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Petticoat Detective (Undercover Ladies)

By Margaret Brownley

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Someone was coming up the stairs.
Jennifer Layne, working undercover as Amy Gardner, glanced frantically at the row of closed doors and darted through the nearest one. She was in luck; the room was empty. Hands clutched to her chest to still her pounding heart, she pressed her back against the door, or at least as much as her bustle allowed. God, what did I get myself into this time?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she waited, praying that the person in the hall wasn’t a john. The sound of a floorboard signaled someone outside the door. She held her breath until the footsteps faded away. Her shoulders slumped, and her breath escaped in a single gasp of relief. That was close. Too close.
She strained her ears. A man’s laughter sounded from one of the other rooms, but otherwise all was quiet. For now.
She moved away from the door. Catching sight of herself in the gilded framed mirror, her mouth dropped open. Frowning, she stuck out her tongue. It was her, all right, but with all that face paint it was hard to tell.
Turning, she viewed herself from all angles. Ugh! She looked worse than she’d thought. Her bustle forced the skirt almost horizontal from the waist. Sideways, she looked like the front part of a horse, but it was the top of her dress that caused the most alarm. Covering her exposed neckline with crossed hands, she glanced about the room for a shawl, a cape, a newspaper—anything with which to cover herself. Except for a brass bed, upholstered chair, desk, and more mirrors than a carnival, the room offered no help for modesty. She resisted the urge to pull a sheet off the bed and wrap herself in it.
As a Pinkerton operative, she’d worked undercover as a southern belle, a heartbroken widow, a jilted schoolteacher, and even a secretary (though with terrible typing skills). But never before had she worked in a bordello or had to wear face paint. Her only hope was that she would get what she came for without having to defend her virtue.
She’d arrived at the brothel that afternoon hoping to convince the proprietress that she was Rose’s long-lost cousin. She never had a chance to share her well-rehearsed story. Thinking she was seeking work as a “fancy lady,” Miss Lillian took one look at her plain skirt and prudish white shirtwaist and dragged her into the house.
“What do you think I’m running here? A nunnery?” the madam demanded.
Quick to see the advantage of approaching the woman named Rose as a colleague, Jennifer-slash-Amy decided to play along, indeed considered it fortunate to have fallen into what at the time seemed like the perfect disguise.
She would conduct her business and leave posthaste; at least that was the plan. Not once did she consider what such a pretext would entail until Miss Lillian ordered two women in corsets and bloomers to “make her look decent.”
Decent, indeed! Her boss, Mr. Pinkerton, should see her now. On second thought, no he shouldn’t! She prayed that no man would.
Wringing her hands, she paced the floor. The horrid corset felt like steel around her middle, and she could hardly manage an honest breath. Think, think. She was almost certain the room directly across from this one was Rose’s. She would simply knock on the door. With a little luck Rose would be alone and, if all went as planned, tell what she knew.
She could do this, had to do it. After botching her last assignment, she couldn’t afford another failure. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency wouldn’t stand for it. Mr. William Pinkerton, head of the western division, had been very clear on that account.
This time she would get it right if it killed her. After months of investigation, the trail to one of the most notorious criminals in the West led to this establishment. Guilty of fraud, theft and murder, the Gunnysack Bandit had a hefty price on his head. He also had a gift for evading every lawman, bounty hunter, and detective on his trail.
“We’ll see how good you are at dodging a female detective, Mr. Gunny.” The thought made her smile. For once her gender worked for and not against her. The room was proof that a female operative could go where angels—and male counterparts—feared to tread.
She lifted a foot onto a trunk and gathered up miles of taffeta fabric to check the derringer holstered to her thigh. The voluptuous skirt would prevent anything resembling a fast draw, but unless she bumped into a persistent male her chances of needing a weapon were low. Probably. Hopefully.
Certainly, the woman named Rose had no reason to pose a threat. Unless, of course, she was in cahoots with the bandit.
Amy tightened the buckle of her holster attached to a silk stocking thigh just as the door flew open. Much to her horror, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, square-jawed man in a wide-brim hat. If his height wasn’t bad enough, the determined look on his face was worse. This was a man who wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

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