Page 7 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

“What a rousing performance!” Winnie latched onto Olive’s arm and squeezed. “You held the entire audience at your fingertips.”

The redhead’s emerald eyes sparkled with ever-present enthusiasm, and Olive met her gaze with rare ease.

Where Olive was cautious, thoughtful to the point of second-guessing, Winnie charged ahead with confidence.

She had a spiritedness that dared the world to slow her down, a quality Olive could only dream of possessing.

“It helps when the room brims with a pro-suffrage sentiment.”

“Oh, Olive, take the compliment,” Miss Rhoda Carlisle declared from her other side. “You deserve it.”

Rhoda was the most beautiful woman Olive had ever seen, with lustrous ebony hair, porcelain skin, and pale blue eyes that dismembered anyone presumptuous enough to oppose her.

It was still hard to believe the privileged daughter of Seattle’s department store mogul was her friend, let alone her champion.

Whereas Olive had trouble speaking up, Rhoda spoke with a confidence that bordered on defiance.

But more importantly, she allowed those close to her occasional glimpses of the affectionate, generous soul underneath.

“You play the anthem far better than anyone else I’ve heard,” Rhoda continued. “Did you change the final verse?”

“I added a few extra notes,” she admitted. “You’re kind to notice.”

“Your playing always makes me want to dance.” Winnie’s words were as bubbly as the glass of champagne in her hand. “Ooh, I’ve had an idea!”

“Is it that we should strap a piano to the back of a wagon and drive it through town for Olive to play?”

Winnie’s jaw dropped. “Exactly that! I’ll drive, and you make banners—”

“You don’t know how to drive.”

“Well, not yet, but you promised to teach me.”

“And I will, but not while we have sweet Olive perched on top like a cherry on whipped cream!”

“I value my safety far too much,” Olive broke in, giggling at her friends’ absurdity. “Exactly how much champagne have you two had?”

“Far more than I should,” Winnie said gaily. “But Mack happens to think I’m delightful when I’m tipsy.”

“When doesn’t he think you’re delightful?”

It was well-known that Winnie’s beau, Mack Donnelly, was head over heels in love with her and thought she could do no wrong.

“He’s so smitten it’s almost offensive,” said Rhoda. “As for me, it’s my one night away from Mother Dearest, so don’t dampen my good spirits.”

Olive’s giggle faded, and she exchanged a glance with Winnie.

Rhoda rarely mentioned her parents, but when she did, there was a sharpness to her words that she never quite explained.

Not that Olive had the courage to ask Rhoda outright.

She couldn’t bear it if Rhoda snapped at her or told her it was none of her business.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she was unfamiliar with family secrets.

Rhoda waggled her fingers in front of their faces. “Stop looking at each other like that, and let’s go dance.”

“Aye, aye!” Winnie snapped to attention. “Olive, are you coming?”

“In this outdated thing? I’d rather not.” She plucked at her dress. It didn’t just pale in comparison to Winnie and Rhoda’s gowns; it made painfully clear how out of place she was. She had no desire to put herself on display for others to come to the same conclusion.

Rhoda tilted her head and studied the dress. “It’s not so bad, only somewhat ill-fitting. Why didn’t you wear the yellow chiffon?”

A few months ago, Rhoda had surprised her, Winnie, and Clem with a shopping trip to Carlisle’s dress department.

She’d generously chosen—and paid for—an elegant gown for each of them to wear to the Seattle Suffrage Society’s first gala at Longfellow House.

Olive had never felt more beautiful in her pale-yellow gown with sheer, gently puffed sleeves.

For once, she’d fit in with the other young women.

Not only that, but the gown had given her the confidence to speak up when Winnie needed her help with Mack Donnelly.

Normally, the attention terrified her, but then, it was always easier to defend someone she cared for.

“I didn’t wear it because it’s for attending parties. Not working at them.”

“No one will mind—”

Olive gently squeezed Winnie’s hand to quiet her. “I know you both mean well, but the truth is I always feel out of place at events such as these. Tonight, especially.”

Winnie scowled. “That dratted Emil Anderson.”

The name alone was enough to send a shiver down Olive’s spine.

Mr. Anderson’s good looks were on par with Rhoda’s, which intimidated her to no end.

She’d gotten in one peek at his jawline before turning to pudding in his relentless grip.

Then he’d called her a thief, and she’d been so dumbfounded she couldn’t form a rational response.

The fact that her friends had lambasted him filled her with an equal dose of pride and shame.

She had friends who came to her defense…

but they wouldn’t need to if she had more courage.

Mustering a smile, she said, “I’m a little tired from performing, but you two should go ahead.”

Winnie looked like she wanted to object, but all she said was, “Sit, have a restorative drink, and then come find us.”

“We have to hunt down Clem anyway,” Rhoda added, peering through the crowd. “She’s spent the evening charming pledges of support from anyone who will listen.”

Winnie snorted. “Clem would rather be hogtied than give up the scent of a high-paying patron.”

Rhoda’s winged eyebrows drew together. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Quickly, now,” Olive interrupted. “Isn’t that her heading toward the coat room?”

“Go, go, go!” Rhoda hustled away, Winnie on her heels.

Olive let out a relieved sigh. She adored her friends, but all she wanted was a quiet moment alone before thanking her host and departing for the evening.

She took a glass of tepid apple cider from a refreshment table and found an unoccupied chair in the corner of the room where, hopefully, no one would approach her.

Sipping the cider, she listened to the swish of silk and taffeta.

The tinkling glassware and raucous laughter.

A few discordant keys before the would-be pianist was dissuaded from playing more.

She’d always found comfort in this simple pastime—observing, listening, drifting among the layers of sound and texture others ignored.

But now, an ache stirred beneath her breast, something raw and unfamiliar, a discord between herself and the life she knew.

To her surprise, she found herself wondering what it would be like to join in the revelry, to be swept up in the pulse of joy others grasped so easily.

The notion was ridiculous; the limelight always proved unpredictable and precarious.

A sudden lull swept through the salon. She glanced up, and her hands tightened around her cup—Mr. Anderson had entered the room.

She could still feel his firm hand on her elbow, his animal heat permeating her sleeve as he held her immobile.

The rumble of his deep voice still echoed in her ear, and his scent, a combination of crisp aftershave and vanilla whiskey, still clung to her nose.

He strolled through the salon as if he owned it, his perfect dark locks gleaming beneath the chandelier.

His presence was noted with varying degrees of admiration and covetousness.

A few brave souls hailed him, but he didn’t pause, merely gifted them a polite nod or a bright, phony smile that inexplicably worked wonders.

His gaze roved the clusters of women, and she had the unsettling sensation he was searching for someone in particular.

God forbid it be her.

She set her cup down on the empty chair beside her, already scouting the salon for the best route of escape.

Couldn’t go back to the ballroom—that path was a quagmire full of well-meaning Society matrons who would never let her pass unnoticed.

She glanced the other way. Perhaps the back exit?

The path was clear, but who knew what lay on the other side?

It was a risk she’d have to take. She rose, ducked her chin, and scurried out.

An empty corridor greeted her. She rushed toward the doorway at the far end, the thick, ruby red carpet muffling her footsteps.

But as soon as she’d breached the doorway, she was halted by a blast of cool wind and an impatient guest shouting at a bellhop.

Oh no. She’d found the hotel’s busy entrance foyer.

What if she ran into an acquaintance, or worse, someone she worked for?

She had no coat. No chaperone. The risk was too great.

Biting her lip, she backtracked. There—two doors!

How had she missed them? Shaking her head, she tugged at the first door handle.

It was locked. Spinning around with mounting panic, she tried the second.

It opened, and she peeked inside. It was dark, quiet, and empty.

With a sigh of relief, she slipped into the room, shut the door, and shoved the lock into place.

Safe at last.

Resting her forehead against the white panel door, she drew deep breaths.

When her heart stopped racing, she lifted her head and squinted around the darkened room.

There was just enough corridor light seeping through the door cracks to make out a small table and candelabra.

Gingerly, she felt around the table until she located a matchbook.

The pungent smell of sulfur was welcome; the light even more so.

She seemed to have stumbled upon a service area the size of a large pantry.

Narrow worktables lined the walls, neatly stacked with fresh linens, polished silverware, and gleaming wine glasses.

Nothing out of the ordinary…except for the faint but pleasant aroma drifting from the dumbwaiter on the far wall.