Kissing Comfort (31 page)

Comfort repeated the words in a vaguely singsong fashion under her breath. “Soiled dove. Soiled dove.” Perhaps it was the name she would take for herself, the one she would answer to when men put down their money and asked for her. How long would it be before she no longer recognized herself?

The man set the cane down firmly, stopping the low tide of laughter before it reached the bar. At his side, Comfort also fell silent. “There'll be a third lottery. A fourth. I'll wager now that her well will go dry before the money does.”

“I've got just what it takes to pump a dry well.”

This time the man inclined his head, appreciative of the ribald humor. “T'en I hope it doesn't go to waste. My boys will be comin' around to collect your money. Yours and everyone else who wants a chance. We've got tickets stamped blood red for the first drawing, blood red being appropriate to the occasion, to my way of t'inking. Twenty dollars each, my good and not-so-good friends. Twenty dollars could get you the best ride of your life.”

 

 

Bram woke to the sound of someone scratching at his door. “For God's sake, come in,” he called. “Christ, what time is it, Travers?”

“It's not Travers, sir. It is I. Hitchens.” The butler held up the lamp so his face was illuminated when he poked his head in the room.

“Well, I see that now. It doesn't change the basic question.”

“It's midnight and a bit.”

Bram nearly knocked the laudanum off his nightstand as he waved Hitchens in. “Bring the lamp closer. You look like a specter holding it out that way.”

Hitchens approached the bed. Without being told, he lighted the lamp at Bram's bedside. A moment later, he reached in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing over his nightshirt and robe and held it up for Bram to see.

“What have you got there?” asked Bram.

“You had a visitor at the door just minutes ago. He asked to see you.”

“What? At this hour?” Bram put a hand to his forehead. “You sent him away, didn't you? Tail between his legs?”

“Not quite, sir. He left, I made certain of that, but it seemed telling him to go was not unexpected. He insisted I deliver this.”

“You didn't have to keep your promise,” Bram said dryly. “It could have waited until morning.”

“I thought that myself, but he must have guessed, because the very next thing he said was his intention to wait across the street, and if he didn't see my lamp lighting this room he'd know I lied, and then he'd come back. I think he meant he would wake the household if I didn't come up here.”

“I see.” He held out his hand. “Then you better let me have it. Take your lamp over to the window while I read. Just so there's no mistake.”

“Very good.” Hitchens moved to stand at the window, his back to Bram. He could make out very little except his own reflection in the glass. If the visitor was standing across the street where the Chinese girl sometimes did, he couldn't see him. He estimated the passing of several minutes and thought that Bram must be rereading the note. It wasn't more than a single sheet of paper folded into quarters. There could only have been a few paragraphs.

He turned when Bram called to him, instantly alert to the fact that something was deeply wrong. “Yes, sir. What can I do?” Bram was pulling at his leg, trying to free it from traction. Hitchens hurried over, set the lamp down, and yanked Bram's hands away from the splints. “No! Stop. You can't do that. You'll hurt yourself.”

“Damn it. Let go.” Hitchens's grip was surprisingly strong. “Let. Go.”

Hitchens hung on. “I'll fetch your mother.”

Bram sagged against the bed. He eyed Hitchens with deep hostility. “I just bet you would, too.”

“Certainly. I don't threaten.”

“I need Travers. Bring him here. Don't wake anyone else, and don't tell Travers anything except that I want him. You can go then, and I expect that you won't be speaking to
anyone
about this. I need to know you're clear on that.”

“I understand,” he said gravely.

Bram waved him off, gritting his teeth when the butler took his leave in precise, even steps, demonstrating that while Bram could order him about, there were limits to the speed at which things would happen.

A quarter of an hour passed before Samuel Travers limped into the room. Bram didn't waste any time with explaining the situation to his valet. He said, “Get my brother.”

Sam's cheeks puffed as he blew out a lungful of air. “And tell him what? That you can't sleep?”

Bram kept the note fisted. Sharp edges of the crumpled paper dug into his palm while he considered the words that would get Bode's attention. “Tell him that I'm not only lying in bed. Tell him I need him. Do you have that?”

“You're not in bed and you need him. I've got—”

“No. That's not it. I'm not only lying in bed. You must say that. Exactly.”

“You're not only lying in bed.”

“And I need him.”

“And you need him. Is that all?”

“You know where he lives?”

“Certainly.”

“At this time of night, you'll need my key to get into the office. It's in the top drawer of my bureau.”

“I know where it is,” Travers said. “I didn't know that you did.”

Bram ignored the barb. “Just hurry, old man. Don't bother coming back if he's not with you.”

 

 

After Comfort was escorted down the length of the bar and back again, she was whisked away by the pair of strongmen and half led, half carried to the concert saloon's second story. A door in the middle of the hallway opened, and she was shown through it. The men backed away and closed it, but she didn't hear them leave. The only woman she'd seen all evening was waiting for her by the room's sole window. As soon as the door shut, the woman dropped the shabby curtains in place and turned to her.

“Suey Tsin,” Comfort said, as if there was nothing at all odd about seeing her maid in this place. Her stomach lurched suddenly. She was dizzy and the room was tilting. She closed her eyes and pressed her thumb and forefinger against them until she saw small points of light. It was a long moment before she dared look again, and this time she saw the truth. “Not Suey Tsin.”

The Chinese woman didn't speak. She pointed to the bed, where a gauzy batiste gown lay draped over the foot. Through a series of gestures, she indicated what Comfort was meant to do with it.

Comfort understood the gestures well enough, but she wasn't so drunk that she was going to comply. She gave the woman a start when she pushed past her and headed for the window, but she wasn't strong or steady enough to keep the woman from yanking her back. Comfort stumbled over her own feet and sprawled backward on the bed. She thought she would be sick. Apparently the woman thought so, too, because she produced a chamber pot from under the bed and held it out for Comfort to use.

Comfort recoiled and turned her head away. The odors emanating from the pot were so noxious that she buried her face into a pillow and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She waved the woman away and didn't sit up until she heard the pot being pushed under the bed again.

She didn't know how she'd mistaken the woman for Suey Tsin. The similarities started and ended with the fact that they were Chinese. The woman was half again as wide as her maid, and her shoulders sloped forward as though her back was fixed in a position of obeisance. There was no compassion in her sloe-eyed watchfulness. The expression there wasn't inscrutable, merely implacable.

The woman picked up the gown from the foot of the bed and pushed it at Comfort. She communicated her expectations through the same series of gestures, but this time she pointed to the door and imitated the strongmen on the other side. Comfort understood that she was being threatened. She could dress herself or be dressed. She reluctantly chose the former.

Her fingers were slow and clumsy. She could sense the woman's impatience, but except for the gesturing meant to hurry her, no help was offered. The woman snatched and flung at the door each article of clothing as Comfort removed it. Comfort had only her stockings, shoes, and chemise left to take off when a tremendous roar from below shook the floor. She dropped back on the bed as her stomach lurched. The building shuddered with the thunderous clapping and foot stomping. Glass rattled in the window beside the bed.

Comfort stared at her companion and saw she was unmoved. Downstairs, the stomping and shouting stopped, the frenzied applause died, and the walls, floor, and window ceased to vibrate. Caught in the eye of the storm, it was Comfort who trembled.

She bent over and tried to remove her boots. Her fingers were shaking so badly she couldn't manage the laces. Tears blurred her vision. She turned her hands over helplessly and heard the woman's annoyed grunt. When she looked up, the woman was heading for the door.

“Wait!” she called after her. “I'll do it. I can do it.” She was ignored. She bent quickly and scrabbled at the laces. The door opened anyway. Comfort applied herself more diligently to the task. She didn't dare look away from her feet, but she heard the men speaking and sensed the woman was gesticulating again. “See! See! I have it!” She held up her hand, one shoe dangling from her fingertips. It was perverse, she thought hazily, that she should feel any sense of accomplishment. She was going to be raped, and here she was raising one of her shoes over her head like a trophy.

The woman stepped out of the doorway back into the room. The door closed behind her. Comfort saw she was carrying a small glass. More beer? The shoe was taken out of her hand and the glass pressed into it. The woman placed her palm under Comfort's hand and pushed up, encouraging her to drink.

She drank. The woman kept the glass against her mouth until she drained it. The liquid was as thick as syrup, sweet at first, but with a bitter aftertaste that lay unpleasantly on her tongue. She swallowed several times trying to get rid of the taste in her mouth. When the glass was taken away, she asked for water. The woman shook her head, tossed the glass into the pile of discarded clothes, and knelt in front of Comfort to remove her other shoe.

As soon as the woman was in position, Comfort kicked. At least that was her intention. There was no force behind it. It was as if her leg had been shackled to the floor. It came up slowly, with great effort, and was so heavy that it would have fallen back if the woman hadn't cupped the heel in her hands. She tried again, this time with the foot that was already shoeless. The woman simply batted her foot out of the way, no more annoyed than if she were flicking off a pesky fly.

Comfort didn't stir as her stockings were rolled down her calves, nor did she flinch when the woman produced a small knife and cut away her chemise. She made no attempt to cover her nakedness. She watched her ivory chemise, now stained yellow along the neckline with spilled beer, delicately float and flutter before it came to rest on top of everything else she'd worn.

Soiled Dove.

She remembered it would be her name now. It's what they'd called her downstairs. She would answer to it just as she'd always answered to Comfort. No one knew her real name. That was a secret, even from her.

Comfort closed her eyes as the woman slipped the batiste gown over her head. It lay soft against her shoulders and smelled faintly of rosewater. She allowed the woman to raise her arms to accommodate the garment, because they were simply too heavy to raise herself. The light material drifted over her breasts and stomach and gathered softly around her hips.

There was no gesturing for her to lie down, so she didn't. She sat on the edge of the bed while the woman gathered the piled clothes and lifted them close to her chest. The door opened and closed, and then she was alone.

She sighed. She was tired but not sleepy. She felt enervated. Her pulse beat slowly, and she imagined her blood was as thick as the syrup she'd been forced to drink. That was probably good. It would be better for her if she couldn't move, couldn't fight. Perhaps, if she survived, she would regret not fighting, but for the moment, at least, it seemed that not fighting might be the key to surviving.

Except for the bed, the malodorous pot underneath it, and the lantern hanging beside the door, the room was empty. It had but a single function, and when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she understood it would soon be put to that use.

The man who entered the room was not what she expected, though she'd tried to shy away from thinking about that. He was neat and trim, shorter than she was, and his clothes looked relatively clean. He smelled rather powerfully of spirits, but he walked toward her in a straight line, suggesting he'd spilled rather more on himself than he'd drunk.

He hesitated a moment after the door was closed, looking around the room; in fact, looking everywhere but directly at her. Comfort still had wits enough about her to find that behavior odd. She smiled, although she didn't think she meant to. The smile flickered uncertainly across her face before she felt it freeze in a ghastly parody of welcome and warmth.

He did an even more surprising thing when his eyes finally alighted on hers. He removed his hat, inclined his head, and introduced himself as properly as any gentleman might who hadn't just bought the winning ticket in the lottery to molest her.

“John Farwell,” he said.

Comfort frowned. The name was tantalizingly familiar, but the face was not. She pressed two fingertips to one corner of her mouth to prop up her faltering smile. Her skin felt as elastic as rising dough. She began to knead it.

“John Farwell, Miss Kennedy.” He approached the bed. “Mr. DeLong sent me. Mr.
Beauregard
DeLong.” He added this last in the event she mistook the man who orchestrated her rescue for her fiancé. “We haven't a great deal of time. Do you understand? They're selling more tickets. I have twenty minutes, and the Rangers thought that was very generous.”