Page 29 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Winnie came to a standstill, her expression apologetic. “I appreciate the offer, but don’t you have enough going on at the moment?”

Olive’s skin grew tight with the effort not to show how deeply the question wounded her. It was happening again—dismissed because she couldn’t handle her own affairs, let alone others.

“She’s my friend, too.”

“Oh, Olive, that isn’t what I mean.” Winnie withdrew a hand from her muff and gripped hers. “I thought I was being kind. You were injured yesterday—”

“I’ll be fine.”

“And I’m so relieved to hear that. But it’s also…” She glanced away with a grimace, then back again. The hesitation was so unlike her that it set Olive on edge. “Well, I’ll just say it. I was in your apartment yesterday, and I was worried when I saw the state—”

“It could be better, but we manage,” she interrupted, dropping her gaze to the dirt patch beneath her boot.

The urge to deny the truth was immediate, the need to put on a brave face instinctual.

Of all her friends, Winnie would be the most likely to understand.

She was no stranger to financial difficulties.

But something held her back. Perhaps it was because she’d been pretending for so long that she no longer knew how to unmask.

Perhaps it was too frightening. Too shameful.

Asking for help, especially financial help, would change the nature of their friendship.

She’d already learned the hard way what happened when friendships were on unequal footing, hadn’t she?

And if her lack of money meant she wouldn’t be allowed to help find Rhoda, then she would rather go on pretending. She looked up and forced a smile.

“Thank you for your concern, but it isn’t needed.”

“That’s not—”

“Winnie, please.” The redhead snapped her mouth shut, scowling. “I will take a couple of days to recover,” she added, “but after that, I want to be included in the plans to find Rhoda.”

“Yes. You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

“Thank you.”

Winnie let go of her hand and sank onto a nearby bench. “You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I could use a rest, as well,” she admitted, sitting on the cold metal with a grimace.

“Well, go on.” Winnie nudged her side. “Tell me everything about Emil Anderson and the Case of the Suffrage Anthem Composer.”

Olive smiled weakly. “I thought you were tired.”

“I have plenty of energy for a sordid tale.”

“It isn’t sordid!”

“Not according to what I heard between you and Emil in the carriage yesterday,” Winnie said smugly.

Olive gaped. “Did you really listen?”

“Of course I did. Oh, that reminds me.” She dug deep into her pocket. “Clem sent along some pamphlets for you to read.”

“But she already gave me all the pamphlets on suffrage.”

“They’re not on suffrage. Trust me. You’ll want to read these.”

Olive took the slim pamphlet and scanned the title curiously: Women’s Health and Sexual Congress. She smushed the pamphlet to her chest, a flush washing up her neck to her ears. Her voice, when she could speak at all, was hoarse. “Why is she giving me this?”

“Because of Emil Anderson, you dolt.”

“Oh God, was it that obvious?”

“You did tell him you were ready to explore intimacy with him.”

Olive sank forward on the bench with a groan, her forehead resting on her knees. “Please tell me he wasn’t horrified,” she mumbled into the coat fabric.

“The complete opposite, I’d say.” Winnie’s laugh rang out. “Sit up, and I’ll recount what I overheard. Then, I’ll answer all your questions about what happens between a man and a woman.”

Olive sat up slowly, keeping a firm grip on the itch to flee.

As much as she’d love to escape the mortifying conversation, what she wanted even more was to know.

Knowledge was power. If she was going to pursue intimacy—and she very much wanted to—she wanted to do so with a marginal dose of confidence. She drew in a deep breath.

“Tell me everything.”

Emil tapped his pencil against his lower lip, scowling at Leland Wingate’s latest missive spread across the dining room table:

URGENT: Dirt needed on our common foe.

The word dirt stuck in his craw. Wingate had officially crossed the line from gathering discreet, legal intelligence to demanding something darker.

What kind of dirt? A mistress tucked away?

A pistol-waving pet monkey in his attic?

Whatever it was, subtlety was gone. But nothing riled him up more than admitting he’d been so eager for Wingate’s favor that he’d already gone after an innocent man.

He shoved the note aside and bent over the plat map of the wharves again. His pencil marks charted changes over the past year, tracing Gunn’s buying pattern. The truth was plain enough: Harvey Gunn was ruthless, yes, but lawful.

The Scotsman always started with some overlooked, shabby lot already cut off from prime water access or crippled by disrepair.

That was his wedge. From there, he bought the neighbor.

Then the neighbor’s neighbor. Piece by piece, he strangled the lone holdout in the middle.

What was interesting was that the technique never varied.

It was almost as if Gunn wanted his prey to know he was coming.

Once their trade dried up and repairs stalled, Gunn swooped in with a paltry offer. And inevitably, they took it.

It was a brilliant, if dishonorable, strategy that had garnered Gunn few friends.

Emil doubted he cared. The only associate Emil could link him to was Hire Kobayashi.

They’d both appeared in Seattle about the same time five years ago, but beyond that, the nature of their relationship remained a mystery.

Still, Gunn’s method was the perfect way to gut an enemy. Especially one who held just as much land. Emil ran a finger down his notes, nodding. Gunn was moving in on Wingate. Two properties had already fallen in the last year, and a third was under siege. No wonder Wingate was panicked.

What had the old man done to draw Gunn’s ire?

The two couldn’t be more different. Wingate embodied respectability: his wealth came from a long line of ambitious forefathers, his public image was untarnished, and he was welcome at the most important tables.

Gunn was new money: a disruptor who refused to follow the unspoken rules, a recent arrival who made others so uneasy that he’d sequestered himself in his mansion in Queen Anne.

But those differences couldn’t be enough to cause a standoff.

So, what else had Wingate exaggerated or lied about outright?

Olive’s note that morning—he must commend her timing—had brought attention to the man’s presence at the auto procession.

Welcoming an anti-suffrage preacher to town wouldn’t impress his fiancée, nor endear him to reformers.

But as Emil had learned in the past year, there were plenty of powerful men who viewed the movement as a threat. So was he friend or foe?

It was time to take a closer look at his employer.

He already had half the paperwork. He’d comb through it again, backward this time.

Shake out a new clue. Peel back the layers until he figured out why Wingate and Gunn were at each other’s throats.

Above all, he would find a way to keep Olive safe from all of it.

Rubbing his hands together, he bent back over the map.