A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Of course,” August said. “The police are overworked as it is. I’ll telephone your office when I have my findings.”

  “We’ll take our leave, then,” Riot offered his card.

  “Will you be speaking with Miss Bonnie soon?”

  “In the morning.”

  Isobel was pleased to see that August intended to share.

  Riot tipped his hat to both men, and Isobel followed him out the door.

  “August seems a diligent coroner,” she noted.

  “It appears so.”

  Tim stood waiting in the ballroom with the box of ashes. The bounce in his heels was gone. He looked old and tired, and Isobel wagered that she didn’t look much better.

  “There’s a spare room at the house,” Tim offered. She hesitated a split second, and he dove right into the gap, adding, “Otherwise we’ll have to drive you clear down to the piers.”

  She nearly announced that she’d walk, but it seemed foolish. And truth be told, the thought of scrubbing the day’s grime away with cold water was wearisome. “Do you have hot water pipes?”

  Tim flashed his gold teeth. “Enough to fill a bath.” He blushed at his own words, recalling, no doubt, that she was a woman.

  “Ravenwood house it is,” said Riot.

  A hack waited outside with the police wagon. A dark-skinned young man sat solidly in the seat, waiting like a graveyard statue. She remembered him from her last visit to Ravenwood house.

  Grimm sized her up with a glance. The young man’s gaze seemed to pierce marrow and bone.

  Riot opened the hack door.

  “I’m in male garb,” she muttered.

  “Habits die hard.”

  “Habits will give me away,” she whispered, climbing inside. Isobel fell into the seat and received a startled yelp. She stood, bumping her head on the carriage top. A pair of puzzled, sleepy eyes stared from the darkness. The eye widened with alarm.

  “Tobias,” Riot said, gravely. “One of these days your mother is going to discover you hitching a ride on the hack.”

  “She hasn’t noticed so far, sir.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Tim grumbled, “if you don’t get your hide out of there.”

  The boy scrambled out and clung to the back. Isobel settled on the seat and accepted the box of ashes. The carriage sagged as Riot slid in beside her.

  Tim shut the door on Riot’s heels.

  “Brothers?” she asked.

  Riot nodded. “Grimm doesn’t talk.” The hack lurched forward.

  “I don’t blame him,” she said, resting her head against the padded seat. “Eyes like that have seen too much.”

  “I have yet to discover what his eyes have seen.”

  “Always the protector, Riot?”

  The arm touching her own tensed. He did not look at her, but stared at the knob of his walking stick. His fingers traced the filigree. “Only returning a favor.”

  There was a quietness to the detective. As tired as she was, it could have been her own imaginings, but the longer the silence stretched, the louder it got. Isobel cracked an eye at the man, studying his profile. The hack drifted from shadow to lamplight. In the near dark, he looked chiseled from stone, like a cliff on the shore—unreachable.

  “Just say it.”

  He glanced at her. “What do you imagine I would like to say?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she admitted. “But you look as though there’s some quiet like words wanting to come out and you are trying to find the proper order.”

  “I haven’t found the order yet.”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes. “Before you tell me that I shouldn’t have gone into an abandoned house alone, you should reconsider. Whenever there’s a squall, I reef my sails and head straight for the storm. I don’t like relying on others. People inevitably let me down. At best I part ways; at worse I get a blade in my back.”

  Riot slowly spun the stick on its tip in a thoughtful manner. The hack leaned, rolling around a corner, pressing her shoulder against his. Warmth radiated from the man, and she quickly edged back, preparing for a verbal fight.

  “That’s not what I was going to say, but since you are preoccupied with the subject, I’ll bite.”

  Isobel started to deny his claim, but the argument rang hollow in her own ears. Instead she switched tactics. “With those chipped teeth of yours, I reckon a bite might hurt.”

  There was a slight catch of surprise in his breath, but he recovered quickly, turning the tables. “I’m a gentle man.” The whisper brushed her ear, deep and reverberating as a lion’s purr.

  Heat spread across her breasts and traveled in a southernly direction. She swallowed, suddenly breathless. Once again Riot had the upper hand.

  If he noticed her inability to form a sentence, he did not say, but continued, “What you do is your own business, but as your friend—if I may presume?”

  Isobel blew out a breath. “I’d say we’re well past presuming.”

  Riot inclined his head. “I’d be remiss if I failed to point out that while single-handed sailing is doable, it’s rough going in a storm. Even a seasoned sailor like Slocum didn’t turn down a helping hand.”

  Isobel searched for an edge to wedge a crowbar under, but his argument was as sensible as they came. At the moment, however, she was too tired to deal with sensibility. She set aside his words, and nodded towards his tattooed forearm. The mark of a dragon was a rite of passage for sailors who had sailed into an eastern port. “I didn’t take you for a sailor.”

  Riot let her blow him off course. “I am not,” he admitted. “I was stuck in a galley for five months.”

  “Shanghaied?”

  The slightest movement confirmed her surprise.

  “Tim was under the impression that I needed to build character.”

  Isobel laughed, hard.

  “I didn’t find it amusing at the time.”

  “No, I imagine not,” she wheezed. When her vision cleared, she found him watching her. There was a rare smile on his lips.

  She returned it, and after a moment, asked, “Have your words sorted themselves yet?”

  “More or less,” he paused, rubbing a hand over his beard. “The woman this evening—”

  The words triggered a reaction. “Riot, you don’t owe me any explanation. It’s none of my business.”

  “Miss Dupree is a lodger at Raven—my home,” he went on undaunted.

  “I suppose that’s convenient.”

  He looked at her squarely. “She’s a courtesan.”

  “Oh.” Not what she had been expecting. The rattle of wheels kept the two company for a long minute. Finally, she said, “I didn’t take you for a pimp.”

  Riot opened his mouth, looked at her dancing eyes, and shut it with a click. He took a deep breath. “I’m not. She lets a room.”

  “Well I gathered that if she’s a lodger. I won’t ask how she pays the rent.”

  He looked sharply at her, and Isobel answered with an arched brow. “She pays handsomely,” he said, primly.

  “I’m sure,” she drawled.

  Riot removed his spectacles. She watched his hands as he gently cleaned the lens with silk. “This past month, I’ve taken steps to insert myself into certain society circles,” he explained. “I’m a man with some money, of means, but not near enough for the elite to take notice and open their secretive doors.”

  At his words, everything clicked, and Isobel felt dim-witted. “And a detective escorting a high-class prostitute to social engagements paints a certain kind of portrait.”

  Riot looked relieved. “Exactly.” He settled the wire back on his nose.

  “I hope you’re not doing this for my sake.”

  “My reasons are my own to decide.”

  “And whose single-handed sailing now?”

  “I’ve just laid my course out for you,” he said, reasonably. “I’ve weathered my fair share of storms in the detective business, enough to know that a crew you can trust is invaluable. I certainly wo
n’t turn down your help.”

  “You and I play different games, Riot. You shuffle cards while I maneuver pieces, but the strategy is the same, and I can spot one from a mile away.”

  “I’ve laid my cards on the table.” He spread his hands. “Hardly a strategy.”

  “It’s a white flag,” she corrected. “You know full well that I’m more akin to a pirate. I’d board your ship anyway. This is a ploy so you can keep your myopic eyes on me.”

  “What I know, Bel,” he said, softly. “Is that you and I can look after ourselves, but that doesn’t mean we have to.”

  The words should have sparked outrage, but there was something in his voice that pulled her near: respect.

  “Damn you, Riot,” she swore. He looked startled, as if he had lost a high-stakes poker hand. “Must you be so agreeable? Some tyrannical comments would be helpful.”

  Riot tilted his head in consideration. “Woman, do as you’re told?”

  “That’s better,” she smiled. “It makes it easier to be contrary with you.”

  “Afraid you might start warming to me?”

  Isobel looked at him sideways. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” she admitted. “You’re like Watson; only you talk back.”

  Her words struck home. The calm confidence drained from the man and a silent chortle moved through his body like a current under water. It was a singular laugh, one felt rather than heard. Isobel leant into her companion, enjoying the ride.

  21

  Of Like Mind

  Saturday, February 17th, 1900

  CHESS PIECES GLIDED OVER a checkered board. From square to square, attacking and retreating in a deadly dance of survival. The ivory pieces dominated the board, while a lone black queen stood with her king. The queen lashed at the ivory knight, and then turned her eye on the bishop. The opposing queen was the last to fall to the avenging black. But that was the thing, the kick of it all, the black queen’s king had fallen long ago.

  Isobel opened her eyes. The decimated chess board lingered in her mind. Her heart galloped, and she looked around, disoriented. She was in a strange room, in a strange bed; a moment of panic took hold.

  Isobel sat bolt upright.

  This was no room of opulence; no plush feathered bed with an unwanted bedmate. The room was small, the bed narrow, and the furniture fine but simple. She was alone.

  “Riot’s house,” she reminded herself. Exhaustion had a way of leaving her feeling drunk. The walls danced, and she vaguely recalled falling into bed after a hot bath. A nightshirt lay folded on the dresser, untouched. She was still dressed in Riot’s borrowed robe. He was not a large man, but it still encompassed her like a blanket.

  Isobel fell back against the pillow and buried her nose in the collar. She closed her eyes, picking out the scents: sandalwood and myrrh, a soothing combination, likely the oil he used on his beard. And something else, a decidedly masculine scent that she could not quantify.

  After a time, facts drowned out the quiet lull, roaring through her mind like a squall. Coffee, food, and a quiet room were needed—in that precise order.

  She thrust out her arm, feeling for her chain watch. It was nearly noon. Fearful that Riot would start the day’s investigation without her, she tossed back the covers and forced herself out of bed.

  A pitcher of water waited on the washstand. She poured water into the bowl and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The black-haired person who stared back hardly looked well rested. Dark circles lined her eyes, but the face was at least familiar again. During her time with Kingston, she had hardly recognized her own reflection, but now, after a month of freedom, the sea had given her a healthy glow.

  She splashed water on her face, tamed her short hair with pomade, and reached for her male garb. The tattered theatre suit had been mended, freshened, and ironed as if it were tailored.

  When she was satisfied with the small touches that lent her a masculine shape, she poked her head out the door. A boy sat outside, waiting.

  “Tobias,” she said in surprise. And then cleared the voice from her throat.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning,” she said in deeper tones. “You startled me.”

  “People say that a lot.”

  Sounds of life drifted from the lower floors. “Where’s, Mr. Riot?”

  “He told me to tell you that he’s in his room. I’m to show you the way.”

  “Lead on.”

  The boy marched down the hallway and she followed on his heels.

  The Ravenwood estate was large, a mash of haphazard elegance that resembled a European hedge maze. Tobias led her past a blur of polished doors, through hallways and down a staircase to the second floor. Isobel remembered the door from her last visit, a vague sort of recollection through the haze of shock when she had been smuggled into the house. At the time, she was a nearly naked, soaking wet young woman who had just killed her brother. And, that same morning, dressed in borrowed clothes (by definition stolen), she had quietly slipped out a window.

  She applied her knuckles to the door. A clear ‘come’ answered. She thanked Tobias, and the boy turned and bolted downstairs.

  As soon as Isobel stepped inside, Riot rose to his feet. Despite his starched collar and grey waistcoat, his raven hair was slightly rumpled, as if he had only just awoken. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  Isobel barely heard the words. The turret room was a world away from when she had last sat by the fire. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, creating prisms of color from the stained-glass. A wall of bookshelves lured her closer.

  “You unpacked,” she said, reading the spines.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” she admitted.

  “Unfinished business aside, I thought I’d give life here a second chance.”

  “You could certainly do worse with your living arrangements,” she said dryly. Once upon a time, she wagered the room had been two, but a wall was knocked out to make it a spacious bedroom cum sitting room. Her gaze traveled from the books, to the neat desk and wardrobe, and finally settled on the wide bed. Every suggestive comment, lingering gaze, and her own damn newspaper article settled on that soft mattress. She quickly looked away.

  Riot took her avoidance for discomfort. “I hope you don’t mind taking breakfast in here,” he hastened. “The dining room and patio have numerous ears, and the old study is let.” He gestured at the waiting tea tray in front of the fireplace.

  “To the courtesan?”

  Riot paused. “Actually, yes.”

  “The French doors make for an inconspicuous entry.”

  “They do,” he agreed. “When Ravenwood and I conducted business from the house, we used that room for consultations.”

  Isobel sunk into Ravenwood’s throne-like chair, running her hands over the armrest. “And would he have approved of its current use?

  Riot tilted his head as if listening to a faint voice. “Absolutely not.”

  “I thought not,” she smiled. “I should like to meet this courtesan.”

  “I would advise against introductions in your current guise.”

  Isobel nodded. She understood perfectly. “Women of the night do have an eye for deception,” she agreed. “Luckily, whenever I’m in male garb, most find my antics amusing. Coffee?”

  “Tea with a dash of milk,” he said sitting opposite.

  As Isobel poured, she glanced at the newspaper on his armchair. Her story was there, front page.

  Riot noticed her gaze. “A suitably sensational article.”

  “Thank you,” she said handing him tea.

  “The one yesterday was positively captivating.”

  His amusement knocked her thoughts back to the bed, and in turn to an insightful two days spent along the Venetian coastline with a strapping gondolier. The young man had been as inexperienced as she. And eager. As Isobel inhaled the black brew, she wondered how a controlled man like Riot would differ. She reined in her thought
s, summoned resolve, and met his gaze.

  “Your eyes remind me of chocolate.” Isobel was as surprised as Riot by this declaration. Her tongue did not always cooperate with her mind.

  Riot gulped his tea, burning his tongue. He coughed once, and set the cup on its saucer with a rattle. Isobel silently congratulated herself for throwing the man’s infuriating calmness off balance.

  Riot opened his mouth, then closed it, and thought a moment. “Do you like chocolate?” he finally asked.

  “Not especially.”

  A knock rescued her from further conversation. Riot was slow to react; a testament to the affect of her words. She seized the chance, hopping to her feet, and opened the door. A young maid stood outside with a breakfast tray. Isobel took the tray with a murmur of gratitude and carried it back to the table, silently blaming her distracted state on a lack of food. Her stomach reminded her that it had been neglected, and she attacked the eggs and bacon with relish.

  When she had eaten her portion, and most of Riot’s, she picked up the newspaper and sat back in the chair with a sigh. She was glad for her corset-less male garb. But contentment turned sour when she began to read.

  “They’ve changed my article,” she said, tightly. “I didn’t paint the surfman in such a bad light, and I didn’t put so much emphasis on Violet’s questionable sanity.”

  “That’s what editors do, Bel. They edit. Especially newspaper editors.”

  She glared at the man for stating the obvious. “I’ll have a few choice words for Mr. Griful.”

  “Did they alter the one from yesterday—the mysterious savior?” He handed her yesterday’s paper, and she read it with a critical eye.

  “No,” she announced. “It’s precisely what I wrote.”

  “I see.” He took a sip of his tea. “Now that the news is out about Violet, you may find more attention on the case than you bargained for.”

  “Oh, I’ve bargained for it.”

  “Have you?”