Page 12 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Emil’s feet ached like a son of a bitch.

But if Olive Becket could traverse the city day after day on foot, then so could he.

If only his toes weren’t riddled with blisters like barnacles on a weathered hull.

He pulled on his rolled cigarette and glared at his offending boots stuffed with useless gauze.

He’d gone soft, grown unaccustomed to the demands of shadowing a suspect.

That’s what he got for tossing his old boots when he updated his wardrobe to blend in at The Puget Sound Post over the past year.

For lounging around the floating house weeks on end and taking streetcars or buggies anytime he needed to go more than a few blocks.

Cigarette dangling between his lips, he withdrew a small notebook and checked his notes.

This was the first time Olive had disappeared into this particular First Hill mansion, though it was no different than many of the other luxurious homes she frequented for piano lessons.

Her students were surprisingly upper crust, he’d learned.

This was, however, the first house with several buggies waiting out front.

A performance, perhaps? Not likely on a weekday, but nothing she did matched his—admittedly narrow—expectations.

The front door across the street opened, and Emil quickly lowered the brim of his hat and bent as if to tie his boot.

Several ladies poured forth, including Olive and the dark-haired woman from the New Year’s Eve party.

As they neared a sleek Rockaway, a driver stepped down to open the buggy door.

Olive, he observed, was shaking her head, and the other woman climbed into the buggy without her.

When it and the remaining buggies departed, Olive was left on the sidewalk.

She hugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders, sighing so deeply the air plumed around her.

She looked…forlorn.

He frowned at the sharp tug of sympathy behind his sternum. Her emotions shouldn’t matter to him, only her movements. Her scheming. Her interactions with potential anthem writers.

Yet…there was a noticeable dearth of guile in Olive’s routine.

His notebook was filled with proof of her endless efforts, marking the number of obligations she fulfilled each day.

He’d noticed how hard she worked, how her chin remained tucked against her chest unless she was with a young boy who made her smile.

Her brother, he’d soon deduced, though there was no sign of other family.

He’d be heartless not to have sympathy, wouldn’t he?

“Where to now?” he murmured as she set off.

He trailed behind her at a safe distance, ensuring she remained in sight amid the bustling evening streets.

She wove between pedestrians, around buggies and wagons, and crossed streetcar tracks without hesitation.

Her steps were brisk, purposeful. Hypnotic.

They lured him into more base thoughts that plagued him more with each hour.

Thoughts decidedly not pertinent to his investigation, but ones from which he had found no escape.

Were her legs lean like the rest of her, defined by miles of walking?

Were they brushed with downy hair the same sunlit hue as that beneath her hat?

Would they have a hold over him the same way her unremarkable eyes did?

It was with some relief when Olive broke her pattern and entered a grimy storefront.

Wait—a pawn shop?

He hustled forward and pressed his nose to the frosted glass, feeling vaguely like a child outside a toy store.

Olive stood at the counter talking to the shop proprietor, a grizzled man wearing a rumpled suit two sizes too large.

Emil’s gaze drifted over the stock crowding the shelves, to his eye little more than tarnished trinkets, chipped porcelain, and rust-specked tools.

He grimaced. Shops like these preyed on the desperate, upselling junk and offering little more than a pittance to those forced to part with their valuables.

Then Olive reached into her coat pocket, removed a cloth bag, and set it on the counter.

“Don’t do it,” he said with a sinking feeling.

The proprietor upended the bag, and a flash of gold landed in his open palm—a pocket watch.

He held it up to the dim gaslight, his stubby fingers nimble as he turned it this way and that.

Even from his poor vantage point, Emil noted the intricate design on the cover.

The embedded gemstone that glinted weakly in the murky shop.

A ruby, perhaps. Most likely a railroad watch.

It was the type of pocket watch found in mansions in First Hill.

The type that would undoubtedly be missed.

The type that would get one not-so-innocent little lamb into not-so-little trouble.

Emil rubbed both hands over his face and groaned.

So Olive Becket was truly a thief. This wasn’t the information he’d hoped to uncover.

All he’d wanted was another lead toward the identity of the suffrage anthem writer.

A quick solve and an attaboy from Leland Wingate.

But no. She had to go and do something foolish.

He should be gloating—it turned out Mack and the women from the suffrage society were wrong about their friend after all. But the victory rang hollow.

Because he had an uncomfortable hunch he might be the only one to know the true extent of Olive’s hardships.

The Anderson family might be well off now, but he had vivid memories of difficult times.

When money was scarce, and Emil and his brother went to work at a young age.

The long days balancing schoolwork and selling newspapers on the street corner, rain or shine.

The needling jealousy when other boys his age had time for leisure, or clothing that wasn’t a hand-me-down.

He remembered the temptation to earn a little fast cash, deflected only by the knowledge that his mother would box his ears to oblivion.

It seemed he would have to save Olive from herself.

With a resigned growl, he wrenched the pawn shop door open and strode inside. The bell jangled harshly in the cramped shop, and the shop proprietor paused in his scrutiny to mumble, “Be right with you, sir.”

Olive glanced backward, and he saw the instant she recognized him. A tensing of her shoulders, a subtle hitch in her breath.

“Evening, Miss Becket.”

She swiveled slowly, her gaze skittering around the shop, finally landing somewhere between his top button and his chin.

“Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” she replied in a soft, breathless voice.

And his stomach fluttered.

The sensation was appalling. Downright discomfiting.

Akin to the horror of a firefly trapped in a glass jar.

He was a grown man with a list of conquests that would fill half of Seattle’s Blue Book.

His stomach fluttered for no one, especially a mercurial pianist who doubled as a thief of silver and gold.

He would remain collected. Unwavering but kind. Professional yet benevolent.

“Which mansion did you take that from?” He used a neutral tone, but she still reacted as if she’d been slapped.

“Which…mansion?”

“You entered three today, and a handful of others every other day this week.”

Her gaze met his, and it was his turn to suck in a breath. Her doe eyes—those unsettling, penetrating doe eyes—were narrowed to slits.

“And how would you know where I’ve been, Mr. Anderson?”

“Never mind the whys and hows. I’ve caught you—”

“I mind them very much,” she interrupted, her voice trembling slightly. “I imagine most women would mind being followed.”

She faced him fully, her sharp chin jutting past her coat collar. But…it never did that. He realized with some surprise that the lamb was capable of anger. He ignored the dangerous prickle of doubt clouding his thoughts. He wouldn’t apologize for doing his job.

“Most thieves mind being caught red-handed.”

“What makes you think I stole it?”

“Didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Convince me.”

“That I didn’t steal?” She sputtered out a laugh. “Should I also convince you I didn’t steal this coat? The very stockings on my legs? Your questioning is flawed, detective.”

He kept a firm grasp on his thoughts, lest they stray at the mention of her legs. “How so?”

“Why don’t you ask me where the watch came from, not from where I took it?”

“All right. Where did the pocket watch come from?”

“From my father.”

“Does he know you’re selling it?”

“No.”

“Ah, then you’re selling it out of anger.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Why would I be angry with him?”

“Isn’t everyone angry with their father?” he joked, a bit too glibly.

“I hate my father,” the proprietor chimed in. “I say stick it to him and sell his watch.”

“Be quiet,” Emil snapped, and the man lifted his hands in the air.

Frustration rolled over Emil like a wave. Why wouldn’t she admit she’d been caught? It clicked a heartbeat later. She didn’t know he wasn’t going to report her. That he only had everyone’s best interests at heart. He took a deep breath and changed tack.

“Who the watch belongs to doesn’t really matter. What matters is my friend Mack.”

“Mr. Donnelly?”

“He and Mrs. West seem to value your friendship—against all odds, in my opinion—and they’d be upset if they had to pay your jail bond. Not to mention the headline might harm your Suffrage Society, as you so vehemently insisted when last we met.”

She studied him. “So?”

“So I’m going to give you a chance to return it before anyone realizes it’s missing.”

“What if I need the money more than I need your magnanimity?”

“Then I’ll buy it.”

She looked at him like he’d grown another head. “Why would you purchase it?”

“Yes, why?” The proprietor scowled. “Is this not my place of business?”

“Why not?” He replied, ignoring the man for now.

The offer had passed his lips before he could think twice.

But once uttered, he realized he meant it.

For some nebulous reason, he was determined to keep this woman from getting herself into trouble.

And who was to say he couldn’t still wring some usefulness out of this ill-fated relationship they’d formed?

“This way, you get the money for whatever you need so badly, and I gain the satisfaction of knowing I prevented you from extending your crime ring.”

“I don’t have a crime ring!”

“I’m not yet convinced,” he couldn’t help but taunt. “And my deal comes with two conditions.”

“Of course there’s a catch,” she muttered. “Go on.”

“First, you must return the watch to its rightful owner. Agreed?”

“That can be arranged. And second?”

“Attend a musicale this weekend as my guest.”

Her brows knitted together. “Why?”

“As a musician, you’ll fit right in. Hell, you might already know some of them. It’s a simple favor, really. Listen to music, mingle—”

“Mingle?”

Was he mistaken, or had her cheeks paled? “Yes, mingle. And of course, subtly ask around if anyone knows the authorship of She’s a Suffragette.”

She sighed. “It’s still about the anthem?”

“I must know who wrote it.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job. Now, any other questions?”

“Won’t people wonder why you brought me?”

“I’m not known for my discrimination. One pretty face is as good as another.”

The proprietor guffawed. “Ain’t he a peach?”

“He’s something,” said Olive, a mottled flush replacing the worrisome pallor.

“Don’t fall for it, miss. I’ve got a two-dollar bill with your name on it.”

“A railroad watch is worth ten times that,” Emil retorted, glaring at the unscrupulous man.

“Mr. Anderson, it’s a deal,” Olive declared.

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

But Olive’s slender hand was already pumping his up and down, her light grip sending a tingling up his arm. He stared down at their hands.

“Will the both of you,” the proprietor growled, his knuckles pressed hard into the scuffed counter, “get out.”

“Gladly.” Olive dropped his hand, swiped the watch from the counter, and ran for the entrance. The bell jangled as she threw open the door. Emil sent the man one last glare and followed her to the street.

“You sure picked a winner with this pile of bricks,” he began, then huffed when Olive merely held out her hand expectantly.

“I don’t have the money on me.” She shook her head and reached for the door handle once more.

He blocked her path, his nostrils flaring with exasperation.

“I’ll give you what I have now, Madame Opportunist, and the rest at the musicale on Sunday.

” She nodded once, and he squashed the strange thrill that swept through him at the confirmation he’d be seeing her again.

“And you’ll return the watch as soon as you can. ”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.”

He reached into his coat for his wallet and extracted a few bills, which she tucked carefully into her pocket. When she looked up, her gaze settled on his chin.

“Are you going to follow me home?”

His lips quirked. “No. I suppose my surveillance is over.”

“Good,” she echoed. “Stalking women is a curious pastime, Mr. Anderson.”

He snorted. “I’ll collect you from home on Sunday at half past one.”

“How do you know my…oh. Never mind.” Her cheeks flushed, and her nose wrinkled. The sight was surprisingly adorable. But anything was better than timidness. “Once I do this…you’ll leave me alone?”

“All I need is for you to find the next likely lead,” he assured her, “and I’ll take it from there. By Sunday evening, I’ll be out of your hair. The only man you’ll have to glower at is your cello-playing beau.”

“Stephen is much preferable to your company.”

He leaned in close, savoring the way she sucked in a breath, her composure faltering just enough to betray her.

This close, beneath the lamplight, her eyes gleamed like still lake waters at dawn.

He lingered, allowing the soft plumes of their breath to collide.

For whatever had begun to simmer between them to take shape.

She shivered, but she held her ground. The corner of his mouth twitched.

He liked knowing he had that effect on her. But he loved being one step ahead.

“Thought you said his name was Simon.” With a smirk, he turned on his heel and sauntered into the grey twilight.

He was back on top.