LITMIR.BIZ

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my arms bare. The skirt panel was made of the finest Belgian lace trimmed by red ostrich plumes. It had the merest suggestion of a train, enough to swish gracefully as I walked, offering a teasing hint of what lay under the hem. The dress was a genuine Worth—by far the best thing I still owned. It had been given to me by Lord Alveron in London in 1893, in a suite at the original Savoy, shortly before my abrupt departure from England. The dress had been reworked many times: rips and stains patched, the train diminished a piece at a time to cut away the marks of wear, the bustle shrunken and then rebuilt attempting to keep pace with the ruthless dictates of fashion.

      The string of pearls that had accompanied the dress— passed down to Lord Alveron from his great-grandmother, who, whispers said, had been a mistress of some minor European king—had been sold long ago in order to obtain

      Angus a place in a good boys’ school. Instead of the pearls, I always wore a thin gold chain with an inexpensive glass bauble nestling in the depths of my abundant cleavage. I had spent long hours searching the pawnshops of Toronto for a piece so cheap that looked so good. With this dress I always wore my hair pinned into a loose chignon into which was tucked a single red ostrich feather.

      I’d discarded the sling. For although it had the men fussing over me even more than usual, it was a darned nuisance, and my wrist felt so much better. If Mrs. Mann were to sell that poultice, she could put the town’s doctors out of business.

      The musicians were gathered by the door, getting ready to do their nightly routine, and down the street we could hear the noise from another dance hall that had sent their caller out early, when Irene stumbled in, looking not at all her usual cheerful self. Ray had disappeared into the gambling hall, attracted by the sound of a sore loser screaming that he’d been taken.

      I hurried towards Irene. She walked awkwardly, as if protecting bruised ribs or tender muscles. “For goodness’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” I grabbed her by the arm. She gasped, and her face crunched in pain.

      “Excuse us, gentlemen, please,” I raised my voice to the crowd of admirers that had instantly gathered around Irene. “Lady Irenee needs to prepare for her performance. Let us pass, please.”

      I pulled Irene towards the stairs. She pulled back. “Come with me,” I whispered. “You’re hurt. Can’t let them see that. What happened?”

      “Nothing happened. Let go of me. Norm! Nice to see you,” she called to one of her admirers. “Let’s have a dance after the show, and you can tell me all about Bonanza Creek.”

      “Are you insane?” I smiled through gritted teeth. “Come upstairs and let me have a look at you.”

      She pushed me aside. Her shawl fell open to reveal the top of her breasts—milky white skin and a cluster of purple and blue bruises.

      Chapter Fifteen

      I stepped back in shock, and Irene took the opportunity to scurry away, her hand protecting her side.

      The orchestra went to the street for their eight o’clock call. Ray came out of the gambling hall, a warning arm tossed not-very-casually around a young dandy’s slight shoulders. Ray released the boy and pushed him away with a growled threat that had him heading for the door. Ray smiled at Irene and reached out to touch her arm. I pushed through the crowd to reach them, sensing trouble.

      A glass shattered on the floor, and a young miner, still coated by the dust of the digs, took a swing at another man. The few dancers who’d lingered in the bar to chat up their prospective customers screamed in delighted terror.

      With a longing glance at Irene, Ray headed to break up the fight and she slipped away.

      Richard Sterling and a sergeant, short and stocky, came though the doors. At the sight of the police, all the fight drained out of the two men, and they left with no more trouble.

      Sterling’s companion crossed over the invisible line into my private space. His nose lay almost flat against his right cheek, and he was missing a couple of teeth. I held out my hand to stop him from coming any closer. He took it. I’ve known ninety-year-old women to have a stronger handshake. “Mrs. MacGillivray. A pleasure to meet you, at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Your son is a…”

      “Sergeant Lancaster,” Sterling shouted, “I suggest we follow those fellows and make sure they don’t get up to any more trouble.”

      “Who?” “The men who were fighting.” I ignored the constable and smiled at the Sergeant.

      “You’ve met my son, Sergeant?”

      “A fine boy, a fine boy. He’ll make an excellent…”

      “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. MacGillivray, Walker.” Sterling almost shoved Lancaster towards the door.

      “How odd,” I said to Ray as we watched them leave.

      “Fee, if I had a shillin’ for every odd thing that happened in Dawson in a day…”

      I remembered Irene. If Ray saw the state she was in, he’d be on the warpath for sure, no questions asked. Not that I needed to ask many myself. She’d left the Savoy last night with Jack Ireland and arrived at work today much the worse for wear.

      “Can I have a break, Mr. Walker?” Murray, the new blond bartender, asked. The other young bartender was busy ferrying bottles of Champagne to the private boxes in the dance hall. Probably time I learned his name.

      “No.”

      “Please, Mr. Walker. I really need to…you know,” the boy whinged. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes and blushed.

      “Five minutes,” Ray snapped, taking the boy’s place behind the bar with a considerable degree of ill grace. Helen came out of the back room with mop and bucket to clear up the broken glass and shooed drinkers out of her way.

      I took a good long look around the bar. For once everything was quiet. The drinkers stood in polite groups, speculating as to which of the fellows in their circle would be next to strike it rich. Funny how they all still thought that big money was waiting to be made out on the claims. Such fortune had finished long ago, by Yukon standards. The only people making money any more were the dig owners like Big Alex Macdonald, the business types like Belinda Mulroney and Mr. Mann, and the dance hall owners. Like me. All the poor fellows still streaming into town by raft or steamboat or foot? Nothing left for them but to scratch out work labouring for someone else.

      The door swung open, and Graham Donohue walked in, as bold as a fat tick feasting on the back of a short-haired dog. He puffed on a freshly lit cigar, looked around the room, saw me watching, waved cheerfully, and stood apart from the crowd, confident that I would join him.

      I did. “Thought you were in jail, Graham.”

      “Fortunately, my reputation in this town preceded me, and they released me on my own good name.”

      I snorted.

      “That’s a most unladylike sound, Fiona. You should take care to control it.”

      “Graham…”

      “I saw something interesting from my cell this morning,” he said. “I’ve heard that there’s an old sergeant who’s set up a boxing ring behind the jail. Let me order a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

      “Graham, I have absolutely no interest in the comings and goings at the Fort Herchmer jail.”

      “Fiona…”

      “Don’t Fiona me. If you cause one single scrap of trouble, I’ll have you outside in the mud in seconds flat. I’ve had a week of nothing but men strutting around like peacocks with their best tail feather missing, fights and brawls, injured dancers.”

      He smiled softly. “You’re protecting your arm. Have you been to see the doctor about it?”

      “I’ll go when I have the time. Which will probably be sometime late January. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

      “One

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