Isobel clenched her jaw. She saw it. A police investigation by the very department that only last night had been bribed to look the other way. “Damn,” she swore. “Still, there’s information in here that only someone inside Ravenwood Manor would know.”
“Likely one of the boarders,” Riot agreed.
“The innocent boarders will be sure to leave now. No respectable person will taint themselves with our presence.” Which put their finances in further danger. The boarders at Ravenwood Manor were needed to cover costs of the oversized house. And worse, would this affect the agency’s reputation?
Riot tossed the paper on the floor. There was nothing for it.
Jin brought back two steaming mugs. A coffee for Isobel and tea for Riot. “Thank you, Jin,” he said.
“Are you all right?” the girl asked. A bit of blood had seeped through his bandage.
“Just a scratch,” he said.
Jin nodded. Then glared at the two of them. “You promised you would be safe.” She thrust a finger at the newspaper headlines. “That is not safe.”
Her anger was born from both worry and love. Jin had witnessed the murder of her parents. She didn’t want to lose another set.
Riot gave Jin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ll get no argument from me.” And then quietly. “Are you sleeping all right? You look tired.”
“I was reading late,” Jin said.
Riot held her eyes for a breath, then nodded. But Isobel knew he didn’t buy Jin’s answer any more than she did. A truthful response from Jin would have been, ‘It is none of your business.’ Her excuse of reading stank of a prepared answer, and it also nudged Isobel’s mind.
“Ella,” Isobel whispered. With the ambush, she had all but forgotten the girl. She tossed off her blankets, slithered over Riot, grabbed a robe off the floor, and hurried to the cabin.
Jin had stoked the coals to life, and the cabin was warm, but Isobel paid it little mind. She headed straight for the coat hooks, and saw that Riot had brought her coat and satchel from the agency.
“Sarah?” she called.
Sarah’s head appeared from the hatch. “Are you both decent?”
“Not exactly. Did you bring your sketchbook and pencils?”
Sarah looked offended. “Of course I did.”
“Good. Would you do something for me?”
Sarah settled herself on the top of the companionway, sketchbook balanced on her knees.
“I need you to draw this girl. Make as many copies as you can. And... this man too.” Isobel handed photographs from her satchel up to Sarah, then called for Grimm and Tobias.
Tobias’s head came down in front of Sarah’s, only it was upside down, since he was crouched atop the hatch. “Aye, Captain?”
“I’m going to write an article in response to the one in the Morning Call.”
Tobias crinkled his nose. “Ma was fuming over it.”
“We are too. That’s why I’ll need you to take it to a reporter named Cameron Fry at the Bulletin. Are you willing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
If there was one thing San Francisco loved, it was a newspaper war, and she’d be damned if she didn’t start the fight first. It was time to remind the city that Alex Kingston influenced the Morning Call.
17
The Princess
Mack McCormick was resting on a cloud of pillows. The Princess and the Pea came to Isobel’s mind. Her father had relished telling his twin son and daughter fairy tales. Then with a twinkle in his eyes he’d ask their opinion.
“I don’t want to be a princess,” Isobel had declared as only a four-year-old could.
“No?”
Isobel shook her head. “I want to be a pirate.”
“And what would a pirate have done?”
“Throw the pea at the prince, drop all the mattresses out the window, jump on them, and run away.” Isobel had an extreme grudge against peas, princes, and princesses.
Marcus’s lips had twitched, and she suspected, now, that her mother had laughed. At the time, it sounded like a grunt of disapproval. Her father leaned in close. “But you are a princess, my little bird. A princess can be a pirate, too.”
Isobel crossed her arms in doubt.
Marcus tapped her nose. “Do you know how?”
It was Lotario who answered. “The prince was wrong. A princess can be strong. Why would a pea hurt her?” His lisp didn’t diminish the wisdom in his words.
“Aaah,” Marcus beamed at his son. “Never let anyone tell you how you should be. You are what you are.” The twins had certainly taken that to heart.
Looking at Mack now, Isobel imagined the big Scotsman would like living in a castle and being waited on hand and foot. “I hope there’s not a pea under there,” Isobel said by way of greeting.
Mack shot her a confused look, but she felt Riot chuckle at her side. The Scotsman would make for one hairy princess.
“Aye, I got to pee. Stop lookin’ so smug, Charlie,” Mack grumbled. His broad chest was bare, unless one counted the sweep of red hair, and the padded bandage wrapped around his gut. He looked pale and drugged, but Isobel noted his eye kept wandering in the direction of an attractive nurse. Clearly, he would live.
“Were the surgeons able to remove the bullet?” Riot asked.
Mack grunted. “That itty-bitty piece of lead didn’t get far into my Scottish musculature.” He patted his ample gut, then winced.
“Is that what you call it?” Isobel asked.
“Layers upon layers of muscles. You’re lucky I deflected it away from your scrawny husband there.”
“I do appreciate it,” Riot said.
Mack gave him a hard look. “I couldn’t let them get at Charlie, now could I?”
All this male protectiveness was getting on Isobel’s nerves. However, she was hardly going to chastise a man in a hospital bed. She sat down on the side of his bed and handed him the Call article. “Have you seen this?”
Mack read the headlines, then turned brick red with rage. “I didn’t write this,” he said.
“I know,” she soothed.
Mack glanced at Riot. “I wrote the one in the Examiner. I thought it’d be fine.”
“It was,” Riot assured. “The attack on the agency was bound to get out. Your narrative was accurate and didn’t do any harm.”
Mack looked relieved. “This is bollocks, Charlie.” He thumped the paper. “No one will believe it.”
“I’m sure enough will. But I don’t much care. What I do care about is you getting better.”
Mack eyed her suspiciously. “And?” He drew out the single word.
“There’s information in here that only someone within Ravenwood Manor would be privy to. We need you to trace this article back to the person who submitted it. I could ask Cara Sharpe, but…”
“You want to save up your favors?”
“No. Men tend to gossip more.”
“We do not,” he defended.
Isobel smiled pleasantly. She didn’t want to upset an invalid.
Mack thrust a finger at Riot. “What about him. He hardly says anything.”
Isobel patted Mack’s hand. “That’s why I married him.”
Mack blew a breath past his mustache. “I knew it. I should have played the strong and silent type.”
“It was that, and the beard.”
Mack fingered the cleft on his bare chin. “Well, there goes that; I hate those things. But look… what does it matter who wrote this? You know how newspapers are. They publish everything from speculation to outright lies. How many articles did you make up while you were working as Charlotte Bonnie?”
Isobel raised her brows innocently. “Ladies don’t tell, Mack.”
“All the same, we’d appreciate it if you traced the article,” Riot said. “When you’re healed up.”
“Sure. I’ll start fishing around once I get out of this bed.”
Isobel twisted around to study the nurse who had caught his eye—she was a plump,
black-haired woman with a ready smile. “Good luck.”
Masons and bricklayers were laboring to finish the newly opened Hall of Justice. A stream of wagons and workers hauled in furniture and files as uniformed policemen buzzed around the stone-columned building.
The woman at Riot’s side slowed and he matched her pace as they entered the building’s shadow. A caged wagon was unlocked and opened, and a line of prisoners in chains climbed out, guarded by men with billy clubs and hard stares.
Isobel stiffened at his side, then her step faltered altogether. “We should come back.” Her voice was tight.
Riot glanced at his wife. She was pale under the brim of her hat, the blood drained from her face. He touched her arm, and turned to face her, blocking her view of the policemen.
“I’m afraid that won’t help, Bel. Detective Inspector Coleman needs your statement.”
Her eyes were wide, staring. And her breath quick.
“Bel,” he said firmly. Riot leaned forward, catching her eyes, and waited until she focused on him. “You won’t be arrested. You had no part in events last night.”
“I killed that man,” she whispered.
“You rid us of a stick of dynamite. He was foolish enough to still be standing there after he threw it. That’s self-defense.”
“The police might not see it that way.”
“Coleman will. Trust me.”
“No, I…”
She seemed about to bolt, so he grabbed her gently by the arms. “Bel, look at me.”
“I can’t go back to jail, Riot.”
His heart twisted. “I know.” He held her eyes, until some of the panic left. And then nodded his head towards a faraway bench across the green. “Wait over there. I’ll ask Coleman to come outside. Fair enough?”
Misty eyes flickered over his shoulder to the commotion. She took a breath, closed her eyes briefly, and shook her head. “No… I need to do this, don’t I?”
Riot wanted to tell her no. The memory of her behind bars was burned into his heart—a caged tigress pacing her cell in near madness. And now she was entering that cage again, with all the familiar smells and sights.
“I’ll stay with you.” He kept a firm hold of her hand as he tucked it through his arm.
“Do you ever feel broken?” she whispered.
“You’ll build up strength again.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Isobel shivered when they touched the first step, but she kept her chin up and didn’t slow. Riot opened the door for her, and she marched into a chaotic station. Desks out of order, supplies dumped on the floor, police and workers running to and fro.
Riot flagged down a patrolman, and asked after Detective Inspector Coleman. He waved them down a hallway, and Riot was relieved to find a nameplate attached to what he hoped was the correct door.
Coleman answered the knock with a harsh, “Come!”
“Inspector Coleman,” Riot greeted. “Mrs. Riot has come as promised, though it’s a bit hectic in here…” Riot let the comment hang in the air, and directed a pointed look to his wife. Coleman took one look at the pale woman and quickly ushered them outside into gray sunlight.
Isobel sat on a bench, looking dazed. Riot shared a silent plea with the detective, who seemed to understand his message.
When it was over, Riot doubted Isobel remembered a word of the interview. To Coleman’s credit, he didn’t press for answers but simply took her statement. She looked so fragile. Still, she had ventured inside. To hell again. Willingly. A small step, but one taken nevertheless.
Coleman read through her statement, then flipped his notebook closed. Riot drew him a few steps away. “Any word on the patrolmen?”
Coleman smoothed his waistcoat. “They were arresting a group of drunks on the other side of the Barbary Coast. Twenty, to be exact.”
The hairs on Riot’s neck rose. He wasn’t being hunted by just any predator, but a careful one. “Are any of the drunks still in custody?”
Coleman shook his head. “As soon as they paid their fine and sobered up, we set them free. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What drew the patrolmen’s attention?”
“Shouting, broken windows, and a fight that moved away from your agency. I’ll let you know if I discover anything more. And Mr. Riot…”
Riot waited.
Coleman lowered his voice and leaned in close. “Did something happen to Mrs. Riot while she was in our custody?”
“Yes, she was kept in a cage.”
They did not take a cable car, but walked. Moving helped. It was some time before Isobel focused on anything beyond the reassurance of Riot’s forearm under her hand. She looked at their surroundings for the first time.
“Heather’s lodging house?” she asked.
Riot nodded. “We’re nearly there.”
She swallowed. Heat rose to her cheeks. “God, I feel like an idiot.”
“It happens to the best of us.” Riot was referring to his own lapses. And it was true. Isobel had been at his side when driving fear overcame him.
“A year ago, I would have turned up my nose at the slightest showing of weakness in someone. And now here I am.”
“Older and wiser.”
Isobel glanced at him. “It feels more like tired and weak.”
Riot squeezed her hand. “I won’t argue with that.”
She sighed. “I suppose, at the very least, it gives me insight into seemingly sickly people, like Mrs. Spencer.”
“Ravenwood didn’t have an empathetic bone in his body. That was always his blind spot in an investigation. He knew it, and relied on me for that. Understanding weakness is not a bad thing, Bel. Be patient with yourself.”
It sure felt like a bad thing.
The more distance they put between themselves and the Hall of Justice, the easier she breathed, and by the time they got to Heather Searlight’s lodging home, Isobel felt like herself again.
As she’d suspected yesterday, Heather Searlight had moved a while ago from her lodging house of last year. But they were told she was still employed at Hale’s, so that’s where they headed next.
Sharp scents of perfume stung Isobel’s nose. She detested department stores. They were sprawling mazes of fashion and noxious hair products and perfumes, filled with idle women looking for an escape from boorish routines. Everything about them made her skin crawl.
She voiced her opinion to Riot.
“That’s a harsh assessment, Bel.”
“How so?”
“Not all women detest a domestic life.”
“And you know this how?”
“Your own twin loves to shop. Lotario has trunks of dresses. I’m sure he’d be lost in here for hours.”
“He only wears bespoke clothing,” she clarified. Lotario would be appalled to hear Riot mention a department store and his name in the same sentence.
“Sarah enjoys coming here.”
She glanced at him. “You took her shopping?”
“Of course. She needed clothes.”
“And we’re this broke?”
Riot adjusted his spectacles. “We’re better off than most.”
“Hmm.”
Heather Searlight worked at the perfume counter in Hale’s. She was a woman of Isobel’s own age, her brown hair had hints of amber, and her eyes sparkled under lavish lashes. Heather could easily have been a poster girl for a Gibson girl advert.
Heather greeted Isobel with a friendly smile, but her eyes had wandered to Riot. She picked up a spritz bottle. “Care for a sample?”
Before Isobel could answer, Heather squeezed the bulb, sending a mist of stinging scents flying in her face. Isobel coughed, her eyes watered, her throat seized, and she took a hasty step back before the woman could attack her again.
Riot smoothly stepped in, sliding a calling card across the counter. “A lovely scent. I’m Atticus Riot and this is Miss Amsel,” he said.
Heather’s eyes widened a fraction. Her breath caught in surprise, and she
plucked the card up. Then offered her hand. “Heather Searlight.”
Riot touched her hand briefly in a courtly manner, while Heather ran the card lightly across her breasts. Her collar might be high, but her clothing was fitted. “You’re not here for my perfume, are you?”
“I’m afraid not. We’re here because of you. Are you friends with Elouise Spencer?”
Isobel’s eyes stopped watering and her vision cleared as she watched her husband interact with the woman. He wasn’t flirting, per se. But Heather certainly was. Riot was just being… himself, which tended to leave an impression on the opposite sex.
Whatever loosened tongues, Isobel thought. She left the questioning to Riot and picked up a vial to sniff at it. She jerked away at the sharp scent. Now why couldn’t anyone bottle the ocean? She’d douse herself in that all day.
“Sure, I know Ella. We met earlier this year.” Heather blinked her large doe eyes.
“Here, at your work?” Riot asked.
“No, at Mr. Grant’s office. He’s my attorney. Ella and I hit it off, as they say. Sometimes there’s an instant connection between two people, wouldn’t you say?” She looked at him through long lashes.
Isobel supposed the woman was trying to be demure.
“I can’t disagree with that,” Riot said. “Did Ella call on you at home?”
“I invited her to come here, and she dropped by to visit once in awhile. But I haven’t seen her in… Oh, ages. Has something happened?”
“Ella didn’t return home.” Riot left the statement there in silence to be filled with whatever Miss Searlight made of it.
Heather’s eyes widened. “She’s been talking about leaving home since I met her. She wants to be an actress. That’s why we hit it off, you see.”
“You’re an actress?”
She blushed. “We did an Amateur Night at the Olympia Music Hall. I was told I had real talent.”
“By a number of gentlemen, no doubt.”
“Why, yes. How did you know?” Heather asked.
“I’m familiar with the theater world. Did the men compliment Ella as well?”
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