“The most beautiful girls in the world.”
Hyacinth released a soft growl. “I hate when he says that.”
Violet disliked it too. How often had she heard Father tell her, Hyacinth, and Mother that? Countless times.
She supposed on some level he meant it, because deep down, Father was a good man, and he thought the world of them. But that didn’t change the fact that he loved the thrill of the gaming table and always went back to it, no matter how many times he’d promised Mother he would stay away.
Another voice spoke, but too low for Violet to hear—probably one of Claude’s companions relaying information to him.
“Tiny says he’s seen them with you,” Claude continued, “and that you’re not exaggerating about their beauty.”
Something in Claude’s tone sent a prickle of unease up Violet’s backbone.
“No,” Father said. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“You want to use my daughters to pay off my debt.”
Hyacinth huffed a protest.
Violet quickly cupped her sister’s mouth to keep her from saying anything and giving away their eavesdropping.
“Not in the way you’re thinking, Marvin.” Claude spoke smoothly. “I have enough soiled doves.”
At the euphemism forprostitute, Violet was the one to release a gasp, and her spine turned as straight and rigid as a silver candlestick.
“Thank the good Lord.” Father at least had the grace to sound distressed.
“No, I need more dancehall girls. The prettier, the better.”
“Dancehall girls?” Father’s question was loaded with indignation. “Of course not. My girls are decent and God-fearing and will make good matches.”
The voices were low for a moment with the newcomers conversing. This Claude had to be a manager or owner of one of the many saloons that populated Breckenridge. Most hadgaming tables, and her father had probably gambled at all of them.
“You should know”—Claude spoke again—“my prettiest and most popular dance girls can do forty to fifty dances in an evening and make more in one night than a fellow can make in a month of mining.”
Violet had heard of dancehall girls who let the men pay to take turns dancing with them. She’d once seen several such women when she’d been with her mother outside a saloon in Denver, waiting for Father to come out. Even if dancehall women were considered “ladies” by most men, they dressed scandalously, plastered their cheeks with rouge, and had no self-respect.
Her father fell silent.
He wasn’t considering Claude’s offer, was he?
Violet shook her head. No, he wouldn’t. In spite of his faults, he still loved them. Didn’t he?
Hyacinth broke free from Violet’s grasp on her mouth and sat up. “He’d better not,” she whispered hotly.
“He won’t,” Violet whispered back.
“I don’t let the fellows disrespect my dance girls.” Claude’s voice dropped so that Violet almost couldn’t hear him. “No inappropriate comments or touching.”
Violet shuddered. Regardless of Claude’s rules, what kind of woman would ever consider such a position? Only someone in a truly distressing situation.
“With both of your girls working for me,” Claude said, “you might be able to pay off your debt in three months.”
“Three months?” Father’s question held a note of surprise.
“Maybe four.”
