London's Calling

Book 2: English Three

by Elysabeth Williams

Genres: Science Fiction Romance; Steampunk

Synopsis

English Three, #2 Wanted for murder, with a missing alibi, what's an out-of-work burlesque dancer to do? A burlesque dancer at London's exclusive Miss Merriweather's, Delilah Knightly is abruptly fired after her costume falls apart twenty feet above the stage. Minutes after she packs her trunk and flounces out, her boss is murdered. Delilah's only alibi, a handsome stranger she fell over in an alleyway, vanishes. When she returns to speak with club's owner, Delilah is hauled away by the police. Confused and hopeless, she must sit in her dingy cell until Jillian Johnsworth, the owner of Merriweather's, vouches to keep her until trial. At Ms. Johnsworth's estate outside London, Delilah is introduced to peculiar workings London Society's strict protocols would never sanction. Amidst the secrets, the group of women and their male counterparts show her a life she never would have experienced elsewhere. With them she finds adventure, love, laughter, and something she has never truly dared hope for: family. If they can find that pesky missing stranger with the stark gray eyes and flush out the real murderer, all just might fit into place. WARNING: Sex and Violence, Random acts of dry wit. 58,000 Words

Release date: June 1, 2012

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 248

Sample

 

Chapter 1

 

Delilah Knightly’s behind swung in the air, precariously perched on the red and white striped hoop suspended from the rafters.

For the second time in some moments, she flipped upside down, one leg pointed outward behind her, the other hooked onto the hoop. Blood rushed to her head and she waited for the stars and blackness to almost cloud her vision before she righted herself. It wasn’t that great of a feat, yet the applause of the gentlemen in the audience was deafening. She knew it wasn’t because of her artistry. It wasn’t because she held the indelicate pose for longer than anyone else in the troupe. It was because the only parts of her costume covering her breasts just landed on the head of Lord Redington in the front row, leaving her exposed to approximately five hundred men.

Bugger.

Placing a red satin-gloved hand over her chest, Delilah batted her eyelashes at the crowd and returned upside down to fetch the piece off the lord’s bald, sweat-beaded head. While leaning down, she flipped off the steel hoop and landed gracefully on the toes of her patent leather shoes. She covered herself completely with the feathers of her earlier-discarded fan. Delilah curtseyed once, and scanned the crowd.

Seeing most men wrapped up in fresh, raucous applause wasn’t unusual, but the one to the left of the stage who caught her eye was. He sipped red wine from a glass, seemingly bored with her performance. Not entirely odd, because many patrons would be too drunk to pay attention, but he looked directly at her. He was dressed in a simple black tuxedo. From the second they locked eyes, his expression didn’t change. An intense gray gaze pierced her and she shivered. The stranger drained his glass, placed it on the table and stood, disappearing into the crowd behind him.

For the first time in quite a while, Delilah blushed. No one had ever dismissed her. Not in the five years she’d spent on this very stage. It unnerved her. Catching herself from stumbling backward, she left the stage and ducked behind the heavy burgundy velvet drapes.

“What was that?” a squat older man barked as he met her at the edge of drapes with a robe in his hand. She snatched it from him and thrust her fan at him.

“It was an accident,” she said with a dismissive wave as she tried to dodge the performers of the next act and get to her dressing area.

“Oh right…sure it were an accident.” The man sneered while pointing a pudgy finger in her face. “Get your things and get out.”

“What? It was the seamstress’ fault, Artie. Not mine,” she stammered. “She was responsible for attaching my top.” She kept walking, unsure of where his anger stemmed from.

“Blame who ye want to, Delilah, but it won’t work this time. I’ve had enough of your whoring for attention.”

Delilah stopped and spun to face him. “Whoring for attention? How dare you! The only one whoring around here is your lady, the seamstress, from what I’ve heard. She’s too busy or drunk to sew a straight hem.”

Artie slapped her across the mouth. Delilah stood in shock, a hand pressed to her stinging cheek. She waited a few seconds to compose herself before she responded through clenched teeth. “I’m the hottest ticket in London, Artie McGinnis. I make the most money for this damned place. You can’t just fire me. Jillian Johnsworth won’t allow it.” Delilah pushed him out of her way and crossed over the creaky hardwoods to her dressing room.

She started to slam the door when Artie caught it and returned his finger to her face.

“The hell I can’t, ya strumpet! Jillian Johnsworth won’t even realize you’re gone. You’re nobody. Nothing. And you’ll never be anything in this town but a harlot. You and your things better be out of this dressing room by the end of the night.”

Delilah shoved him backward into the hall and slammed the door. She bolted it shut and pressed her back to it, covering her face with her hands. Attempting not to sob out loud, she gritted her teeth and took a deep breath.

It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced Artie’s verbal assault, but it was the first time he’d slapped her. His sudden fury confused her. The ruckus he’d made over a simple flash of flesh didn’t make any sense. It was a burlesque, what made this so different? Artie was known for a short temper, but wasn’t ever violent.

Taking another deep breath, she exhaled and uncovered her face. She balled her fists at her side and with resolve, dragged out her steamer trunk from behind a curtain, and threw the lid open.

* * * *

He knew he shouldn't have come. Dante Heller stood on the curb outside Miss Merriweather’s in the cold, recalling the swirling wine in his glass–watching the deep red circle like a tempest. Somehow, it felt fitting to his life. A never-ending storm waiting to consume him. Dante couldn't believe his friend Sebastian talked him into coming here at all. Miss Merriweather's was not his typical haunt. Truth be told, he'd rather be at home with a nice scotch and a leather bound book, not gawping at scantily clad and in the last performers case, more than half-naked women. It wasn't as if he didn't appreciate the feminine form. He would rather appreciate them through a photograph, an oil canvas, and of course the touch of his own fingers against their soft skin.

But no, he was with a drunken companion who was determined to keep him from brooding about the recent deaths in his family.

“Cheer up, mate,” Sebastian had said. “There's more to life than money and titles,” Dante remembered him saying. Of course, Sebastian would think the death of his father was about titles and money. Sebastian wouldn’t know about a caring family. Dante should have known not to expect more from the man. The scoundrel barely knew what his proper surname was, much less experienced the formed affection of an adult other than his pickpocket of a boss. Even that particular relationship was wicked and twisted, Dante was certain.

Staring out into the emptying street, Dante recalled the abrupt explosion of applause and laughter which had interrupted his annoyance and caused him to turn his head to the stage. He recalled the flurry of feathers and red shiny sequins. The woman caught his full attention. When he turned completely to face where the action was, he locked eye to eye with the performer.

His breath caught then and now, as he remembered. She stared back, so intense. The charcoal grey makeup smudged around her brown eyes made her look like a lost doll. Her pouting lips parted slightly as she tried to catch her breath. Dante glanced above her to the hoop and for the first time, realized she wasn't at the burlesque for showing bits of herself but to entertain with dexterity. A rarity in these shows, he thought. Shame, he had been too self absorbed to enjoy it. She would have been a dream to watch.

He recalled her pushing a stray chestnut lock from her face. It seemed then, such a pointed, intimate gesture. Dante managed to break the eye contact with the slight movement and drank his wine quickly.

That’s when Dante left and made his way here, his current spot on the corner, outside, in the chilly night air. It had been too much. He recalled the burgundy stage curtains as they began to close. His eyes locked again on the feathered woman and realized she was also still staring at him. Sebastian grabbed his shoulder to gain his attention and the spell was broken for good. What drew her gaze to his?

Dante had weaved through the crowd and out the doors into the night. Sebastian called for him but he couldn’t stand his company anymore. He walked until the stray voice was a distant murmur.

Now, standing on the curb alone, he pulled a pocket watch from his jacket and noted the time. Too late, he mused. He looked into the sky, noting the heavy clouds hanging close. It would most definitely rain soon. Dante looked about, wondering if he should just walk or find a cab.

In the midst of a decision, he was shoved from behind and thrust into the street in front of a speeding carriage. Dante caught himself with his arms before his face smashed into the ground. The whinnying of the horses and their hooves kept coming. He rolled to the side and out of the way.

“Watch wot yer doin,” the cabby shouted down from the driver's seat as he veered around him. Dante jumped up and returned to the sidewalk while looking around for the person who'd pushed him. A form shifted under the gas lamp less than a block away and ducked into an alley. Dante sprinted to catch up.

Dante cursed under his breath as found nothing but darkness and walked further in, hoping to find the culprit. He ran his hand down the cool bricks of the building, feeling his way into the darkness. Only a faint, foggy lantern lit the end, marking the next street over. With such little visibility, he wasn't able to duck the fist that came raring into his face, knocking him unconscious.

* * * *

Delilah opened her steamer trunk and shoved a costume inside. Someone banged on the door and she slammed the lid shut.

“Come,” she barked. She pulled her rose-colored robe around her tightly and faced the door, waiting for a fight to barrel in.

An older man entered, a stubby cigar clenched in his teeth. Delilah’s unease waned as she recognized her stagehand friend, Charles.

“Artie wants to see you, doll,” he grumbled, chewing the cigar into the other side of his mouth. “He ain’t happy about you showing yer bits off.”

“I’ve already spoken with Artie. He’s dismissed me.”

“Oh, right.” He looked down and stubbed his shoe into the ground. “Sorry ‘bout that. Maybe he’ll feel better about it tomorrow, eh?”

Delilah ran her hand through her hair. No, he wouldn’t feel better about it. She was finished. Of course, Artie thought it happened on purpose. No, it wasn’t possible the seamstress didn’t attach her top on properly, she mused, sarcastically. She knew she couldn’t trust that drunken woman to do anything right. Never mind the fact Artie was bedding the tart. Gossip of their secret relationship flowed as freely as the liquor in the bar.

“No, Charlie. I believe I’m done with this place,” she managed to choke out, unable to believe herself. She had worked here for so long it had become her home away from home. Or in recent history, her only home. Evicted onto the street by her proprietor just two nights past, she would pack her costume trunk for the last time and take a carriage out of town for good. The thought made her eyes blur with tears. Charles grumbled and crossed the room to hug her. Delilah felt the fatherly pat of his hand on her back as she fought back her emotions.

“It’ll be awright, doll. Ol’ Charlie will be here for you any time you need. You can always come down to the house with me an’ the missus if you want.” He stepped back and offered a graying old handkerchief to her.

She smiled and dabbed her eyes with it. “I couldn’t do that to your family, Charles. Your house is already so full of children. I wouldn’t dream of adding another mouth to feed. I’ll figure something out.” She nodded and handed back the handkerchief.

Charles waved it away and shuffled toward the door. “You know where to find me, doll. You were always one of my favorites here.” He smiled as he opened it. Delilah was sure she saw his eyes tear up too. She watched Charles close the door behind him and choked on a sob.

The old stagehand had worked here since the opening night and took to her after a rather trying night when she’d fallen off her trapeze. Since then, they developed a familial friendship and she was sad to leave him behind.

She glanced around the room at all the costumes strewn about. The regal colors of the rainbow were splashed on the bricks in sequins and satin, feathers, and velvet. It was her colorful life in material. Delilah recalled every scene and every movement as she looked at them. All the great laughs she had and the wonderful attention she received at the end of each performance. The men there had been generally kind to her. That was more than she could say for most burlesques. Miss Merriweather’s was top notch in London’s entertainment. Since Jillian Johnsworth took over the establishment when her father, the previous owner, died and employed her close friends, Delilah was more than happy to join the ranks of business-minded women.

The three women immediately booked Delilah for the headlining spot for the grand reopening of Miss Merriweather’s–After Dark. It was a new lease on the old secretive rooms and details…Miss Merriweather’s had been transformed. The new owners were more interested in involving anyone who was interested in coming to be entertained, be it man or woman. There would be something for everyone. It was a new take on the nightclub scene. Equality for all.

The seedier bits of the club were taken away, and the notorious ‘backrooms’ were done away with entirely. It wasn’t uncommon to be approached for such extra money from the men, she soon found out on opening night. Some of the gentlemen were difficult to dissuade from their old habits. Such was the life, she supposed. But it was home.

She sat, staring at years of her life through tear-filled eyes. With a sigh, Delilah stood and began the task of packing up bits of her memories into the trunk to leave the rest behind. It was over. Time for a new start.

Once Delilah finished packing all she could stuff in the case, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and dressed. After composing herself, Delilah leaned out the door and called for a stagehand to help her with her trunk. As a young man ran to help, she turned down the lamp and silently said goodbye to her dressing room.

Delilah waited on the dimly lit curb for a cab. Pulling a watch from her reticule, she glanced at the time. She sighed, knowing it wasn’t likely there would be anyone out this late at night. She scanned the area around her to see no one there. A cold shiver tickled her spine.

She grabbed one handle of her trunk and wheels popped out the other end. A brass handle extended with the press of a button and she tilted the trunk, rolling it down the street. A gas lamp illuminated the gently swinging sign of a hotel entrance. Delilah hoped she’d find someone still awake to let a room.

She walked briskly, not liking the general feel around her after she left work. This side of town wasn’t necessarily a bad place to be, but being alone and in the early hours of the morning still made the small hairs on her arms stand. Something didn’t seem right.

She picked up her pace as she approached the entrance of a darkened alleyway. Her foot caught on something and she tripped. Delilah looked down and stifled a scream, seeing an upturned hand. She backed away, knocking over her steamer trunk, and fell on her behind.

A moan emitted from the darkness. Delilah gasped, smacking the moving hand with her purse. The moans turned into curses and she skittered backward on hands and feet trying to get away. The owner of the hand crawled out into the lamp light on his knees, clutching his stomach. Delilah noticed the blood running from his nose and lip. He flicked a glance to her and she realized exactly who it was. It was the man who had been staring at her in Miss Merriweather’s. She stood quickly and went to his aid.

“Sir! Do you need help? Shall I call for an ambulance?”

He shook his head then held it with his free hand. Staggering, he moaned again and sat on the curb. Unable to decide what to do, Delilah sat with him and pulled out the handkerchief Charles had given her earlier to dab away the blood on the man’s face. She figured it was clean enough, aside from her useless stray tears.

“Do you know what happened to you?” Delilah asked, offering him the dingy material.

He looked down the alley and then back to her. She caught her breath at the piercing stare. “No, madam. I don’t know what happened, exactly. Someone pushed me into the street upon exiting Miss Merriweather’s. I followed the man into this alley and then…” He trailed off, looking behind him into the darkness. “I safely assume a scoundrel attacked me.” He frowned d. . .