Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  Generally, bribes and threats worked better with boys than with girls. Girls of all ages were more mature. They were onto me before the end of my spiel. Plus, girls were usually drawn to prostitution rather than the more dangerous field of thievery. Brothels offered some “protection”; the streets offered none.

  Up ahead, the nearly-bare-bottomed lad I pursued squeezed through a narrow opening in a rusted wrought-iron fence, a six-foot tall structure that cut off the alley footpath to the general public.

  Warning bells sounded in my head, hackles rose at the back of my neck.

  Not only was the area remote, the streetlamp at the foot of the alley was suspiciously out of service. Should I follow the thieving lad anyway?

  No novice at this business, I knew the dangers, and what those dangers portended. Injury or even death featured high on the list of possibilities. A dark and remote alley increased this risk two-fold, particularly one with a purposefully broken street lamp out front.

  Be that as it may, I was not giving up. Of thin build, with no bosom to speak of, much less boast about, I sucked in my breath and squeezed sideways through the same narrow gap in the fence as the boy, now disappeared from view.

  After a few cautious steps, I found myself at the surprisingly clean rear entry of a large brick tenement, the house three-stories in height, not counting the subterranean basement, and no one ever did. Upon seeing the neat surroundings, I knew the building had been purchased specifically with its private entrance in mind. The broken streetlight and shabby front alley were masterful touches, icing on the cake, strategically applied.

  Mindful of the possibility of ambush, I proceeded along, a door slamming in the near distance making me jump.

  The boy had retreated inside. Obviously, the thieving scamp had someplace to sleep that night. So why continue?

  Because his was not the string-bean thinness I was used to seeing on the streets. The sturdy lad was far from emaciated, meaning he was either new to the city or he was being well fed in that tenement.

  Also, as he would soon find out, my reticule was stuffed with torn newspaper clippings, not a wad of green backs. If the tenement was haven to similarly disposed children, the scamp might be beaten for returning to “headquarters” empty-handed. Just as madams expected whores to turn tricks to earn their keep at brothels, thief bosses expected stolen money in compensation for the room and board of their crew.

  How to get inside to assure myself of the lad’s safety?

  Barging into a private home, even one dealing in illegalities, was not an option. There were rules to observe.

  Lies to tell.

  I made one up on the spot. Morally speaking, I had always teetered on the edge for the sake of my orphans, never stepping over into darkness but willing to balance in the shade. If I had to, though, if a life depended upon my doing so, I would take the plunge and enter the realm of blackness.

  I knocked on what was presumably the servant’s entrance. At any rate, the door was the only entry I could find. On the way around back, I had passed something that looked like a bricked-up side entrance. Without that second door available, the domicile was much akin to a medieval castle, unwelcoming to intruders and deadly to trespassers.

  I met both criteria.

  Footsteps approached. Not those of a servant’s soft-soled house shoes. These footsteps belonged to cobbled boots. The rat-a-tat of metal heel clips was distinctly male.

  The door swung wide. I saw this only from the bottom, a low spot where I had fixed my gaze.

  A lifetime of reticence was not cast aside with ease.

  Eye contact was still difficult for me with a man. One carnal encounter did not a hussy make me. And so I resisted looking up as I thought:

  Was the thrown-open door a sign of unconcern?

  Perhaps. The owner of the house might be that rarified bird, a guileless and friendly sort with nothing to hide.

  Or was the widely swung door a trick to get me to believe so?

  Considering the intentionally broken street lamp out front, the second alternative seemed more likely.

  “Yes?” inquired a deeply masculine, deeply recalled voice.

  All fiddling with my kid glove ceased, and I darted him an upward glance.

  The same as the voice, the person at the door was instantly recognizable. I knew him…in the biblical sense, not quite in a Sodom and Gomorrah context, but close.

  On the other hand, no recognition at all shone in his tawny gaze.

  My stranger was either an awfully good actor or he failed to appreciate the fact that standing before him was the same party guest he had…he had…

  What?

  Made cry? Made a woman? Made fall madly in love with him after only a few brief minutes alone together…

  Begged to see again?

  Though I suspected this would be the outcome of our brief time together, his lack of recognition still hurt.

  I sniffed back a bitter tear.

  Some lasting impression I made. The cad had forgotten all about me. Of course. Whereas I thought about him every night when alone in bed.

  Who was I fooling?

  I thought about him during the day as well.

  To be fair – upon deeper and objective reflection of that escapade – I admitted to myself that he…this man standing before me…had not led me on, led me astray, cajoled, or generally tried untoward methods to convince me to agree to do what I had done with him. Without knowing what the full range of carnality entailed – woeful ignorance since rectified by speaking to a seasoned whore and a French seamstress – I knew now that I simply had let him. And so, he had merely accepted what I offered.

  Why should I have expected him to look a gift horse in the mouth?

  I could assess no blame to him, would not consider myself his victim. He had not been a predator, only an opportunist who took advantage of raunchy carnality in a darkened room with a woman he thought understood how those things worked.

  I alone was responsible for my ignorance. And stupidity made for an unintelligent excuse. Now that I understood various acts…and men...better, I acknowledged that, of course, I was a stranger to him. That he failed to recognize me after being inside my body went to show what a forgettable non-entity I was. A fact I had always known.

  I reconsidered that hasty assessment, and cut myself some slack.

  My wardrobe differed from before. I had acquired a style, a sophisticated way of dressing that restored color to my palette, and which greatly altered my former morbidly pale appearance. Those changes surely interfered with his recognition of me. Plus, I was only one in a long succession of women with whom he had probably enjoyed intimacy. After a while, we probably all blended together. Nothing to do with my being forgettable…

  But – my hair! He said he had noticed me from the start, and that meant in a well-lit room where chandeliers blazed. My hair was uncommonly fair, my nagging resentment whispered. Would he not have known me by its light shade?

  Not if he were equally fair, with some tawny thrown in on his side.

  My coloring would not be uncommon to him as we shared the same trait. Now, if my strands were dark, that would be a different matter entirely. And besides, I now wore a bonnet. I had not at the soiree.

  I tugged on the chin ribbons, a becoming shade of rose that matched my day dress, a color probably too youthful for my advanced years.

  Still insecure after all, I mused, staring at him, unable to look away.

  “I lost my reticule, sir,” I said, a barely audible squeak. Still, no stammer in evidence, reason enough for gratitude.

  “And you thought your reticule would somehow magically turn up here, at this private residence?”

  “I have reason to believe so, yes,” I said more forcefully, standing up for myself despite his sarcasm. “No magic involved. The lad who took the bag ducked in here. Racing away from my pursuit, he carried it under his arm. Kindly tell him I am here for its retrieval. And to speak to him. Privately.”


  “No.”

  My back bone stiffened. “Pardon?”

  “You may not harangue the boy. If he happened to pick up your dropped reticule, I shall go speak to him.”

  “No drop. This happened through no fault of mine.”

  “So you say.”

  “I did not drop the bag. He took the bag and absconded with it. The lad is a thief, a practiced one to be sure. But I am willing to overlook all that. No sense getting the authorities involved…unless you force my hand.” Would a jaded con artist like him fall for my idle threat?

  “You may await my return here.” He bowed then moved aside for me to enter. “Do come in.”

  Enter a strange house, owned by a man with whom I had unwisely copulated and who may very well run a thieving warren in the Red-light zone?

  I thought not.

  “I shall wait outside, thank you very much,” I said primly.

  It was then that the previously brooding skies opened up and wept for me.

  Unnecessary whimsicalness. Nerves did that to me.

  It was raining. Hard. But that was all. No weeping for me or anyone else.

  In less than the minute of reflection, the downpour soaked me to the skin.

  “Why remain on the stoop? Come inside. Before you melt in the rain like a confection.” He raised a brow at me.

  The French modiste had called me a petite bon-bon. This stranger had just called me a confection. Both were silly. I was far from sweet and sugary.

  Those two charmers could get away with whimsy. I could not. Too serious-minded.

  “I shan’t melt,” I corrected, my prissiness growing by leaps and bounds.

  He wiggled the heavy door, a barrier against the outside world, in my face, a feat unto itself due to its weight. “Come in. This misunderstanding should take no more than a few brief moments to resolve.”

  What could I do?

  I needed to get some time alone with the boy, and this might be my only opportunity. At the very least, I wanted to remove the young thief from the evil clutches of this wily man.

  “Very well,” I replied, stepping up and over the threshold into the kitchen, where the man who knew me all too well had obviously been preparing a late dinner meal. For the boy?

  Could be. The food did look palatable and more than ample for a lad of his age.

  “The young thief was wearing sagging black pants and a loose cambric shirt,” I helpfully supplied.

  “Can we leave the tag thief off the description? Innocent until proven…etcetera, etcetera.”

  “His pants were hanging loose, practically falling off his bottom.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like William. He hates braces. I was making him a bite to eat. I shall go tell him you are here. Be right back.”

  I used the time alone to survey what looked to be a well-stocked larder. Whatever the conman was up to, it was not starving the little thief.

  Keeping his word, the taker of my virginity…shiver…returned posthaste. In his hand was my bait, the crochet reticule stuffed with fraudulent dollar bills, which stuck out from the loosened drawstrings, a newsprint bouquet.

  “Do you normally carry bunches of torn Globe clippings in your purse?” he asked.

  I was about to bite my tongue and admit nothing. A second later, I thought better of it. What was the point of drawing this out? This man was no fool. The jig was up for me.

  “The boy fell for my ruse,” I admitted.

  “Ruse?”

  “Yes. I work at the children’s asylum on North Street.”

  “Doing what?”

  “A nursemaid’s position,” I improvised. “I often round up strays – thieves for the most part – on inclement nights like this evening when sleeping out of doors or on stoops might prove hazardous to their health. Tonight was just such an occasion.”

  Rain drops went flying when I shook my shoulders like a wet dog.

  That night with him I had also been wet. For a different reason. So vulgar.

  Yet so true.

  Chapter Eleven

  While I was tied up in knots, the conman smiled over at me, his body relaxed, his limbs loose.

  “Not to concern yourself,” he said “Rest assured, William has someplace dry and warm to sleep tonight and every night thereafter that he decides to remain with us.”

  Us. God! Was he married?

  Never once had I considered he might be a loathsome cheater. How could I have done that with a man who had a wife somewhere and possibly even children? Would I not have intuited something dreadful like that? If true, that would make me the other woman, one of the many who came before me and would come after me. Men who behaved despicably never stopped at one time only. They left a series of broken hearts and broken homes in their wake. The asylum’s population of unwanted children testified to this.

  Unprepared to think of myself as part of that increasing problem, I gawked at him. “Us? You said, remain with us. To whom were you referring?”

  “The apprentice thieves who stay under this roof with me one time or another.” He gave a cocky grin. “Just for your information – never been wed.”

  I gave a sigh of relief before returning to the matter at hand. “So you admit to it? You admit this tenement is a warren for young pickpockets and such?”

  “Why not admit to it? You can hardly go to the authorities with the disclosure. Not after what we shared in a dark room a few nights back. Like it or not, we have a history now. Whatever would a society lady such as yourself say regarding our prior acquaintance, a brief yet close…friendship…which I would naturally need to share with the police officers? Maybe with that newspaper reporter, Nathaniel Osborn, as well. Seeing he writes articles for the society pages – hell of a job for a fella – could be he would be interested in anything to do with your private life, Miss Malone. It was that Osborn fella you were hiding from at the soiree, right?”

  A small sound of distress left my parted lips.

  Oh, the power he had over me. He could parlay my personal disgrace into far-reaching consequences for the asylum with which I was associated.

  Because I always felt invisible, I assumed I was invisible. What a surprise to learn I had not been invisible to him.

  Our meeting may not have been accidental. Our meeting at the soiree may have been a planned entrapment from start to finish on his part.

  Searching out the truth, I confronted him. “You do recognize me!”

  “Of course. How could I not? That was one memorable evening.”

  “Then why not say so at the beginning?”

  “I wanted to hear the story you would concoct this time around. Rude to contradict a lady. Worse to show her up in a lie.”

  “And at the soiree?”

  “Just like I said then – first I thought you a widow then I thought you a whore. I did a little research and I know better now. On both counts. You enjoy role playing games, Miss Malone.” He shrugged. “So what? We all have our quirks. Even society ladies.”

  He stepped closer, said low to my ear, his palm going to the swell of my bustle, resting proprietarily there. “Any lingering aftereffects from that night, Miss Malone?”

  “No. And unhand me. I am here for the boy and only the boy.”

  “Not for a repeat of what we shared that night?”

  “We shared nothing.” That same recurring bitterness crept into my voice.

  “Really? I always pleasure women. And here I thought I had also pleased you. You certainly sounded as though I had achieved the objective there. Shall I try again now?”

  I almost nodded. Enthusiastically.

  I caught myself just in the nick of time. Still – would that the kitchen floor open up and swallow me, bated breath and all.

  Alas, there would be no easy way out for me. It was time for me to face the music. He was already holding that night over my head. That night was his insurance against me revealing his thieving to the police and the newspapers. He could confess to anything, and my hands would be tied. />
  Time to find out if he had any other nefarious purposes in mind here.

  Blackmail sprang to mind, a charge to which I could not plead innocent myself.

  That was where the similarity between us began and ended. I never set cheats up for blackmail. I simply caught them at something they should not have done and had tea with their unknowing wives afterwards to drop bugs in their receptive ears.

  This man might have set me up from the very beginning.

  Though he denied knowing my identity from the onset, why would I believe him?

  For all I knew, the thieving lad had been a means to bring me to this seamy part of town. This isolated tenement was certainly the right environment for intimidation.

  I knew how that went. Pay up, or he would spread the word about my reckless promiscuity. And there would go my reputation. Where would the much-needed annex on the Asylum be then?

  I had been a twit. No, worse! An aging spinster desperate for any man’s attentions. At the first taste of seduction, I had dropped my morals. And my drawers.

  I braced myself for the inevitable, that moment when I learned the amount it would take for him to keep our brief association quiet. The showdown.

  “What is it you want, sir?”

  “You. Right from the start – when I believed you to be a bored, game-playing widow, then when I thought you a self-serving prostitute eager to play at anything if the money was right. Both mattered shit to me. During my research, when I heard what you had done for a friend of mine – Daisy Crumbly – I wanted you even more.

  “Daisy? You know Daisy?” I gasped.

  “Yeah. Small world, eh?”

  “Daisy was no friend of yours, sir. She was your victim! You manipulated her most dreadfully. And now you seek to manipulate me. It will not work.”

  “You set it all right with Daisy. She and I are friends again now. Ask her yourself!”

  “All that is immaterial to me…”

  “Stay with me here, Miss Malone. Show me the way. Become my lover, in truth. Make me a better person. Make this city a better place in which to live, with one last crook roaming the streets. That last should not be immaterial to a nice woman like you.”