Page 13 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive really should have asked more questions before accepting Emil’s conditions.

Questions like: Where would the musicale be?

Who would be attending? Would she be better off skipping the event altogether and joining a potato-worshipping cult instead?

But she hadn’t, and now she was face-to-face with a former rival.

“Oh,” said Trudy Blount.

Incredible how one little word, more of a disappointed sigh, really, was enough to make Olive long for a sinkhole to open beneath her feet.

Enough to reopen the wounds inflicted years ago when Trudy had decided the Beckets’ loss of stature meant they could no longer perform duets together.

When rising responsibilities had forced Olive to give up her coveted junior performer position in the Pacific Northwest Ladies’ Musical Society.

When life as she’d known it had changed forever, and not for the better.

“May I present my guest, Miss Olive Becket,” Emil said.

Olive flicked him a glance, uncertain if he had noticed Trudy’s pout or simply didn’t care. The former, she decided, when she found him busy acknowledging the other guests crowding the entryway, white teeth gleaming.

“Mr. Anderson,” Trudy began, her tone measured, polite, and, to Olive’s ear, reeking of dismay. “When I extended your invitation, I had hoped you would see fit to bring another gentleman who appreciates the arts.”

“No one appreciates the arts as much as Miss Becket,” he assured her.

Then he flashed a grin that was bright and effortless…

yet perfectly hollow. It was the kind of smile meant to disarm, to persuade.

To make the recipient feel special, even if it had already been offered a hundred times before to a hundred different people.

Olive wanted to elbow him, to berate him for being so gauche that any woman would see right through it.

Instead, she watched with mounting confusion as Trudy’s brittle smile softened, her fingers fluttering at the pearl buttons on her sleeve.

Olive was suddenly relieved Emil had never smiled at her like that.

Her thoughts orbited around that peculiar thought as she entered the Blount residence, murmuring greetings like an automaton.

Emil had brought her nothing but trouble, so what did she care how he smiled or didn’t smile?

At best, he viewed her as a convenient source, a conduit into a world he knew little about.

At worst, she was a common—if somewhat bungling—criminal in need of reform.

Yet Emil was also the reason her father’s pocket watch sat in its usual place on the mantle beside the family portrait and the album of photographs.

What sort of detective aided his suspect?

Who witnessed their supposed perfidy with pity in their gaze?

Who traded their own funds for an impossible-to-prove promise?

The incongruity needled at her composure. It made her want to run and hide. Pretend it wasn’t happening. But that was impossible when his surveillance, as he’d so bluntly called it, had yet to cease, as he’d so falsely promised it would.

Oh, she had spotted him more than once. It wasn’t so hard, now that she knew what to look for. A tall man with broad shoulders, his neck always wrapped in splendid knit scarves. Gifts from his admirers, no doubt.

But it wasn’t just his dashing good looks or the way his body unfurled from whatever post he leaned against while he waited for her.

It was something else—something harder to define.

She’d developed a prickling awareness, almost as if there was a shift in the atmosphere when he was near.

A silent pressure against her skin, warning her of his presence before she even turned to look.

She’d never experienced that kind of awareness before, and she certainly had no idea what it meant.

Only that she had to find a way to make him stop following her.

“Emil Anderson, as I live and breathe!”

Olive startled at the booming voice of a barrel-chested man who stepped into their path, his hand already pumping Emil’s up and down with the vigor of a politician in campaign season.

“Mr. Linwood, good to see you.”

“Never took you for an aficionado of Baroque music.”

“Let’s call it a New Year’s resolution,” Emil returned smoothly. “A foray into the finer things of life.”

Olive fought the impulse to roll her eyes, but the man guffawed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “The ladies have that effect on us, to be sure.”

Was she invisible?

“Say, I had a drink with your father last night at the Yacht Club,” Mr. Linwood continued without a glance in her direction.

“He assures me the new sloop will be ready for racing season. The old boys will be green with envy when they see me at the helm of Nordstar Boatworks’ latest beauty.

The two-year waitlist was worth it, I say. ”

“I’m glad to hear it, though I can take no credit in its craftsmanship.”

“No?” Mr. Linwood pursed his lips in thought.

“Oh, that’s right. Your father mentioned you’ve opened a little detective outfit.

” Olive felt Emil tense at her side. “Can’t imagine why an Anderson wouldn’t want to work for Nordstar,” he continued.

“Family business and all. Fine reputation. But I imagine there’s a certain enjoyment involved in tracking down a lost pair of pet chickens named Tweedle and Dee. ” He let out another guffaw.

“Is that what my father said I’m doing?” Emil asked in a low, dangerous tone that Olive had never heard before.

“Wish I was clever enough to come up with that one on my own!” When Emil didn’t laugh with him, he sobered and added, “Listen, son. It’s every father’s job to bemoan his children’s actions.

And every young man’s duty is to find his own way.

Personally, I think it seems easier to take the road already paved in gold than hack through the forest with a butter knife, but what do I know? ”

Olive was fascinated by the turn of events.

So Emil Anderson, Seattle’s greatest gift to man, had family problems of his own.

A kind person would sympathize with his pain.

A good person would give him the benefit of the doubt, in light of what they had just learned about him.

An honorable person would ignore the chink in his armor.

Too bad she was none of those things where he was concerned.

The wheels had begun their wicked turn when Mr. Linwood chose that moment to step around Emil and directly into her.

Because, yes, apparently she was invisible.

A small grunt escaped before she could stop it, all her focus put toward not toppling backward.

To her surprise, Emil’s hand shot out to steady her, firm against the small of her back.

She had barely registered it before he pulled away.

“I beg your pardon. Didn’t see you there, Miss…”

“Miss Olive Becket,” Emil supplied.

“Becket,” Mr. Linwood repeated. “Now, how do I know that name?”

It was Olive’s turn to tense—she knew exactly how he knew her. She could only hope his memory was as poor as his bank account was rich.

“There you are, darling.” A short, buxom woman slipped her arm through Mr. Linwood’s, her pleasant smile faltering when she caught sight of Olive. “Why, it’s Olive Becket.”

Olive’s stomach sank. Where was that dratted sinkhole when she needed it?

She forced herself to stand tall, to meet the woman’s gaze briefly.

And because she’d made the effort, she caught the quick, unmistakable, head-to-toe appraisal.

The way the woman’s gaze lingered slightly too long on her blouse, one her mother no longer had use for now that she never left the house.

It was a nice blouse, though a bit outdated.

She tucked her hands behind her back before the woman noticed how the peach fabric was a shade darker at her cuffs—an obvious tell that it had been let out to accommodate her longer arms.

“Good day, Mrs. Linwood,” she managed.

The woman’s smile was kind, if a bit remote. “It’s lovely to see you. It’s been such a long time.”

“That’s it,” Mr. Linwood exclaimed. “You used to perform duets with our Miranda. My, that was ages ago, wasn’t it?”

“A lifetime,” she agreed. “And how is Miranda?”

Mrs. Linwood beamed. “She’s wonderful. She’s in her last semester at Oberlin—”

“Completing a Bachelor’s in music,” Mr. Linwood interjected, waggling his brows at Emil. “She’s a wonder, our Miranda.”

“She was always a gifted pianist.” It wasn’t hard to be gracious.

She had fond memories of the girl who, fortunately for her, possessed both her mother’s looks and tact.

They’d auditioned for junior membership the same year, and once they were accepted, had spent many hours in the practice room together.

Their falling out, unlike what had happened with Trudy, hadn’t been deliberate so much as circumstantial—it was hard to maintain a friendship when there was no time to meet.

“Do you—” Mrs. Linwood hesitated. “Do you still play?”

Olive’s eyes burned, but she maintained her smile. “Not as often as I’d like.”

“I see.” Another pause. “You’re teaching, then?”

A gentle inquiry, but the meaning was clear: That’s what you do now, isn’t it?

“Yes.” She refused to apologize or feel sorry for herself.

Because contrary to what Mrs. Linwood so clearly believed, teaching was a noble profession, and one she excelled at.

Wasn’t she one of the most sought-after teachers in the city?

Besides, she enjoyed teaching children. They were so much easier than adults.

Their questions were forthright, innocent. Not couched in double meanings.

“Miss Becket also performs,” Emil said abruptly.

“She does?”

“She’s quite the talent. In fact, the first time I heard her play, she commanded the audience. Had them begging for more.”