The Song Bird
Avilon Chambert travels to the wild city of San Francisco to find her missing sister. All she has is a letter explaining she’s in terrible trouble and that she’s been working as an upstairs girl in a club owned by two handsome men, Eli Masters and Jason Braddock.
When she arrives at the club, the only way she can get to talk to them is by auditioning for the singing position, and she captivates them by her beautiful operatic voice. But the answers to her questions are vague and filled with holes, rousing her suspicions.
Her arrival at the club sets off a chain of events filled with danger. As she grows closer to Eli and Jason, the search for her sister unleashes the wrath of a madman bent of revenge, threatening to destroy everything and everyone she’s come to love.
Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre
Length: 49,337 words
THE SONG BIRD
Beth D. Carter
MENAGE AMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Amour
THE SONG BIRD
Copyright © 2012 by Beth D. Carter
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62241-652-3
First E-book Publication: November 2012
Cover design by Christine Kirchoff
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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DEDICATION
For my Waynesboro family, Amy B. and Cindy. Thank you both for your support.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It was exciting researching this period of history, and I tried to keep things as authentic as possible. Initially, the Barbary Coast in San Francisco had been known as Sydney Town, populated by the immigrants from the penal colonies of Australia. It was an area thick with corruption, prostitution, and gambling…a perfect setting for romance and mystery.
The Committee of Vigilance existed twice in San Francisco’s illustrious history, first in 1851 and again in 1856, and was the most successful vigilante organization in US history. Hundreds of citizens formed these temporary solutions to rein in corruption and crime throughout the city and government. The committee acted in policing, deportation, and investigations, as well as acting as a militia and serving as judge and jury through the hanging of several men.
I tried to incorporate as many historical figures as I could, including Sheriff David Scannell, US Marshal William Richardson, who was murdered by Charles Cora, and newspaperman James King of William, whose death sparked the committee’s second reorganization. The only liberty I took for the story was moving up the timeline of when James King of William became a newspaper editor, which actually was October of 1855.
Chinatown in San Francisco is the oldest Chinese settlement in North America, as well as the largest Chinese community outside Asia. I realize saying “Chinaman” is not politically correct in the modern day, but is accurate to the 1855 setting. I mean no disrespect and use the term only for its historical content.
The Song Bird, along with my other historical novel, The Scarlet Dove, sets up two fictional cities that will be a basis for an upcoming contemporary series coming in 2013.
THE SONG BIRD
BETH D. CARTER
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One
1855, San Francisco
Avilon Chambert stared at the imposing building in front of her and bit her bottom lip. The bitterly cold wind snaked its way from San Francisco Bay to curl along the rolling streets, finally finding a way under her woolen skirts. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her body, although it proved to be hopeless against the April gust.
She stood on the corner of Montgomery and Broadway, in a section of the city nicknamed Sydney Town, notorious for its unholy den of prostitution, corruption, and crime. No decent person in his or her right mind would dare venture into the district at night, which was why she had waited until noon to search for her sister. Inside her reticule lay her sister’s letter, making her wonder again, for the thousandth time, what had driven Amelia to travel to such a wild city in the first place. They had grown up in a small fishing community in Louisiana, among a heritage steeped in Creole tradition. When fever had swept through their small town, the girls had been split. Avilon had gone to live with her great-aunt Verity while Amelia had gone to live with their cousin Odell in New Orleans. And at some point in the past five years, Amelia’s life had drifted drastically off course.
The conspicuous design of the building in front of her was proof enough of that. Amelia had called it a gambling hall, but its character looked a tad shady. The front of it reminded her of something from the Greek Revival, with four Corinthian columns holding up a pediment decorated with female figures barely clad in wispy, flowing clothes. The steps leading up to the heavy gilt-encrusted doors were lined with a marble balustrade topped with Tyche, the goddess of luck.
The entire street was lined with signs proclaiming all types of debauchery, including sex, drink, and gambling. She could only imagine what the place would be like once night fell. The whole area seemed to breathe with a collected gust of sin, and for a moment, Avilon had the strongest notion to cover her mouth and nos
e with her rose-scented linen square. She shivered, wishing she could return to her rented bed in the parish center off Vallejo Street where the nuns were kind enough to offer her shelter. But she quickly pushed the cowardly notion aside.
Amelia needed her.
Ever since she had set foot on the coal-dusted streets of San Francisco, a foreboding had settled inside her. The city held a black heart, cold and unfeeling. In the years since gold had been discovered in nearby Coloma, thousands of people had flocked to the area. Unfortunately, the infrastructure hadn’t been there, giving rise to out-of-control crime since California was still a new state. But the lure of riches proved too hard to resist, and Avilon was afraid her sister had turned into one more lost soul.
She looked skyward, drawing in a lungful of air. The sunlight seemed trapped behind a perpetual thick bank of gray, angry clouds. Coal dust and grime touched every open surface, leaving behind streaks of dirty water as well as a smell that hovered somewhere between rotten food and wasted bodies. And the people had a look of unbearable burden, as if they wore loneliness like a favorite cloak. She had arrived only yesterday, yet it had been enough time to see the effect of deterioration of hope into wretchedness and despair. Hordes of people had rushed to a city that hinted at wealth and gold, only to see those promises turned into lies and falsehoods.
And it seemed her sister had been one of those people
Avilon had to find out where Amelia was and what danger she was in.
Most would have written off a sister who had admitted to working at a gambling establishment. After all, it didn’t take a genius to deduce what type of work she would being doing in such a manner of employment. But Avilon could never abandon Amelia. They were all each other had left.
Avilon crossed the street and marched resolutely up the slick marble steps of the gambling house. She knocked upon the locked door and waited. Minutes passed. She knocked again. When another five minutes passed, she decided to head around back, to see if there was another entrance.
In the alley, she saw several men unloading wooden crates off a cart into the opened door of the gambling house. A tall, heavily muscled man was talking to the workers, giving them instructions in a lilting, accented voice. As she approached him, she saw that his hair was burnished gold, hanging over the lip of his collar. He wore suspenders holding up pants that molded to him like a second skin, showing off a backside of corded sinew and strength.
He stood next to a Chinaman dressed in the same attire as he. Their sleeves were rolled up, but neither of them seemed to notice the whipping wind.
“Excuse me,” she called, and when he turned around, her breath froze in her chest. He was breathtaking. Bright green eyes quirked down at her, raking over from head to toe, and she could only imagine what this handsome specimen of manhood must have thought of her Puritan clothing.
“Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,” he said, his voice sounding like rough silk. She couldn’t quite place the accent, though it definitely had some British inflection underlining the words.
“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Mr. Masters.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You here for the job?”
“Job?”
“We lost our song bird a few days ago.”
“It’s a singing job?”
The man gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Interested?”
Aware that the workers had stopped unloading the cart, she looked over at them and found their interested gazes perusing her up and down. Taken aback, she pulled her black cloak more securely around her body.
“Get back to work!” the big man snarled. He placed himself in front of her, blocking their sight. Avilon took a deep breath, feeling relieved, and she raised her eyes to meet his.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Can you finish this, Ellis?”
The Chinaman nodded and said something to the deliverymen. Much to Avilon’s surprise, the workers followed the order promptly. The blond man took her arm and led her away from the work.
“Listen, perhaps you should go back to your convent.”
“I’m not a nun. My name is Avilon Chambert, and I’m here looking for my sister, Mr…?”
He gave her a brief amused smile, flashing a dimple in his right cheek. His green eyes lit up like springtime after a morning shower. “Braddock. Jason Braddock at your service, love.”
Heat engulfed her face. She’d never had anyone call her anything so intimate before. “Mr. Braddock,” she whispered and cleared her throat, “like I said, I’m looking for my sister. Her name is Amelia Chambert.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”
Avilon frowned. “But she sent me a letter saying she worked here. It’s been a couple of months. Perhaps you just don’t recognize the name—”
“I don’t think the girls we have are who you’re looking for,” he murmured in a slightly consolatory tone.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Braddock, they are.” She pulled the letter out of her bag and held it up. “My sister wrote to me almost six months ago, saying how she worked upstairs at Mr. Masters’s gambling house. She said she was in danger. Please, I’ve come a long way trying to find her.”
Jason took the letter from her and looked at it, reading quickly through it. He frowned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but girls come and go all the time. I’m afraid that’s the nature of such a life.”
Her shoulders slumped a bit. “Then can I please see Mr. Masters? Perhaps he remembers her.”
He tilted his head, studying her face. “Can you sing? He only has time for auditions today.”
“For the singing job?”
“Like I said, we lost our song bird.”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t leave without seeing Eli Masters, the only man her sister named in her letter. She had come all this way, and she felt so close to finding Amelia. “I can sing. I’ll…do it. I’ll audition if I can have just a moment of his time.”
He nodded and held out his hand. She looked at it hesitantly. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
Startled, she shot her gaze to his. His green eyes looked at her with a mixture of humor and curiosity, along with something else, something that made her tingle deep down in her belly. Disconcerted, she tentatively placed her trembling hand in his. He gripped it tight and brought it against his chest, where she felt his heart stammer slightly before pounding hard.
His eyes turned a deep, stormy green, narrowing as surprise and awareness suddenly blazed in the depths as he did a slow perusal over her face.
“Avilon,” he murmured.
She swallowed thickly, her heart almost hammering out of her chest.
“Let me take you to see Eli.”
Chapter Two
He escorted her into the dark interior of the club through the kitchen, where the cook and his staff were already preparing the meals of the day. They paused in various tasks to glance at her, though not one person said anything.
Avilon kept her cloak wrapped around her tightly, using the dark material to keep the stares at bay. The kitchen area led to a small hallway made of stone before opening up to a large dining area. The walls were a light blue with a painted mural of vines and flowers. The ceiling had fat little cherubs peeking from big, fluffy clouds. There was a stack of unopened wine sitting in the center of a table, with hundreds of small glasses perched around the bottles. Even more tables were pushed against the walls, waiting for food to be placed upon the surfaces.
They left that area and made their way into the heart of the gaming tables. The red-velvet surfaces clashed horribly with the burgundy-painted walls along with the mottled black rugs laid upon the floors. It gave the air an oppressive heaviness that settled in her chest, choking her.
A dark room veered off to the left side of the room, too dark to make anything out. On the right side of the room was a grand staircase that swept up to the mezzanine, showing a m
ultitude of closed doors around the mahogany rail. A beautiful stained-glass wall divided the entrance foyer from the gaming club, depicting Greek gods in all their powerful glory. It would be beautiful when sunlight hit it, but now it sat flat and lackluster. Everything was either dark or gave the impression of being dark, even the chandelier that hung in the center of the high ceiling.
“We don’t light it till we open,” he murmured.
Avilon looked from the chandelier to him. “Pardon?”
He pointed up. “Oil is expensive, so we conserve when we can.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Eli had it imported. Cost him an arm and a leg, but he only likes the nicer things for his clientele. He wants a level of sophistication other clubs lack.”
“An air for the wealthy gentlemen?”
“Something like that. We’re the high-end gambling club in Sydney Town, maybe even all of San Francisco. We have many wealthy patrons that visit us.”
“And yet he manages prostitutes like a pimp.”
Jason stopped and frowned at her. “Where on earth did a lady like you ever hear that word? And by the way, I probably wouldn’t call him that to his face, if I were you.”
She lifted her chin a notch. “Why? Does he hit women?”
“No, but he can curb your searching efforts. This club sees a lot of men, and if your sister worked upstairs, more than likely one of them remembers her.”
The Song Bird (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 1