Page 6 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Mack laughed. “Perhaps. Just leave Miss Becket alone, and there won’t be any more issues.”

“If I’d known she walked on water, I would have.”

“She’s a shy, struggling sweetheart. Not your preference at all.” He raised a hand and gestured to someone. “Now, who do you want to meet?”

“Lawyers,” he replied, thrusting the odd woman from his mind. “Preferably ones involved in criminal proceedings.”

“There’s a lively bunch in the cigar lounge. Come with me.”

An hour later, Emil tossed his still-smoldering cigar onto an ashtray and admitted defeat.

Despite some of the most eloquent schmoozing he’d ever done, there were no takers.

Somehow, every lawyer in town was deliriously happy with their investigative team.

That, or they were more interested in the poker chips on the table.

He would be too, if he weren’t so determined to find a case.

The ballroom, he noted when he returned, had grown even more crowded.

He sauntered through the room, greeting a few familiar faces and perusing the new arrivals in their dazzling gowns and complicated hair-dos.

A lovely brunette with a low, confident laugh caught his eye, and he stepped forward.

A dance or two would undoubtedly rouse his spirits–

He stilled, cocking his head to one side as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Behind the brunette, an open doorway provided a clear view into the retiring salon. Olive Becket was framed on the piano bench.

The shy creature from before was nowhere to be seen.

Her earlier stiffness had melted into a delicate arch as she played.

Light, nimble fingers danced across the keys, her arms undulating with the grace of a swan.

Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly upturned in a dreamy smile.

Gaslight cast a pretty halo around her, luring him forward…

What the ever-loving hell?

He tore his gaze from her to the clusters of party-goers around her.

Surely they had also witnessed the timid lamb’s transformation into an alluring siren?

But no. She might as well have been wallpaper for all the attention they paid her.

Not that he had ever paid attention to the hired musicians at a social event, but that was different.

This woman had her friends thinking she needed protection when it was clear as day she could hold her own.

Or was he the one who’d lost his mind?

He had been somewhat off his game lately, as his mother had brashly pointed out.

The stress of founding a detective agency had clearly addled him.

That or it had been so long since he’d cracked a case that he was now fabricating mysteries from thin air.

Why else would he stand gawking at an inconstant woman who had already caused him to lose face?

More importantly, why hadn’t he followed up on the lovely brunette, who was already moving across the ballroom?

He shook his head and turned on his heel, only to bump into an older, balding man in a sleek black tailcoat paired with a white wing-collar shirt and a perfect black bow tie.

The man’s ensemble was completed by a pair of white gloves and a distinctive black cane with a silver handle that identified him at once.

He straightened and flashed a smile. “Mr. Wingate, my apologies. Didn’t see you there.”

Mr. Leland Wingate was a prominent businessman in Washington, a shipping magnate whose state-of-the-art steamships earned God-only-knew how much money shuttling goods up and down the West Coast and across the Pacific to Asia.

A man of influence, he served on multiple city advisory boards, including the Denny Regrade project and the upcoming Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition.

In other words, he was a man of infinite connections.

Precisely the sort of man Emil wanted to work for.

“No need to apologize.” The older man tapped the hardwood floor with his cane and winked. “I was trying to catch your attention, and now I’ve got it.”

Emil hid his surprise with some difficulty. “That you have. What can I do for you?”

“I spoke with an associate of mine. He mentioned you are in search of investigative work. I am in such need.”

“Then I’m all ears.” Noting Mr. Wingate’s empty glass, he glanced around and gestured to a serving man with a tray of drinks. “Whiskey or brandy?”

But Mr. Wingate waved the man off. “My assistant knows what to bring me. ”

A short, rotund man dressed in a neat, yet much lesser quality, coat materialized at their side before Emil could respond. Without a word, the man presented two glasses. Emil took a swig, appreciating the rich, smoky liquor.

“Old Overholt?”

“Turns out your nose for unlawful behavior is just as sharp when it comes to rye whiskey.” Mr. Wingate gave him an appraising look. “I’ve only heard good things about your role in taking down the Gruber Crime Ring a few months ago.”

“Thank you, though I must point out I was part of a strong team.”

One corner of Mr. Wingate’s mouth lifted. “That’s not what I heard. Without you, they never would have caught Alan Gruber or his henchman, Horace Donnelly.”

“It was the case that convinced me I could do the same on my own,” he allowed. The man was buttering him up, but for what, he hadn’t a clue. “My agency is new, but that means I can devote all the time I need to my cases.”

Mr. Wingate took the transition. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m concerned about some recent activity at the waterfront. It might be nothing, but better safe than sorry.”

“Certainly. What have you noticed?”

“Harvey Gunn has been buying up properties all along the wharf. Strategically, you might say. Anything not owned by me or the railroads. And not just any properties—prime lots.”

The Scotsman was no ordinary businessman. He was known among Seattle’s grittier circles as a man who didn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own. If Gunn was amassing properties along the waterfront, it would be for a reason. A power move.

“Sounds like he’s setting up for something significant,” Emil mused. “Control over a trade route, perhaps?”

“Possibly. Or he could be biting off more than he can chew. I keep a close eye on all waterfront activity to ensure everything’s above board. It might be nothing, but something feels off.”

Emil took another slow sip. There could be some merit to Wingate’s worry; it wouldn’t be the first dock war in Seattle. “How so?”

“He’s forcing good people out. Causing rifts where none existed. And for what purpose? If he’s hiding an illegal partnership or amassing land for foreign interest, we need to know. Seattle’s interests come first, and you’re the man I need to investigate it.”

More like Mr. Wingate’s shipping business came first, but Emil didn’t give a damn why he wanted him to pursue Harvey Gunn. Collecting information on a rival was standard procedure. Not to mention a case like that could put Emil’s agency on the map.

“Understood. If there’s anything amiss, I’ll find it.”

At that moment, a cheer burst from the salon behind Emil, followed by raucous laughter. Mr. Wingate gazed over his shoulder with interest. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“New Year’s cheer, no doubt. Now, regarding–”

But Mr. Wingate hummed under his breath, his attention gone.

Emil swallowed a sigh and faced the open doorway, steeling himself against the inescapable vision of a certain woman on her piano bench.

One glance was all it took before his pulse quickened and his necktie grew uncomfortably tight.

He shifted on his feet, bewildered as to how the compelling notions of investigating Harvey Gunn could dissipate so quickly.

The space around the piano bench was crowded with women, their hands clasped together in mock desperation, as though begging for a sliver of Miss Becket’s attention.

Curiously, their focus drew forth her shyness.

Her skill was in demand, yet her gaze stayed on the ivory keys before her, her head bobbing occasionally with the faintest of smiles.

At last, she said something too low for him to hear, and the women cheered and backed away.

He watched, transfixed, as Olive’s hands struck the keys anew.

A burst of lively notes cascaded through the air, each chord bolder than the last. The women surrounding the piano began to sing, and Emil recognized the catchy suffrage tune at once.

More voices joined in, a lively mix of sopranos and altos weaving together in an off-key but enthusiastic song.

Laughter sparkled between verses, hands clapped, and feet stomped in time.

And with each verse, Olive Becket glowed brighter and brighter.

Adrenaline coursed through Emil’s veins, and an unsettling sensation crept over him, as if the ground beneath him had shifted a fraction.

The anthem ended, and the salon erupted with applause. More women jostled past him, craning their necks to see what the commotion was about, and the touch was enough to release him from Olive’s magnetic pull.

“How fortuitous,” Wingate mused with a chuckle. “That very song is the next order of business. I’d dearly love to find its mysterious composer.”

“I won’t work against the suffragists,” he said bluntly. Not again. Not when it went against his personal beliefs and those of his friends.

“Nothing of the sort.” Wingate leaned forward on his cane as if to share a confidence. “I’m getting married.”

Emil blinked. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. But my fiancée, bless her, is reluctant to relocate from Nantucket. She’s convinced the West is nothing but loggers and mud streets.

The one thing working in my favor is the race for state suffrage.

Imagine her delight if the most talked-of composer in Seattle played at her welcome party.

It will show her she’s welcome here, and it will show the city that I stand with progress.

” His eyes glittered. “There’s good business in that, too.

A man who keeps step with reform will have no shortage of allies when new laws reshape the markets. ”

Emil exhaled slowly and swirled the Old Overholt in his glass. So this wasn’t about undermining reformers but impressing one—and profiting from their cause. That, he could stomach.

“I’m interested,” he admitted. “But which case takes priority?”

“The anthem, of course. The vote—and my marriage—is imminent. I still need eyes on Harvey Gunn, don’t mistake me there.

The man is buying up the waterfront piece by piece, and I won’t stand by if he’s a danger to good men.

But Gunn’s game is long and slow. It may take longer to expose him.

” Mr. Wingate released his cane with one hand and offered it to Emil.

“What do you say, Mr. Anderson? Can you keep one ear in the drawing room and another to the ground?”

Emil didn’t hesitate. He pumped Wingate’s hand, excitement swirling through him. Not one, but two cases. His luck had finally turned. “You can count on me, Mr. Wingate.”

Finding the composer would be simple. He had contacts in the suffrage movement, which would be far easier than investigating a man like Harvey Gunn.

A quick solve could show Mr. Wingate he was all that he promised, and more.

Perhaps it would even lead to a few more minor, inconsequential cases while he worked the larger one.

Not to mention it could give him ammunition against his father in their next shouting match.

“Oh, and Mr. Anderson.” Wingate leaned in close. “Discretion is paramount.”

“All part of the job,” he assured him smoothly.

“Good man. Now, I just spotted a congressman who's been avoiding me. If you’ll excuse me.”

Mr. Wingate ambled off, and Emil allowed his gaze to return to the retiring salon doorway one final time. Miss Becket had risen from her bench and was quietly gathering her sheet music.

Emil zeroed in on the papers. Had she used sheet music for the anthem?

And if so, where had it come from? What else did she know about the suffrage anthems?

The longer he stared, the stronger his resolve grew.

Olive Becket was a puzzle he needed to solve, and what better way to get started than to find out what she knew?

Turned out he had more use for the so-called lamb after all.