Uncharted Waters (Ravenwood Mysteries #6)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Lotario sighed, and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I need to find myself again. I can’t do that here,” he whispered.

  “Because there’s no drinking and no endless parties to drown out the darkness?”

  “A touch dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “No. It’s the truth, and you know it.”

  “I like parties,” he said with a click of teeth.

  Silence.

  Then Lotario sighed. “I don’t want our final conversation to be in anger.”

  “I don’t like the word ‘final’.”

  “You really are worried.”

  Isobel clenched her jaw.

  “Bel.” He took her hands. “I don’t have any extravagant plans to fake my own death the way you did.”

  Isobel took a breath.

  “I’ll see you again. I promise,” he said.

  Resigned, she accepted his words at face value. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The corner of his lips curved like a cat. “There is something…” He gestured towards his trunks, and Isobel wondered if he too had been acting. She let herself be goaded into doing his bidding. It would give her a chance to pinch some of his clothes.

  Day 89

  Avoidance

  Sunday, July 1 1900

  Isobel knocked impatiently. Before anyone could hope to answer, she let herself into the room. Julius Bright looked up from his desk.

  “Did you know Lotario left yesterday?” she demanded.

  “Hello, Miss Amsel,” Julius said in greeting. He gestured towards the door. “Generally people wait before coming in.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Ignoring social cues is an indication of insanity.”

  “I’m already locked up,” she said, closing the door.

  “What if I’d had a patient?”

  “Sunday is your day off. You don’t see patients.”

  “And yet here I am working,” he sighed. “And yes, I do have the occasional patient. Even on Sunday.”

  “You didn’t this Sunday.”

  “And how could you possibly know that, Miss Amsel?”

  “Julius,” she warned. The good doctor likely suspected she had peeked at his appointment book. Which she had, but that was beside the point. “Lotario isn’t recovered. He can barely use his arm.”

  Not a man to be rushed by the mentally disturbed, Julius calmly picked up a pen, and scratched her name into his appointment book. He capped the pen and sat back, waiting.

  “I am not your appointment.”

  “You are now.”

  “Don’t smile at me,” she warned.

  He smiled anyway. “Won’t you sit?”

  Isobel sat—on the edge of his desk.

  Julius looked up at her. “I can’t divulge information about a patient. And do not break into my files again, or I’ll hand you over to Sheriff Nash,” he said firmly.

  “You’re so paranoid,” Isobel said.

  “Are you going to sit there like a gargoyle arguing with me, or are you going to talk with me?”

  Isobel plucked up his pen, fiddling with it. “I’m worried.”

  “Did you speak with Lotario before he left?”

  “I did. That’s why I’m worried.” She began uncapping and recapping the pen. “He was vague and cryptic—”

  “Both of you are generally vague and cryptic.”

  She ignored the observation. “Something is wrong.”

  “Aren’t we all a little wrong?”

  “According to you, I’m perfectly sane.”

  Julius smiled. “I said you may be the sanest person I’ve ever met. I haven’t confirmed it yet.”

  “That doesn’t speak highly of humanity.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Julius said flatly. He leaned forward, all humor gone from his eyes. “As your friend, and not your doctor, I can assure you that this is the best thing for your twin. I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to him.”

  “He talked to you.”

  “That would be the obvious conclusion. But I can’t confirm it.”

  “Right.” Isobel stared at idyllic paintings of the countryside hanging on his office walls. “I’ll miss him.” She stood to leave.

  “You mean you’ll miss having him stand in for your talking sessions.”

  She arched a brow. “How long have you known?”

  “I first suspected when you ‘slipped’ while getting out of a bathtub and injured the same shoulder as your brother.”

  “I only have two shoulders. The chance of injuring the same one as Ari is rather high.”

  Julius huffed.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked.

  “I found it most diverting. And from a clinical standpoint, fascinating. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not entirely sure who was who on every occasion.”

  “We know,” she said. “It’s part of the ruse. Ari and I did it to our mother all the time. It kept her guessing.”

  “Ah.” He sat back, stunned. “So sometimes you act as your brother playing yourself? And vise versa?”

  Isobel nodded.

  “Disguise within disguise. I don’t suppose you’d write down who was present at each session?”

  Isobel straightened a painting of a horse. The muted colors and bland trees made her want to rip it off the wall. “I could,” she said over her shoulder. “But you’re too much of a friend, so I’ll tell you now that it’d all be lies.”

  Julius chuckled. “I appreciate it. Life’s mysteries, I suppose, keep us going.”

  Isobel turned. “Solving them keeps us going, Doctor.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever solve this one,” he said, resigned. “Lotario has offered you his cottage. You don’t need to remain in the ward room.” He held out a hand. Isobel stared at it, then realized she had tucked his pen away. She handed it over.

  “Won’t you get in trouble with the authorities?” she asked.

  “I’ll call it ‘solitary confinement’.”

  Isobel snorted. “So now I can suffer tedium in a holiday cottage.”

  “Tedium or avoidance,” he mused.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Avoidance. Have you considered that you’re running away from yourself?”

  “I’m not here for a talking session.”

  “You barged into my office.”

  “Out of concern for Lotario.”

  “Well you’re still here.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Isobel.”

  She stopped at the use of her given name.

  “You can’t relax. I understand that. But you have a family now. For the sake of those you love, find a way to be with yourself.”

  Her hand was stuck on the knob. She felt frozen, unable to leave or stay, caught in the between. “I’m not here of my own free will, Doctor,” she said softly.

  “No. You’re here because a powerful man threatened your family, blackmailed you, and cornered you into marriage and his bed. Then your older brother tried to murder you.” Each word hit her in the back. “Some would feel blessed to recuperate here, and they’d gladly switch places with you. Don’t waste what time you have left. Accept my help.”

  Isobel let out a shaky breath. “Only if we talk as friends.”

  “I believe we have been for some time.”

  “And not here.” She gestured sharply at the paintings. “I’m half-tempted to burn them.”

  Julius pushed back his chair, and grabbed his coat. “Most find them soothing.”

  “Art is subjective.”

  “Hmm.”

  They walked out of the ward into fresh air. She breathed in the heat of the day, and turned her face towards the sun. “Can we walk to town?”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I need to send a telegram.”

  “To whom?”

  “Are you my child-minder?” she snapped.

  “No, I’m the alienist tasked with trying to ‘rehabilitate
’ you, and sorely regretting it.”

  Isobel started to dig in for the sake of it, but relented. “I want to send a telegram to Riot. Since you’re bound by whatever code alienists follow, I’ll simply ask Riot to check on Ari. Is that allowed?”

  “I’ll keep you to your word about talking with me.”

  “My dear doctor, you should have specified what we were going to talk about.”

  “Isobel,” he warned.

  They walked for a time, enjoying the song of birds and rustle of leaves. Isobel always felt better when she stretched her legs. But she could feel the doctor’s growing discontent. He likely worried the entire conversation had been a ploy to get him to escort her into town.

  “I chose my course,” she said suddenly. “Alex didn’t force me. He outmaneuvered me. I simply couldn’t keep up the ruse.”

  “So say any number of prostitutes.”

  Isobel glanced up at the tall man. “Are you calling me a whore?”

  “Do you consider that an insult?” he countered.

  “Society does.”

  “And yet few men have qualms about buying their services.”

  “Do you?” she asked, curious.

  Julius blushed. “I… erm… don’t generally discuss such matters with friends.”

  “But you’re an alienist. Surely you’re comfortable discussing sexual matters. Your colleagues certainly find human sexuality a fascinating subject. Or is it because I’m a woman?”

  Julius adjusted his tie. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s… for the same reason Lotario doesn’t discuss it.”

  Isobel blinked, and after a bloated moment, realization set in. “Oh. I had no idea.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  Isobel smiled.

  “Regardless, I find the required mindset of the profession unhealthy. There are perhaps a few women, and men, who enjoy that work. But the vast majority are bullied, coerced, or forced into the profession by circumstance.” He stopped and stared down at her. “And to survive in that profession one must convince oneself that it was, and is, one’s choice.”

  Isobel took in his words. They were heavy with implication.

  “You think I’m lying to myself,” she said.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Don’t we all lie to ourselves to survive?” she countered.

  “To an extent, but is that healthy?”

  They turned and began walking again. “It’s a means to an end.”

  “And what is your end, Isobel?”

  “I’m no fortune teller.”

  “Neither am I, but I do see a pattern in you and your twin. You are both self-destructive.”

  “I call it living life.”

  “Just so. I asked Lotario why he lives that way. And I think he went off to find the answer.”

  “Or he got bored.”

  “That, too,” Julius admitted.

  Still, Isobel considered his words. She wasn’t one to shy away from uncomfortable truths waved in her face.

  “Perhaps my twin and I don’t feel worthy of love because we ruined our mother’s health when we were born. Our births nearly killed her, you know? She’s used a cane ever since. So we behave in a manner to discourage love.”

  Julius clasped his hands behind his back, nodding. And then he stopped, glancing down at her with suspicion. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “It’s a good answer though, isn’t it? Suitable for an alienist’s diagnosis. You can write it down in our files,” she said, pleased with herself.

  Julius grunted. “Do you have another theory? One that isn’t suitable for my clinical notes?”

  “I do, actually,” she said. “We aren’t self-destructive. Our minds rail against convention. We rebel for the sake of it.”

  “And yet you’re getting married and adopting two children. That sounds mundane to me.”

  “I’m marrying a man with the surname of Riot. Does that strike you as conventional?”

  “And if your marriage proves conventional?”

  Isobel’s only answer was a sharp laugh.

  Day 88

  A Child’s Wisdom

  Monday, July 2 1900

  Atticus Riot stared at a display of rings, all encrusted with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies like barnacles on a golden hull nestled in a velvet sea.

  “That one is nice.” Sarah pointed to a ring set with a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds. The jeweler beamed at Riot’s adoptive daughter.

  “It’s a Cartier design—a jeweler to royalty.” The jeweler glanced at Riot, over to Sarah, then removed the ring, slipping it on the girl’s finger.

  Sarah gaped at the brilliance. “I think Isobel would love this.” Sarah had said that about every ring in the last three shops. Although she did sound adamant about this one. Riot checked the price. Sarah had expensive taste.

  “Did you have something specific in mind, sir?” asked the wizened jeweler.

  “No, but I’ll know when I see it,” Riot said.

  “We do craft custom rings, sir. We could sit down and discuss the preferences of the lady in question. It’s my business to help gentlemen like yourself find the perfect ring for his future wife.”

  Riot rubbed his beard in consideration. “Not today, but thank you all the same.”

  With reluctance, Sarah returned the ring, and followed Riot outside into the bustle of Market Street. Riot took a deep breath, gripping his walking stick until his knuckles turned white. Sarah slipped her arm through his, and sighed. “The ring was gorgeous, don’t you think?” Her freckled face had a dreamy look to it.

  “It was a fine ring,” he agreed.

  “You said that about every ring we looked at that I liked.”

  “They weren’t…” Riot cocked his head, searching for the word. “Right for Bel.”

  “What is right for Isobel?”

  Such a simple question. And straight to the point.

  Riot looked down into wide, innocent eyes, and he found he didn’t have an answer. Only a vague uneasiness. “Lunch?” he asked instead.

  “We haven’t found a ring yet,” Sarah countered.

  Riot inclined his head towards the Palace Hotel, and the girl’s eyes brightened. Sarah would never turn down lunch at the Palace. She gave in to his offer with a determined “But we’re going back to find a ring afterwards.”

  The maitre d’ greeted Riot with a smile.

  “We’ll take that table by the wall over there,” Riot said before the man could choose one.

  “But, sir, that isn’t—”

  “I’d like to sit there all the same.” Riot slipped him a tip.

  “Of course.”

  They threaded their way through elegance, a bloom of light, palm fronds, and clinking cutlery—all the way to the back of the dining room, near the kitchen.

  Riot held a chair out for Sarah, then settled himself opposite with his back to the wall. At a sweep of his gaze, a few diners noticed him, hastily paid their bills and headed for the door, the sting of guilt between their shoulders.

  Riot focused on his menu, and felt the touch of eyes. Sarah was squinting at him.

  “Do you need spectacles?” he asked.

  Sarah started. “What?”

  “Spectacles.” He adjusted his own.

  Sarah blushed and quickly hid behind her menu. A sharp waiter appeared. “May I get you something to drink while you peruse our menu?”

  Riot ordered Young Hyson tea, and French bread and butter for the table. The waiter left, stepping through a swinging door. Their table’s proximity to the kitchen made it a noisy spot. The only benefit was the quickness with which the waiter returned. By that time Riot and Sarah were ready with the rest of their order.

  When the waiter had left, Riot sat back and stared at his daughter. “What’s on your mind, Sarah?”

  Sarah poked at a piece of bread with her butter knife. “I would have worn a nicer dress if I knew we were coming here,” she said quietly.

  “You loo
k lovely, Sarah.”

  But his words only made her shift in her chair. She glanced at a pair of women, dressed in resplendent finery, sitting in a pool of light in the center of the room. In a flash, Riot caught the shame in Sarah’s eyes, put it together with his request for a seat in the back of the room, and understood. Who knew parenthood required so much deduction?

  “I didn’t request this table because I was ashamed of you.”

  She looked up, surprised. “Then why’d we sit all the way back here?” The door to the kitchen swung open. A glass shattered from inside, and what sounded like a tumbling tray. An abrupt curse cut off as the door swung closed. It was not the best of tables—not from a diner’s point of view, but then Riot wasn’t simply a diner. He was a detective with a price on his head. And far too many enemies.

  He made an unconscious sweep of the room, noting those he recognized—potential threats and old allies—and suspicious bulges and handbags large enough to conceal a revolver. The exits. Cover. Trays that might stop a bullet, and the quickest way to get Sarah to safety. All in a flash of thought that came from a lifetime of threat.

  Riot smiled easily. “Old habits.”

  Sarah frowned at him. She wasn’t about to buy his explanation. She was far too wise, and he loved the girl for it.

  “I feel better with my back to a wall, an exit readily at hand, and a view of the entrance.”

  Understanding lit Sarah’s eyes a few moments later. She started, hunched down, and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re worried someone is going to start shooting at us.”

  Riot inclined his head. “I didn’t make it to the ripe old age of forty by being careless.”

  Sarah leaned towards him and whispered, “Who’s the person?”

  Riot patted her hand. “No one in particular. I’m a careful man, Sarah. That’s all. Especially where you are concerned.”

  “Shouldn’t I be sitting with my back to a wall, too?”

  “If you like, but it’s only a precaution. Try not to be obvious though.”

  She scooted her chair around, so she had a better view of the dining room. “So what are you looking for?”

  Riot buttered a piece of bread, and covertly eyed the room. “Anything that pricks my instincts.”