CHAPTER TEN
“Bring yourself in and let me take your hat and coat,” the woman at the door said. She held Dan Caine’s dripping slicker and hat at arm’s length and added, “My name is Misty Maguire and I’m the proprietor of this”—she waved a plump, beringed hand—“haven for sporting gents who appreciate comfortable accommodation, excellent dining, first-rate whiskey and liqueurs . . . and the raison d’etre for our existence . . . high-class whores of unsurpassed beauty, intelligence, and cleanliness.”
The foyer of the house was illuminated by a huge, crystal chandelier that cast bright light and deep shadows. Dan’s senses were immediately assailed by the odors of French perfume, cigar smoke, single-barrel bourbon, and the more subtle smell of dampness and decay and of the dry rot visible around the lower floor windows. But what dwarfed Dan into insignificance was the grand staircase. Its wide and uncarpeted steps rose to a height of sixty feet and added drama to the cathedral-like surrounding. The soaring stairs demonstrated the importance of the upper suites where business of the harlotting kind was conducted and the chaste twins, modesty and chastity, were never invited.
“Step into the drawing room, Mr. . . . ah . . .”
“Caine. Dan Caine.”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Caine it is. You’ll have a dry sherry once we’re settled?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had a sherry, wet or dry,” Dan said.
Misty laughed, the great white pillows of her bosom heaving. She slapped Dan on the shoulder, revealing considerable strength, and giggled, “Mister Caine! You are a scamp. I predict we’re going to get along just fine, you and I.”
In that, as events would show, Misty Maguire was a false prophet.
Dan stepped into the lamplit drawing room . . . and almost collided with a tall, silver-haired man on his way out. He had intolerant blue eyes and an air of authority and he stopped and studied Dan up and down, lingering for a moment on his holstered Colt. The man looked as though someone held a rotting fish under his nose as he said in an imperious voice, “We dress for dinner.”
After the man swept past, Misty Maguire smiled and said, “That was Mr. Harcourt St. John. Take a seat Mr. Caine. Yes, near the fire, that’s it. I’ll pour you a sherry.” Misty brought the drink in a small crystal glass and sat opposite Dan. “Now what was I saying? Ah yes, Mr. St. John. He has shares in several railroads and a dozen steelworks and he’s as rich as Midas. He keeps dear Olivia on a yearly basis, but only visits her two or three times in a twelvemonth. Like my other kept ladies, Olivia passes the time between his visits knitting, crocheting, and reading her Bible.”
Thunder blasted, and the old building trembled as though afraid of the storm. At the same time there was another bang as the door slammed open, immediately putting Dan on edge. His hand dropped closer to his gun, then the sight of two beautiful, no, more than beautiful, women . . . gorgeous, spectacular, dazzling . . . Dan’s numbed brain could not come up with the words, but the scented presence of the women quickly soothed his former uneasiness.
At that moment, they were very young and very cross frowning goddesses of a more earthly sort.
“Is it the hot water again, Lucretia?” Misty said.
“Damn right it is,” the redhead of the pair said.
“The water like to froze my ass off,” the other girl said. She looked to be barely out of her teens, and Dan was acutely aware that her frosty butt was still very much in place.
“Artemus is stoking the furnace, Gwendolyn,” Misty said. “You’ll have hot water soon. Where are your gentlemen?”
“Dressing for dinner,” Lucretia said. She sighed. “Lord Gray feels quite exhausted. He says I wore him out after lunch.”
“Coarse, Lucretia, coarse,” Misty said, frowning, moving a forefinger with its scarlet-painted nail like a metronome. “We must observe the proprieties at all times.”
Like Lucretia, Gwendolyn was dressed in a black corset, laced up the front with red ribbon, crimson tights under a short gauzy skirt and high-heeled black boots that, like the corset, laced in the front and rose to just under the knee. The women’s thick hair was piled up on top of their heads in glossy tiaras, but for odd strands that fell in loose ringlets over their faces. Flowers and colorful feathers kept their hair in place, and both had peach-perfect skin, free of any marks from disease or imperfections. Large breasts battled the confines of their boned corsets and rose in creamy mounds above French lace trim. Lest she find herself in harm’s way, each carried a single-barreled Colt .41 derringer hidden under her garter.
Dan Caine thought Lucretia and Gwendolyn rare, exotic creatures, and he knew he’d never look at another woman in the same way again. Even Estella Sweet was a pale shadow of these, her fallen sisters, and she could not hope to equal their ravishing beauty. As whores went, these two were the cream of the crop.
“Ladies, return to your gentlemen,” Misty said. “You’ll have hot water soon and I’ll meet you at dinner. Oh, has Mr. Beck settled in?” She looked at Dan and said, “Mr. Beck arrived just before you did.” She made a face. “He rents a girl by the night.” Then to Lucretia, “Is our dear Violetta with him? I hope she brought some crocheting.”
“Not as far as I know,” Lucretia said. “Violetta is a slut.”
“Now, now, Lucretia, she’s as dedicated as we are to the ancient profession. Still, I won’t allow her and Mr. Beck to sit at the dinner table tonight. Too low class, you understand. So when you leave here, stop by the kitchen and tell cook to send up a tray for Violetta and her gentleman. What room?”
“Room 32,” Lucretia said. She glanced at Dan. “It’s the attic room that’s right up against the rafters.” The woman shook her beautiful head, frowning. “I hate it up there. It’s so dark and gloomy.”
“And ghostly . . . spooky,” Gwendolyn said, shuddering.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Misty said, waving a pudgy, milk white hand, revealing a scattering of liver spots that betrayed her age. “Thirty-two has a nice brass bed and old Queen Vic’s picture on the wall. As you know, Violetta was a common whore working the line in Ellsworth when I rescued her. And while I don’t consider Mr. Beck a beggar, I most certainly won’t allow him or Violetta to sit at table with my gentlemen.”
“I should think not.” Gwendolyn sniffed. “Beck is a drover of some kind and Violetta Bullen is a tramp.”