Scandal on Rincon Hill (17 page)

Looking up and down the street, Robert said, “Who lives in this house? I hope you haven't dragged me along on another of your wild-goose chases!”

Again without answering, I allowed Eddie to assist me down from the carriage. It was apparent from the eager expression on his narrow face that he had taken other fares to this house. He certainly looked as if he were well aware of its line of business.

“I know Annie Watkins, one of the maids what works here, Miss Sarah,” he told me, his thin voice rising in excitement. “Want me to go round back and fetch her? She's sure to let us in, even if it is so early in the mornin'.”

This comment took me aback, and I consulted my timepiece. It was just going on ten o'clock. For the first time since hatching my little plan, I realized that given the hours required when running a business of this sort, the, er, ladies in residence undoubtedly slept in late of a morning. Ten o'clock—which was, after all, past mid-morning—hardly seemed early by my standards. Madam Valentine's establishment, however, most likely did not follow a conventional time schedule. For a moment I considered postponing my errand until later that afternoon, but one glance at Robert's wary face made me realize the unlikelihood of prying him out of his office for a second time that day, especially if he learned I required his company to visit a brothel!

“Yes, Eddie,” I told the boy at length. “I would appreciate it if you could persuade your friend to allow us inside.”

He was off and running before the words left my mouth, and I saw Robert's expression grow ever more suspicious.

“What's going on, Sarah? You have purposely evaded answering my questions. Who lives in this house, and why are we calling on them at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

“It's nearly ten o'clock, Robert. I would hardly characterize that as an ungodly hour.” I attempted an innocent smile, hoping it would put him off until Eddie reappeared with someone who might open the front door.

“Oh, you think not?” His tone was derisive. “Since when has San Francisco society started paying social calls before lunch? Even I know that is hardly the done thing.”

No, it's not, I silently agreed, and felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Unfortunately, the delay in getting inside the house was causing me to entertain second thoughts about this mission. What in heaven's name was I doing here? Proper women took care to avoid being seen anywhere near establishments of this sort. Much less maneuver their way inside! What would my mother say if she knew her only daughter was visiting a brothel, with or without an escort? For that matter, what would my father say? Once again I'd allowed my fervor to help a client ride roughshod over my good judgment.

Thankfully the front door to the house was flung open before I completely lost my nerve. With a self-satisfied grin, Eddie beckoned us inside. Behind him stood a pretty, plump, and obviously apprehensive young parlor maid, wearing a spotlessly clean and stiffly starched apron and cap.

“This is most irregular, ma'am,” she said, nervously twisting the corner of her apron until it became hopelessly wrinkled. Her dark eyes regarded me as if I were a creature from another planet, who had suddenly materialized outside her door and was seeking permission to launch an invasion. “I don't know what Madam Valentine will say if I let you in.”

“Bet she ain't used to ladies like you showin' up at her door,” Eddie put in with a suggestive smirk.

“What do you mean ‘ladies like you’?” Robert asked, guardedly eyeing the boy's expression.

Eddie gave Robert a sly wink. “You know, Mr. Campbell, the kinda place where a bloke has to pay a mighty grist of Vs and Xs to, ah . . .” He glanced uncomfortably at me, then finished cautiously, “To, ah, spend time with a gal.”

Robert raised his rusty-colored eyebrows until they very nearly met his unruly hairline. “For the love of all that's holy, Sarah, what in tarnation is this boy going on about? I thought you and Samuel were teaching him to speak proper English.”

It was clearly time to tell the truth and shame the devil, as Papa was wont put it. “This is a parlor house, Robert,” I explained. Doing my best to appear confident, I quickly stepped inside before either the maid or my beleaguered friend could stop me. “It is also known as a brothel, or a bawdy house, albeit one of the higher-quality establishments of its kind,” I added to appease the maid, who appeared affronted by my explanation.

Robert opened his mouth, but seemed too dazed to speak.

“Ain'tcha gonna come in, Mr. Campbell?” Eddie asked, holding the door open wider.

“Yes, do come in, Robert,” I told him, wondering if I would have to forcibly pull him in by the coat sleeve. “You are making a spectacle of yourself standing out there huffing like a beached blowfish.” Turning to the little maid, I said, “Please be so kind as to inform Madam Valentine that she has visitors. Where would you care for us to wait?”

Appearing as taken aback by this perfectly normal request as by my colleague's peculiar behavior, the young woman reached out with a slender arm, and somewhat reluctantly pointed in the direction of a parlor leading off the entrance hall.

“Thank you,” I said, then turned to our young cabbie. “Please wait for us in the carriage, Eddie. You might want to make profitable
use of your time by reading chapters eight and nine of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
.”

The pleased-as-pudding smile on Eddie's face vanished, replaced by an expression of profound consternation. “But Miss Sarah, I got us in. I kin help you—”

“Yes, I'm sure you could, Eddie,” I said, calmly but firmly nudging him out the door. “However, Mr. Campbell and I have a delicate matter to discuss with Madam Valentine, and we require privacy. We should not be long.”

Before the boy could conjure up any further excuses to protest his abrupt dismissal, I closed the door firmly behind him.

“Stop gawking and come along, Robert,” I said, swallowing down my own nerves and walking determinedly across the large foyer toward the room indicated by the maid. “I believe I see a fire in the grate. We should be able to wait comfortably in there.”

I could well understand Robert's discomfort. To be honest, I felt as if I were entering a strange world, completely outside of my experience, or indeed any frame of reference I could call to mind. If I were landing on the moon itself, I doubt I could have experienced any more trepidation than I was currently suffering.

As we made our way through the foyer, my fears gradually lessened as I took notice of our surroundings. This was hardly what I had expected. The dark wood of the vestibule floor was polished until it gleamed like a mirror, and was partially covered with an elegant, and obviously expensive, Persian carpet. Overhead was an exquisitely painted ceiling which, judging by its ornate and colorful design, might have been imported from Italy. One of the walls featured a collection of antique pistols, artfully arranged inside a glass cabinet. Directly opposite the guns hung an oil painting of a beautiful nude, wearing nothing but a single gold bracelet, her lovely eyes gazing out over a peaceful lake, as if lost in dreamy contemplation. The brush strokes and skillful use of color suggested the artist might be the gifted young Impressionist Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Good Lord, I thought. Could that be possible?

To the left of the painting was an enormous, gracefully curved wooden staircase. The intricately carved balustrade led up to the second floor and, I assumed, the rooms where the resident “ladies” took their gentlemen. The door the maid indicated led off the vestibule to the left, and turned out to be a large, luxuriously furnished parlor. And indeed, as I had glimpsed from the foyer, there was a welcoming fire crackling inside an intricately carved, white marble hearth.

Following behind me as I slowly made my way past a Flemish tapestry, and a larger-than-life reproduction of the
Venus de Milo
, I could hear Robert muttering beneath his breath as we passed one treasure after another. Obviously, he was as surprised as I was to find a bordello this splendidly—and expensively—furnished. In fact, were it not for one too many gilded mirrors on the walls, and a preponderance of red velvet chairs and sofas, Madam Valentine's parlor house would have made any Nob Hill millionaire proud.

“This place is like a museum, or a bloody palace,” he said, standing in front of a particularly erotic painting of a generously endowed nude woman, who appeared about to be ravished by a muscular warrior. “Do you suppose any of this art is genuine?”

“I have no idea,” I answered, tracing a finger along the base of an enameled silver kerosene lamp. “They appear to be authentic, but I'm hardly an art expert.”

We were still admiring the room's numerous and unique objets d'art, when an attractive, if slightly disheveled, young woman peered in at us from the foyer, tittering like a silly schoolgirl when she spied Robert. She was wearing a flimsy—indeed, almost transparent!—nightdress, which did nothing whatsoever to hide the curvaceous body which lay beneath. A moment later, another giggling girl appeared, then another. Soon half a dozen young women, in various degrees of undress, had gathered in the foyer to stare at us, their droll expressions making me feel as if Robert and I were freaks of nature who had inadvertently ventured inside their lair.

“Hello, handsome,” the first girl chirped, licking her lips and
posing seductively for Robert's benefit. “Why don't you come upstairs and I'll show you my own art collection.”

“Shut yer trap, Sally,” one of the other girls told the first one with a low laugh. “Mr. Handsome has set his cap for me, haven't you, darlin'?”

“Look at all that red hair,” teased another. “Do you have as much fire in your furnace as you do on your head, Mr. Handsome?”

The other girls seemed to find this hilariously funny. As if by silent command, they all began thrusting out their bosoms and wriggling their derrieres playfully, as if putting on a private performance for my embarrassed companion. Robert's face had turned beet red, but he appeared strangely incapable of tearing his eyes off the tittering women.

“Robert!” I exclaimed, not in the least amused by this crude display nor, I must admit, by Robert's reaction to it.

He jumped at least two inches off the floor at the sound of my voice; it was as if hearing his name spoken aloud had awakened him from some kind of trance. He looked so panic-stricken that for a moment I feared he might be about to bolt from the room. Only the fact that he would have to pass through the gaggle of women in the doorway—who were now making wagers as to the size of various body parts, based on his height and muscular structure—prevented him from fleeing.

“Ladies! Remember yourselves,” came a commanding voice from behind the young women. There was instant silence as every girl turned as one to watch a tall, regal-looking woman approach from the back of the house. “Where is your dignity? I have trained you better than this.”

There were murmurs of, “Yes, Madam Valentine.” “We didn't mean no harm, Madam Valentine.” “It was all in fun, Madam Valentine.” Then, without being told, the girls turned and scampered up the stairs.

The tall woman cast her dark, penetrating eyes onto Robert and me, her outwardly calm demeanor betraying more than a
hint of suspicion. She was on the heavy side, but was so splendidly girdled that one received the impression of a narrow waist and slender hips. She was wearing a beautiful crimson-colored satin kimono, embroidered with dragons and exotic birds.

Despite the early hour, her flaming red hair, which, judging by its unnatural shade, had undoubtedly come from a henna bottle, was stylishly coiffed and arranged atop her stately head. Her robe fell open at the bosom to reveal deep cleavage and a small black beauty mark strategically placed above her right breast. In a somewhat flashy, overstated way, she was a very attractive woman. Moreover, she possessed such self-confidence and poise, I had no doubt she would immediately take command of any room she entered.

“I am Madam Valentine,” she said in a low, deeply resonant voice. “And you are?”

I tried to smile, but feared it fell well short of the sangfroid I was attempting to achieve. Clearing my throat, I said, “My name is Sarah Woolson. This gentleman is Robert Campbell. We are both attorneys at law.”

For the first time since entering the room, Madam Valentine seemed taken aback. By now I'd become so accustomed to this reaction when people first learned of my profession, that I hardly gave it a second thought. Robert, on the other hand, was shifting nervously behind me.

“Sarah, we should, ah, that is, we have made a mistake coming here.” Taking hold of my arm, he attempted to lead me toward the door. I refused to budge.

“We have done no such thing,” I protested, pulling free of his grasp. I turned to face Madam Valentine, determined not to leave this house until I had obtained the information I had come for. “Actually, we are seeking a Miss Brielle Bouchard. Is she by any chance staying on these premises?”

This seemed to startle the woman even more than learning I was an attorney. “Brielle Bouchard? Whatever gave you that idea?”

I decided that honesty was the best, perhaps the only, recourse. This woman appeared far too astute to be taken in by fabrication.
Moreover, the purpose of this visit was to locate Brielle; any attempt to deceive the woman who might well be the girl's benefactress would hardly benefit my cause.

“Miss Bouchard called at my office earlier this week,” I told the woman. “She asked me to initiate a lawsuit against a certain gentleman who had, according to her, reneged on a contract they had signed. However, she left no address where I might—”

“Wait a minute, Sarah,” Robert said, breaking in. “Are you referring to that young woman with the baby? The one who was waylaid outside your office the other morning by those thugs?”

Madam Valentine's neatly plucked eyebrows rose at this, but she held her tongue.

“Yes, that is the girl I'm seeking,” I told him.

“But I had no idea—” he sputtered. “Good heavens! You didn't mention that she is a—a painted lady.”

The “lady of the house” laughed at this, the sound coming from deep inside her ample bosom, and echoing through the room. Still, she said nothing as she regarded my companion with genuine amusement.