Page 17 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive had no intention of ever looking Emil in the face again.

Not after what she’d filed in her mind as The Great Library Debacle. Which had been followed by Disinfected by Disinterested Chemist. And topped with the oh-so-humiliating Thrown Over for Scary Man with a Cane.

To think of all the time she’d spent preparing for that first meeting.

Hours mimicking Clem’s effortless elocution before the mirror.

Hours scribbling a list of potential insults, as she’d seen Winnie doing.

Hours praying for an ounce of Rhoda’s confidence.

And it had worked. Emil had hung on to her every word.

Gazed at her like she was more than a pathetic little lamb.

Watched her with ill-contained excitement as she’d dug in the stacks for the clue she’d stashed there the day before.

And then a fluff of a rodent had almost caused her to lose her mind!

In public. In Emil’s arms.

Her entire body flushed at the memory of him bracing her from hitting the floor.

How good his body had felt against hers.

How his warm breath had fluttered her hair, how his strong thigh had wedged against hers.

And when she’d let her fears spiral out of control—a terrible habit she would dearly love to break—he’d cupped her face in his hands and smiled until all she’d wanted to do was smile back, her fears dissipating like the final notes of a song.

She couldn’t stop rehashing how wonderful it had been to float down the streets, Emil ten feet behind her, as promised, and feel that, for once, she wasn’t alone. How he’d shooed her inside Bartell Drugs with a wink, and she hadn’t doubted he’d still be there when she emerged. Except…he wasn’t.

She’d stood on the corner of First and Pike, finger smarting from a fresh application of antiseptic, until she spotted him conversing with two well-dressed men standing before a shiny automobile.

He was particularly deferential to the older of the two, a balding, sharp-featured gentleman who twirled a silver-tipped cane as he spoke.

She’d waited, shifting from foot to foot, until Emil cast a brief, apologetic glance her way and climbed into the automobile.

As she’d watched it rumble away, its polished body flashing in the morning light, she’d finally, finally understood that she was indeed alone.

It was a harsh—but necessary—reminder that Emil Anderson would always put himself first.

“You cannot be serious.”

She startled at the familiar baritone somewhere to her left, and she angled her body that way. “Mr. Anderson, I presume?”

“Obviously.” There was a lengthy pause. “What on earth are you thinking?”

That she had no intention of ever looking him in the face again—obviously. But since he didn’t know that was her intent, she owed him an explanation.

“I think my disguise is rather clever,” she said haughtily, squinting through her mother’s mourning veil that had been heavily reinforced with extra layers of black lace. “Now you don’t have to walk ten feet behind me.”

Another pause. “That’s not as reassuring as you may think.”

She pivoted—he was more to her right than she’d first thought. “It’s only an issue if widows are more likely than wallflowers to send you leaping into strangers’ vehicles.”

Drat. She hadn’t meant to say that. Why did he encourage such recklessness?

A deep sigh ruffled the lace. “I’m over here, Olive.” A hand nudged her back the other way. “And I already apologized for that.”

She bristled. “You most certainly did not.”

“It was in my note.”

“The note agreeing to meet me here?”

“The one that also sent my regrets over the unfortunate circumstances of our last encounter.”

“That was not an apology.”

“It conveyed remorse.”

“It conveyed vagueness. An apology requires specificity.”

“All right, Olive. I apologize for leaping into a stranger’s vehicle when I had agreed to attend those dreadful talks with you. How were they, by the way?”

“Scintillating.” She hadn’t gone, of course. Why would she when her victim had fled the scene?

“Hmm,” he rumbled, and she suspected he was trying not to laugh. “If you must know, the man you saw was the one who hired me. I assumed you wouldn’t care to meet him.”

She blinked. “The one with the cane?”

“Yes.”

Her blood chilled at the memory of him swinging that silver cane around and around. It had given her a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. That was the man who wanted to know her identity so badly? And Emil hadn’t pointed her out at once? Had even led the man away from her?

“Did you tell him about me?”

“No. Only that I was working a lead.”

She chewed her lip, mulling over his words. “Why?”

“I suppose I was feeling protective.” He hummed deep in his throat. “All that caterwauling in the library must have preyed on my better nature.”

“You—I—you—”

Double drat. His explanation had rendered her dumb. Protective?

“Trust me, I know,” he said, his voice glum. “Well, let’s get this over with. Where are you taking me today?”

Just then, her stomach gurgled loudly. She winced under the cover of her veil. Of all the days she’d had to skip breakfast! Hopefully, the rattle of a passing wagon masked the embarrassing sound. She licked her lips and forced herself to continue. “I heard about an underground printing shop.”

“The one on Skid Row? Or the basement shop on Pine?”

How many were there in Seattle? “Neither. This one is new.”

“Sounds promising. What’s the catch?”

“Well, the woman who runs it caters to a particular crowd. For those who wish to see beyond.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “A spiritualist?”

“A well-respected medium and mystic,” she countered. “Rumor has it she knows things about the upcoming vote. Many a suffragist has visited her in the past year, so it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if this is where the songster was printed.”

Mostly because Olive had watched Madame Celestia—otherwise known as Ms. Abigail Finch, Mrs. Godfrey’s sister—make the copies herself. For the first time, Olive regretted the veil. She would have liked to see Emil’s expression as he processed her new ploy. But as time stretched, she grew nervous.

“Emil? Are you…?”

“I’m still here.” Her hand was lifted into the crook of his arm. “You’d better let me lead.”

“I can do—” She took one step forward, but Emil yanked her back just as a rush of air swept past, rippling her veil. The sharp clang of a streetcar bell rang out, echoing down the street. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” she amended shakily.

“Hallelujah, she sees reason.”

She rolled her eyes, then caught the veil between her fingers, pulling it outward to clear her view of the street and find her footing.

Emil’s scent invaded at once, the familiar combination of musk and leather now mixed with something different—citrus, sharp and clean, like oranges left to dry in the sun.

She quickly dropped the veil, but not before her mouth watered.

And she doubted whether any of this was a good idea at all.

“Oh, what joy. Another creepy-crawly basement.”

Olive choked back a giggle. He wasn’t wrong.

Madame Celestia’s quarters were strange on any occasion—artifacts of the occult tended to put one at unease.

But she knew without asking that he wasn’t referring to the Ouija board resting in plain sight.

Or the cabinet overflowing with tea jars and a metal tray piled high with what she hoped were chicken bones.

Or even the stuffed crow perched on top of the cabinet, overseeing the room with its one glass eye.

It was the dolls.

The creepy-crawly army of dolls.

Rag dolls in gingham pinafores, cloth dolls dressed as southern gentlewomen, wax dolls with clumps of human hair, porcelain dolls in taffeta and lace—they were all present.

Crowded on tabletops, perched on two armchairs, propped against the wall.

Watching. Judging. Olive gripped her lace veil and tried not to shudder. This had not been part of the plan.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Madame Celestia asked brightly as she hung up their coats.

Emil looked at the dolls with alarm. “With them?”

The older woman trilled out a laugh. “They don’t bite. Go on, now, while I start the tea.” She didn’t wait for a response, but flounced across the room, her long shawl dragging lightly on the ground.

Olive quickly examined her choices. The only unadorned surface was the camel-back loveseat.

She quickly dismissed it—not only was it too small for two people, but the middle clearly sagged.

The armchair, currently occupied by a matte porcelain doll with glass eyes, looked sturdy.

More importantly, it would give her a much-needed respite from Emil’s hovering. She made a beeline for the chair.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, grasping her hand when she’d only taken two steps. “You’ve got to protect me.”

“But I—”

Her objection turned into a squeak as she was unrelentingly nudged onto the loveseat.

She barely managed to stuff her scarf into the crevice at her side and lift her skirts out of the way before Emil was wedging his way in beside her.

Even gripping the arm with both hands, she couldn’t help but list toward the middle.

Her heartbeat doubled as Emil’s hard thigh plastered against hers.

He took his time getting comfortable, his elbow knocking her shoulder before he draped an arm over the back of the loveseat.

“Sorry,” he said, but he certainly didn’t sound like it.

That annoyed her enough to see to her own comfort.

There wasn’t much she could do, but she made sure to get at least two jabs to his ribs before folding her hands placidly across her lap.

A low snort told her he wasn’t unaware of her retaliation, but she decided she didn’t care.

She needed all her faculties to ignore his pleasant warmth—

No, no.

She needed all her faculties to remain dedicated to her mission.