Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards

“A fun and sexy romp! Kit Brennan's heroine, Lola Montez, is irresistible—even more so because she's historically-based.
Whip Smart
is a wonderful debut. Brennan really knows how to tell a story. I can't wait for the sequel.”

—Gywn Cready, RITA award-winning author of
Timeless Desire: An Outlander Love Story

Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards

kit brennan

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

WHIP SMART: LOLA MONTEZ CONQUERS THE SPANIARDS
Astor + Blue Editions LLC

Copyright © 2012 by Kit Brennan

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by:

Astor + Blue Editions, LLC

New York, NY 10003

www.astotandblue.com

Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data

BRENNAN, KIT WHIP SMART: LOLA MONTEZ CONQUERS THE SPANIARDS—1st ed.

         ISBN: 978-1-938231-47-6 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-938231-46-9 (epdf)

ISBN: 978-1-938231-45-2 (epub)

1. Women's Historical Romance—Fiction 2. Fiction 3. Inspired by Life of Eliza Gilbert; aka Lola Montez—Fiction 4. High Adventure, High Romance—Fiction 5. Sex and Flirtation—Fiction 6. Danger and Romantic History (19th Century England, France and Spain) I. Title

Book Design: Bookmasters

Jacket Cover Design: Danielle Fiorella

For Andrew—always.

And for Punch.

In loving memory of my beautiful mother, Beth B. Watters Morley.

Foreword

The Début—1843

It Began in London

And on to Paris

Interlude: The Dead of Night

Remembering Spain

Paris, Again

Return to London

And Now: The Denouement

Afterword

About the Author

L
OLA
M
ONTEZ BLAZED LIKE
a fiery meteor shower throughout a decade and a half in the middle of the Victoria era, and because she was unquenchable in a time when women were not allowed to be so, her reputation turned notorious. Her adventures were remarkable; the places she traveled and the people she met (and loved, and fought) were legendary.

This novel is based on the truth and peppered with lies—much like the real Lola's own life. Although a number of excellent biographies deal with the facts and put straight many of the fictions about this extraordinary woman, none of them have been able to unearth exactly what she did during the trip she made to Spain in the summer of 1842, before her splashy arrival in London in the spring of 1843. When she left for Madrid, she was Eliza Gilbert; upon her return, she was someone brand new. What happened to her during those months in hot, rebellious Spain?

My version of events explores this alluring gap of time—and the exquisite bravado of a twenty-two-year-old beauty caught up in dangerous political undercurrents and intrigues.

“T
ELL US IN YOUR
own words.” The small, elegantly dressed man speaks.

The Cockney pulls up a chair and seats himself after a quick glance at the other man. Obviously the dandy is the one in charge.

“This evening was a very important night for me, gentlemen,” I begin carefully. “You have no idea how dangerous this intruder is. In my country, he is a murderer!”

“We agree there is danger.” The miniscule man's accent is a mystery to me. It is not English, nor Irish, nor Scottish. It is Continental—but from where? Not Spanish or Italian . . . not German. It worries me.

“Are you from the police?” I ask, my chin high, about to take offence—or at least to seem so.

“We're askin' the questions,” the big Cockney purrs, leaning closer and giving me a head-to-toe lick with his eyes.

My usual bravado has been given a jolt, and I realize that I'm frightened, which makes me more so. There was shocking manhandling and a stumbling drag through the streets, into the mouth of a building, and down hallways; both the Cockney and I are still puffing from the struggle. And now this room reveals nothing. I have no idea where they've taken me; it could be anywhere. The paneling on the walls of the room is solid, a dark burnished wood, and the hangings are rich brocade. But here are only two chairs and a lumpy settee, and one candelabra with three tapers burning, nothing else. Not a soul in the world knows that I'm here.

“Right from the top of the evening, if you would, madam.”

“Señora,” I correct the small European. No response, not a flicker. “My friend, the Earl of Malmesbury—a member of Parliament, as I'm sure you know—was in attendance tonight.” I want them to understand I have friends in high places, even if that friend . . . Don't think it, don't let it show. Their faces remain impassive. Well, I can play at that as well as any man, I think, as a jolt of fury fizzes through my veins and prickles out to the ends of my fingers. They wouldn't expect a lash and a sting! I long to deliver it. But, of course, this sort of behavior is always my downfall.

Calm, Lola, give nothing away.

What to tell them? Images from the evening jostle for attention: Well-dressed people in the street outside, descending from carriages, smoking cheroots. Inside, a turmoil of men shifting scenery, the sound of singers warming up in their underground lair. The stage doorman's whispered caution—policemen had been around, asking questions; there'd been another murder.

Then, waiting in the wings, an eye to the peekhole: Every seat taken, the royalty box full! Check the backstage mirror in its ornate frame—tight black velvet bodice, dark red and violet skirt, soft red shoes. I look remarkable! Stagehands scurry to bring in my backdrop, set up the folding screen, then away into the wings left and right. The first bars of music—my cue to wrap myself in the black lace mantilla, take a firm hold of the castanets. The stage manager signaling, the curtain rising. I step out into the lights.

That moment of connection! Then something else takes over. The performance itself is a blur of absorption, with the earl yelling support and his friends joining in. My signature dance, my own creation:
El Oleano.
The story is simple. I enter, a young girl in a meadow enjoying the sunshine, picking the flowers. But there's a large spider's nest down stage left. I don't see the nest, and I step upon it—thousands of little spiders have just been born. They climb my skirts; they're everywhere! Sudden whirling, twirling energy—get them out!—and then I turn. I see it in my mind's eye: the enormous parent spider! I leap towards it, and oh the stamping and crushing that ensues! A rivulet of sweat runs from my temple to land on my breast. Hair flying, sheer animal pleasure surging through me; in the dance I am transformed into sheer movement—no past or future, just these delicious sensations.

The curtain descends with a thud; on the other side, the syncopated, muffled sound of approval, like the beginnings of a rain storm, slow at first and then enormous; the theatre swept with round after round of applause. They love me, I think, I can scarcely believe it! The curtain rises up and, thanks to the earl, flowers are landing upon the stage. The audience is requesting an encore—it's a triumphant début, in London, in England! At Her Majesty's Theatre, before royalty and nobility! And then . . .

I gasp, suddenly confused. The spell is broken.

“Madam?” the small man pounces with the word.

Spit it out, Lola, then brave it out.

“My performance was perfection. Then out of nowhere, that devil began to scream his vile lies.”

The Cockney enjoys repeating them for me. “‘She's a hoax, a fraud. How can anyone be fooled?' Ain't that what 'e said?”

The memory makes me cover my eyes and shiver from head to foot—the shape of a man moving swiftly along a row of seats, causing others to cry out as he pushes past with that high, angry voice.

“He then claimed, ‘That's not Lola Montez,'” the European adds. “‘Her name is Eliza Gilbert, formerly known as Mrs. James, as many of you men know. She's a fraud and an adulteress.' I believe those were the exact words.”

I stare at him in horror.

“Tell us wha' you did then.” The Cockney grins, clambering to his feet. “I love this part.”

Again with my fear comes a spurt of anger. Don't you toy with Lola Montez. Don't dare bully me, you turds!

“I did what any professional would have done,” I say. “The orchestra leader was looking up at me, astonished, so I waved at him to go on.”

Yes, he raised his baton, my music began again, and I stepped behind the folding screen. To catch my breath, to ask myself, who is this
bastardo
trying to ruin my triumph? The hysterical voice began yelling again, and suddenly I recognized it! Before I knew what I was doing, I'd bent down and ripped off my shoes, reached to my thighs to unclip my garters, yanked the stockings from my legs, and stepped out again from behind the screen. In my head was an explosion of hot, red light, the flame of
realization: I may know your obscene secrets, you fiend, the ones you hissed into my brain, but I also know exactly what you fear! So I danced again, I danced
El Oleano
barefoot and barelegged! I danced that
araña repulsivo
right out of the theatre! I leapt and stamped, naked legs flashing. Ladies were screaming and trying to get out of their seats; husbands covered their ladies' eyes while peering, bulgy-eyed, themselves. There was such a hubbub I could barely hear the music, but as the hideous shape slithered out the auditorium doors, I was inspired by a wild jubilation. Flinging my skirts back and forth in flamenco style, I shook my hips and my castanets, dancing towards the edge of the stage until the orchestra leader's eyes protruded in alarm, thinking I was about to drop upon him. Arching my back, I ripped the mantilla from my head and shook my tresses loose to cascade over my shoulders in a dark mass. The curtain fell, just missing me, the orchestra came to an abrupt, wheezy halt, and my encore was over.