Isobel led the way to the Falcon’s Clubhouse, and frowned at the light behind the curtains. She hadn’t counted on anyone being inside. With a muttered curse, she dismounted, tied a mooring hitch to the rail, and knocked on the door. Footsteps approached, and a head peeked out through the curtains. It was Margaret. Thrilled, Isobel waved, but there was puzzlement in her friend’s eyes. A second later, Isobel remembered that she had changed into the guise of Mr. Morgan when they’d discovered the children missing.
“It’s Charlie,” she mouthed, removing her cap. Margaret’s eyes widened, and she disappeared. The locks slid to the side, and the door opened.
“Thank God it’s you,” Isobel said, hugging the woman.
“Why are you dressed—” Margaret stopped as Riot and Sarah approached. He had bundled her in his overcoat.
“Madame.” Riot removed his hat with a flourish. “I’m Atticus Riot, and this is Sarah Byrne.” His voice purred in the night, as warm and smooth as whiskey. Margaret stammered out her name, realized she was in her nightgown, and quickly closed the collar of her robe.
“A pleasure, sir,” she said. “Has something happened?”
“Some children are in danger,” Isobel said. “I need you to watch this girl. If we’re not back by morning, take her to Ravenwood estate in Pacific Heights.”
“Yes, of course I’ll watch her, Charlie. But why did you cut your hair, and why are you dressed as a man?”
“There’s no time to explain.”
The light from the horse car shone on Isobel’s face for the first time, and Sarah got a clear look at her. “Mr. Am—” Isobel clamped a hand over Sarah’s mouth before she uttered the dreaded word ‘Amsel’, and shoved her towards Margaret. “It’s Miss Bonnie.” She grabbed the door handle, and shut it firmly on two very confused faces.
“Thank God you don’t have a twin, Riot,” she growled, as they skirted the clubhouse towards the dunes.
“Are you positive I don’t?”
“Ari would be delighted,” she said.
Together, they circled the brick house, surveying the property and getting a feel for the land. They stopped on the carriage house side, and lay on a dune, peeking over the crest.
“What’s a hospital?”
She felt his quiet anger. “When a slave girl falls ill, usually from a venereal disease, they’re placed in an airless shed with a single pot of paraffin and a bowl of rice—sometimes laced with poison. A ‘doctor’ goes to check on them in three days, and if they aren’t dead, then he makes sure they are.”
Isobel glared at the brick building, and itched to tear the place down. “We could start a fire, and see who comes out.”
“We could,” Riot said. There was a lot that he left unsaid in those two words. He drew his No. 3 and checked the chambers.
“You’re right. Fire is always risky,” she conceded.
Isobel recalled Lotario’s terror and her mother’s cold calm as she’d ripped curtains off rods to beat at the flames. Isobel had learned about the dangers of starting fires at an early age. She changed her plan. “You can sneak in through the back door, and I’ll take the high road.”
“I intend to knock on the front door,” he drawled.
“Knock?”
“Too civil for you?”
“Well, it’s awfully boring, Riot.”
“I doubt this will be.”
The door opened, and Atticus Riot helped it along with a sound kick. It caught the man behind the door in the nose. Taking advantage of his surprise, Riot grabbed the doorman’s collar, and yanked him forward, sending him sprawling down the front steps.
With an open invitation, Riot walked inside, shut the door, and slid the bolt in place, turning to survey grandeur. The front hall cried out wealth: colored glass, twining metal, the finest marble, and a pair of Herculean sconces of brass men holding giant orbs over their heads. They looked like gargoyles on the wall.
A wide stairway led straight ahead, and two rooms branched off from the main hall. The room to the left appeared to be a viewing room, with a long ornate couch for the line up, and several screens.
Riot swept off his hat, hung it on a hook, and with a twirl of his stick walked into the room on the right—a sitting room. An older gentleman snored in an armchair by the fireplace. Riot made himself comfortable. He turned an armchair to face the front hall, set down his stick, and poured himself a whiskey.
The first furious knock from the doorman thundered through the building, and the gentleman in the armchair snorted awake. He was past graying and near to white, and appeared to enjoy his food more than exertion.
“A drink, sir?” Riot asked.
“Yes, I think I will. A whiskey, if you please.” The man had a slow drawl to his voice, thick and lazy, with barely a movement of his lips.
As the volley of knocks became increasingly desperate, he poured the gentleman his drink. Riot set the shot glass on the table beside the man, unbuttoned his own coat, and sat in the chair with a view.
A moment later, a trio of fit men tripped down the stairs in various states of undress. A brawny fellow, hairy as a bear, had barely managed to pull on the bottom half of his union suit.
“Why the blazes is Jon outside?” This from a shirtless man who had a distinct British drawl. Riot placed him from Oxford. But his attention was focused on Parker Gray, who glanced in the room as he rushed past. In a club like this, the fine clothing Riot was wearing tended to blend with the scenery.
Riot took a sip of his whiskey as they opened the door. A string of Cantonese cuss words flew into the front hall.
“What the hell happened?” the furry man asked.
“Din Gau is here,” the Chinese doorman spat.
The older gentleman in the chair chuckled from his belly, raised his glass to Riot, and took a sip. The front hall fell silent.
Parker Gray stalked into the sitting room with his toughs on his heels. He had managed to get on trousers and suspenders, and nothing else. The customary cigar in his hand had been replaced by a Colt Peacemaker. There was murder in his eyes. But Riot had already drawn his No. 3. He held it casually, aimed at Gray’s chest.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Riot said.
“There’s four of us,” Gray said.
“I agree; you’ll need more men.” Riot took another sip of his whiskey, watching the four men over the glass. He knew what they were thinking—he could see it in their eyes. They knew his reputation, and they were wondering how much of it was true.
The older gentleman shifted in his armchair, sitting upright and straightening his waistcoat. “Gray, why don’t you be civil? You’d already be dead if Mr. Riot had that in mind.”
Riot glanced at the man. He had mistaken wealth and age for passivity, and underestimated the snoring gentleman. This man was not Gray’s equal—he was his superior.
“He hit me and threw me out the door,” Jon said.
“By my reckoning, you hit your own goddamned door, and tripped down the stairs,” the older man said with a chuckle.
Jon fumed, but Gray lowered his gun, and then thrust it through his waistband.
The old man took a sip of his whiskey. “Could I get a cigar, Mr. Jon?”
Gathering himself with all the grace of an English butler, Jon moved to the cupboard and produced a cigar box. The older gentleman took one, clipped the end, and lit it, sucking on the fine cigar while Jon offered one to each of the other men. Riot declined, and holstered his gun.
“Well, this has been most amusing,” the older gentleman said, rising to his feet. “I’ll leave you to clean up your mess, Gray.” He inclined his head to Riot. “Most amusing.”
“And your name, sir?” Riot asked.
“I think not,” he said with an avuncular wink. The older man left, still chuckling, a sound that made Riot more uneasy than the man with a gun.
“What do you want?” Gray demanded.
“I want to have a civil conversation with you, but your leering frien
ds there are ruining the atmosphere.”
Gray jerked his head, and the two men left. He stuck his unlit cigar between his lips, and sat in the vacated chair. Jon remained, standing off to the side, hands folded behind his back.
Riot waited for Gray to light his cigar. When a billow of smoke rose over his head, Gray sat back, and put an ankle on the opposite knee. Men who sat like that generally wanted the world to know that they were in charge—it always reminded Riot of a rooster puffing its feathers.
“Now that we’re settled, why did you barge into my club?” Gray asked.
“I did ask politely a few days ago.”
“Like I said, this club is by invitation only.” Gray looked him up and down. “I don’t take you for a stupid man, Mr. Riot. I’m sure you’ve worked out that this is a sporting house. Are you that hard up for a woman on the dunes that you practically kicked in my door?”
“I’ve never had to pay a woman for the pleasure of her company.”
Gray showed his teeth. “You must be real desperate then.”
“Real men don’t buy women.”
“Are you going to thump your bible at me?”
“No,” Riot said. “Lead is my preferred method of delivery.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Only information.”
“The only information I want is the answer to why you’re here.”
“I think you know,” Riot said.
Gray sucked on his cigar, and blew out a ring of smoke in short puffs. “This is about that agent of yours, isn’t it?”
Riot inclined his head.
“As soon as I found out she was a woman, I treated her real civil-like,” said Gray. “And out of respect for you, I released her. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that.”
“I am appreciative.”
Gray eyed him, waiting for the next move, but Riot didn’t make one. He didn’t answer the question in Gray’s eyes: Then why are you here? Riot’s silence was thoroughly frustrating the man.
“The man who roughed her up wasn’t one of mine,” Gray said.
“I already know that.” He let Gray shift for a minute, and then he spoke into that silence. “This clubhouse is in the business of selling flesh. It’s a middleman for wealthy members who don’t want to soil their shoes by setting foot in a known brothel. And you simply cater to their whims—whatever those might be.”
Gray paused, the smoke around his face moving fitfully. “It is,” he confirmed.
“Your members value discretion,” Riot continued. “I can understand that—you don’t want to draw attention to your club here.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’ll be eager to help me with my search.”
“What search is that?” Gray asked.
“There were two girls in your clubhouse. Both Chinese. There was a girl named Mei, and a younger one who was recently taken away in the back of a wagon.”
Ash gathered on the end of Gray’s cigar. He seemed to have forgotten about it. Riot leaned forward. “Tell me where they are, Mr. Gray, and I’ll leave you to your business.”
Gray smashed his cigar in the ashtray, and left it there. “We don’t own any girls, Mr. Riot. As soon as the girl climbed in the window we left open, I had her returned to her kin. I don’t know where they took her.”
“You’re forgetting that I’m not stupid,” Riot said. “She left in your wagon, which was driven by your driver, with orders from you to throw the ‘little shit’ in a hospital.”
Gray’s eyes blazed.
“Reach for that gun. I beg you,” Riot said with a click of teeth.
Gray didn’t move.
“Trust me, Mr. Gray. You don’t want this dog sniffing around your tree. You know it as well as I—you knew it that day you interrogated my agent. And you know it now. Where did your men take those girls?”
“We’re middlemen,” Gray said. “Protection goes both ways.”
“I only want the girls.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Riot smiled like a wolf. “You think I care?”
Gray only smirked, reaching for his smoldering cigar, grounding it further into the ashtray. “I think you care about that agent of yours.”
“I care about each and every one of my agents. And I care about those girls.”
“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Riot, but life can be dangerous.”
“The Hip Yee tong discovered that, too.”
Gray’s eyes twitched, and his hand stilled.
“Reach for it,” Riot urged.
A full minute passed with only the tick of a clock to keep them company. The odds flashed through Gray’s eyes—the risk, the glory, and then the realization that he’d be dead at the first twitch of movement.
Riot took a risk. “I’m not the only one in a precarious situation, Mr. Gray. You answer to the same men you brandished at me. It’s plain to see you fear them. The gentleman who was sitting in that chair of yours will be watching to see how you handle this situation. Will you handle it quietly, or draw attention to your members? You know my reputation—I have a long history of shedding light on very dark places.”
“They took the girls to the Dog Kennel. Bartlett Alley. There’s an iron door in a courtyard behind the mill.”
The British fellow walked slowly into view, his hands raised. The reason for his cautionary entrance became apparent a moment later. A gun was pressed to his back. Isobel stepped into the room, gaze darting from Gray to Riot.
“Everything all right, Riot?”
“We were just finishing up our conversation.” He stood smoothly, and plucked Gray’s gun from his belt. He emptied the cartridges, pocketed them, and placed the gun on the table.
“Civility seems to have escaped your agent,” Gray said.
“I’m far from civil,” Isobel said. “But then neither were your hoodlums in the basement.”
“They were only guests, Miss Morgan.”
Isobel tipped her cap.
Gray looked her up and down. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other day—you have a fine pair of breasts.”
Riot’s grip tightened on his stick, but the comment was intended to goad. He swallowed down his reaction, and let the words slide over him. But Isobel didn’t let it slide.
“Why, thank you,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
Riot glanced at the woman. Rare, unique, and contrary in every way.
“By the way, they’re not here. I mean my breasts are,” she corrected. “But not the girls.”
The Englishman with a gun pressed against his back chuckled, and Riot nearly laughed. He dared not meet her eye. “We’ll take our leave then. Mr. Gray, pray we don’t cross paths again.”
“You should be the one praying on your knees.”
Riot clucked his tongue. “Now, now, never provoke a rabid dog. Your superior wouldn’t be pleased.”
Gray had no more words for him, and Isobel and Riot took their leave. As they walked down the front steps, Isobel had her gun aimed on the front door. It wasn’t until they’d retrieved their horses at the Falcon’s Clubhouse that Riot breathed easy.
“Did you discover anything more?” Riot asked, as they rode towards Chinatown.
Isobel snorted. “Only the wide and varied fetishes of so-called gentlemen.”
“Were there any underage girls or boys?”
“No—not tonight. Not obvious, at any rate.” While he had been away, the age of consent had been raised from fourteen to sixteen. Small victories at least. “Still, I wish I could scrub out the inside of my skull after looking through some of those peepholes. I think I’ve been away from the Barbary Coast for too long.”
“Odd that they’d have peepholes in a place that boasts discretion,” he mused.
“Maybe there’s blackmail involved. They were fairly well concealed.”
“Apparently not well enough.”
“I have a knack.” She hesitated a moment. “You, erm… don’
t have any odd appetites, do you?”
“I do have one.”
She arched a brow in question.
“Recently discovered.” Riot nudged his horse into a run, and tossed the words over his shoulder. “A taste for a certain woman dressed as a man.”
Isobel laughed, and urged her horse after him.
47
Willing Bait
Tobias White clung to the back of the wagon as it bumped over the road. Keeping an eye on the driver, he tugged at the corner rope of the tarp, and when it flapped free, he crawled inside the bed.
“Jin?” he whispered in the blackness. His fingers brushed the coarse sack, and prodded it until it moved. “Jin?”
A foot kicked his hand. And he quickly went to the other end, tugging off the sack that was over her head. She had a rag stuffed in her mouth, and he pulled that out, too.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”
“No, you will not,” she hissed.
Tobias thought he must have heard her wrong. He started working on the knots.
“Stop it.” She bumped him away with her shoulder. “I let them capture me.”
“Why would you do something stupid like that?”
“I need to find Mei,” she whispered. “They will take me to her now.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“If not, I will escape.” Even laying down in the darkness, Tobias could well imagine that stubborn tilt of her chin.
“How are you going to escape?” he asked.
“I could have gotten out of these ropes at any time.”
“Could not.”
“Could too.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you here,” Tobias huffed.
“Wait.”
He hesitated. “What?”
“You might as well loosen them for me.”
Tobias grumbled, but did as she asked. “You’re crazy.”
He saw a flash of teeth. “No. I am cunning.”
“Starts with the same letter. Close enough.”
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