Читать книгу It's In His Kiss - Julie Kistler - Страница 10

A Sunday in June

Maiden Falls, Colorado, 1895

ROSE ELIZABETH TATE was furious. It had been hours since she’d had that terrible argument with her father, slammed a few articles of clothing and some of her favorite books into a suitcase, spirited herself out through the servants’ quarters of the Tate mansion and boarded the train. Now here she was in Maiden Falls, still shaking with anger. But it was too late to turn back now. All she could do was put one foot in front of the other.

Dragging her heavy suitcase along the wooden sidewalk, Rose stopped for a moment to get her bearings. Maiden Falls didn’t look like much, did it?

“Who cares?” she asked no one in particular. “So the town looks a little seedy. Who cares?”

After all, she was a girl of the nineties and she could chart her own course, without her father’s help or interference. Or anyone else’s! And that included that cad, Edmund Mulgrew. Edmund might’ve stolen her virtue, but he could never kill her spirit.

“Stolen my virtue,” she said self-righteously, poking into her pocket for her wire-rimmed spectacles so that at least she could see where she was going. “Poppycock! I’m still plenty virtuous.”

As Rose began her search for a carriage to take her away from the dilapidated shack Maiden Falls called a train station, one of the ostrich plumes on her darling new hat drooped right in front of her eyeglasses. She suddenly realized that this might be the last new hat she’d have for some time.

“I’ll be fine,” she said bravely, ripping the feather off completely. “Fine! Once I’m working for Miss Arlotta, grateful men will be vying for my favors, competing against each other to give me every little thing my heart desires. Why, I’ll have a thousand beautiful hats.”

Mentioning the notorious Miss Arlotta earned her a strange look from a nasty man with a large mustache, but Rose ignored him. If she was really going to be a soiled dove, then she’d have to get used to disapproval, wouldn’t she?

She peered at the man with the mustache. He certainly wasn’t anyone important. Who cared what he thought, anyway?

After all, Father had already told her in no uncertain terms that she was ruined. So she would embrace that ruination, marching into her future as a fallen maiden with her head held high. “After Edmund, what other choice do I have?”

Edmund. It was galling to admit that her father had been right all along about him. But it wasn’t her fault. How was she supposed to know she couldn’t trust his sweet words and even sweeter kisses? How was she supposed to know that enjoying those kisses was wrong when it felt so right?

How was she supposed to know that a man who made you swoon might still not be a good man? Just very good at making you swoon.

She’d honestly never guessed it would be like that, and she had read every “sensation” novel written by Mary Elizabeth Braddon and every dime novel by Laura Jean Libbey. They were wonderful books, full of passion and adventure and romance, but they told you straight out that the kisses of a bad man would taste like poison. As Rose now knew, that was a lie. Edmund’s heart might be black, but his kisses were…wonderful.

“It’s all Father’s fault,” she maintained. “If he’d only let me see Edmund in the clear light of day, I’d never have fallen for all the lies. I’d never have fallen under his spell. I’d never have…”

Fallen. Not that it made any difference at this point. Those few tempestuous liaisons had ruined her reputation. Now that both her father and her lover had washed their hands of her, she had two choices—to become a strumpet out in the open or the equivalent of a nun, cloistered in her father’s mansion, forcibly denied any contact with sinful books, diverting entertainments or interesting men.

She’d made up her mind today, after that last argument with her father. She’d decided to become a strumpet.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said brightly to the man with the nasty mustache, who was still hovering at her elbow. “Is there any sort of carriage I can hire to take me to Miss Arlotta’s establishment?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, narrowly missing her shiny patent leather boot as he shot a stream of tobacco out the side of his mouth. “You want to git to Miss Arlotty’s? What fer?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern. I simply…” She brought down her chin a notch. “Are there any carriages around here or not?”

“Not. Everybody here walks on the two feet God gave ’em. Unless they got a horse. Which I ain’t and you don’t.” With an unpleasant expression twisting his features, he ambled off, leaving Rose alone in the dust. But she jumped and almost fell off the boardwalk when a scruffy boy popped up behind her.

“Miss Arlotta’s is that way,” he offered shyly, crooking his dirty thumb toward the end of the street. “All the way to the edge of town.”

“Thank you,” Rose said politely. “I don’t suppose I could offer you a penny to carry my bag, could I? It’s very heavy.”

He ducked his head. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. I ain’t allowed to go by Miss Arlotta’s. My ma says all the ladies there is painted. And dirty. Like the Queen of Sheba. And I ain’t to look at them, not even when they parade through town, all fancied-up, headed for their Sunday picnic down by the Falls. Ma says we should look the other way, just so they’re clear how much we don’t like ’em.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” she asked.

“If you’re here next Sunday, you’ll see,” he said hastily. “They already done it today, but I reckon they’ll go again next Sunday right about noontime. But remember, if you see ’em, keep your head down and sneer.” After that last bizarre warning, the boy ran off.

“Keep my head down and sneer. I don’t think so.” Rose lifted her bulky suitcase in both hands and headed in the direction he’d indicated. “Who cares what that child’s mother thinks of the ladies at Miss Arlotta’s? She probably resents them for having nice clothes and jewels, and for all the fun they’re having!”

She was dusty and tired by the time she’d finally dragged her bag to the edge of town, but her spirit was unbowed. Her mood improved considerably when the dirt and dust gave way to a green, grassy lawn enclosed by a high, wrought-iron fence. A wooden sign, flapping against the fence, read Miss Arlotta’s Social Club.

Why, the house was positively lovely. It wasn’t just the delicate gingerbread wrapped around the big house’s Queen Anne curves or the pretty turret or the porch flanking the entire roof. No, what impressed her the most was that the house was pink. Pink! How very cheery.

As she let herself in through the gate and marched up the stairs to the front door, ready to grasp the shiny brass knocker, Rose took a deep breath. She didn’t want to faint dead away on the steps of a bawdy house, but she was definitely feeling skittish with nerves and excitement. She was determined to embrace this new, wicked life, and there was no turning back now. As she raised her hand to the knocker, the door suddenly swung open from inside. A large man wearing a bowler hat appeared in the opening.

“Hullo, ma’am,” he said gruffly. “Guess you’re lookin’ for work.”

“Why, yes, I—” She broke off. “Is it that obvious?” She didn’t think she looked like a scarlet woman, all things considered. Not yet, anyway.

“You’ve got baggage. I know what that means. You’ll have to come in and see Miss Arlotta. She’ll decide whether you’re fit for work here.”

“I assure you I’m fit,” Rose told him as she stepped inside, and the burly man took her satchel from her hand. Good. She was tired of carrying it, and really sorry she’d packed it full of books.

But what a strange place. Even though it was a bright, sunny afternoon outside, it was dark and smoky inside, with heavy red draperies, dripping with golden fringe, pulled tight at all the windows. The walls were dark oak, but trimmed in gilt, with chubby Cupids and curvy figures of Venus swirling around on the ceiling. So this was what a den of iniquity looked like. How exciting!

Rose edged away from her guide, too curious not to peek around the corner into the main parlor, where she could hear voices and music. Everywhere she looked, the place was awash in red velvet, with that smoky haze covering the soft glow of gaslights. She caught glimpses of overstuffed couches, an upright piano, a large fireplace, potted palms and…

And a great deal of exposed flesh. The ladies of Miss Arlotta’s establishment seemed to like to lie around, well, naked. Or more naked than anything she’d ever seen.

As her gaze swept the parlor, Rose saw corsets and filmy wraps, petticoats and stockings, and acres of skin. She’d never seen so many voluptuous curves. Glancing down at her own modest bosom under her brown wool traveling suit, she wondered whether she was cut out to be a lady of the evening after all.

How exotic they looked, draped over low-slung settees and chairs, a few intently playing faro or poker around the card tables, one tapping out a tune on the piano and trilling along, something that culminated in an enthusiastic “Oooh la la!” every other line. Another, a tall, handsome woman with dark red hair, puffed away on a small cigar as she adjusted the pearl-handled revolver stuck in the garter strapped to her thigh.

A gun? An exposed thigh? Scandalous. And yet it was the most thrilling thing Rose had ever seen. They seemed so free, so decadent, so…lush. Who knew sin could look this exciting on an otherwise dull Sunday afternoon in a no-account mining town?

“Miss?” the doorman prompted, tugging at her sleeve. “Wasn’t you wanting to see Miss Arlotta?”

“Why, yes, I…” As his broad back disappeared down a hall to the left, Rose had no choice but to follow. She consoled herself that she could come back to the parlor and the gambling tables soon enough, once she was a full-fledged soiled dove like the rest of them. She had some lingerie in her luggage, although nothing like what they were wearing. But maybe if she stripped down to her favorite French chemise, the one with the tiny rosebuds embroidered around the neckline, with her brocade corset and her laciest knickers…

Rose started to feel warm and wicked just thinking about strolling around in her drawers. Maybe she could get one of those guns to stick in her garter, to dramatically reveal at opportune moments.

But she hadn’t counted on how intimidating Miss Arlotta would be. Quite the dragon in her lair, the madam of this establishment stood behind a large mahogany desk, staring at Rose with hard, shrewd eyes. She had pale, not-quite-yellow hair, the color of lemonade in the summer sun, coiled in high, stiff ringlets across the top of her head. A fake color and fake hair, if Rose had to guess. Miss Arlotta’s dress was even more shocking, with a red satin bodice dipping low in the front and folds of the same scarlet fabric pulled back at her ample hips to reveal a shocking black lace underskirt. But that was an evening dress, and all wrong for this time of day. Not to mention the fact that she appeared to be sporting a bustle back there, when everyone knew bustles had been out since 1890.

Miss Arlotta sent Rose a shrewd glance. “Never seen a tart with spectacles before.”

She’d forgotten she was wearing her glasses. Hastily Rose removed them and stuck them in her pocket.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” She told the truth, not sure whether it was better to be older or younger for the purposes of a house of ill repute.

“You a virgin?” the madam asked boldly.

Rose gulped. “Well, as a matter of fact, no.”

“Didn’t think so. That’s good. I run my place on the level, you see. Nobody too young, nobody too innocent, and nobody lying about neither,” she said in a throaty, no-nonsense tone as she came out from behind the desk, circling around Rose, eyeing her up and down and back again. “Five to one, I already got your number.”

“Five to one? What does that mean?” she asked eagerly.

Miss Arlotta ignored the interruption. “Your clothes tell me you come from money. My wager is, some handsome gent seduced you hopin’ to get his hands on your daddy’s cash. So Daddy figured out what was goin’ on and kicked you to the curb. You ran to your beau, but he backed away fast without Daddy’s money to sweeten the pot. So now you’re thinking you might like to ply your trade as a doxy to get back at both your no-good man and your pa. Am I right?”

It was disappointing to be read so easily. Not to mention being called a doxy when there were so many other more romantic choices. Odalisque, fille de joie…Much more interesting than doxy. “I guess it’s a tale you’ve heard before.”

“I’ve heard most all of ’em.” Miss Arlotta poured herself a shot of whiskey from a bottle on the sideboard. “A little skinny, aren’t you?”

“With different clothing I think my curves might do,” Rose said quickly, doing her best to hold her head high and slant her chest forward at the same time she pushed back her derriere.

That got a smile out of the boss. “I suppose you’re old enough to know your own mind,” she declared. “And pretty enough to pull in some male admirers. I also think you got too much starch in your drawers and too much book-learnin’ for the likes of us, but if you want to try, we’ll give you a chance.”

“Really?”

“Pete,” she barked out, “take the lady’s bag to the empty maid’s room on the third floor.” Turning back, she added, “It ain’t much, but we’ll move you someplace better if you last any time at all.”

Pete, the large man who’d shown her in, opened the door behind her, still carrying her bag. Rose swallowed. She hadn’t expected things to move quite so quickly. “When do I, um, begin?” she asked, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. “Will you give me any sort of training?”

Miss Arlotta arched one pale eyebrow. “I figgered you knew what to do when you walked into a bordello and asked for work. You sayin’ you need instruction?”

“Well, maybe a little…”

The madam laughed out loud. “You’re never going to last at this game. You’re the greenest greenhorn I ever did see. I’ll put my money down that you’ll be heading for the hills at, oh, just about one minute after noon tomorrow.”

“I’m not as innocent as you think,” Rose replied, edging toward the door. But curiosity pushed her to turn back. “Why did you pick that exact time? Why one minute after noon?”

Miss Arlotta shook her head, not dislodging her tight curls one iota. “Because today is Sunday, we don’t do any business here, on account of it being the Lord’s day.”

Oh, yes. The Sunday picnic the small boy had mentioned. Apparently, even shady ladies took a day of rest.

“So,” her new boss continued, “I figure you’ll last through tonight. But come start of business tomorrow, round about noon, when you face off with an actual, real-live man taking off his actual, real-live pants…”

Rose tried not to blush, faint or otherwise embarrass herself as Miss Arlotta finished up with, “Then, at just about one minute after twelve, I reckon you’ll run screaming for the door.”

“You know, I have seen a man without his trousers,” she said quickly, trying hard not to let her voice tremble.

A man, to be precise. One. But thank goodness she had tonight to gather her wits before she saw another one. And then, on Monday, she would come face-to-face with her new profession as a shameless hussy.

“Right now, you might want to find something else to wear. A lot less, for starters.” Her employer puffed up a little when she added, “I hired a photographer to come by this evening to make a tintype of all of my girls, something pretty for the parlor, to help gents make a choice.”

Would anyone choose her? Was her lingerie scandalous enough?

Rose had never been in this kind of competition before.

“Oh, and what name should we call you?” the older woman asked. “We like our girls to go by something a little more fancy here.”

A new name? It made her feel mysterious and exciting, to have a nom de plume. Or nom de harlot, anyway.

“Name?” Miss Arlotta prompted.

“Let’s see…”

Trying to think of a pseudonym, Rose suddenly remembered her favorite dime novel, stowed safely in her suitcase with her other most-prized possessions. Little Rosebud’s Lovers by Miss Laura Jean Libbey. The heroine of the book had also found herself ruined and abandoned. Of course, she’d come to a terrible end, it being fiction, but still…It was perfect.

“Rosebud,” she announced with a smile. “You can call me Rosebud.”

“That’ll do fine. Welcome to my establishment, Rosebud,” the boss lady said with a wink. She picked up her shot glass and tossed back the whiskey. “I’ll lay you ten to one you’ll be out of here before you get a chance to try out your new name. But maybe you will surprise me.”

“I’ll be here longer than that, I assure you, Miss Arlotta.”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

Rose lifted her chin. How hard could it be?