The Irish Devil by Diane Whiteside Read Free Book Online Page B

preferred not to guess at. Had anyone ever opened those velvet draperies and the windows beyond to air out the room?
    A framed Currier & Ives lithograph reflected a lovely, well-dressed woman in the doorway watching her. Viola lifted her chin proudly, determined to show no embarrassment at her own shabby clothing, and took refuge in the proprieties drilled into her from childhood. “Good morning, Mrs. Smith.”
    “What a pleasure to see you here, Mrs. Ross. Would you care to sit down?”
    “Thank you.” Viola settled herself on the elegant rosewood chair indicated. She held her back straight and her chin high, as befitted a social caller and not a destitute widow.
    Carrie Smith evinced no curiosity about the unexpected visit, instead taking the astonishing step of discussing the weather. Viola followed her lead, cloaking her shock at polite conversation in a brothel. Every time she shifted, the chair’s horsehair stuffing rustled like a jury sitting in judgment.
    There was a quiet knock before Lily Mae entered to set a silver tray down on the table in front of Viola. She left just as silently and the door shut with a soft, but distinct, click.
    “Would you care to pour?” Mrs. Smith’s soft soprano voice was more suited to the bedroom than to giving orders, even when phrased as a request.
    Viola nodded and reached for the pot. Hopefully, her hand wouldn’t shake enough to spill anything. The entire scene reminded her far too much of her mother’s lessons in deportment, sessions which usually began and ended in a bitter attack from her mother on Viola’s hoydenish conduct. “Cream? Sugar perhaps, Mrs. Smith?” she asked as if she was hosting the finest lady in town.
    “Both, thank you.” Mrs. Smith accepted the proffered cup and waited for Viola to serve herself.
    “What superb coffee, Mrs. Smith,” Viola complimented her hostess after a sip. “How do you manage fresh cream? It’s such a marvel in this hot climate.”
    “One of my clients brings it every time he comes to call.”
    Viola flushed at the thought of what the man received in return.
    “What brings you here, Mrs. Ross?” The madame’s voice had a stronger edge now.
    “I find that I must immediately leave the laundry business, Mrs. Smith. I have returned your property so that you can find someone else to accommodate you. Perhaps the small Chinese laundry on North Street would do. I understand they have superior expertise with fine fabrics.” Uncomfortably aware she was prattling, Viola stopped talking.
    “I will be very sorry to lose your services, Mrs. Ross. You have always performed to the highest standards.” Mrs. Smith’s voice was emphatic but softened as she went on. “Have you considered what you will do next?”
    Viola’s mouth tightened before she answered bluntly. “I will not marry Mr. Lennox under any circumstances, Mrs. Smith. I am certain I can find another option.” She sipped her coffee, trying not to picture that choice.
    “May I suggest one possibility?”
    Viola nodded warily, surprised by Mrs. Smith’s hesitancy.
    “Have you considered working for me? Or perhaps in another parlor house, if you choose not to remain where people have known you. I would be glad to loan you any funds necessary to free you from your obligations here.”
    Somehow Viola managed not to drop her cup into her lap. “Become a Cyprian? A…a nymph du pave? ” A prostitute, her reeling brain clarified. “No, Mrs. Smith, I hadn’t thought of that.” She gulped a mouthful of cooling coffee.
    “It should prove an excellent solution for your difficulties. The money is first-rate and the hours reasonable, far better than what most women of ill repute receive. And should you find one very special gentleman to be your protector, you could become quite wealthy.”
    Viola stared at her. Thoughts spun through her head like a kaleidoscope, rarely pausing to take coherent shape. A protector? He’d probably be a fat old drunkard with more money than