Page 8 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

She took a step forward, then halted. Was it wise to poke her nose into something she shouldn’t?

The risk was low—she’d locked the door herself.

Temptation tugged at her, the rich scent behind the panel mingling with the knowledge that no one would know.

She hesitated, the sensible part of her whispering to leave well enough alone.

But for once, her curiosity was stronger than caution.

She lit the remaining candles, then tugged open the dumbwaiter door with a quiet thrill.

Inside, the cabin hung suspended between floors, frozen in place by a damaged guide rail.

Three gleaming silver trays sat on shelves, their surfaces still warm and laden with dishes.

She could imagine the bustling kitchen below, unaware that their trays had never left the shaft.

With cautious fingers, she peeked inside each dish.

The top tray held an array of delicate puff pastries, each golden and perfectly crisp.

The second tray showcased a spread of roasted vegetables, their earthy aroma mouthwatering.

But the third tray was what set Olive’s stomach growling.

A roasted ham, its skin perfectly crisped and glazed, sat in a pool of juices as though it had only just been carved.

Her stomach let out a plaintive growl. She could only imagine how delicious and nourishing the ham was.

How perfectly it would improve her mother’s watery stew.

How her little brother needed meat to grow big and strong.

How, if the Beckets didn’t buy meat scraps this week, there would be extra coins for coal on the coldest nights.

Her hand was already removing a handkerchief from her pocket before she realized what she was doing.

She scooped up several slices of meat and wrapped them with a swift efficiency that left her breathless.

For the first time in her life, she was truly a thief.

She blinked back furious tears, the once-safe room now as small and tight as a mousetrap.

She spun around, then grunted in pain as her hip collided with the worktable.

She watched, agog, as a box of silver serving cutlery teetered, then crashed to the floor.

Ladles, tongs, and sugar spoons clattered across the floorboards like fledgling ice-skaters, colliding and careening out of control.

She cringed, certain someone would pound on the door and demand an explanation. But nothing happened.

“Quickly, Olive,” she whispered. “Fix this and go home.”

Tossing the handkerchief full of ham on the countertop, she knelt on the floor and scooped up the fallen silver.

She was on the verge of standing when she spotted an ornate cake server and serving spoon wedged in the slim gap between the wall and the worktable.

For half a second, she debated leaving them behind, but she hated to think someone else might be blamed for her mistake.

With a grumble, she crawled under the worktable and freed the errant pieces.

Shuffling backward with her hands full, though, proved difficult.

Her knees tangled in her skirts, and the crown of her head scraped painfully against the underside of the table.

She paused to think, then slid the spoon into one sleeve and the cake server up the other.

She had just crawled out when the door—the locked door, for pity’s sake—opened with an accusatory creak.

“What are you doing?”

No.

Not that voice.

Not the voice that made her toes curl and her breath catch.

Olive shot to her feet. Her coiffure, which had barely survived its recent smushing, chose that moment to droop over her forehead and obscure her vision.

She reached for it, then gaped in horror as the silver cake server launched from her sleeve.

It bounced twice on the hardwood floor and landed at Emil Anderson’s feet.

They both stared at it.

“You certainly have everyone fooled,” he finally said. “I cannot decide if I’m impressed or disappointed.”

A flurry of her usual foolproof escape plans came to mind, only to be rejected just as quickly.

There were no street wares to feign interest in, no urgent appointments to be suddenly remembered.

In this small space—somehow shrinking with every second—it wasn’t possible to fade into the wallpaper or shrubbery.

Even her boldest tactics, launching onto a streetcar as it pulled away from the curb, or claiming not to speak English, were moot.

As if any of those strategies could have prepared her to stand before the imposing, divine man blocking her exit with a silver spoon tucked in her glove.

This was it; she was doomed.

Even if Emil Anderson took pity on her and didn’t drag her to the nearest police station, he would tell her friends what she’d done.

He wouldn’t hesitate, not after they’d censured him for daring to call her a thief.

His proof currently rested against the toe box of his boot, for pity’s sake.

She’d have to admit to stealing meat like some sad little street urchin, and then it would be impossible for her to show her face at the suffrage meetings again.

Because once they knew her shame, things would never be the same.

They’d recall how she never turned down an invitation for dinner.

How she always took two of the proffered refreshments, sometimes three.

The looks of pity would come. Perhaps even disgust. Even she knew that no suffrage society had room for an ill-fed, over-worked, cowardly girl who was a thief.

They would oust her from their group, once and for all.

The possibility made her stomach roll, but with it came a spark of indignation.

This was all Mr. Anderson’s fault. If it weren’t for him, her standing at the Society wouldn’t even be in question.

And why was he picking on her anyway? Weren’t there worse villains at the party to harass?

If only she had one iota of Winnie’s bravery, Rhoda’s boldness, or Clem’s cleverness, she’d tell him herself!

“I…”

Mr. Anderson sighed under his breath, the long-suffering sigh of a man who was bored by the incompetence before him. A fragile, strange defiance unfurled within her. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from his polished boots, observing him fully for the first time.

He didn’t simply stand; he inhabited space, the paragon of unflappable charm and self-assurance. His posture was relaxed, so confident was he that she posed no threat to him. He radiated vitality, that particular, almost dangerous energy that was so unsettling.

There was no other option but to unsettle him in return. Turn the tables, play on his reputation as an irresistible Casanova…and hope she came out unscathed. Staring steadily at his necktie, she strived to keep her voice steady.

“I’m flattered, but I am not interested in anything beyond friendship."

He made a noise like a bull snuffing at the wind. “Excuse me?”

“I already have a beau,” she continued faintly. “His name is Simon and he plays the cello.”

“What in the blazes are you blathering about?”

The harsh words should have rattled her composure—far less achieved it daily—but they were delivered with such bafflement that it had the opposite effect. She raised her gaze to his chin.

“It is you who should explain yourself.”

His arms crossed his broad chest, and she could tell by the slight tilt of his chin that he was studying her intently.

“All right.” He spoke briskly. “I entered the retiring salon, and you took one look at me and fled. I followed as soon as I could—”

It must be so difficult to have hordes of admirers.

“—and I find you here, stuffing silver in your gown like a squirrel preparing for a long winter.”

A hysterical giggle rose in her throat at the image, but she swallowed it down and shook her head.

“No? Then please, explain.”

“I was tired after performing and needed a moment to recover.” She paused and sagged her shoulders a bit; if he were human, he might feel a morsel of guilt.

“I heard a rattle at the door. Who knows what sort of l-l-libertine—” The word alone brought immense heat to her cheeks.

“—wanders hotel corridors. I feared for my virtue. I had no idea it was you, but the cake server was in case you wouldn’t take no for an answer. ”

There was a brief silence. “You meant to skewer me with a cake server?”

“It was the sharpest tool around.”

Who was she? She never strung so many sentences together the first time she met anyone, let alone a devastatingly handsome man. Seemed impending doom had its merits, after all.

“That was pure poppycock,” he declared, but Olive was shocked when his lips quirked upward. “And thoroughly entertaining. I confess, I didn’t expect that either.”

Oh no, had she intrigued him?

“I really must be going.” She tried to scoot around him, but he stayed her with his hand.

“In a moment. But first, tell me how you learned the suffrage anthem.”

She went rigid. “Wh-what?”

“The one you played a few moments ago. What can you tell me about it?”

“I didn’t choose to play it,” she said quickly. “It was an audience request.”

“Who wrote it?”

“It was published anonymously.”

The last word had just left her lips when there was a muffled thud against the door, followed by an uneven clatter of heels and laughter. Olive froze. If the door opened and she was found in the pantry with Mr. Anderson, she’d have a third type of disaster on her hands: social ruin.

“Where did you—“

She threw herself across the thin divide and clamped her hand over Mr. Anderson’s mouth.

The response was instinctual, driven more by the desperate need to prevent catastrophe than good judgment.

She realized her mistake when his lips, warm and slightly damp, pressed against her bare palm, his hot breath heating her skin.

Then she met his gaze for the very first time, and the world outside the pantry vanished.

It wasn’t the color that stole her breath, though his blue irises were the unfathomable shade of the ocean at sunset.

It was the way they locked onto hers with a bold perceptiveness that made everything else—her panic, the whispers outside—utterly insignificant.

He stilled beneath her hand, and if she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn he held his breath the same as she.

But that didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t the kind of woman who left a man breathless.

They stood like that until the voices moved farther down the hall and disappeared altogether.

“I think it’s safe,” she whispered, drawing her hand away from his lips. She tried to back up, but the pin on her bodice had become entangled in his coat pocket.

Not just any pin; her suffrage pin.

She gasped with dismay. How could she be so foolish as to endanger the movement with her actions? If she had been caught, it would not only be her reputation on the line, but that of all the suffragists.

“I must leave, or you must,” she said, her words rambling. “One of us must leave before we’re caught.”

“Slow down.” The hoarse voice interrupted her tugging, and his fingers rose to work the fastening with calm finesse. “It’s hardly the worst thing to be found together. Plenty of women would love to—”

“I am not other women!”

He snorted. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she gripped his hand as tightly as she did her little brother’s when he tried to cross a busy avenue without her.

“Listen to me, sir. I have a job. A family that depends on me. And everyone here knows I am a member of the Seattle Suffrage Society. You might escape unscathed, but wagging tongues will use my actions against the movement. They’ll say only loose women want to vote, and it’ll be all my fault.

” She released his hand, yanked at the pin until it released with the faint pop of ripping stitches, and clenched it in her fist. “If you wish to report me to Mr. Donnelly, I won’t stop you.

But I refuse to be the reason the suffragists are maligned. So please, please, go.”

Mr. Anderson’s brows were in his hairline, but he recovered quickly. “Give me one piece of information, and our business will be concluded.”

“What information could I possibly give you?”

“I’m told you were among the first musicians to play the anthem publicly. Where did you get the music?”

Drat. After everything that had transpired, the man was still on about the music. Her mind raced, and this time, she found a suitable ploy.

“Deep in the bowels of Chase General Music Store. That’s where all the independent songsters are hidden.”

A satisfied smirk played at his lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now stand back, and I’ll make sure the corridor is clear.”

She moved as far as she could and watched nervously as he opened the door an inch and peered outside. A moment later, he announced, “No one is around. Goodbye, little thief.”

And with a cocky salute, he was gone.

Olive sagged against the cupboard, her heart pounding wildly. She’d come this close to losing everything. But she’d been given another chance. One she didn’t mean to squander on ill-advised boldness. From now on, she would keep her head down, do her job well, and stay far away from Emil Anderson.

Her gaze fell on the handkerchief, ignored in all the hubbub. She snatched it up and stuck it in her pocket.

“You better be the best meat I’ve ever eaten.”