by Eloise Alden
Why think of him? I dismiss all memories of him. I’m buying a Toyota, not a Mercedes. I want this car, I mentally rehearse. Just this one in the advertisement.
“They’ll try to up-sell you,” Lizzy had warned. “They don’t want to sell you that stripped-down model.”
Heated seats? No. Moon roof? No. Built in DVD player? No. My stomach clenches with nerves when a salesman catches my eye. He oozes toward me, swaggering. He looks like Mr. Steele.
I take a deep breath. If Verity could fight off Mr. Steele and plot the destruction of Lucky Island, then surely, I can buy a car.
“How are you today?” the Steele-look-a-like asks. He’s squinting in the sun, but I can tell his eyes are blue. Steel blue. “Are you interested in test driving one of our new Lexus 300 models? A shipment arrived just this morning.”
“Does it come with a hotdog?” I ask, motioning toward the stand.
He laughs, exposing his sharp teeth. “And a soda, if you’d like.”
“I really just want this car,” I show him the advertisement and the car I’ve circled with a red sharpie.
His teeth withdraw and his smile fades. He squares his shoulders, mustering his sales-know-how. “What color would you like?”
I glance at the advertisement. “It says you only have five at this price. What colors do you have?”
He motions for me to follow and I do. “Mustard and olive green.” He sweeps his arms like Vanna White in front of the ugly cars.
I’m going to have to spend the next ten years driving something that looks like a condiment from the hotdog stand. Unless…
I squint at all the other cars in the lot. There are hundreds of them. I decide that I can find one that I like that’s reasonably priced. My years at the library have prepared me for this moment. A library has thousands of books. I don’t want to read them all. It’s not hard to find the ones I want to spend my time with, it just takes some time. Maybe it’s the same with a car. Slowly, I begin to walk up and down the rows.
The Mr. Steele look-a-like trails after me like a trained dog, spouting car lingo and statistics. I stop in front of a midnight blue convertible. Looking at the sticker price, I pull out my glasses to read the fine print.
I will be victorious.
I’m paying cash.
CHAPTER 21
Shake rather than wash off loose dirt. Many root–cellar vegetables store better this way. Always handle your vegetables with care; even slightly rough treatment can cause invisible bruising, and start the produce on the road to decomposition.
From The Recipes of Verity Faye
Feeling the gaze of her friends on her back, Verity snuck to the side of the building. She hadn’t pressed Chloe, Cassie, Young Lee or Mugs into service; they’d all gladly volunteered to take her place. This was something she wanted to do herself.
Nature’s night noises, insects, crashing surf, the wind, were subdued by the music and laughter of the brothel. The thump of her rapidly beating heart drowned out the sound of her footsteps. The downstairs rooms, the party parlor, and dark kitchen, had opened windows, but the upstairs windows, mostly lit, had drawn blinds. Verity watched the shadows, looking for Trent’s tall frame. She knew he was inside, but she didn’t know where, or with whom.
Verity snuck a glance at the doors of the root cellar. Formerly dark, a faint glow now radiated up the steps and told her that Young Lee had secured his position without interference and was at work setting up the explosives. Verity couldn’t think of a reason for someone to go to the cellar at two in the morning, but still she prayed he wouldn’t be interrupted. She watched the attic windows, wondering how she’d make it to the girl’s dormitory.
The moon had long since reached its apex and before they’d finished it would slide closer to the horizon, and finally, if all went as planned, be overwhelmed by explosives.
The plan is simple really, Verity thought, scurrying around to the side of the mansion and stopping at the bottom of the maple. Simple if one knows how to climb trees.
#
Trent wondered if each girl were decorated like a room adornment, or if it was merely a coincidence that his girl happened to match the room’s decorating. Deep maroon paint, pink satin floral frenzy, frippery and flounces, swinging tassel. He wondered if there were blue or green rooms and corresponding girls. Patsy lounged on the bed, hip bone poking toward the sky. Patsy, Pink Patsy, could that really be her name? Fluttering her lashes, Patsy watched Trent remove the bills from his money clip.
“You sure you haven’t seen either girl?” he asked.
Patsy shook her head and trailed a finger along her leg, pausing on the garter circling her thigh.
Trent looked at the ceiling and asked, “The new girls, do they stay with the others as soon as they arrive?”
Patsy licked her lips and smiled. “That all depends.”
“On?”
“Are you sure you don’t have a more interesting game you’d like to play?” Patsy sat up and her bodice slipped a hair lower.
Trent sighed and slipped off his jacket and tossed it to the girl. “Put this on,” he said.
Patsy looked at the jacket as if it were made of horse hair.
“Look, I’m paying generously for my half hour and I want you to wear the jacket. Surely, you’ve been asked to perform more arduous tasks. I’ll pay double for information.”
Patsy sighed, put on the jacket, sat up, and tucked her legs beneath her. She kept her eyes on the money clip as if it would help her to stay rooted in her assignment. “I can’t tell you about the new girls, it’s too dangerous for me,” she said, “but I can tell you there have been no recruits for weeks. We’d know. We keep track. A newbie cuts into our wages and can steal our clients. Newbies are always a threat.”
“And you’re sure no one has recently arrived?” Trent’s heart stopped when a fast-moving shadow outside the window diverted his attention.
“Absolutely,” Patsy said.
Trent moved to the window and peeked through the blinds. A boy swung from the limbs of the giant maple tree while trying to maintain his hat. He landed on a branch even with the second story and scrambled to maintain his grip. The hat slipped and a long lock of dark hair escaped its confines. It flopped to the boy’s waist catching the light like a flow of dark, warm brandy. Long hair. Verity’s hair.
Trent froze, watching Verity wrap her legs around the tree’s branches. She hugged the tree as tightly as her breeches hugged her hips. The sight of Verity shimmying along the tree did things to him that even Pink Patsy couldn’t imagine. He took a deep breath. Fear, anxiety, and anger, boiled inside of him. Trent crossed the room and scrolled down the lamp’s wick, plunging the room into darkness.
Patsy squealed and sat up straight. “Changed your mind then?”
Trent didn’t look at her. “No.” He pulled open the blind and lifted the window, noticing for the first time the balcony that ran along the house.
“Where you going, love?”
“Shh,” he said, without turning.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Patsy whined.
Agitated, Trent peeled several dollars from his clip and tossed them on the bed. “You’re to be very quiet.” He looked Patsy in the eye. “Can you do that?”
“Quiet as a cat.” She smiled. “But I’d much rather be purring.”
Trent turned back to the window, but to his frustration, Verity had disappeared.
#
Verity climbed into the dark window. The moonlight shone on the great four-poster bed with the mussed linens. Quietly, Verity slunk to the wardrobe. The doors opened silently. In the semi-darkness, she rooted through the clothes; each choice seemed either too small or too sheer. All she needed was something that would allow her to slink into the dormitory without notice, something not masculine, but also, something that she could wear later, for the escape, without fear of freezing.
She held up a frilly ensemble. Oh dear. It would have to do. Perhaps the staff could come i
n useful. She pulled the coverlet over the sheets and sat down on the bed to tug off her boots and the bed complained with a groan. Her heart, already racing, did a small flip as she slipped off her father’s shirt.
#
The lights flickered low, casting dark shadows down the long corridor. A red carpet with gold filigrees ran beneath his feet. Paintings of women in varying stages of undress lined the hallway. The tinkling of a piano from the downstairs foyer filled the air. He remembered another hall, the hall leading to Steele’s door.
Where was Verity? And why would she come, after all they’d said and promised to each other? He felt sick with the belief that she couldn’t be trusted. That perhaps she would always be this way, championing causes that couldn’t be won, waging war on foes for principles, albeit noble, but without hope. True, her friend had fallen into Steele’s trap, but she, as far as he knew, didn’t even comprehend Steele’s influence or the danger.
He thought of her lying in his arms at the cottage, soft, vulnerable, had he been wrong to assume that she would willingly embrace a quiet life, a life without assaulting villains, rescuing misplaced maidens, and raiding brothels? Did she need a bump on her head to keep still?
True, he loved her fire, her unflagging intelligence, her can-do, will-do, why not, serve-it-up-with-a-pie-attitude, but could she be happy at the ranch with nothing to plot but the antics of children? He leaned back against the wall as a familiar gray-haired gentleman rounded the corner.
He nodded at Mr. Muir, who returned his greeting with a leer. “Is this your charmer?” Muir said, cocking his head at the frilly beauty standing still at the end of the hall, a flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. Verity.
Trent forgot Muir, sprinted down the hall, caught Verity by the wrist, and tried to drag her into a room. Locked. He tried the next and hauled her inside. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed you’d stay at Tilly’s?” He kicked the door shut and held both her arms, shaking her with each word for emphasis.
“I-” she licked her lips.
He stopped and tried to muster composure. He couldn’t be distracted. “This is dangerous--haven’t you learned? Will I ever be able to trust you? This isn’t child’s play.” He halted, suddenly noticing her apparel or lack thereof. “Although, you do seem dressed appropriately.”
Verity pulled away from him and tugged on the slipping bodice which had obviously been sewn for someone with a more generous bosom.
“What are you wearing?”
Verity looked down on her costume, a white frilly frock with a lace-up corset, a tulle petticoat, and barely-there pantaloons. “I think I’m supposed to be Little Bo-peep.”
“And I should think all the sheep will soon be following you around,” a voice spoke behind them.
Trent wheeled around and came face to face with Steele. Trent had been so involved with Verity he hadn’t noticed the door opening. From the shocked, wide-eyed look on Verity’s face, she hadn’t heard his arrival either.
“This is a private party, Steele,” Trent said, his voice like flint. He drew Verity beneath his arm, sheltering her.
Steele slipped a pistol from a holster hiding beneath his jacket and leveled it at Verity’s corset. “Perhaps you’d consider another arrangement, a bargain.”
“You’re a sick man,” Trent said through clenched teeth.
“Ah, but I’m never sick. And unlike some,” he met and held Verity’s eyes, “I’ve never died. It seems your death was unsuccessful the first time. Perhaps you need my help.”
Trent reached for his own pistol secured in his waistband.
Steele flicked his head at him. “One stupid move and the girl dies.” His finger rested on the trigger. “Just think of all those lost sheep.” He pulled back and the world exploded.
The noise thundered through the house. The shaking became so violent it seemed the brothel would slip from its foundation. Girls screamed and men bellowed as they streamed out the doors and jammed into the hall. Trent caught sight of a half-naked Mr. Muir jostling through the throng, his white rear shaking with expediency. And then everything was lost in a sulfur-smelling haze of orange and yellow putrid smoke.
Verity used the diversion to thwack Steele’s gun hand with her staff. The gun clattered to the floor. Steele howled in pain or outrage, or perhaps both and as he stooped for the gun, Verity brought her staff down on his head with a solid thwack.
“Well done,” Trent said, picking up the revolver and placing his boot on Steele’s back.
Verity brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Thanks. I’ve actually had practice.”
Trent raised an eyebrow at her and then motioned to the hall. “We’d better go before we turn to ashes.”
Verity looked at Steele squirming beneath Trent’s boot. “We can’t just leave him here.”
“If he dies in the fire—”
Verity shook her head and drew closer to Trent, her features becoming clearer through the thick smoke as she approached. Touching his arm, she touched her lips to his ear. “The fire’s a ruse.”
Stunned Trent stepped back. “You did this?”
She rocked back onto her heels, looking smug. “Well, not alone.”
He grabbed her by the arm, debating if he should kiss her or kill her. Steele used the distraction to roll out from under his boot. Verity noticed and brought another strike of her staff on his head.
Steele went limp.
“You’re getting rather good at that,” Trent said, placing his foot firmly on Steele’s back and pulling Verity into his arms. She felt warm and soft, and despite the acrid air, he could still smell the cinnamon that clung to her hair. She tasted and smelled of pie. “Quite scary,” he murmured, his mouth against her lips.
He stopped short of deepening the kiss when a figure materialized beside them from the smoke. “Chloe?” he choked.
What was she wearing? Someone, and he didn’t have to think too hard to know who, had wrapped her so that her waist had the same circumference as her chest. She looked like a mobile water barrel. He stared down into Verity’s face and when he did speak, his voice broke. “You involved my sister?” He swallowed.
“Did you really think I could be left behind?” Chloe demanded. She turned her attention to Verity. If Chloe thought it odd that Verity would be holding her brother in a bawdy house while wearing a Little Bo-peep costume, she didn’t remark upon it. “All the girls are in the wagon and we need to leave before the others discover this is all smoke and mirrors.”
“But what about?” Verity jerked her head at Steele.
Chloe, perhaps for the first time, noticed the lifeless form beneath Trent’s boot. “Did you kill him?”
Verity shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
Verity nodded. “He’s exceptionally hard-headed.”
Trent knelt beside Steele and pulled his wrists behind his back.
Verity held up a finger. “I know just the thing. I saw them in the cupboard.” Going to the wardrobe, she pulled long lengths of linen out of a basket. She held them out with a curious look on her face before handing them to Trent. “Still, what will we do with him?”
Trent’s face tightened with concentration as he tied Steele’s wrists together. “We’ll leave him with Sherriff Calhoun. I heard he’s been looking for him.” Finished, he stood and wiped his hands as if he’d dealt with something dirty.
Chloe tugged at Verity. “We need to leave.”
Trent wanted to argue. He wanted both girls to stay where he could see them, but he also recognized their immediate need to escape. It would take him awhile to get Steele down to the coach, so he nodded. “We’ll meet on the other side of the bridge. Be careful.”
There were so many other things he wanted to say. Be careful sounded weak and ineffectual compared to the strength of the emotions raging inside of him. He watched the two women, Verity with her staff held aloft and Chloe with her felt hat pulled low, slip from the room and into the bedlam and smoke.
>
#
Verity and Chloe made their way down the hall in grim silence. The tide of patrons and girls swept down the front stairs, and Verity followed them but Chloe tugged her down another hall. “Where are we going?” Verity asked, bumping into a man trying to jump into his pants.
Chloe tightened her grip on Verity’s wrist. “Cassie suggested the dumbwaiter. It’ll take us straight to the basement.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?” Verity stumbled and nearly tripped over her staff.
“Not as dangerous as meeting Lady Luck. She has to be somewhere close. According to one of the girls, she’d taken to her bed about an hour ago. Supposedly she’d received a guest that had sought a private audience.”
“Steele.”
“Probably.”
Verity considered this as they trotted down the now deserted hall. “No, that doesn’t make sense.” She halted in front of the dumbwaiter and pointed at it. “And that doesn’t make sense, either.”
“Any sign of Minnie?” Chloe asked, as she grabbed the handle of the dumbwaiter and wrenched it open, exposing a dark three by three cage.
Verity shook her head. “Miles?”
“He’s completely beside himself.”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
Chloe flushed crimson pink. “Come on,” she said, dropping Verity’s wrist and swinging a leg into the dumbwaiter.
“This would have been much more difficult in skirts,” Chloe whispered. She needn’t have bothered. The back stair that led to the maid’s quarters above and the kitchen below was deserted. They heard the press and clamor of the girls in the next hall, the snapping and sparking of the fireworks, but from Lady Luck’s private quarters, directly above their position in the back hall, they didn’t hear a thing. It’d been a miracle that they still hadn’t seen or been confronted by the Madam.
“Not that this will be easy,” Verity said, passing Chloe the rope so that she could climb in.
Chloe pushed herself into the back corner of the dumbwaiter, her knees up around her ears. She held the rope high so Verity could wedge into the tight space.