22 

Boom. Boom. Boom. The strike of the gavel reverberated in the meeting room of City Hall to finalize the prior motion, the very sound thudding in Caitlyn’s heart at the same time.

Eleven male board members presided over tables draped with the city seal, expressions ranging from intense to comatose as they studied the agendas before them. Stomach quivering at the prospect of speaking, Caitlyn’s gaze flicked to where Logan sat on the board. Eyes cool, he gave her a short nod, his stone face weakening her knees at the prospect of butting heads with him now while the goals of the Vigilance Committee hung in the balance. For the briefest of moments, she almost wished she’d succumbed to his advances in Napa for the sake of this sacred cause.

And yet, not. Logan was a man used to getting his own way, but some things were simply not up for barter. Certainly not her heart, especially with a man she couldn’t trust. She noted the steel glint in his eyes, recalled his cool manner the last few weeks and knew that when it came to Logan McClare, there was only one thing she could trust—he would fight her tooth and nail over the Barbary Coast. Just like she’d fought him tooth and nail in Napa.

“Ordinance amending the San Francisco Administrative Code Section 10.82 approved and motion carried by the ayes.” The Budget and Finance Committee supervisor glanced at the clock on the wall, then peered at the paper in his hand. “Next item on the docket, Vigilance Committee proposal presented by board president, Mrs. Caitlyn McClare.”

Caitlyn slowly rose to her feet, grateful she could stand despite the wobble of tendons at the back of her knees. Murmurs skittered through the hall, an unwelcome reminder that women had no business chairing a board, much less addressing the Board of Supervisors. Two points she had debated ad nauseam with Walter and the board, to no avail.

“Now, Cait,” Walter had said earlier with a reassuring look that missed the mark, “Liam still has friends on the board and as Liam’s widow, so do you. Not to mention your brother-in-law, who is sure to throw his weight your way.”

Caitlyn smoothed her skirt to deflect the tremble of her hands. Not likely—a wounded ego hardly makes for a cozy endorsement. She felt the gentle pat of Walter’s hand and slid him a nervous smile, his presence a stabilizing force.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispered, “trust me. Just be yourself, and your honesty and sincerity will win them over.”

“Mrs. McClare?” The president adjusted his glasses. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Caitlyn returned his smile, then scanned each face, stopping short of Logan, whose dour look did nothing for her confidence. “Gentlemen, thank you for allowing me to address the board this evening on a matter of utmost importance to the success and welfare of our great city. As I speak, degradation runs rampant, both in our city and in the lives of thousands of women who sell their bodies in the vilest of circumstances in the cribs and cow-yards of the Barbary Coast. Not only has this area become a debilitating stain on a city destined for greatness, but a stain on the very soul of every human being caught within its tentacles of sin and corruption. Benjamin Estelle Lloyd was correct when he stated that ‘the Barbary Coast is the haunt of the low and the vile of every kind. The petty thief, the house burglar, the tramp, the whoremonger, lewd women, cutthroats, and murderers,’ all thriving in a cesspool of dance halls, concert saloons, gambling houses, brothels, peep shows, and opium dens.”

Caitlyn rose up tall, legs weak but voice strong as she addressed the board, conviction ringing despite a tone that was humble and low. “A cesspool, gentlemen, that I’m afraid we’ve allowed far too long. Edmund Burke stated ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing,’ and I hope and pray each of the good men on this board will join forces with the Vigilance Committee to do something rather than nothing to protect our city.”

A smattering of applause broke out, buoying her spirits as well as her shoulders. Replenishing with a deep draw of air, Caitlyn laid out the board’s plan—a three-phase strategy she hoped they would consider due to gradual implementation that would give both the board and the city time to adjust. “Phase one,” she began with a lift of her chin, “will focus on closing two of the biggest blights on the Coast, the Nymphia and the Marsicania brothels. As you may or may not be aware, gentlemen, the Nymphia’s 450 ‘residents’ are required to remain . . . ,” Caitlyn swallowed hard, unable to prevent her tongue from stuttering over the next word, “. . . n-naked at all times in order to . . . e-entertain their c-customers, both those in close p-proximity and those who pay to watch through plentiful peepholes provided.” Heat broiled her cheeks as her voice weakened to a mere rasp, the clearing of throats from several board members clear indication she was not alone in her embarrassment. “And then, of course in conjunction with the esteemed Father Terence Caraher, we hope to dismantle the Marsicania as well, which opened last month.”

Despite frowns and awkward looks from the board, Caitlyn continued to present phases two and three, encompassing a time period of two to five years when all businesses in the Barbary Coast would have to comply with stringent guidelines mandated and upheld, she hoped, by the Board of Supervisors. “Gentlemen,” she said in conclusion, “the Vigilance Committee has prepared a detailed brief on the plan itself, which Mr. Walter Henry will distribute to each of you at the close of this meeting. Please feel free to contact me or any of the board members with questions or concerns you might have.”

Logan leaned forward, and goose bumps prickled Caitlyn’s flesh at the glint of challenge in his eyes. “Radical and abrupt changes such as you propose, Mrs. McClare,” he said slowly, emphatically, “often do more damage than good in an undertaking of this magnitude, polarizing many who believe the Coast provides needed tax revenue.”

Silence cloaked the room with unease so palpable, Caitlyn could taste it along with the bile in her throat. Steeling both her jaw and her nerve, she met his cool gaze with a steady one of her own. “I suspect, sir,” she said quietly, “that given the chance, most decent people would concur revenue obtained through debauchery is never ‘needed’—nor wanted—at all.”

She ignored the ruddy color that bled up Logan’s neck and pressed on, desperate to deflect his disapproval. “That said, sir, I assure you most heartily that the Vigilance Committee has worked diligently to ensure this plan is neither radical nor abrupt, building in graduated time tables and sound provisions we believe will grow tax revenue rather than diminish it.”

Arms on the table, Logan slanted in with a hard smile that quickly braised her cheeks. “Excuse me, Mrs. McClare,” he said, his manner far more relaxed than the look of defiance in his eyes. “I believe the appropriate word is ‘restrictions’ rather than provisions. Restrictions I fear may trample the civil rights of legitimate businesses in an effort to eradicate the unsavory ones.” He patronized her with a paternal tilt of his head, causing her to bristle. “You understand, of course, Mrs. McClare—the danger of throwing the baby out with the bathwater?”

“Only if the ‘baby’ is prone to licentiousness and obscenity, Mr. McClare,” she said carefully, “which is seldom the case when one is innocent, wouldn’t you agree?”

The gavel hammered. “Thank you, Mrs. McClare, we’ll take this under advisement,” the president said with a stiff smile. He dismissed her with a cursory nod and continued with the next course of business while Caitlyn slowly slid into her seat, knees all but giving way.

“You were wonderful,” Walter whispered, and Caitlyn offered a weak smile, barely hearing another word spoken until the gavel sounded moments later to dismiss the meeting.

“Can I give you a lift, Caitlyn?” Walter asked, helping her on with her wrap.

“No, thank you, Walter, Hadley is waiting outside.”

He leaned to embrace her. “Well, then, good night, my dear. You had them eating out of your hand, you know,” he whispered, sending a fresh rush of blood to her cheeks.

Her chuckle did not echo the confidence in his tone. “Eating certainly, Walter, but it remains to be seen whether that is out of my hand or chewing me up and spitting me out.” She linked her arm with his and headed for the door, her body weak from relief that the ordeal was finally over. A smile crooked on her lips. “Either way, I fear I’ll have indigestion.”

His laughter boomed in the high-ceilinged corridor of City Hall as he escorted her to the front door. “Nothing a bromide can’t cure,” he remarked with a smile. “Good night, Caitlyn.”

“Good night, Walter.” Heaving a heavy sigh, Caitlyn made her way to the Packard.

“Cait!”

Her eyelids flickered closed before she pivoted at the curb, said indigestion roiling at the sight of Logan striding her way. She lifted her chin, brows arched in question. “Yes, Logan?”

He halted mere inches away, so close another step would send her tumbling from the curb. “You handled yourself well in there,” he said, breathing winded as if he’d run all the way.

“Really? I didn’t get that impression.” She smiled. “At least not from you.”

She watched a nerve pulse in his cheek, the grinding of his jaw, signs he was attempting to contain a temper she knew that he had. His smile seemed forced—like every conversation they’d had since Napa. “Come on, Cait—this isn’t a sewing circle here, this is the government body for the city of San Francisco. I’ll give no preferential treatment just because you’re family.”

She blinked up with a sad smile, fighting the pull of late whenever he was near. “Of course not. Just if I’d said yes in Napa . . .”

The plains of his face hardened. “You don’t belong in politics, Cait.” His whisper was harsh. “If you would just trust me, I’d fight this battle for you and win. But, no, you have to push in a time frame that isn’t right, when too many on the board oppose what you’re doing.”

“Including you?”

He hesitated, the look in his eyes confirming her question. He huffed out a sigh and gouged his forehead with the span of his head. “Blast it, Cait, people have investments. Not just me, but almost every man in that room tonight, and a woman can’t just waltz into a Board of Supervisors’ meeting and expect them to see things her way.”

“Even if it’s the decent thing to do?” she whispered, fighting the sting of tears.

He stared at her long and hard, facial muscles sculpted tight. “Even if it’s the decent thing to do,” he repeated, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You’re certainly proof of that.”

His words stung, conjuring unwelcome memories of Napa. “No, Cait, the decent thing to do is to forget the past and admit you’re in love with me.”

“I have to go,” she said too quickly, turning to the Packard as Hadley stood at the door.

Logan grasped her arm before she could get in, voice as strained as the fingers latched to her cloak. “Don’t expect me to side with you on this one, Cait.”

She paused, eyes trained on the dark hairs on the back of his hand. “No, Logan,” she said quietly, “I would never expect that from you.” Slipping into the car, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the seat. Or on anything . . . ever again.