you. Perhaps the small Chinese laundry on North Street would do. I understand they have superior expertise with fine fabrics.” Uncomfortably aware she was prattling, Viola stopped talking.

  “I will be very sorry to lose your services, Mrs. Ross. You have always performed to the highest standards.” Mrs. Smith’s voice was emphatic but softened as she went on. “Have you considered what you will do next?”

  Viola’s mouth tightened before she answered bluntly. “I will not marry Mr. Lennox under any circumstances, Mrs. Smith. I am certain I can find another option.” She sipped her coffee, trying not to picture that choice.

  “May I suggest one possibility?”

  Viola nodded warily, surprised by Mrs. Smith’s hesitancy.

  “Have you considered working for me? Or perhaps in another parlor house, if you choose not to remain where people have known you. I would be glad to loan you any funds necessary to free you from your obligations here.”

  Somehow Viola managed not to drop her cup into her lap. “Become a Cyprian? A…a nymph du pave?” A prostitute, her reeling brain clarified. “No, Mrs. Smith, I hadn’t thought of that.” She gulped a mouthful of cooling coffee.

  “It should prove an excellent solution for your difficulties. The money is first-rate and the hours reasonable, far better than what most women of ill repute receive. And should you find one very special gentleman to be your protector, you could become quite wealthy.”

  Viola stared at her. Thoughts spun through her head like a kaleidoscope, rarely pausing to take coherent shape. A protector? He’d probably be a fat old drunkard with more money than wit, not an athletic young man.

  She groped for a response, something polite to answer her hostess. “Mrs. Smith, I am flattered that you think so highly of my potential. But I cannot imagine that your clients would be interested in a woman of my few feminine charms.”

  “Mrs. Ross.” Mrs. Smith shook her head, smiling. “You are a mistress of the conversational arts, even under the most difficult circumstances. Men value that a great deal, especially here on the frontier where their world is so very rough and ready.”

  Viola gaped at the compliment.

  “And when the conversing is done by a woman of your unique coloring, who is most definitely female…” Mrs. Smith’s eyes rested for a moment on Viola’s bosom.

  Viola closed her mouth and swallowed her disbelief at having this discussion. Still, other women had chosen this route when hard pressed by circumstances. It did offer a few benefits, such as avoiding an Apache’s attentions. But what did a courtesan do to make that much money? Probably very hard work, if Pearl could become so tired.

  “Mrs. Smith, thank you for the offer, but your girls are famous for their, uh, proficiency in the boudoir. I’m afraid I lack those skills and would not be an asset to your business.” That should be a sufficient reason to decline.

  “Did you know everything necessary when you entered the laundry business?”

  “No, of course not.” Where was this leading?

  “Were you willing to learn? Did you bend your every effort toward becoming the best laundry woman possible?”

  “Certainly I did. How does that relate to your offer?”

  “Carnal skills can be taught and learned like any other. It’s only necessary that the student be willing.”

  An image of William Donovan soothing a stubborn mule flashed before Viola’s eyes. It had become very complaisant under his beautiful hands and was now one of his most reliable leaders. Was it possible for women to learn intimate skills in a similar fashion?

  “An adventurous spirit, which you have, my dear.” Mrs. Smith leaned forward as she spoke earnestly to her guest. But Viola no longer heard her.

  William Donovan was comfortably situated if Lily Mae thought him a good tipper. More to the point, his business depended on the Army and other mining towns, not on Lennox’s goodwill. He might be willing to accept a woman who’d be more convenient than this house’s denizens for slaking his lusts.

  Could it work? Better to be his mistress than Lennox’s wife or an Apache’s squaw. She’d do her best to make him happy, performing any acts necessary. She was accustomed to hard work, after doing so much laundry and working Edward’s small claim before that. Perhaps she could please him enough that he’d give her a fresh start somewhere else. Maybe she could make it to San Francisco and give piano lessons.

  Viola became aware that Mrs. Smith was waiting for an answer. Still too caught up in thoughts of Donovan to prepare a pretty response, she stumbled into speech. “Mrs. Smith, I’m very sorry but I must decline. Frankly, I don’t think I have the strength to welcome every man who seeks intimacy with me.” She blushed at hearing herself speak so bluntly.

  Mrs. Smith studied her for a long minute. “Are you certain? I know I sprung this offer on you. Would you care for more time to think?”

  “No! I thank you, but no. I am deeply appreciative of your confidence in me but I cannot accept.”

  “Very well.” The madame settled back in her chair with a sigh. Sincerity was emblazoned on her face. “Please consider yourself welcome to resume this conversation at any time.”

  “Thank you. I re
ally must be going now; there is someone else I must see today.”

  “Then I will not delay you. Good luck, Mrs. Ross.”

  “The same to you, Mrs. Smith.”

  Viola escaped to the sunshine with a faint sense of optimism. If Mrs. Smith sought so strongly to employ her, then hopefully Mr. Donovan would at least consider hiring her.

  The church bell sounded just as she reached the depot; only fifteen minutes remained before Lennox would come looking for her. Schubert’s “Marche Militaire” faded from her lips.

  Viola took a deep breath, wishing she had some idea of how to intrigue a man. Gracious, she didn’t even know what Donovan liked to do with his women. Perhaps he stroked his women somehow, although that didn’t sound sufficient to exhaust Pearl. At least his woman wouldn’t need to wait up to see him stagger home drunk or brew strange concoctions the next morning to sober him up.

  How on earth was she going to strike a deal with him? Beg, plead, grovel?

  If necessary, answered a little voice. She shivered but kept her chin up. Better Donovan than Lennox or an Apache. She might even learn why Pearl said he was “fine as dollar cotton.”

  A different shiver rippled through her, setting off treacherous warmth between her legs. Perhaps he knew finger games, intimate play to bring pleasure and relaxation afterwards as she’d done for herself. What would his big hands feel like on her unprotected skin? Her breath caught as her nipples abruptly budded.

  She bit her lip hard to break free of the fantasy. She licked away the resulting drop of blood and stepped briskly around the corner to approach the freight depot. Its mud-brick walls and buildings dated back to Rio Piedras’s founding more than ten years ago beside a handful of natural springs, one of them now enclosed beyond the main corral.

  Donovan & Sons was busier than usual, with men working hard to load a series of wagons. Viola’s eyes passed over them quickly, seeking one particular fellow clad in a well-tailored suit. He could be found occasionally in a teamster’s rough garb but only when driving a wagon. His clean-shaven face was always a strong contrast to every other man’s abundant facial hair, such as Evans’s mustache.

  Her eyes lingered on a dark head above broad shoulders, tugging hard on a wagonload’s embracing ropes. The right height and build, but red flannel? Then the man turned and Donovan’s brilliant blue eyes locked with hers.

  Viola gulped and nodded at him.

  His eyebrows lifted for a moment, then he returned her silent greeting. He strode toward her, still gentlemanly despite his dust, after a quick word to Evans. She was barely aware of his men’s curiosity.

  “Mrs. Ross. It is an honor to see you here.” Her grandmother would have approved of his handshake but not his appearance. His black hair was disheveled, his clothing was streaked with dust, his scent reeked of horses and sweat.

  And his shoulders looked so much more masculine under the thin red flannel than they ever had in English broadcloth.

  She swallowed and tried to think logically. She was here to gain his protection, no matter what distractions his appearance offered.

  William smiled down at Viola, curious why she’d come to the depot. Probably for money to return back East.

  “May I have a word with you in private, Mr. Donovan?”

  Poor lady, she sounded so awkward and embarrassed. “Certainly. We can use the office,” he soothed, and led the way across the yard. “Would you care for some fresh tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you. What I have to say should not take long.”

  She must want a seat on the next stagecoach out of town, if the conversation must be fast. Buy her that ticket and she’d be gone in a day. Bloody hell.

  William ushered her into the small room, bare except for the minimum of furniture, all solid, scarred, and littered with paperwork. Morgan’s numerous virtues didn’t include pushing paper to the Army’s satisfaction when his clerk was absent.

  She accepted the indicated seat but was wretchedly nervous, almost fidgeting in her chair. He wanted to snatch her up and swear the world would never hurt her again, then hunt down Charlie Jones and his fool wife. William closed the wooden shutters on the single window, filtering out much of the light and noise from the bustling corrals, then settled into his big oak swivel chair.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Ross?” He kept his voice gentle, his California drawl soft against the muffled noises from outside.

  She took a deep breath, drew herself up straight and tall, and launched into speech. “May I become your mistress, Mr. Donovan?”

  “What?! What the devil are you talking about?” he choked, too stunned to watch his language. He knew his mouth was hanging open. “Are you making a joke, Mrs. Ross?”

  “Hardly, Mr. Donovan.” She met his eyes directly, pulse pounding in her throat. “You may not have heard, but my business partner sold everything to Mr. Lennox.”

  He nodded curtly. He must have been right before: she needed money. “I met Mr. and Mrs. Jones on their way out of town. I won’t be doing business with them again,” he added harshly.

  “Quite so. But my only choices now are to marry Mr. Lennox or find another man to protect me. I’d rather be yours than an Apache’s.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” William muttered as he stood and began to pace. Think, boyo, think. She deserves better than being your woman. Heat lanced from his heart down his spine at the thought of her in his arms every night. Marriage? No, she’d never agree to a Catholic ceremony. “There are other men, men who’d marry you,” he pointed out hoarsely.

  “I will not remarry. Besides, Mr. Lennox blocked all offers other than his.”

  “Son of a bitch.” The bastard should be shot. “What about your family?”

  “They disinherited me when I married Edward. Both families refused my letters informing them of his death.”

  How the devil could a parent abandon a child, no matter what the quarrel? His father had given everything to protect his children.

  William’s gut tightened at the thought. Condoms were helpful but not a guarantee. If she stayed in his bed long enough, the odds were good…

  “You could become pregnant,” he warned, his eyes returning to her face. Blessed Virgin, what he wouldn’t do to see Viola proud and happy, holding his babe in her arms.

  “I can’t have children.”

  “The fault could be in the stallion, not the mare,” William suggested, his drawl more pronounced. And this stallion would dearly love to prove his potency where another had failed, his cock caroled.

  Breathe deep, boyo, let the lust fade, his brain warned. You were trained by the best and you’ll not leap upon a woman.

  Viola stared at him and firmly shook her head. “All of Edward’s siblings have at least three children. No, the difficulty is entirely mine.”

  He considered her slender body thoughtfully as he remembered other fragile women who’d rarely, if ever, conceived. Viola could be correct about her infertility.

  More to the point, she was stubborn enough to continue insisting on this madness of becoming his mistress, no matter what arguments he mustered. Perhaps if he took her, he could sate his hunger before her inevitable departure. His cock eagerly agreed with this reasoning.

  He moved to the window before speaking again, trying desperately to think. She needed to be warned about what to expect if she stayed with him.

  “I have strong demands and unique tastes.” His voice was darker now. If she came to his bed, he’d play the games he loved, no doubt about it. But he’d never mastered a woman who hadn’t consented and he never would.

  “And I understand you pay Mrs. Smith’s girls very well to satisfy them. I should think you would be glad to have a woman constantly available to you.” A hot flush lit her cheekbones and her pulse pounded in her throat as she licked her lips.

  Blessed Virgin, she was aroused by this conversation, but did she know what he was talking about? His fist hit the rough wall. “Mother of God, Mrs. Ross, do you have any idea
of what I might do with you?”

  She ignored his profanity. “No, but I’m willing to learn.”

  Dear God in heaven, the images those words evoked. Viola’s moon-bright hair spilling across his thighs as she cherished his cock with her mouth. Viola, flung across silk sheets as she howled her pleasure under him. Viola’s sweet ass, blazing red from his attentions, thrusting back against his cock as she begged for more…

  What wouldn’t she do as his mistress?

  “Are you offering me carte blanche, Mrs. Ross, to act as I please in the bedroom?”

  “Your horses love you and you whipped a man once for kicking a dog. I believe you’ll treat me with at least as much consideration.”

  Did she mean it? Would she truly let him do what he wanted with her? His brain finally agreed with his cock on the need to grab her now, quickly, before she had time to reconsider. He gave voice to the bargain. “I give you my word on that. And I’ll protect you from those who’d harm you as well.”

  “Such as Mr. Lennox?”

  His jaw set. “Definitely against Lennox.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him, then went on more briskly, “How much?”

  William coughed at her businesslike words, which were a complete contrast to her nipples’ eager thrust against the thin cloth. “What did you have in mind?”

  “One hundred dollars a week. I believe you regularly spend more than that at Mrs. Smith’s.”

  If he paid her by the week, she could leave after a few days’ notice. Everything in him railed at the idea, desperate to keep her as long as possible.

  William kept his expression shuttered as he answered, leaning back against the desk. “A weekly rate wouldn’t suit me. It will take time to teach you my preferences.”

  “How long?”

  His eyes hooded for a moment. What was the minimum stay for a student at Lyonsgate? “Three months.”

  She didn’t blink. “One thousand dollars.”

  Bloody hell, she hadn’t balked at the time he’d demanded. He summarized the deal clearly, needing her complete agreement before he acted. “And for that sum and my protection, you will live under my roof, be constantly at my disposal, and learn how best to please me.”