The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (38 page)

“Don’t tease me,” Irene said, brushing her short dark hair back. Every movement exposed new, and interesting, inches. “You’ve seen me in my camisole before.”

Cian tried to say something. It came out like a growl. He cleared his throat.

“Really? That’s so interesting,” Irene said with an impish smile. “Come sit down, Cian, before you fall through the floor.”

There wasn’t a chair.

Irene patted the side of the bed.

Cian’s legs felt like he was walking on wet newspaper. He dropped onto the side of the bed. Irene’s smile faded. She studied him in the half-dark. A small white bandage covered her temple. The room smelled of liniment and warm bedding and the unmistakable scent of Irene’s skin. Cian’s cheeks were hot.

“I was having the most wonderful sleep,” Irene said, “until someone started shouting.”

It took Cian a moment to realize that she was speaking to him.

And, more importantly, that he was staring.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Well, it was nothing. A disagreement.”

“With Harry?”

“Who else?”

“You’ve been butting heads with him since the two of you met.”

“He’s a presumptuous ass.”

“Not really.”

“He’s—just trust me, Irene. He’s trouble. I’ve known men like him. They’re only looking out for themselves, and if you trust them, you’ll get hurt. Or killed. He’s going to do that to Pearl, one day. Get her killed, I mean.”

“I don’t think so,” Irene said. “I think he loves her.”

Cian snorted. “Trust me. He does not love her.”

“And how in the world would you know, Cian Shea?” Irene propped herself up. “Are you suddenly the expert on love?”

“Not at all,” Cian said. “But I’m fairly sure that Harry doesn’t have eyes for Pearl.”

“Well I think he does.”

“Irene, for God’s sake, would you just—”

“And what makes you so certain? I have a woman’s intuition, Cian.”

Cian took a breath, ready to respond, and then paused. Instead, he said, “Can we make a deal?”

Irene eyed him suspiciously.

“Please?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We table this current argument—as interesting as it is—because I’m about to pick an even bigger fight with you. I’m tired and I need to conserve my strength.”

“Consider it tabled,” Irene said. “What’s this new fight going to be about?”

“Tonight.”

“I’d like to go out for dinner. Not the Grand. Someplace else.”

Cian laughed. “Not the Grand. But I’m afraid dinner will have to be another night. Harry got answers out of Sam. The mask is hidden here, in the city. We’re going to get it. And it’s going to be dangerous, Irene. And I absolutely forbid you to come.”

“You forbid me.” Irene’s voice could have raised icicles in midsummer.

“Well.” Cian swallowed. “Yes. Irene, you were hurt last night. Badly. And I left you behind. I can’t do that again.”

Her hand found his. “I was fine.”

“But what if you hadn’t been? Irene, I’d have gone mad. If something happened to you—if I couldn’t protect you—”

“Very well.”

“No, just listen—wait. What?”

“I said, very well.”

“You won’t go?”

“No.”

“Maybe we could find you another hotel. Sam is still here. I don’t like the thought of you being here alone with him.”

Irene nodded. “That sounds wise.”

Cian waited for the other shoe to drop. “But?”

“But nothing. You make a good point. I’m still a bit rattled from that blow to the head, and a night off will do me wonders. I’ll stay at the Majestic.”

“You will?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “Goodness, Cian, you’re acting as though I’ve grown horns. I know reason when I hear it.”

“You do?”

Irene’s eyebrows went up.

“Yes, of course,” Cian said. “Perfect.”

“Now. One last question, Cian Shea.”

Cian felt the trap closing.

“Who is Captain Irving Harper, and why is he looking for you?”

Cian danced around the question for a half an hour like a dog with his head in a beehive. Irene watched him, feeling a mixture of anxiety and amusement. Anxiety that he wouldn’t answer the question truthfully. Amusement that—well, that he was Cian, and he had as much deception in him as a teaspoon. Eventually, and with a look that told Irene that Cian believed he had succeeded in dodging the question, Cian made a flurry of excuses and practically ran from the room.

Irene dropped back onto her pillow. Her head still ached. She felt like she’d fallen down ever step in the Louisiana Grand. She thought about the look in Cian’s eyes when he’d walked into the room. She thought about the tremor in his leg as he’d sat next to her on the bed.

She wondered, if she’d shown him her breasts, if he’d have swallowed his tongue.

She certainly hoped not.

Then Irene got up and set to work. She packed her suitcase, freshened up in the bathroom, and carried her belongings to the front door. Pearl sat on the sofa with her knitting. Her eyes were red, and her hands were idle in her lap.

“Pearl?” Irene said. “Is everything alright?”

Pearl lined up the knitting needles and shook her head.

“Is it Harry? I know he and Cian fought, but—”

“No,” Pearl said. Her voice was raw. “No, Harry’s sleeping. He’s fine. It’s Freddy.”

“Freddy?” And then realization. “Oh, Pearl. I’m so sorry.”

The other woman nodded. “Sam told Harry that he didn’t know anything about the carving. Harry—Harry says Sam is telling the truth.” Pearl paused a moment to recover herself. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. “I suppose I believe him. It was one thing to know that Freddy had kept that disc. Considering his past, I thought that it might have been nothing more than curiosity. But that carving.” She stopped again. “I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.”

Irene set down her suitcase and coat. Then she sat on the sofa and embraced Pearl. The older woman sighed and patted Irene’s back.

“Thank you,” Pearl said. “I wish you hadn’t been dragged into this.”

“It’s ok,” Irene said. “We’ll all be fine. We’ll figure things out.”

Pearl laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it brought some color back to her face. “I suppose we will. Harry’s never let anything stop him before.” She glanced at the luggage. “Where are you going? You need to rest.”

“Cian wants me to stay at a hotel. He says you’ll be busy tonight and he doesn’t want me here alone with Sam.”

“And you agreed?”

Irene fought to keep the lie from showing in her face. “Of course. It makes sense, I suppose. I’ll have a good night’s sleep and be right as rain tomorrow.”

Pearl stared at her.

“Is Cian here?” Irene asked.

“He went out.”

“Ok. Well, let him know that I went to the Majestic, would you?”

“Of course. I’ll tell him you left.”

“Thank you,” Irene said. She turned toward the door and stopped. “Pearl, I am sorry about Freddy.”

“So am I,” Pearl said. “Be safe, Irene.”

Irene donned her coat, grabbed her suitcase, and hurried downstairs to hail a cab.

Two hours later, she was settled in a new suite of rooms at the Majestic. Although not quite as spacious or opulent as the Grand, the Majestic had the same straight lines, the same gleaming metalwork and marble floors, and—most importantly—the same lovely, large bathtubs with hot water. After she bathed, Irene studied herself in the mirror. The bruises across her back and legs were dark purple splotches with yellow rings.

Her father.

She dressed. She chambered the revolver. And then she took her coat and her clutch and went out.

Patrick was certain that he needed her father’s help. Irene was about to show him how wrong he was.

At seven-thirty, Cian arrived at Harry’s apartment. By that hour, the streets were already dark tunnels studded with guttering street lamps. In the fitful rings of light, the snow lost its muddied, trampled aspect and turned the walks into forgotten mountains. As Cian knocked on the door to Harry’s, his stomach grumbled.

He needed money. He needed a job. And most of all, he needed not to see Harry Witte one more day than was necessary.

Pearl opened the door and ushered him inside. She wore, as she always did, a simple blouse and skirt. Nothing flashy. Nothing shabby, either.

Respectable. That was the word for it.

She made Irene look like a gypsy.

“There’s a bite of supper in the kitchen,” Pearl said. “Harry thought you might not have eaten.”

“He did, did he?”

“Steak and potatoes.”

Cian’s stomach lunged towards the kitchen, but he held himself still. Then he shrugged. “I already ate. Thank you.”

His stomach growled its disagreement.

One of Pearl’s eyebrows went up.

“Is he here?” Harry asked. “We should go.”

“We’re almost ready,” Pearl said. “Let me grab my things. Would you like a drink?”

Cian shook his head. “You’re coming too, then?”

“Of course,” Pearl said. “With Irene resting, who else will keep you two from killing each other?”

That, Cian thought, was a remarkably good point.

Harry emerged from his bedroom a moment later, dressed like a man out on the town—tailored suit, sharp hat, silver cufflinks, shoes that Cian could see his face in. And a revolver, visible in a holster under Harry’s arm.

“Ready?” Harry asked. His voice was colder than the air outside.

Cian didn’t bother answering.

“After our conversation this morning, I want to make sure we’re clear on something,” Harry said.

“Stuff your apologies.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He gave a clipped laugh. “Apology? Not quite. I want to make sure you understand that I’m giving the orders tonight. That means if I say jump, you jump. And if I say we leave without the mask, we leave. If I say shoot—”

“I got it,” Cian said.

Harry nodded. “Pearl?”

She came out of the sitting room pulling on her coat and gloves. They left the apartment, climbed into Harry’s car, and started south. The silence inside the automobile was thicker than the ice on the streets. Pearl looked at both of them, sighed, and pulled out a compact mirror to check her face.

“You’re going to get someone killed,” she said.

Neither man bothered to ask who she was talking to.

A half an hour later, they pulled up in front of a large house. It was an older building but well-maintained, three stories of white-washed wood with dormer windows. Music and laughter came from inside, spilling out from behind curtained windows. The smell of cigar smoke and cheap perfume hung on the house like a bad pair of stockings.

“You take me to the most wonderful places,” Pearl said.

Harry grinned at her.

Cian thought, briefly, about what that smile would look like with all those pretty teeth bashed in.

“I doubt Pearl is the kind of guest they usually have here,” Cian said. “No offense, Pearl.”

“You’d be surprised by some of these places,” Harry said, “but in this case, you’re right. Pearl will wait here and keep an eye out for any of the Children—or any of the Dane’s men—who show up.”

“More waiting,” Pearl said with a mock-sigh.

“There’s another option,” Cian said. “I spoke with a friend about this place. She knows it well enough and she told me there’s a back door that the girls leave open. Apparently that’s the way the Dane’s men come and go, since they’re not paying customers. If Pearl sits out front, all she’s going to get is a frozen backside.”

“Who is this friend?” Harry said.

“A whore named Eileen,” Cian said. “Know her?”

“Funny. What do you think, Pearl?”

She hesitated. “I think we should consider both possibilities.”

Cian fought not to roll his eyes.

“Did Eileen tell you if the house is closely watched?”

Cian nodded. “She said a woman could stand in the back hall for the whole night and not get a second look. The Dane brings new girls in all the time.”

“No, Pearl,” Harry said. “I don’t like it.”

“Harry—”

“You’re going to walk through the back door all by yourself? And then what? What if something happens?”

“Harry Witte, I am a grown woman. I was taking care of myself long before I met you. I might not have experience with whorehouses, but I know women, and I’ll be safer—and warmer—talking to a few of those poor girls than I would be sitting in the car. I’m going in.”