Page 5 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Emil loved a good party.

“I see the evening’s offerings meet your approval.”

Emil’s smile broadened as the host, Mack Donnelly, appeared at his side.

“This might be the Post’s finest New Year’s Eve celebration yet. I should know—I’ve been to half a dozen over the years.”

Mack gazed around the thunderous ballroom with a pleased grin. “Uncle Horace would be spitting mad if he saw what I’ve done to his stolid affair.”

Emil laughed. “Still out for revenge, are we?”

“I know I should be satisfied he’s behind bars, but I won’t be until I’ve dismantled every outdated notion he held.”

Mack had chafed under his uncle’s leadership at the Puget Sound Post, and it was only a couple of months past that Horace had relinquished the position of editor-in-chief to his nephew.

The move was far from charitable; it was the last-ditched effort to salvage the paper’s reputation once the authorities had Horace on the hook for bribery and graft.

But Mack didn’t care about the motive. He was thriving in his new role, much to Emil’s satisfaction.

His undercover role in the case had almost cost him Mack’s long-standing friendship, but they’d made great strides since then.

“The expanded guest list would enrage him,” Emil said with a chuckle. “I just witnessed an actress giving fashion advice to a Temperance leader and overheard a longshoreman debating market trends with a state senator. That’s your doing.”

“What can I say? It’s good business to know people in every circle in Seattle.”

Emil raised his glass. “Here’s to you and all your successes in 1909.”

“The same to you, my friend.” Glass clinked as Mack did the same. They both sipped.

“Say, is Winnie here tonight?”

“Of course.” A strange expression transformed Mack’s face, and Emil examined him curiously.

Was that what a man looked like when he was hopelessly in love?

Emil didn’t understand it, but he was happy for Mack and his sweetheart, Winnie West. He respected the hell out of the fiery stenographer-turned-journalist who’d run circles around Mack until she got her way. “She’s with some of her friends.”

He followed Mack’s gaze across the room, easily spotting the redhead in a vibrant cobalt blue gown near the refreshment table. She was surrounded by a group of women in dazzling gowns.

“Are those the suffragists?”

“Don’t look so nervous.” Mack chuckled. “Winnie explained why you supported my uncle’s ploy to keep her from writing about suffrage. They’ve mostly forgiven you.”

“Hope so. I’d hate to draw their wrath.”

“That won’t happen tonight. Last I heard, the only debating allowed is whether or not they need a fresh flute of champagne.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Actually, it appears as if Winnie is putting her glass down. I’ll steal her for a dance while I have the chance.”

Emil waved him off, then decided to stroll the room and find his own dance partner.

He was particularly interested in any well-connected lady who could introduce him to her father.

Yet as he meandered the edges of the ballroom, weaving in and out of the Roman columns, it was not a beautiful woman that caught his eye, but a shadowy form slipping through the garden entrance.

He frowned. As far as he knew, the garden was closed for the evening.

What was someone doing out there, let alone using it for passage into Mack’s party?

The figure crept forward, slowly revealing itself to be a tall, slender woman in an ill-fitting gown.

She kept her head down as she hugged the walls and used potted plants for cover.

The clumsy attempt to remain hidden was almost comical, yet strangely, no one else seemed to notice her.

He followed at a distance until she darted toward a chair draped with a familiar cobalt blue shawl.

She bent down, plucked something from the seat, and tucked it into her pocket before he could see what it was.

A thief. Not just that—a thief stealing from his friends.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

He still owed Mack and Winnie for past wrongs; here was his chance to make things right. He weaved through the crowd and seized her by the elbow. The woman stilled in his grip, but a coiling tension in her posture hinted she would spring away if he gave her so much as an inch.

“Return whatever it is you took, or there will be trouble.”

“Sir, it’s not what you think.” A gasp escaped her lips, high-pitched and mousy, but Emil caught something else underneath it…resentment, perhaps? He frowned at the incongruency.

“That’s what all criminals say when they’re caught.” He craned his neck above the crowd in search of Mack. “Let’s see what Mr. Donnelly thinks.”

“Oh no, please don’t bother him. He’s terribly busy tonight.”

Her voice was so breathless that he had to lean down to hear it. As he did, the aroma of delicate violets and the faint, fresh scent of raindrops washed over him. It was unexpectedly soothing, even as her tightly wound energy prickled at him. He straightened at once, bemused by his reaction.

Scanning the crowd again, he caught sight of Mack.

He raised his free hand to draw his attention, then jerked a nod at the stiff woman in his grasp.

Mack gave him a mystified look and said something to Winnie.

She glanced up sharply and was marching toward them a moment later.

Emil tugged his gaze from his friends’ surprising reaction when the woman mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said Thank God.”

As if that explained anything. He studied her profile—he had to, since she refused to meet his eyes. Her chin dipped just enough to appear submissive, but her jaw was clenched tight.

“Do you want to be caught?”

She shook her head, and the brief motion sent her scent curling around him once more.

It was only violets, a common enough flower.

But there was something else he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

It was as if innocence and intoxication were tied into one.

How could that be? He allowed himself a second look, if only to understand what he held in his grasp.

Her honey blonde hair was in a simple pompadour, her smallish ears were unadorned, and her modest neckline was edged with a boring scrap of lace. There was nothing remarkable about her, really. Nothing to pique his curiosity. Nothing to cause Winnie to come running to her side.

“Unhand Miss Becket at once.”

The woman in his grasp sighed in relief, her breath ruffling a purple, green, and white ribbon pinned to the front of her gown. Understanding dawned.

Ah, hell. He’d messed with the suffragists.

He looked up to find Winnie flanked by two other women, a petite blonde and an ebony-haired beauty. All three glared at him like he was scum on the heel of their boots.

“Do you know this woman?”

“Of course. She is our friend,” Winnie replied.

“A friend wouldn’t steal from your table. I caught her—”

“Don’t presume to know anything about our friendship,” the blonde interrupted with arched brows.

“And why are you still touching her?” hissed the third.

He dropped Miss Becket’s elbow like it was a box of snapping turtles.

“I hope Mr. Anderson didn’t hurt you, Miss Becket,” Winnie said pointedly. “Can you still perform?”

“Perform?” he asked dumbly.

Miss Becket rubbed her elbow with a languid grace that didn’t quite match the frailty she’d displayed moments ago. Another incongruency. “I’ll manage just fine.”

Mack clapped him on the back with a smirk, blatantly enjoying his discomfort. “I hired her to play piano in the retiring salon.”

“But she took something from Mrs. West’s seat,” he insisted. “I saw her myself.”

Winnie sighed. “Show him the earrings, Olive.”

Miss Becket—Olive—opened her palm and showed him the jewelry. “She loaned them to me.”

Now that her friends were there to vouch for her, her voice had more zest. It fit her much better than the mousiness from before.

In fact, the longer he studied her, the more convinced he became that the woman was deliberately making herself smaller, shoving her true thoughts and feelings deep down inside.

He couldn’t fathom why anyone would do such a thing.

But to him, it was clear as day—she wasn’t nearly as weak as the others seemed to find her.

And he had better retreat while he still could.

“My apologies for the misunderstanding.”

“Thank you,” she said to his tie. “At least you were trying to protect Winnie’s things.”

The ebony-haired beauty scoffed. “He wanted clout for catching a thief at Mr. Donnelly’s party.”

Now she had no trouble meeting his gaze. Usually, she’d be exactly his type, gorgeous and forthright, but for whatever reason, he felt…nothing. His gaze returned to Miss Becket—Olive.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice again too soft. “I need to…”

And then she just walked away.

He stared after her for a beat too long, then turned back to his audience with a self-deprecating grin that never failed to get him out of a tight spot. “We all make mistakes. In my defense, she—”

“Olive Becket is a lamb,” the blonde said sternly. “Our lamb.”

He held his hands up. “Trust me, I have no designs on her.”

“As if Olive would be interested in a man like Mr. Anderson,” Winnie said, a laugh bubbling out. Her friends joined in.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a wolf—”

“And she’s a lamb.” He sighed impatiently, wishing he’d bit his tongue. Why should her opinion of him matter? She wasn’t his type. “Understood.”

Mack swung an arm over his shoulders before the women could berate him further. “Come along, my friend. Let me get you a fresh beverage and introduce you to some people who don’t think you’re out for innocent blood.”

He gave the women a polite nod, then let himself be led away. Once they were out of earshot, he muttered, “Hell and damnation, Mack. And here I thought I was making headway with Winnie ever since the newspaper debacle. Should I have stayed in Tacoma?”