The Notorious Scoundrel (2 page)

“It won’t help you, you know.”

Edmund took a swig of the gin. “What won’t help me?”

“The drink.” He nursed the cigar in his bejeweled hand. “It won’t help you to forget.”

“It’s all worthless, is it?” He chuckled at the theatrics. “The club? The drink? Is there no escape from one’s ‘tired’ life?”

“There is escape.”

“Oh?”

“In death.”

Edmund snorted at the smattering.

“You laugh at death?”

He peered at the stranger with a sardonic expression. “I laugh at men who speak with courage about death, but who have never faced it.”

“Hmm…and you’ve faced death?”

“I have.”

Edmund downed the rest of the gin and smacked the empty glass on the table, but the spirits had yet to stifle the dark memories in his head.

“And how does it feel to confront death?”

“Do you want me to philosophize?” He shrugged. “I can’t say, in truth. It’s only after the danger has passed that I even realize I’ve come close to death, and then I feel triumphant.”

“Because you’ve bested death?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.”

Edmund waited for the stranger to break the silence with another odd question or puzzling remark, but the shadowy figure refrained from further comment, drawing on his cigar.

Edmund didn’t mind the quiet; he was a man of few words himself. He was also accustomed to more peculiar companions, his history at sea so varied and colorful; yet, at present, he wasn’t in the mood for any more blathering.

He looked at the stage. “What is the show about?”

“I don’t know. This is my first visit to the club, too.”

Edmund sighed, weary. Soon the gin took effect and he sensed his muscles loosen. The sensual music and rich colors and low mood lighting in the room started to make him drowsy…but then the sudden clash of instruments pierced his skull and jostled his wits.

He blinked and glanced around the room, bemused.

“I think the show’s about to start,” said the stranger in an offhand manner, clearly uninterested in the whole proceeding.

Edmund stretched out his long legs and yawned. He was prepared to sleep through the insipid performance, which he assumed was a bawdy comedic act or a recital from a half-rate singer, but the soft clash of cymbals and tambourines, the rhythmic slaps of a hand drum roused his dormant senses.

He remembered sailing to North Africa, stopping in Morocco for supplies before continuing toward the continent’s western shores and bustling slave waters. He remembered similar sounds and lush melodies coming from the foreign port, filling the night air, which was already sweet with spices and tangy fruits.

Edmund opened his eyes and observed the stage as the red velvet curtains parted. The room hushed but for a few patrons, who whispered the word “Zarsitti” with excitement.

A figure soon appeared, scantily attired in white silk. The coquette had a long flowing skirt, beaded with crystals, and a hip scarf bejeweled with gold coins. A matching top crisscrossed over her lush breasts, but her arms and belly were nude.

The dancer’s artful movements, a captivating pattern of hip rolls and twirls, stirred Edmund from his listlessness, bewitched him—and every other male member of the club. She gyrated and shuffled and swayed, hypnotizing him like a snake charmer with music.

He noted a birthmark shaped like a kiss just below
the center part of her breasts. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual mark or makeup designed to enhance her sensual allure. A veil concealed her nose and lips, and an elaborate coin headdress crowned her lengthy, wavy blond locks. There was only a set of piercing and painted eyes that peered at the crowd through the silk mask.

The blood in his veins warmed as she undulated and swooped in step to the pulsing instruments. He stared in both admiration and longing at the woman’s lean figure, her smooth, muscular midriff. Every tendon stretched, seeking glory and applause, and inwardly he offered her that very ovation, for even his bones throbbed in appreciation.

He relished the savory sensations that welled inside him. He had drifted across the sea of idleness for far too long, and the dancer’s mesmerizing appearance was like an anchor staking him to the seabed. She beckoned him back onto land, to feel again. And he was dizzy with the woman’s heady call. He felt like a tar on firm ground after months at sea; the earth was motionless yet he still swayed with the movement of the waves.

The unsteadiness in his soul had him grappling for security. He sensed there was only one way to calm the storm in his heart: he had to see the woman without her mask. He had to touch her, learn her name. He had to know she was real.

The sensual dance ended after a few minutes. The room erupted in a cacophony of applause and cheers.

Edmund glanced at his enigmatic companion, pre
pared to excuse himself from the table. However, the man’s chair was empty; he had slipped away during the course of the performance.

Good. Edmund needn’t bother with pleasantries. He lifted from his seat and headed for the double doors, avoiding the stage area. As he passed through the room, he heard the enamored compliments and similar sentiments of longing to meet the mysterious dancer coming from the other patrons.

He was not the only charmed soul who wanted a private audience with the beautiful Zarsitti, but unlike the other hopeful men at the club, who were doomed to dream about the dancer, for the gatekeepers refused to permit them behind the stage, Edmund had quickly realized the exotic dancer was a highly guarded commodity—and he had already formulated another plan to meet her.

A
my Peel sat on the cushioned stool and scrubbed her features with the moist towel. The cosmetic ink was smeared across her cheeks like black tears. She peered into the large mirror and polished the stains away, removing the painted mask of Zarsitti, the Gold Lady.

Soon the door to her dressing room opened. She stiffened, as she was wont to do whenever Her Highness, Queen Rafaramanjaka, entered the small space. The former monarch from the island of Madagascar was regal in poise and appearance. She carried herself with the utmost pride, draped her limbs in the finest fabrics, doused her flesh in the most expensive perfume. She towered over Amy, not in stature, but in class and education, and she was keen to make Amy aware of the difference between their stations in life, even if no one else was privy to the truth of her royal heritage.

“You danced well tonight, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

Amy spied the woman’s crisp movements through
the looking glass. She crossed the room and paused beside the wardrobe, fingered the brash costumes, inspecting their condition.

“I think I shall have the seamstress fashion you a new outfit. I want our customers to see you in the most unique attires, especially our regular visitors.”

Amy was silent. She set the moist towel aside, smudged with cosmetic ink, and picked up the bone-handled comb, running it through her tousled locks.

“I think we should vary your performances, as well.”

There was a small oil lamp on the vanity next to the mirror. Amy watched, tight-lipped, as the voluptuous woman approached her from the shadows and stepped into the pool of light. She set her soft hands, lathered with cream, on Amy’s shoulders.

“I can teach you a few more dance steps.”

Amy shivered and set down the comb.

“Is something the matter, my dear?”

“No.” She pinched the woolly wrapper at her bust. “I’ve a chill, is all.”

“Take care you don’t fall ill.” She stroked Amy’s fair hair with a sentiment suspiciously akin to spite. “Your fame grows every night. There are more patrons than ever before, and soon I will have to turn gentlemen away at the door.”

She sounded pleased at the thought of turning respectable gentlemen away from the club’s door, triumphant even. She had lost her royal rank and prestige. No one bowed or saluted her with appropriate veneration anymore—except for the besotted patrons. It was
her only means of recapturing the past, Amy supposed, though she dared not pity the wretched woman.

The queen’s icy fingers moved across her protégée’s cheeks. “Were I still as beautiful as you.”

Amy suppressed the darkness that threatened to overtake her senses. If she mused about her predicament for too long, she might surrender to the despair, and give the cold queen the last vestige of her soul and independence.

“Take care to hide your face as you leave the club.” She peered at Amy through the glass with her dark eyes. “If your identity is revealed, the allure of your mysterious character will vanish. Poof!” She snapped her fingers. “I’ll have no need of your services anymore.”

The blood in Amy’s veins swelled, her heart thumped with greater vigor. “Yes, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

She smiled with scorn at the unjust appellation. “You are still young, my dear.” She traced her plump fingers across Amy’s stiff brow. “No lines. No marks. There is nothing to blight your youth or beauty.” She smirked. “But as soon as the signs of age appear, as soon as youth and beauty are lost, the threat of death casts its grotesque presence, and no man wants to admire a woman who reminds him of his own mortality. I’m afraid you will have to fall to that other, less noble profession then.”

Amy breathed hard and heavy through her nose. She was only about nineteen years of age, for she didn’t know the exact date of her birth, and yet the horror of poverty and destitution strangled her even now. She
was convinced, at the first glimmer of her maturity, she would be cast back out into the streets…and she didn’t think she could survive the hardships again.

“Here, my dear.” The woman removed a small satchel pinned at her waist. “Your earnings.”

She dropped the purse onto the vanity; it made a soft, muffled thump.

Amy remained motionless, staring fixedly at the glass, until the queen departed from the dressing room. As soon as the door closed, she bowed her head and shut her eyes, tamping down the wild urge to clout her tormentor soundly between the devilish eyes.

She took in a few measured breaths before she stared at the black purse. She had come to loathe the sight of that purse. It contained her hard-earned wages, enough money to keep her alive for a week, and a little surplus for her savings chest; however, it also imprisoned her, kept her chained to the mad queen’s side like an obedient dog.

Amy emptied the purse into her palm, still quivering with rage, for she had to leave the cursed satchel on the table inside the room; it would be used again for her next pay date.

The coins burned her flesh, and she glared at the wicked pieces of minted metal before she slipped the blunt back inside the black bag.

She contemplated escaping her life as the notorious dancer, and dropped the purse on the vanity. She removed her wrapper; rushed to gather her regular clothing, pulling on the garments in haste.

As soon as she was fully attired in a white top and brown skirt, stockings and brown-leather ankle boots, she twisted a patterned, fringed shawl around her shoulders and departed from the dressing room, seeking fresh air.

She wasn’t likely to find fresh air in a sooty city like London, but she was eager to be away from her dressing room for just a few minutes to think about her life as Zarsitti, and she scaled the back entrance steps, ascending toward the roof.

She opened the door that led topside. The roof’s domed architecture ballooned behind her like a bubble in the water. She approached the building’s edge and gazed through the misty fog at the dark, towering silhouettes.

The city’s looming structures surrounded the club, guarding the Pleasure Palace like ominous sentries, keeping her trapped inside the establishment.

She shuddered and rubbed her arms, warming her chilled limbs, reflecting on the past. She had once called the streets and flash houses home. She had once lived among the shadows in the rookeries. But then the runaway queen had found her, praised her for her beauty, buried under a protective mask of soot and grime.

“You’re a pretty thing,” she had said, rubbing her thumb across Amy’s insolent chin, removing the dirt. “Very pretty. Come with me. I will take you away from here. I will give you a new, wonderful life, my dear.”

Amy had resisted the temptation at first, too suspicious to accept the strange woman’s invitation, but
loneliness and despair had changed her mind, and at the age of sixteen, she had followed Madame Rafaramanjaka into a gilded cage.

Amy wanted freedom from her life of near servitude, but as she stared at the familiar, unforgiving city landscape, she realized she couldn’t go back to her life on the streets of London; that it was an even greater hell.

“Good evening.”

Amy quickly turned around and searched the murky darkness for the owner of the low voice, her hackles spiking.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

A tall figure emerged from behind the behemoth domed roof. He had wide shoulders and a smooth gait as he slowly approached her, his footfalls muffled.

He possessed stealth. The silence was ominous. As he neared her, her pulses quickened, for she sensed the brawn teeming inside him with each swaggered step, the animal strength.

“What do you want?” she demanded, words clipped.

“I want to know you.” He paused, then: “I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought I would have to climb down to meet you.”

Amy maneuvered away from the stranger. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you…Zarsitti.”

She stiffened. “I am not the dancer.”

Thoughts of destitution swelled in her head. If the vicious queen discovered her secret identity had been
revealed, Amy would be replaced as the club’s main attraction. She would be homeless again.

“I’m just a serving wench,” she said brusquely.

“You are the dancer,” he insisted, his voice smoldering. “Your eyes give you away.”

“How would you like to lose
your
eyes, you wretched cur!”

The shadow stilled. “I didn’t expect such language from a lady.”

She detected the humor in his gruff voice and huffed. He was foxed. And like all besotted fools, he was filled with bravado and had come looking for her, the legendary Gold Lady.

“What
do you want?” she repeated.

“What is your name?”

He moved to block the door and she had to retreat to the building’s edge once more. “Why don’t you just give me whatever name you think suits me best, and be gone.”

“I’d rather know your real name…I’d rather know you.”

“Why?”

“You move me,” he said softly. “You make me feel—”

“I know what I make you feel,” she snapped.

A line of white teeth flashed in the darkness. “That, too.”

Amy gnashed her own teeth.

“I mean,” he said, “you make me want to stay on land.”

“What?”

She bumped into the building’s edge with her heel and teetered. A desperate shout escaped her lungs before a set of thick, hard arms gripped her waist and pulled her against a sturdy chest.

Breathless, Amy grabbed the shadowed figure in a fierce hold, her heart in her throat, her limbs quivering with tension after the near mishap. She glanced over her shoulder and shivered at the thought of the three-story fall to her doom.

“Thank…”

She looked into the stranger’s dark eyes, his deep-hooded brow masking the pools, and was struck by the storm of feeling she saw reflected in the glossy orbs, a storm that threatened to come upon her and consume her. She almost welcomed the tempestuous storm into her heart. It was a fleeting yet alarming impulse, and she trembled at the thought of being so reckless.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

He moved his warm palm across her spine. He had a large hand; it spanned most of her lower backside. He stroked her trembling muscles, the lazy, sensual movements so soothing, comforting.

“I’m fine.”

She quieted her uneven breathing. She was pressed so tight against him, she sensed his pulsing heartbeat, stunned at the intimacy.

“I wasn’t sure I would catch you in time.” The man’s dark, thick, wavy locks grazed her temple as he murmured into her ear, “I would have followed you over the edge for one sweet kiss.”

She shuddered at the heat, the softness in his breath; it tickled her ear, caressed her senses like a silk kerchief, making her toes cross.

Amy closed her eyes, lulled. She listened to his raspy breathing, stiffened as his fingers strummed the knobs of bone along her spine. He fingered the hollow at her lower back in wispy strokes, teasing her.

She suddenly yearned for the scoundrel to keep his scandalous word and kiss her…and then she blinked and gathered her disoriented thoughts, mindful of the trouble she was already in up to her flushed ears.

“Let me go.” She squirmed in his strong arms. “You very nearly killed me!”

He frowned, clearly confused by the abrupt shift in her demeanor. “
I
very nearly killed you?”

The young man’s glower contorted his otherwise handsome features. His lush bottom lip puckered and his brow dropped even lower, pinching the flesh between his brooding eyes.

He dragged her away from the building’s edge. “I saved you.”

“You cornered me, you mean.” She twisted her arm. “Let me go!”

The man’s frown darkened. “I think I liked you better onstage—beautiful and silent.”

She humphed. “I am
not
the dancer.”

“You’re lying.”

“Oh, bullocks!”

Amy curled her fingers into a firm fist and walloped him right in the jaw with her free hand.

The scoundrel staggered back, bewildered. He rubbed his chin, scowling.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said dryly.

Amy humphed and hiked up her long skirt before she dashed toward the door in the roof, making her way back to her dressing room in haste.

She was still trembling with a maelstrom of feeling when she entered her private quarters, seeking her wages. She wanted to take her earnings, to quickly get out of the club—but she was confronted by two unfamiliar figures inside the room, rifling through her wardrobe.

“Out!” she demanded.

The blood in her veins burned as her temper roiled even more. How many wastrels were lurking inside the club, looking to meet Zarsitti? And where were the blasted guards to keep them
away
from her dressing room?

But Amy hadn’t a moment more to fulminate. She was dragged inside the dressing room and wrestled to the ground.

A savage energy gripped her bones, and she kicked and thrashed in panic. A hand clamped over her mouth, preventing her screams. She mumbled frantically instead, rolled with the attacking bodies in an attempt to break free of their holds.

The blood in her head pulsed until her skull ached with the thumping pressure. She struggled with her fists, scratching, punching, unmindful of the pressure on her limbs as she resisted the brutal assault.

A fiend soon restrained her wrists with cord, curtailing her outburst. He grunted and sighed as he toiled, winding the coarse rope, his cohort keeping her pinned to the ground.

The door opened.

“I fear I must apologize for my—” The stranger from the roof paused and stared at the spectacle on the floor. “What the devil…?”

Amy mumbled wildly for help. An attacker charged toward the handsome scoundrel. The men butted fists, and Amy’s heart filled with vigorous hope as she anxiously watched the contenders. At length, the second assailant was pressed into battle or he risked watching his comrade smashed to bits.

He released Amy’s wrists. She swiftly disengaged the still loose cord from her arms and jumped to her feet. She snatched the stool beside the vanity and whacked a ruffian over the head. He staggered, disoriented, before he collapsed. The stranger from the roof brawled with the other, ill-matched challenger…until the handsome devil was pushed into the looking glass.