Читать книгу The Klondike Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Vicki Delany - Страница 16

“How’s the take?”

“Great. Our best night yet. Nothing like being next door to the most exciting event to happen in town all week, and to be the employers of ‘the Hero of the Yukon’ to boot, to have the crowds begging to be allowed through the door.”

On the morning of the eventful Saturday, when I was naïvely hoping I’d seen the last of Jack Ireland, Ray came into my office looking as if he hadn’t slept a wink. And he still wore the same shirt, rumpled and soiled, that he’d had on the previous night.

I put down my pen and tested my left wrist. Mrs. Mann had made up a poultice, which looked only slightly less disgusting than it smelled, and she’d wrapped the whole thing up in a soft, clean cloth. My wrist felt almost normal.

“I’ll go down and open up,” said Ray. “Not dressed like that, you won’t. Go home and wash up and put on a clean shirt.”

He looked at me, his eyes unreadable. “You’re not my boss, Fiona. Last I looked, we owned the Savoy together.”

“I’m not your mother either,” I snapped. “But if I were, I’d tell you to stop mooning over a common or garden, noaccount dance hall girl and pay attention to business. Because if you don’t, we won’t be partners for much longer.”

“Do you want to buy me out? I dunna think ye can afford it. But I might consider an offer.”

My head swam. How had this escalated so fast? Oh, right, I had insulted his ladylove and questioned his business sense.

“Look,” I said, shifting my sling and wincing slightly for effect. “Last night was a bad night for us all, except for the size of this bag of gold.” I nudged the loot with my foot. “You go and get a few hours sleep, and I’ll fetch one of the new fellows to watch the saloon. The blond one seems the brightest. Where’s he staying?”

“McKellen’s on Harper Street.”

“I’ll drag him out of bed and tell him to get to work.”

“I don’t need any sleep. Let Murray alone. I’ll change and be back in time.” He struggled out of the chair. “And, Fee, that perfume you’re wearing? Throw it out.”

* * *

By seven o’clock that evening, we were packed to the rafters. Sam Collins held court behind the bar, pouring drinks, taking money and weighing gold dust, trying to avoid repeating over and over the story of the rescue of the bakery sisters. Being Sam, he downplayed his heroism, but the customers were happy to build it back up again.

I’d put on my best dress, a dangerously low-cut, crimson silk delight, which cascaded off ruffled shoulders, leaving my arms bare. The skirt panel was made of the finest Belgian lace trimmed by red ostrich plumes. It had the merest suggestion of a train, enough to swish gracefully as I walked, offering a teasing hint of what lay under the hem. The dress was a genuine Worth—by far the best thing I still owned. It had been given to me by Lord Alveron in London in 1893, in a suite at the original Savoy, shortly before my abrupt departure from England. The dress had been reworked many times: rips and stains patched, the train diminished a piece at a time to cut away the marks of wear, the bustle shrunken and then rebuilt attempting to keep pace with the ruthless dictates of fashion.

The string of pearls that had accompanied the dress— passed down to Lord Alveron from his great-grandmother, who, whispers said, had been a mistress of some minor European king—had been sold long ago in order to obtain

Angus a place in a good boys’ school. Instead of the pearls, I always wore a thin gold chain with an inexpensive glass bauble nestling in the depths of my abundant cleavage. I had spent long hours searching the pawnshops of Toronto for a piece so cheap that looked so good. With this dress I always wore my hair pinned into a loose chignon into which was tucked a single red ostrich feather.

I’d discarded the sling. For although it had the men fussing over me even more than usual, it was a darned nuisance, and my wrist felt so much better. If Mrs. Mann were to sell that poultice, she could put the town’s doctors out of business.

The musicians were gathered by the door, getting ready to do their nightly routine, and down the street we could hear the noise from another dance hall that had sent their caller out early, when Irene stumbled in, looking not at all her usual cheerful self. Ray had disappeared into the gambling hall, attracted by the sound of a sore loser screaming that he’d been taken.

I hurried towards Irene. She walked awkwardly, as if protecting bruised ribs or tender muscles. “For goodness’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” I grabbed her by the arm. She gasped, and her face crunched in pain.

“Excuse us, gentlemen, please,” I raised my voice to the crowd of admirers that had instantly gathered around Irene. “Lady Irenee needs to prepare for her performance. Let us pass, please.”

I pulled Irene towards the stairs. She pulled back. “Come with me,” I whispered. “You’re hurt. Can’t let them see that. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Let go of me. Norm! Nice to see you,” she called to one of her admirers. “Let’s have a dance after the show, and you can tell me all about Bonanza Creek.”

“Are you insane?” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Come upstairs and let me have a look at you.”

She pushed me aside. Her shawl fell open to reveal the top of her breasts—milky white skin and a cluster of purple and blue bruises.