A gentleman in front of her shifted, blocking her view of the fight. She nudged him aside with a flick of her fan.
"Sorry, Miss." The gentleman blushed, and ducked his head.
It wasn't the blood sport that captivated her, but rather the audience. The fevered hunger, the lust, and… the hope in the audience's eyes as two men beat each other senseless. She knew Riot fenced and boxed, and while it was clear that fencing had honed his physique (exceedingly well), she had trouble imagining him in a boxing ring surrounded by bloodthirsty men. That might have something to do with recent events—a giant highbinder had beaten him senseless. It was hardly a moment on which she cared to dwell.
The two prize-fighters stumbled towards each other. A big fellow called the Beast threw a wild swing. His opponent Jack 'Nimble' lived up to his name and ducked backwards, but lost balance and fell into the sand.
Isobel held her breath. Be it god or goddess, or the pantheon of all mythos, she prayed to them all that Nimble would stay down. He did not.
Cheers announced round thirty-one.
As the two men staggered around in the sand, she watched the crowd, searching for familiar faces. There were far too many for comfort. She recognized some as associates from her days as Alex Kingston's 'adoring society wife.' But then everyone in San Franciscan society tended to know each other. It was a small world of snobbery and smoldering feuds.
She glimpsed Parker Gray in the crowd, his head bent towards the Beast's manager. Square and chiseled, Gray wore a gun on his hip, and had a cigar in his hand. Contrary to appearances, the man wasn't dense, and she made sure to keep her hat tilted just so. Although he had seen her only in male clothing, she had no desire to test his powers of perception. Her arms were still sore from spending a day hog-tied in his cellar.
But his presence there meant nothing. Every gentleman within ten miles of San Francisco appeared to be present. She half-expected to see Lotario with some of his sporting friends. She glanced towards a raised platform where a group of men and women watched from a more civilized vantage point—away from the blood and sweat.
Frustrated that her despicable husband wasn't rubbing shoulders with the man who'd abducted her, she contented herself with looking for his associates on the platform. Her eyes narrowed on one particular gentleman. White-haired and round, he sat on a chair, much amused by the prize-fighters. Where had she seen him before?
The crowd erupted yet again. This time the Beast staggered back into the ring of men. The crowd pushed him into the fight, and he ran straight into another fist. The Beast dropped to his knees.
Isobel held her breath along with everyone else, but not for the same reasons. The Beast pushed himself back up. Round thirty-two. Shouts were thrown into the air, bets increased, and money changed hands.
Prize Fight of the Year! Mack McCormick had already had the typesetter prepare the heading for the article. His prediction was proving true. He stood beside her, scribbling in his notebook, blow by blow, all in gory detail. His notebook was nearing its end; she'd let him worry about that.
Isobel looked back to the gentleman on the platform, and like the sun piercing the fog it came to her. A pang stabbed her heart. He had been an associate of Curtis Amsel, her brother, whom she had killed.
The Beast collided with the ring of men, and the gentleman in front of her took a hasty step back. It knocked her thoughts from the regrettable past. Two men in front of her shoved the Beast back into the ring.
A right jab, a duck, and an unexpected left. Nimble's knuckles connected with the Beast's jaw. Blood and spit misted the crowd, and a single bloody tooth flew through the shower of pain. It hit her on the arm. The tooth fell along with its previous owner. He did not rise again.
Men roared, arms were thrown in victory, and the resulting surge of exultation and despair shook her bones.
At last, she thought.
"You're not gonna swoon on me, are you?" Mack yelled in her ear. Big and gruff, he emphasized his Scottish accent to near comical effect.
Isobel plucked the tooth from the ground, and studied it. Bloody tissue still clung to its shattered root. "Why do men always assume a woman will faint at the sight of blood?"
"It's the assault on your gentler sensibilities."
"Our 'gentler sensibilities' are assaulted monthly." Most women, she silently corrected. She was rarely plagued by that particular occurrence.
Mack blanched.
"Now that the show is over, who's our man?" she asked.
Mack drew her away from the makeshift ring. Men leered knowingly at her as she navigated the crowd, and yet another man leaned in close to whisper a proposition. At least this latest offer was imaginative.
Mack scowled at the gentleman in a cravat. Pleased that her disguise was giving off the correct impression, Isobel winked and slipped a fake calling card into the hopeful man's pocket.
"I don't know why you had to wear that get-up," Mack growled in her ear.
Isobel wore bright lip paint, shiny jewels, and silk trimmed with an obscene amount of lace. "I thought it fitting. Prostitution and boxing are practically one and the same. Both ruin one body for the pleasure of another."
"They are not the same."
"You're right. What was I thinking?" She fluttered her eyelashes. "Really, Mack, I simply thought you'd like it," she lied. High society gentlemen would hardly expect to find Alex Kingston's dead wife dressed as a prostitute.
"If I'd wanted a soiled dove, I woulda bought one. That's a lot less hassle."
"I'm hardly soiled. And I prefer 'adventuress'."
Mack grumbled. "Our man is that little fellow over there."
She followed the thumb he thrust to the right. The 'little fellow' was as slick as they came. He was looking pleased with himself as a line of despondent men tossed lost wagers into his bowler.
"What's his name?" Isobel asked.
"One second."
"One Second," Isobel mused. "I wonder where he got that nickname?"
Mack huffed at her. "You got the mind of an adventuress, that's for sure." He turned to a wiry boy, and dropped a coin into his hand. "Run this to the Call straight away. There'll be double that if we're the first on the press." The boy darted off as quickly as he'd appeared.
Mack turned back to her. "His name is Fredrick Ashworth."
"That's high-sounding."
"British." There was little love in that word. Clearly Mack McCormick was still smarting over the English invasion seven hundred years before. "According to my source he was talking with Andrew Ross the day he went missing."
Andrew Ross—the corpse she had shared a cellar with for a cold day. He'd been an associate of Parker Gray, and his life had ended with a hatchet in his skull. While Isobel and Riot had caught (and released) Ross's killer, questions remained, the foremost being: Why did Andrew Ross have calling cards in his pocket that didn't match his name? That unanswered question pricked her instincts. But this investigation was tediously slow. Lincoln Howe had been the name on the calling cards. They had no idea if the name was real or fictitious.
How did one go about investigating an unknown man whose very name would alert a group of criminals?
"But like I told you earlier, Andrew Ross was a regular at prize fights. What makes you want to talk with this fella?"
"Because I'd wager our man Fredrick wasn't seen talking to Andrew Ross at a prize fight." Isobel patted Mack's thick forearm, and nudged him towards Frederick Ashworth.
When they neared, she gave Frederick a lavish smile. "It appears you have an eye for flesh." The hat full of money was proof enough.
Frederick Ashworth used those eyes to appraise her from crown to toe, and back up again, before his gaze settled on her décolletage. It was amazing what a bodice and stuffing could do for her boyish physique. She had learned the trick from her twin brother.
Frederick offered her a smile as slick as his hair. "That I do. An eye for flesh, that is." His eyes found her own at last, and he took his time tuc
king away his winnings from the fight. He placed a bowler on his head, so he could remove it with a bow and kiss her hand. It was a noisy mess. Exactly as she had expected. Men were such predictable creatures. Almost all, she corrected—all save one.
Frederick introduced himself, and she gave him a pretty smile. "Violet Smith."
"My friends call me Freddy," he said, straightening. The nickname sent her heart racing. Her suspicion had been confirmed.
This time Frederick's eyes flickered to the side, and kept traveling upwards. Isobel cursed under her breath. She could feel Mack looming like a protective bear. And then he made things worse.
"I hear you were a friend of Andrew Ross," he growled. Blunt as ever. It was generally her place to be blunt, and she wondered if Riot felt the same flash of annoyance with her as she did with Mack.
Frederick's eyes rolled side to side, and he tensed. But before he could bolt, Isobel untangled her arm from Mack's and slipped it through the arm of her new gold mine. It was more the strength in her arm than her batting eyelashes that kept him in place. "Mack promised me some fun," she said with pouting lips. "But his eye is horrid for prize-fighters. Is Ross another one of your 'sure bets,' Mack?"
"Huh?"
She arched a brow at the Scotsman.
"Erm, no," he said slowly. It sounded like a question. "Ross died last week. Freddy here was his friend."
"I'm so sorry to hear," Isobel said to Frederick. "Is there anything I can do to lift your grief?"
Frederick looked from Isobel to Mack, and politely tried to retract his arm, but found it in an iron grip. If only he'd known of the callouses under her lacy gloves. "We weren't friends," he hastened. "I just saw him around once in a while."
"I heard you were the last to talk to him," Mack pressed.
"What of it?" Frederick's nervousness was noteworthy. Every instinct in her body was quivering like a hound on the hunt.
"I'm doing a story on his murder."
"Andrew was robbed in some back alley," Fredrick said. "What's there to say about it?"
"I think he mighta killed himself," Mack said. He paused to show his teeth at Isobel. 'Aren't I clever', that smile said. She sighed.
"You know, The Last Moments of a Pugilist's Life, and all that. Makes for good press."
Frederick cocked his head. "We talked horses. And prize fights. Look, why don't you ask his best mate William Punt." Frederick thrust his finger towards a thin gentleman in a top hat.
Isobel glanced that way. There was something familiar about the man. His eyes met hers, and he tipped his hat. It was that gesture, and his ears that sparked memory. Ears were as unique as a fingerprint. The first and last time she had seen the man in the top hat, he'd been in a union suit and she'd had a gun to his back. He was one of Parker Gray's lackeys—a man from the brick building in Ocean Beach.
Had he recognized her? She had been wearing male clothing at the time. Both times—if he had been present in the cellar. She batted her eyelashes, and turned back to Frederick. Her heart was racing for an entirely different reason now.
Mack blew a breath past his mustache. "I'll talk to him. Come on, darling."
"You invited me for a day of entertainment, Mack. Not work." She ran her fingers along Frederick's arm. "I'd wager Mr. Ashworth knows how to show a girl around the city."
Frederick grinned. "That I do, Miss Smith."
She leaned close, pressing her breast against his arm to whisper in his ear. "He's as broke as a barfly, too."
Frederick laughed. "I'll buy you a drink, or five."
Mack stood in place, as dense as a statue.
"Oh, go on, Mack. You know where to find me."
"I do?"
She untangled herself from Frederick, and tucked one of her fake calling cards into Mack's coat pocket.
"Why are you going with him?" His whisper needed work.
"Freddy isn't here on business. No hard feelings." She stood on her tippy toes and kissed Mack's cheek, and in a low voice said urgently, "Take care with Punt. He's the dangerous sort we talked about."
The light went on in Mack's eyes. "Since we're acting…" Before she could stop him, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her full on the lips.
Isobel resisted the urge to bring up her knee. Instead, she slapped his chest with a laugh. It knocked him back a step. "Always the charmer, Mack. Win some cash, and look me up."
She slipped her arm through Frederick's, and he led her away, leaving Mack scowling at her back.
✥
"Won't your landlady mind?" Isobel whispered. Her words were slurred, and she stifled a giggle from behind her hand.
Frederick Ashworth tripped up the steps. He grabbed her wrist and pressed her against the wall. His breath nearly felled her.
"No one cares who I bring here." His lips were on her neck. Sloppy, clumsy, hungry—it reminded her of her despicable husband. Those same lips were traveling downwards. Isobel bit back a growl and shoved him, hard. Frederick hit the opposite wall with a thud. She covered the slip of control with a gasp.
"You tripped over your own feet, Freddy." She giggled, and raced up the stairs before he could grab her again. Frederick gamely followed. As he fumbled at his door, she stood back, trying to get her breathing under control. During her months with Alex Kingston, she had shoved emotion and herself far to the side, and the person who emerged had terrified her. She could not live that sort of lie again. This was far too close to the woman she had played for months—the one Alex thought he had married.
"Damn door," he muttered. And turned to kiss her again. But she pressed a finger to his lips.
"I might not be a proper girl, but I do have standards. No hats and no hallways. Now hurry up and open that door."
He obliged, and under his leering eyes she tripped into his room. It wasn't a flophouse or cheap boarding room, but a pleasant little apartment much like her rooms at Sapphire House. A small parlor, water closet, a bedroom, but no kitchen. More importantly, it was empty.
Business first. "Name your pleasure, and I'll tell you my price."
Frederick leaned in and whispered his pleasure.
She rolled her eyes. "Every man wants that. Wouldn't you rather try something daring?"
"That's my middle name."
She tugged loose his tie, pushed him towards a chair, and as soon as the backs of his legs hit, she shoved him down. Off-balance and drunk, he sat down with a thud. Before he could get his bearings, Isobel wrenched his arms behind the chair and deftly tied his wrists with his own tie.
She blew on his ears and giggled as if it were a game. It was, to her at any rate. When she secured the final knot, sluggish alarm bells began to ring inside Frederick's whiskey-filled brain.
"Oy! What's this?" Frederick started straining against his bonds.
She grabbed his ear, and pulled.
"Ow!"
"Stay." All traces of drunken flirtatiousness vanished as she snapped her Tickler open with a click. Keeping well behind him, she let him see the razor-sharp blade. "You have two ears—you won't miss one, but you can keep both if you start talking."
"I'll holler for the—" She stuffed a dirty stocking in his mouth, and then ripped off her scarf to cinch it over his eyes.
Men never look at a whore's face—not really. But now he would certainly be paying attention. She yanked a rope off the curtains, and used it to secure his ankles. All the while he yelled through the stocking in his mouth. Isobel ignored his muffled pleas. She searched his pockets: a folding knife, roughly five hundred in cash, two ten-dollar gold pieces, some change, booking tickets, race track stubs, and a faro token. Red. No revolver.
Isobel held the faro token up to the light. The Palm. She had seen its like before in a dead man's coat. Riot had found one, too—in Lee Walker's home.
With quick efficiency, she searched his rooms, but turned up nothing more than numerous suits, expensive hats and shoes, and a collection of calling cards from a wide variety of working
women. They put her own calling cards to shame.
"Now that you're cozy, we can get down to business." She kept the same voice she had used as Violet Smith—shrill and careless. "I'm going to remove your gag. I expect you to keep your voice low, or I'll be forced to take more permanent measures." Isobel pulled the stocking out of his mouth.
"What the bloody hell are you playing at, you bit—"
Isobel stuffed the stocking between his lips, silencing him. More would be required. With a sigh, she opened the front door, held it open a moment for a group of imaginary men to file in, then closed it. She walked over to the wash-basin and poured water from a pitcher. "We know who you are, Freddy," she said, watching him in the mirror. "My associates would like to know a few things about Andrew Ross and Lee Walker."
He stilled.
Isobel dragged a small table in front of him, and set it against his knees. He flinched. "The gentlemen in the room with us would like me to handle your questioning. You'll understand if I don't introduce them." She took out the bloody tooth from the prize fight and placed it dead center on the table. After checking the reflections in the mirror and windows, she positioned herself behind him, and removed his blindfold.
Frederick's eyes settled on the bloody tooth in front of his knees. He squirmed, and tried to twist around to get a look at her. She slapped his ear with the fan. "You don't want to see their faces. Trust me."
"What do you want?"
The question earned him a slap on the head. "This is not a two-way conversation, Mr. Ashworth. This is an interrogation. I've brought my tools, but torture is a messy business, and I'd rather not stain my gloves. So answer my questions and the only thing that will be wounded is your pride. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
She waited, letting that word hang in the air. When he was squirming, she struck. "Do you know Lee Walker?"
"Never heard of him."
She slapped her fan against his ear. Frederick jerked. "Wrong answer."
"I know him," he said.
"That's better." She let her pleasure shine through. "Why did you set him up to lose a wager at the race track?"
Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4) Page 2