Free The Diary of Cozette by Amanda McIntyre Page B

and probably find marginal safe haven for the night in the doorway of some cannery warehouse where we could hunt for food scraps with the dogs, or we could survive.
    That option was all the inspiration I needed. I pulled Betsy to her feet, and I shoved her up the steps of the stage, following close behind. With a sly wink to the stage manager, I drew the feathered drape wound around the French woman’s neck. Applause and laughter rose from the crowd.
    “More!” came shouts from the riotous audience.
    I handed them to Betsy and whispered in her ear, “You are now Fannie and all you have to do is play along.”
    Betsy caught my reference to her same comment earlier and nodded.
    The cowering manager escorted the distraught singer from the stage, visibly upset by the crowd’s sudden animosity.
    I left Betsy on stage and made my way to the piano player.
    “Can you play a tune that might inspire a woman to take off her clothes?”
    He blinked at first and said nothing, but the quick glance over his shoulder at the unhappy crowd was all that was necessary to convince him that something spectacular was needed to garner their attention. He knew as well as I did that something was needed and most urgently.
    His brow furrowed as he searched for the manager’s approval. The frantic man clung to the edge of the stage curtain.
    If a fight broke out, it would most assuredly involve the local authorities and that would risk an arrest of everyone in the brothel. From the looks of things, too many upper-crust gents were spending their money too freely to squabble long about his options.
    “For heaven’s sake, do what she asks, and with haste, man.” The stout manager called from his hiding place behind the side curtain.
    I glanced up at Betsy, her face pale in the row of lamplights, her dress hanging like an old potato sack on her frame, as she held the exquisite stolen French plume. I do not know what prompted the courage to do what I did next.
    “One of you gents might offer the poor woman a pint,” I yelled. Immediately a horde of young sailors leapt up with pints sloshing over their hands as they rushed the stage.
    The attention brought out the best in Betsy and immediately her dour expression evaporated, replaced by her sweet smile and batting eyes.
    The piano player gave a shrug and began to play a slow, rhythmic beat.
    I nodded my encouragement to Betsy as her gaze darted to mine. I slid my jacket off my shoulder, prompting her to do the same.
    With quick dexterity, Betsy had the crowd eating from her hand as she teased and strutted across the stage, using the feather boa in ways I would never have imagined. It was clear by the whistles of the crowd that she was not a disappointment; indeed, despite her skinny frame, her attitude won the men in the audience immediately. I saw the grin on the manager’s face, and knew this was to be our new home, at least for tonight.
    My gaze was drawn across the room to where a substantial woman stood at the end of the bar. She was dressed in a red satin dress that draped her large body, giving special attention to her sizable breasts barely concealed in the bodice. Her hair was red as sunset, piled high and adorned with a short plume of black feathers and a fancy glittering hairpin, and her cheeks were painted with heavy blush, as were her ruby lips. She stood alone, though the barkeep handed her a glass that I noted she did not pay for. With her gaze on Betsy, she was not aware of my staring at her, wondering if she was the madam of the West Indies brothel I’d heard of. It was rumored to be high-ranking and exclusive.
    A man dressed in a brown tweed business suit and matching derby appeared at my side with a glass of whiskey on a tray.
    “Compliments, sir, of Madam Rose.”
    He lifted the tray to my reach, but his gaze was fixed on Betsy showing the gents in the front row a bit of thigh.
    “She’d like to have a word with the woman’s manager. Would that be you?” he asked, his