Lucius scowled. He didn’t really expect Brock to go for that anyway. Not that he would even have a choice in the end.
“I also said I would kill you,” Lucius continued, teeth clenched.
Option Number Two.
“Ah, yes. That you did, but I seem to recall a certain clause about Evelyn.”
You touch her, you speak to her, you so much as look at her like that again, and I promise I will kill you.
All right. Perhaps Lucius had not added, “you win her money in a game of poker”. But how could he have foreseen this happening? The bottom line was the offense, and Brock had clearly overstepped his boundaries.
“You’ve crossed the line,” Lucius told him. “That’s Evelyn’s money you took.”
“It’s Evelyn’s money you lost.”
Back to Option Number One.
“Then take my portion, but return what is hers. It’s what a gentleman would do.”
Brock shook his head and shrugged.
“Yes, but neither one of us is looking at a gentleman, mate. You spent Evelyn’s money same as I will.”
“Then be the better man!”
Brock laughed again. Lucius was one of his more amusing victims.
“You know I already am. Evelyn can have her money as soon as she realizes this, and comes to be with me.”
The bastard! To clean Lucius out, then dangle Evelyn under his very nose! She was not Brock’s to dangle! Lucius felt his body begin to tremble as rage consumed him.
“She will never be with you!” he screamed.
Negotiations had failed, as he knew they would. Perhaps he had even hoped for that. At least this way, Brock would be out of his life for good.
Lucius reached into his belt, felt the steel of his pistol as it had warmed to the same temperature of his body.
The heat of it nearly burned him. Brock was not the only one who had kept a secret weapon hidden for just the opportune moment.
Brock watched with sudden comprehension as Lucius reached beneath the table to produce his weapon. Finally! Lucius was doing the predictable thing. The Australian might have made a movement if his instincts warned him of danger. He had been at the opposite end of a barrel before, had felt the adrenaline of staring death in the eye. But this was no life-threatening surprise. This was to be expected. Lucius was drunk. Lucius was angry. And Lucius could not hold onto a deck of cards.
Brock was actually excited to see how this would end.
He gazed on with amusement as Lucius’ hand disappeared, then lifted up and up as the gun continued to ascend past its intended position. Lucius’ fingers fumbled to such an obnoxious degree that they successfully managed to fling the weapon over his shoulder. Everyone in the room held their breath as the gun flew through the air, then fell to the floor with a metallic thud.
There was a corporate gasp as the crowd waited for the blast that did not come.
Bloody hell. Lucius couldn’t even shoot someone.
He shook his head and sighed a great sigh, slumping a little lower in his chair. Options One and Two had failed him. He might as well accept defeat.
Which was Option Number Three.
The brief moment of stillness suddenly exploded into chaos.
“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted, followed by a series of blithering idiots who repeated the same exclamation.
Lucius rolled his eyes. Of course he had a gun. Everyone had a gun. But with all the commotion, one would think such a thing was a novelty around here.
“Oy!” the bartender exclaimed. “I’ll not have anyone shooting in my saloon, gentlemen! Someone pick up that weapon and bring it here.”
The pistol was promptly confiscated and given to the bartender, who tucked it out of sight.
Lucius watched with contradicting emotions as his weapon disappeared: violation, as this was his gun they were reprimanding; fear, as he was now defenseless; and apathy, as he had been stripped of everything anyway.
Then Brock Donnigan stood to his feet, and Lucius suddenly forgot all about the gun.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, mate,” he told Lucius, looming over the smaller man like a tower of wrath.
Was he serious? He just stole Lucius’ fortune and he thought Lucius had a lot of nerve?
Lucius might have had a verbal reply if Brock didn’t move so quickly. Brock swiftly closed the distance between them, grabbed a handful of Lucius’ hair, and shoved his face into the side of the table.
It should have hurt, but if Lucius had any luck left, it was this: his face was numb from all the drinking.
* * *
Down the narrow, black hall, a yellow light burned from behind a shabby curtained entrance, where Evelyn could clearly see the shape of a woman through the tatters. Mr. Dupont thrust the fabric aside, revealing the female entity with more clarity. She was an unsettling vision of indecency, standing unashamed in her undergarments, her slight shoulders slumped into sagging breasts, a narrow chest that bloomed into a round and unsightly belly. At her hips, she grew narrow again, giving her the appearance of a ginger root.
“This is Cherie,” Mr. Dupont said, “my wife. She’s going to make you look presentable.”
The woman stared at Evelyn with eyes smeared in black coal, her lips a thin, red stretch of twine, the false color bleeding into the cracks of her middle-aged skin.
“I heard you on the piano,” Cherie said. “You were splendid. I am so glad to meet you.”
“Her name is Evelyn,” Mr. Dupont added.
Cherie’s twine lips turned up in a grin that seemed out of place.
“Evelyn,” she repeated, lingering on the name. “I am so happy you are here.”
Evelyn did not know if she could return the sentiment.
“Thank you,” was all she offered in reply.
Cherie looked at her with the same unsettling expression Evelyn had seen on Mr. Dupont’s face. She could not put a finger on it before the wine, and she most certainly could not define it now.
She felt overly suspicious. And for what reason? Mr. Dupont was going to feed her veal and let her play his piano. Cherie was going to make her pretty. She should enjoy this.
“I want her fixed up in an hour and ready for show,” Mr. Dupont told Cherie.
This caught his wife by surprise.
“An hour!” she cried.
Cherie spat a stream of French curses, to which Mr. Dupont turned away with a wave of his hand, disappearing into the darkness beyond the tattered curtain entrance.
“Where are you going to find an audience in one hour?” she called after him.
“Wherever the hell I can!” he called back.
Cherie grunted. She smelled of cigarette smoke and opium. She leaned towards Evelyn and took a loud, rasping sniff of her neck.
Perturbed, Evelyn grimaced and leaned backwards.
“Not bad,” Cherie muttered. “You bathe regularly?”
Evelyn didn’t see what bathing had to do with anything.
“Once a week,” she replied.
Cherie emitted a little chuckle.
“More than my girls,” she said. “Still, you smell like the market. I’m afraid dust and raw meat are not quite what we are looking for.”
“And just what are you looking for, Madame?”
There was that funny grin again.
“A rose.”
Cherie took Evelyn’s hand with a skeletal-like grip and led her further into the room, stopping at a dirty washbasin.
“Take off your clothes,” she instructed.
Evelyn stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“You must bathe.”
Evelyn did not move.
“I really don’t believe that is necessary.”
Cherie sighed impatiently, emitted a curse, and turned to her bureau.
“I have one hour to make you exquisite,” she told Evelyn, a disgruntled edge to her voice. “Tell me. When was the last time you were dolled up, princess?”
Evelyn though
t of the port of Chagres, the river, the stinking huts, the disappointment of the Washington Hotel. A journey made of mud, smoke, mosquitoes, and sweat.
When was the last time her fingernails were clean?
“Nearly a month now,” she admitted.
Cherie nodded. She fiddled with some things while Evelyn looked around, taking in the closet of a room. There were a few scraps of clothing hanging from a coat rack, some strips of lace, and feathered headdresses. Stuck to the walls were cutouts from newspapers, drawings of fashionable women from New York and Boston. The air was hot and dank, the walls crumbling and musty. There were cracks in the corners, where the sounds of grinding and scratching betrayed the presence of vermin.
Then there was the flash of a lit match and the Frenchwoman turned from her work at the bureau, holding out a shot glass full of milky green liquid.
“She is your refuge today,” she said in French. “She will calm you. Make you feel happy.”
Evelyn took the glass from the woman questioningly, her eyes betraying her caution.
“Absinthe,” Cherie told her. “Drink.”
Evelyn hesitated, so Cherie hastily turned to grab the bottle.
“You see?” she demanded, indicating that the bottle was half empty. “I drink, too.”
Skeptical, Evelyn took a sip. The taste was bitter, yet somehow sweet. It burned like fire as it entered her belly, radiating from within and causing her face to flush red. She kept the glass in her hand and continued to sip as Cherie picked through the small selection of outfits, singing little bits of a Parisian melody. She decided on a little black corset with a skirt that was designed to fly open at the slightest movement. As she arranged the clothing on the back of a chair, she swayed her little hips and moved to the other side of the room, where she opened a ragged trunk and dug through various shoes. She found some blue heels, clucked her tongue, and addressed Evelyn once more.
“The last time I wore these, I was ten years younger and wore nothing else.” She giggled a little, but her mirth was short-lived. “Now pigeon, get out of those sun bleached rags and clean yourself up.”
The combination of wine, absinthe, and hunger was taking effect on Evelyn. She had the slightest inclination to object, but she was curious about the outfit Cherie had produced, and the shoes really were quite lovely.
As she stepped out of her dress, Evelyn watched Cherie pour another glass. The process was suddenly fascinating, and Evelyn was transfixed as Cherie dipped a sugar cube in the spirit and set it atop a spoon over the alcohol. She struck a match, lighting the sugar aflame. The sparkling white turned amber and dripped into the absinthe, the colors swirling together.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Cherie tapped the glass.
“The spirit is made of wormwood. Very bitter without adding a little sweetness.” Cherie blew out the remaining flame and stirred the rest of the sugar into the drink. “The French like to use water, but I am different. I prefer fire.”
She handed Evelyn the second glass.
“You like?” she asked. Evelyn nodded. “Good. Drink up. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself in a field of flowers with the wind in your hair instead of this stinking place. You smoke?”
Evelyn waved her hand through the air, telling her no. Her head grew heavier with each sip, so Cherie assisted her with the washing of her hair.
After bathing, Evelyn dressed as Cherie took a small pipe-like device out of a drawer and lit it. So this was the opium Evelyn had smelled before. It was a sweet smell, almost colorful. As the smoke rose in the air she imagined it was tangible, and she stretched out her hand to touch it.
Cherie slapped her away.
“It doesn’t take much to get you drunk, does it?” she mocked. “The Green Fairy is having her way with you.”
Evelyn looked at her inquisitively.
“It’s just as well,” Cherie continued. “Tonight, she will bring fortune to all of us.”
Evelyn smiled at her and held out an empty glass.
“Another, please.”
Cherie blew a stream of smoke in her face, shook her head, and poured her some more.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The clouds adopted various shades of purple and forget-me-not blue as the sun sank lower and lower, soon to disappear beyond the sea. Nearby, a hen clucked with frustration as she flapped her clumsy wings, attempting to roost upon a flower box set beyond her reach. The air was permeated with the smell of her droppings, which mingled with the acrid, malodorous scent of human excrement from the nearby gutter. The street hummed with the busyness of closing day, as women and children rushed to complete their final tasks before darkness fell and drunkenness became the wandering apparition of night. It was unsafe to be about after sundown, when carelessness, deceit, despair, and all other manners of evil reveled in the shadows.
Carelessness. Deceit. Despair. These were the deathly sprites that now rested upon the shoulders of Lucius Flynn.
As he opened his eyes, he saw the tips of buildings across the street, the way their pale, cracking paint reflected the shifting color of the sky. They blurred and dipped from left to right, like a ship tossed between waves, for Lucius’ vision was subjected to the fickle dictation of alcohol as it moved like mud through his veins, poisoning his blood and distorting his mind.
The numbness had worn off. His face hurt, so he lifted a finger to feel the tender, swollen ridge that stretched from his forehead to his cheekbone. The slightest touch evoked agony both physically and emotionally, and Lucius turned his face to the gutter to vomit.
How long had he been laying here? And how did he wind up here in the first place?
Oh, yes. The three sprites.
Carelessness. The devil who tempted Lucius to drink away his wisdom, to accept the seat across from Brock Donnigan, to believe he was an immortal, untouchable god whose luck would never betray him.
But it did.
Deceit. The illusion of success, the manipulative monster who whispered that survival was in the quality of the lie, inspiring the bluff that cost Lucius the entirety of his fortune.
Despair. The heavy, black cloak that wrapped Lucius in its cold, suffocating vice. The voice that whispered everything was over. You’ve been cursed by your father. Go home and succumb to the future you feared the most.
The afternoon’s events haunted him like glimpses from a dream. The smell of sweat in the gambling house. The burning cigar smoke. The ale that tasted so good in the beginning, then gradually lost its flavor the more he consumed. The sound of his pistol as it hit the floor. The stack of coins and papers in the center of the table, then the barrenness of the wooden surface as it was all swept into two arms that did not belong to him. That same wooden surface as it came closer and closer, until it was slamming into his face.
The way Brock looked at him. The way Brock grabbed him by the neck and tossed him into the street. (Ah, yes, that was how he got here.) The way Brock said Evelyn’s name.
Evelyn.
When his stomach had nothing left to purge, Lucius lay back down. He could get up, but what was the point? Where could he go?
Not the field. The players had probably gathered there now that the day had cooled. He imagined them kicking the ball, clapping one another on the back, shouting obscenities, cursing, laughing.
Lucius couldn’t remember what it felt like to laugh.
He could not join them in their play. He could not even hold onto a hand of cards, or the handle of a gun. He would be expected to play hard, to master the ball, to win. Because that’s what Lucius did. He won. Always.
Until today.
He could not wander the streets. He would certainly get lost, or fall into the gutter. God forbid he should walk twenty paces only to become reacquainted with his vomit.
Thieves might mistake him for a rich man and try to rob him, only to discover his complete destitution. They would hate him for wasting their time, so they would probably beat him. And throw him into the gutte
r.
Whichever way he looked at it, he was bound to wind up in the gutter somehow. Just look how close he had come the first time.
He could not poke into an eating house, because he had no money to eat. He could not book a room in a hotel, because he had no money to sleep. Besides, there were no rooms available anyway.
Lastly, he could not, would not, return to camp. No sir. There was no way in hellfire he would be induced to show his face there. He didn’t know how long he had passed out, but it was certainly long enough for the rumor of his demise to reach his friends. Josephine would be utterly disappointed in him, might even refuse to look at him with those remarkable eyes. Adele had probably asked Samuel to replace Lucius as their guardian, and she would certainly prevent Lucius from ever seeing her boy again. What mother would want a louse like Lucius near her son? And as for Evelyn…
Lucius cringed, and he reasoned that the pain in his face was the reason the tears came to his eyes.
His only option was to stay right here. Watch the clouds. Wait for the moon. Perhaps someone would trip over him in the darkness of night, kick his face in, and send him into the next life. If it was heaven, he would be pleasantly surprised. And if it was hell… well, at least he could see it coming.
* * *
Mr. Dupont checked his watch, the final thing of value he possessed. It had a pure gold encasement and had belonged to his father. Before Evelyn Brennan walked into his establishment, he had planned to sell it. Now, however, he knew he would not need to.
Part of him felt something like guilt. He supposed he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. But because he was human, he also had to do what was necessary to survive, and that meant one of two things: sell the watch, or deceive the pretty Irish girl into becoming a harlot.
It was a harsh reality, but she did not suspect foul play. That much was certain. For all her arrogant, refined airs, she was a most unintelligent female. It was obvious she did not esteem Mr. Dupont, but that was not because she knew his plans. It was simply because he would not treat her like the spoiled brat she was.
Mr. Dupont was fortunate she could play the piano, for he did not know how he would have otherwise captured her. The instrument was his bait. The other girls came to him on their own, desperate for money and inept in every way except one: selling themselves. They were courtesans. Albeit, they were mustachioed ones. But all the proper functions were there.
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 33