1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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"I'm lookin' to get me a good drink."
Jack turned his attention to the bar, to Ackley's latest customer. He didn't know this man, but a quick glance said he was an alright sort—not a bummer, but he would still have Keller keep an eye out as he did any unfamiliar face.
She smiled. "A good drink will run you fifteen dollars," she said, eyeing the man in such a way that suggested she would not welcome an argument.
Still, the man tried, whistling comically. "That's mighty steep," he said. Her smile never wavered.
"It's a mighty fine drink." She held up one stamped brass token between two fingers. "But if you find yourself disinterested," she continued, palming the token. "I suggest you seek some other place to quench your thirst."
Jack grinned. She had that man in her pocket, whether he knew it or not. Sure enough, the man passed her two bills, and she placed two of her brass tokens on the bar.
"Hey—you owe me five," the man argued, and she smiled again.
"Twenty will get you two," she said, sliding the tokens closer to the man. "I do not provide change."
Jack grinned again—that had been his idea, stolen from a few of the mining towns he had traveled through. He had been to a good many places giving tokens instead of change, tokens that were only good at that one establishment and could be exchanged for liquor, food, or 'a good drink'. It was a way to keep extra cash on hand and to ensure return customers, and Ackley had jumped at the idea.
He had to give her that—she was damned good at listening, better than he had expected. Sable Sarah had told her of a place in Denver where the madam had the girls dress in their finery and ride through the streets on wagons advertising the brothel, a sort of parade that attracted the attention of anyone nearby. Lucky Penny had suggested that they keep a few girls standing on the porch, enticing passersby.
Both were bold ideas, openly advertising such illegal activities, but Ackley had done both. The parade had been quite a sight—Jack had seen a fella miss a doorway entirely and walk clean into a wall.
He shook his head at the memory, chuckling softly as he disappeared through the doorway connecting the Dragonfly to the newly opened brothel.
Walking from the saloon and into the brothel was like walking into what Jack imagined Ackley's mansion must be like, if it were in China. He hadn't been so convinced that spending a pretty penny to order such fancy doodads was a good idea, but he had to admit that he liked the outcome. He had no interest in the ladies, of course, but he sure liked spending time in this place—the rich carpet beneath his feet muffled his clean gentleman's boots, and as Jack walked, he felt like he meant something. He felt like a big deal. The place was wallpapered, as were most, but he had never seen wallpaper like this—it was all hand-painted, decorated with delicate flowers and birds with impressive plumage, the dark wood beams between each panel polished to gleaming. Red curtains hung at the windows along with red lamps, just in case anyone remained unaware that it was a cat house.
