Chapter One
Boston, 1814
“What a bumblebroth I’ve made of things.”
It was not the first time Miss Madeline Louise Mercer had made that comment in the last twenty-four hours.
Gas lamps spread ribbons of cream-colored light on the street as Madeline stepped from the carriage that had transported her from Bradford Academy to the back entrance of The Feathers, Boston’s most notorious brothel. She wore the latest fashion, a traveling ensemble of warm green velvet, with lace-and-satin-trimmed sleeves and a matching bonnet.
She paid the driver handsomely, assuring him he had indeed transported her to the right address, then left the worried man and entered a world she had hoped she would never see again.
The back entry’s waiting room walls were wallpapered in red velvet. Paintings of half-naked men and women frolicked in meadows, above a marble bust of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine, and nude statues and busts of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. A gold and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Mahogany tables were polished to a high shine, and chairs and sofas were upholstered with red, black, and gold silk. The entry was a mere sampling of the opulent and decadent atmosphere that awaited an exclusive clientele. Her fellow students at the academy would be scandalized if they knew she was here. They judged without knowing. Her feelings were tumbled and confused, for this was home…the only one she had ever known.
Madeline removed her gloves, set down her satchel, and braced for a world she hadn’t seen in over ten years. On the eve of her fourteenth birthday, her mother had sent her to boarding school at Ursuline Academy for girls in New Orleans. She had excelled and moved from there to more advanced courses at Bradford Academy, in Massachusetts, with instructions to keep this part of her life a secret. After her mother had made generous donations to Ursuline Academy and then Bradford, the administrators were willing to accept the story that her mother was the wealthy widow of a railroad tycoon. Once again, Madeline thrived and made friends.
But nothing lasts forever.
She had had an offer of marriage from the son of one of her professors, which she had declined. She was fond of him in the way a person was fond of a brother or a cherished cousin. She was not in love with him, nor was she seeking love. Her mother had lectured her on its follies and pitfalls. Madeline’s father had abandoned her and her mother before Madeline was born, confirming that, for women, love came at a price at times too dear to pay.
Then an offer of a different sort from a married professor was made, and this time it came with threats. The threat was straightforward: accept his offer and become his mistress or he would reveal her mother’s profession. For additional inducement, he promised he would recommend her for a teaching position at Bradford. She did not trust him any further than she could toss his pear-shaped hide.
Madeline had stalled, asked the professor if she could consider his offer for a fortnight, and then, needing her mother’s advice, she had hired a carriage and returned home. Her mother was many things: the successful owner of an establishment too exclusive to be considered as a brothel, wise in managing her wealth, kind and generous with her employees, and above all, a loving mother. Her mother would also know how to handle the professor.
Madeline heard a commotion in the hallway: a heated argument between a gentleman and a lady. Then Madeline’s mother’s voice, lifted, strong and clear above the shouts and accusations, demanding that the gentleman leave at once or be tossed out on his ear.
Memories flooded back, rooting Madeline’s feet to the thick carpeted floor.
Her mother had created a safe place for her girls, employing a physician to assist with pregnancies and diseases, hiring maids and cooks to assure the house was clean and the food of the highest quality, as well as loyal guards to protect the girls if her clientele became violent. The violence was the ugly side of her mother’s business, and though her mother was reluctant to send Madeline away, she had felt she didn’t have a choice.
Another reason for sending Madeline to boarding school was that there could be little hope of securing a suitable marriage for her if gentlemen, and their marriage-minded mamas, knew of her mother’s occupation. In many ways, Boston’s wealthy elite were not that different from England’sbeau monde.
Angry voices grew louder. More insults. More threats. Madeline heard a slap. A woman cried for mercy, prompting Madeline to wonder why a guard had not appeared. Perhaps he had been overpowered.
Worried for the safety of both the woman and her mother, Madeline scanned the area in the entry for something to use as a weapon. She reached for a bust of Zeus and ran toward the sound of her mother’s voice.
The front room was dimly lit. In its center, a middle-aged man had his back turned toward Madeline. He hurled insults at Madeline’s mother as he towered over a woman kneeling on the ground. The man was well-dressed, in a somber black coat and breeches, with tight, pumpkin-orange hose—his legs reminded Madeline of a pair of stuffed sausages.
“I do not want my money returned. I want the baggage in my bed.”
Her mother, in her signature red velvet evening gown, spoke soothingly, her countenance composed, as she helped the frightened woman stand. “You know the rules of my establishment: chief among them is that you do not hit a woman. I have asked you to leave and never return.”
“I will ruin you! I will shut you down, but first…” He reached for a sidearm.
Madeline saw the danger and did not hesitate. She swung the plaster bust and smashed it over the man’s head. His mouth gaped open like that of a beached whale, and he slumped to his knees.
A large man, his mop of black hair falling over his forehead and almost to the bloody gash under his right eye, rushed down the stairs. “Apologies, madam. Taking care of a congressman deep in his cup and wielding a knife. Had to tie him up before he caused harm. The girls are watching him.” He took in the situation. The middle-aged man on his knees, a woman with a bruised eye, and Madeline holding what was left of the bust. He nodded toward Madeline’s mother. “Want me to finish him off?”
“By all means, Liam. Do what you do best.”
Liam balled up his fists and hit the man squarely in the nose, to render him unconscious, before he scooped the man up in his arms and slumped him on his shoulders like a bag of potatoes.
Her mother glanced toward her daughter. “I see you haven’t lost your grit. You were always the first one to leap into the fray.”
“You were a good influence.”
“I’ll have this lowlife returned to his manor,” Liam said. “There will be calls to shut us down.”
“There always are,” her mother said, almost under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck as Liam headed toward the back entry. “The women in the Temperance League will launch a new campaign. No matter that it is the men who need temperance, not us. But that is the way of the world.”
