Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) Read Free Page A

price.”
    The soldier snorted. “My goodness, but
those laughing eyes have gone serious. Might I hope your price is a romp with
me after you’re done with the untutored prince? I know my way around a woman’s
body.” He somehow found her nipple under her gown and tweaked.
    She pulled away with a gasp, horrified
that someone might see her being treated like a common wren. “By the holy
Virgin, if you ever do that again I’ll slap you.”
    “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his lips
twisting. “You’re nothing.”
    She lifted her chin. “I know my own
worth.”
    “You’ve slept with the prince once.
Don’t let it give you airs.”
    Sherry on an empty stomach made her
restless. “I’ll be his mistress if that’s what he wants, exclusive even, but he
has to take me to London.”
    “London?” He laughed.
    “London,” she said with a wild smile.
“He must promise.”
    “You’re a whore ,” he said,
dwindling patience evident in his tone. “You have no power in this
transaction.”
    “He sent you for me, didn’t he?” She
repeated herself. “London, or you can go back empty handed. He has a taste for
me now and you don’t want to disappoint him.”
    “I can’t promise you that.”
    “Yes, you can.”
    They stared at each other, the procurer
and the whore. He glanced away first and she knew she’d won. She, Nellie
Clifton, would be important .
     

Chapter Two: The Perfect Mistress
     
    December 10, 1861 London, England
    London was no Dublin.
    It was bigger than anyplace Nellie had
ever seen, and dirtier, too. To get there she’d done a little magic and a
little bed talk and poof! before too long, she’d packed the few things she had that
she could call her own—with more in store, with a little more promise and
wheedling—and crossed St. George’s Channel with the prince and his retinue.
    The crossing she could have done
without, frankly. It was the first time she’d ever been on a boat, and she
didn’t particularly care for the swaying. She had nothing of the sailor in her.
There was a storm that the ship ran into on the way, and before she had much of
a chance to acclimate, the violent motions knocked her off her feet and she
felt queasy for a while. She’d taken Irish Patented Sailing Compound and the
uneasy sensations in her stomach had immediately been quelled, but none of the
other passengers, English to the point of stupidity, used Irish brand products.
They all had Gaelic packaging and were rumored to be made under the moon by
crones chanting old pagan charms so no Englishman or woman would touch them.
    She encountered at least half a dozen
fellow travelers upchucking as she took a walk on deck. These were supposed to
be seasoned voyagers, so their reaction to the storm made her feel superior.
    England didn’t impress her much at
first. The greenery looked like the outskirts of Dublin, and the way they spoke
wasn’t like English, even. Nellie found out the language there was Welsh, and
the way they wrote it was mystifying. She’d made it a point to learn to read
and write English, but learning how to read and write Welsh must have been
torturous.
    By the time Nellie, as part of the
prince’s retinue, arrived in London, she had gone farther and seen more of the
world than her parents and her grandparents and great-grandparents combined.
The city was big, yes, and it was dirty, and it was filled with English, but no
place was perfect. 
    She loved it.
    London was brighter and noisier than
she’d ever experienced. The streets were thronged with a heady mix of sellers,
workers, ragged children and animals pulling carts and carriages. She already
liked it by the time she arrived at the apartments the prince had arranged for
her. The rooms were finer than anything she’d ever seen, let alone lived in,
and by herself! This was all for her! Room after room, and it was all so
beautiful. Wallpaper so colorful and rich, and furniture of all kinds, and even
servants. For her own! She could