Free Rue Allyn by One Moment's Pleasure Page B

no way to change her circumstances until a debaucher with a temper descended on her.
    • • •
    Dutch paused outside his front door. He dreaded going home at night. Not because he’d be alone, but because Tsung — the Chinese woman who less than four days ago had attached herself to him and insisted on taking care of him — was a terrible cook. The only consolation was that her cooking was better than his.
    Tonight he had additional reasons for not wanting to cross his threshold. The judge remained in San Francisco but hadn’t shown up for their meeting. So Dutch didn’t know for certain if his younger brother was being coerced into working for the Chinaman or if Trey — for some unknown reason — had turned willingly to a life of crime. Was he really in danger, or was that simply the excuse the judge had cooked up to get his eldest son to cross Duval’s threshold? Somehow going home before he ensured his brother’s welfare and innocence felt like admitting defeat. Until Dutch got food and rest the most he could do was send Father Lucas Conroy a note asking for help locating and protecting Trey.
    Then there was the problem of his unwanted guest. Father Conroy’s response to the plea for help reached Dutch at his business office and assured him of assistance looking for Trey, but the priest had also expressed concern about rumors that Dutch was keeping company with whores. The padre questioned Dutch’s dedication to the cause of cleaning up the Barbary Coast. He sent a reply assuring his friend and mentor that the rumors were false but hadn’t been able to reach Conroy to explain thoroughly. What explanation could he offer when his spare room housed a woman he’d taken from a whorehouse? Although that problem would be solved as soon as his business partner returned from visiting his in-laws. The woman Dutch rescued could go live with Smiley and his wife until more satisfactory arrangements were made.
    Dutch opened his front door and paused. Strange scents assailed his nostrils. Pleasant scents. Odors redolent with spices and herbs. Oddly absent was the stench of charred meat.
    He shut the front door and strode for the kitchen. Tsung met him at the swinging panel that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.
    “Mista Dutch. Good-good, you home. Go sit in dining room. You have dinner now.”
    “But … ”
    “No buts.” The diminutive housemaid pushed Dutch toward the dining room table. Despite his every protest, the woman had taken over his life until she could save his as she said he’d saved hers. “You eat. Talk later.”
    Unwilling to physically threaten the loyal woman, Dutch sat at the table.
    Tsung disappeared.
    Dutch waited.
    Hushed voices drifted from the kitchen, but he couldn’t discern the words.
    He ran a hand through his hair and began to drum his fingers on the table top.
    The voices grew louder.
    “I will not.”
    “Missee please. You all bony skin. You go eat with Mista Dutch. Tsung serve.”
    Low muttering followed Tsung’s impassioned plea. Dutch had to wonder about the identity of the
Missee
was who was all
bony skin
? Mrs. Smithfeld — surely that wasn’t her real name — was slim, not skinny, but who else could it be?
    The kitchen door swung open, and Tsung entered, carrying a platter of crisp, golden fried chicken, followed by the
Missee
, who carried bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans.
    Dutch gaped. “What are you doing out of bed? And why are you wearing those? Don’t you have any decent clothes?”
    He pointed at the high-necked blouse and baggy black trousers that exposed very shapely calves. The clothing had obviously been borrowed from Tsung. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he was tired and hadn’t expected to face the Smithfeld woman tonight.
    With a sniff, she sat.
    Tsung all but threw the platter onto the table, making Dutch start.
    “Watch out, Tsung. You nearly scalded me with hot chicken.”
    The tiny Oriental woman fisted one hand on her