Almost a Lady (16 page)

Brandt caught a good look at
himself
and nearly keeled over in mortification. He stood encased in cotton drawers and a woman's corset with his very masculine bare arms and legs sticking out on all sides. The fact that his sock-laden bosom now rivaled that of the
most well
-endowed matriarch did little to lift his spirits.

"I cannot believe I'm doing this. I look like my mother, God rest her soul. She and my father both would turn over in their graves if they saw me prancing around in women's underclothes."

"You're not prancing,” Willow said, trying to allay his misgivings. “You're adopting a disguise to further our investigation. Your parents would be proud that you're willing to go so far to catch a killer."

"You didn't know my parents,” he muttered.

"Lord!” Mrs. Xavier gasped as she came back into the room, clutching a small pile of clothes to her breast. “We'd better get these things on you. No one will take you for a woman, standing there like that. I've never seen such hairy legs,” she said, and then made a point of looking anywhere but below Brandt's waist. “Even James's legs don't have that much fur on them, and he's a hairy man, he is."

She bustled forth and handed Willow several large, nondescript garments as they both began dressing him. Mary pushed his arms through the long sleeves of a once-white blouse, while Willow wrapped a dark skirt around his waist. And then Willow delivered the coup de grace, a flowing blond wig that had come from her personal collection—bought and paid for by the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, of course—which she attached to his head with several sharp hairpins.

When they finished, he almost looked like a female. A large, not very attractive, not overly feminine female, but nonetheless, he could pass for a woman from a distance. He hoped.

"We don't have time to fix your face,” Willow told him. “You'll have to shave before we go to the theater to avoid any signs of a beard, and then we can both change clothes in the carriage on the way to the docks."

A beard was the least of his problems. Right now, he was more concerned about getting enough air to avoid passing out.

"How am I supposed to breathe in this thing?” he questioned the women, giving the
clawlike
contraption an uncomfortable tug.

"Very carefully,” they answered in unison, and then shared a chuckle at their mutual understanding.

"He's going to need a shawl to cover those big arms and chest,” Mrs. Xavier commented, and bustled out of the room to find one.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself,” he said darkly, staring at the top of Willow's head while she fussed with the pleats of his skirt. “Because when we're finished, I'm going to make you very, very sorry for doing this to me."

She looked up, meeting his eyes as she crouched in front of him, her face even with the general area of his groin. Corset or no corset, a man's body had no choice but to respond to a woman in such a position.

"I'll look forward to it,” she returned saucily, then gifted him with a grin that would drive a saint to sin.

And there, before the full-length mirror, in women's clothes, a bulge appeared at the front of his skirt that in
no way
would help him pass as a female.

No matter how many of these filthy harlots he dispensed with, a dozen more seemed to take her place. His task would never be done unless he increased his efforts.

And he was beginning to feel it was a mistake to concentrate on only the overt sinners. Granted, he had ended dear Yvonne's wickedness, but that hadn't been planned. He hadn't recognized her true corruption until he'd caught her
en flagrante
with that young upstart Parker
Cunnington
. Until that moment, he'd thought Yvonne pure of heart, unsullied. He'd intended to join with her and make their marriage one of pureness, dedicated to the eradication of evil.

He regretted having had to kill her. She had been a beauty. And down deep, he still believed there had been a touch of purity in her soul. But sinners must be punished, regardless of their comeliness or standing in society.

Which is why he'd begun to look more closely at those around him.
Prostitutes could be found at any time down by the docks, but there were whores all around him, dressed in fancy finery, holding their heads high, secure with their social status. Yet they corrupted community mores from the inside out, perhaps more insidiously even than those who sold their wares so blatantly to any man with a few coins and a place to carry out their dirty deeds.

A face took shape before his mind's eye. A delightful piece, if ever
he ‘d
seen one.
He ‘d
spotted her at several assemblages lately and had been told she was married to the strapping fellow who seemed to never be far from her side. Yet he still suspected her of great transgressions against God.

She was too exquisite not to have sinned. And she was more brazen than was wise for someone so young. Why,
he ‘d
been standing just around the corner when she ‘d boldly told Claudia Burton that she and her husband were leaving the party early so that they could go home and fornicate.

He would watch her carefully. It wouldn't be hard, considering the couple seemed to be at all of the same functions he attended.

And soon, after
Outram
disposed of the body that even now occupied the dark cellar room, the time would be right to rid the world of another transgressor, and he would make sure it was Willow Donovan.

"I don't know how you stand these bloody things,” Brandt complained for the fourth time in ten minutes, digging at the lower edge of his corset.

She experienced an almost sadistic glee over the fact that someone else—especially a man—was suffering the same nuisance she usually did. Of course, Brandt was much more vocal about his discomfort than the women who trussed themselves up in similar trappings every day of their lives.

For once, Willow wasn't wearing a corset herself. She was dressed in a rather shabby, dull brown skirt that fell to mid-calf and was pinned to the side at her knee to show even more of her stocking-clad leg. Her camisole, with pink ribbon woven into the border, left her arms and much of her chest bare, and the faded gray shawl draped about her shoulders acted as more of a shield against the chill air coming off the waterfront than a cover for her exposed skin. Her hair was knotted at the top of her
head,
with several long strands left to straggle around her face in what she hoped was an alluring yet beggared style.

"I don't want you wearing this monstrosity anymore,” he put in, still on the fevered topic of corsets. “Or anything
like
it. I don't care if you grow as fat as a suckling hog. To think of you in this kind of pain for the sake of fashion. . .” he growled, tugging at another part of the garment. “No. I'm burning this damn thing and any others you have as soon as we get back."

Even though she'd come to much the same conclusion the night of the Burtons’ ball, she wasn't about to let Brandt begin dictating to her. It would give him a false sense of authority and possibly lead to other demands she would feel less charitable about carrying out. So she thrust her hands on her hips and cocked her head in what she hoped was a challenging pose. “Just because you're laced up in my best girdle, don't think you can start dictating how I'm to dress, Brandt Donovan."

He huffed but didn't argue. Instead he concentrated his efforts on scratching at a particularly annoying stay, and grumbling all the while.

"Will you please
hush.
You're going to draw the wrong kind of attention to us. And can't you pitch your voice a bit higher? No one is going to believe you're a woman with that gruff tone."

"How's this?"
he asked, two octaves higher and with a distinct Southern drawl that Willow couldn't help but find funny.

She turned away to keep from bursting into laughter, even though she couldn't stifle a chuckle at both his histrionics and the way he fluttered his lashes coquettishly.

As much as he'd balked at dressing in women's clothing for this assignment, he was now playing his part to the hilt. Throughout the night, he'd added a wide sashay to his walk, primped his long blond hair, and adjusted and readjusted his false bosom. Even his razor stubble seemed under control, since he'd shaved just before they left for the theater not four hours before.

She was about to comment on how often he reached a hand between his legs to feel his member—as though checking to see that is was still there, even though he was wearing a dress—when she heard a carriage approaching.

"Listen,” Brandt whispered.

"I hear.” She stepped away so they wouldn't appear huddled together and watched for the advancing vehicle. Letting the shawl fall to her elbows, she put her hands on her hips to tighten the front of her sleeveless camisole and accentuate her chest. A move Brandt would no doubt chastise her for later, having warned her more than once not to be
too
enticing.

But the coach stopped several yards away, in front of a woman who had been standing in the same warehouse doorway all evening. A well-dressed gentleman stepped out of the black landau, and Willow noticed immediately that it was not Virgil Chatham. Her heart plummeted; she had so hoped he would appear and do or say something to convince them that he was, indeed, the killer.

"La, but it must be Thursday if the likes of you are visiting me,” the prostitute said with a seductive smile, moving forward to place a hand on the man's chest.

Brandt's voice reached her ear from just over one shoulder. “Isn't that Martin Proctor? The fellow we met at the Wellington soirée who announced every five minutes, rather vocally, how much he adored his new bride?"

"Hello,
Ginni
.” The man pressed a kiss to the back of the woman's hand, as though he was greeting a lady at a party rather than picking up the prostitute he paid to pleasure him. “I've been anticipating this all week. Shall we?” He stepped back and ushered her into the carriage, and
Ginni
went willingly.

Willow took a closer look. “So much for wedded bliss,” she replied dryly, realizing Brandt was right. “I wonder if Mrs. Proctor knows how her husband spends his Thursday evenings."

"Doubtful. Highly doubtful,” Brandt answered.

She released a sigh of regret, realizing that this assignation was an old and routine one, not something she and Brandt needed to be concerned with. And not someone they needed to follow.

The coach drove off, and Brandt went back to alternating between checking his masculinity and “puffing” his breasts. Willow stared out across the water, well used to the fish- and rubbish-laden odor by now.

It frightened her to think of the poor, defenseless women who had been murdered here. Or possibly picked up here and murdered elsewhere. But it frightened her even more to think of the women who hadn't been killed, the ones who were still forced to sell their bodies for money.

Because it could so easily be her.
There but for the grace of God,
as the saying went. If it weren't for her job with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, she might very well be in the same position, especially with Erik to care for.

And it wasn't so far-fetched a possibility that when Francis Warner finally got his way and edged her out of the Agency, she could still end up here.

Her teeth clenched, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She wouldn't do so willingly, she vowed. She would do anything else first—be a governess, a laundress, enter into a loveless marriage to a wealthy man—but it was not unfathomable that she could one day find herself in the exact same situation as some of these women, just trying to make enough to buy food, keep a roof over their heads, provide for their children.

She only prayed that—before she did lose her job—she would be able to save enough to buy a nice little house somewhere and bring Erik to live with her. It had always been her most fervent dream and her primary goal. Lord, but she missed that boy.

Once again, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels and hooves on cobblestone, this time from the other end of the wharf. The carriage stopped too far away for them to make out details. But strangely it did not appear to come to a rest near any prostitutes that she noticed.

Brandt, too, appeared to find this odd. His hand clamped over her arm and dragged her back against the shadowed wall of a dark, empty warehouse. From there, he led her closer to the coach, putting a finger to his lips and gesturing for her to be silent.

They sneaked along the connected buildings, listening for any sound, watching for any movement. As they got close enough to see more clearly, the driver climbed down from his perch and opened the door. But rather than someone stepping out, he leaned inside and pulled out a large, bulky sack. He tossed the heavy parcel over his shoulder and turned so that Willow and Brandt could see his face.

Willow gasped, and then threw a hand over her mouth to smother the sound. Brandt's grip tightened about her wrist and Willow knew he was thinking the same thing:
Outram
Kyne
.
Virgil Chatham's tall, bald valet, at the docks, apparently . . . dumping something.

She remained perfectly still, waiting for the man's next move. While they watched, he carried his burden down one of the landing docks and laid it gently on the ground. He untied the ropes at each end and rolled the contents until the brown burlap came loose.

"Oh, my God!”
This time Willow didn't bother stifling her cry of alarm, but the sound was still too low to carry.

A woman's body toppled onto the splintered wood of the pier.
Outram
began arranging the pale, lifeless form, folding her arms and adding a single white rose between her clasped hands.

As he started to bundle up the coarse cloth and ropes, Brandt stormed forward, raising his arms to signal the numerous Pinkerton agents stationed in various spots along the wharf. “Hold it!” he called out, making his way to where
Outram
stood.

Willow hurried behind Brandt, already reaching beneath her skirt for the derringer hidden in her garter. She wasn't sure whether Brandt carried a weapon or not, but she didn't intend to be caught defenseless in the company of this obviously unstable creature.

The valet straightened, stunned at being caught near the body of a dead woman. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape. But Brandt was already there, tackling him and throwing his imposing frame to the ground.

Outram
fought, kicking, hitting, and scratching. But Willow kept the barrel of her gun trained on him, and Brandt did his best to keep the man down. Then they were surrounded by running, shouting
Pinkertons
, all coming to aid in Brandt's fight.

Two men lifted
Kyne
; another helped Brandt to his feet. And they all stared at the young, dark-haired girl lying still on the dock.

Willow returned the pistol to her garter and moved toward Brandt. His wig was askew, the blond strands covering one eye. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath within the tight confines of the corset, and she noticed that one side of the lacy material was flat where his sock breast had fallen out during the struggle.

He stretched a hand out to her and she grasped it. In one motion, he pulled her against him, burying his lips in her hair. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed tight while she rested her head on his shoulder.

Several of the agents led the servant away. Others remained with the body, covering her with the discarded sheet of burlap.

Willow couldn't pull her eyes from the body lying immobile not three feet away. Her heart squeezed in sadness, for who she was and who she could have been. She looked to be no older than Willow's age, petite, pretty, probably vibrant and lovely at one time, with her whole life ahead of her.

And now . . . she was dead.

Willow wondered when this girl had been killed, and her stomach gave a violent lurch at the thought that she and Brandt might have been able to prevent it. They might have saved her.

With his free hand, Brandt dragged the now straggling wig off his head. “Let's go change. We'll meet Robert at the police station and see what we can learn when they question the suspect."

"We're going to have a bit of trouble getting a confession out of him,” Robert told them as he closed the door of a private interrogation room behind him.

"Why?” Brandt asked. He was back in his own clothes, a pair of buff-colored trousers and a plain white shirt, the cuffs rolled to just below his elbows. Willow was still wearing her outfit from the dock, simply because it had been easier than undressing and then dressing again. And unlike Brandt, she didn't mind if people saw her in rather ratty old feminine clothes. But she'd covered her bare arms with a long-sleeved shirtwaist and lowered the hem of her skirt so that her legs were no longer visible.

"It turns out the man has no tongue."

Willow's eyes widened as she looked at Robert. That
would
explain why they'd never seen or heard him speak to anyone, not even his master. Nor had he uttered a cry of outrage while being captured, which Willow had found odd.

"We did bring in Mr. Chatham to get his statement. He's visibly shaken and claims not to know anything about his employee's activities."

"Do you believe him?” Brandt wanted to know.

"We have no reason not to,” Robert said, though he sounded less than enthusiastic about it. “Chatham also claims to have alibis for the nights of each woman's death, though it will take some time to verify them."

Robert turned to Willow. “What do you think?"

She didn't know what to think. She'd been so sure Virgil Chatham was the murderer, and now she was being told the man was innocent. Whether it was doubt or simply the fact that she hated being wrong, a chill swept over her skin at the idea.

"I'd like to know why
Outram
Kyne
killed all those women. And what his connection is to Gideon.” She shot Brandt a meaningful glance, knowing that Charlie's note and all their research had not been misleading. It meant something.

Robert, who was up-to-date on even the most minor detail of the case by now, said, “Perhaps the valet picked up on his employer's fascination with the Bible.
Kyne
has been with Chatham for several years now; perhaps he felt he was doing his master's bidding. We won't know until we talk to Chatham a bit more and somehow get a few answers from
Kyne
himself, but I'd guess that's the direction in which the police will be leaning."

"And what about Charlie?”
Willow persisted.
“If
Outram
killed him,
why?
And if he didn't, who did?"