“That would be Ruby Grant, and likely her father, Oliver Grant. He’s my attorney. Ella minded his daughter for a time, but…” The baby stirred, and Mrs. Spencer absently patted the creature’s rump, rocking it slightly.
“You were saying, Mrs. Spencer. About Mr. Grant,” Riot gently prodded.
“It’s no concern. Ella wasn’t fond of Mr. Grant. He came to the house intoxicated once. She wanted nothing more to do with him.”
“Why would she be pleased to see him outside the grocery?” Isobel asked.
“Ella is very fond of Ruby.”
“Does Ella have any other friends?”
Mrs. Spencer thought a moment. “A Miss Searlight. I’m sorry, I don’t remember her first name. They met at Mr. Grant’s office.”
Isobel paused, glanced at Riot, and took a breath. The question had to be asked. “Does Ella have any male friends?”
Mrs. Spencer started in surprise. The sudden movement jerked the baby awake. It immediately started screaming. Tears welled in the exhausted woman’s eyes. But again, Isobel doubted she even noticed. She started patting the baby anew with a kind of frantic motion that was far from comforting.
Riot reached for the infant, and the mother gave it up eagerly. He laid the bundle against his chest, patting its back with more force than Isobel would have thought it could bear.
“You’re a saint, Mr. Riot,” Mrs. Spencer said.
“I don’t claim to be,” he said easily. “But I thank you all the same.” Riot put his nose to the infant’s fuzz-covered head. Did he just smell the creature?
Isobel shook herself. “Back to my question, Mrs. Spencer. Does Ella have any male friends?”
“Why no, she does not, Miss Amsel. Ella is a good girl. I know what you’re thinking—that she ran off with a sweetheart. But she loves this house and her family. She’d never abandon us willingly.” It sounded more like a statement of faith than fact.
“Ella never went out at night.” As if that were the only time romantic liaisons took place.
“Yes, but were there any men who were just friends? Even older ones. An uncle? A friend of Lewis’s?”
“No, nothing of that sort. She was a shy girl who kept to herself. She loves books. Not the fiction variety, but the classics.”
“Save for a bible, there isn’t a single book in her room, Mrs. Spencer,” Isobel pointed out.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Spencer said, eyes brightening. “See, a good Christian girl. That’s my Ella.” The last was said with conviction. But that emotion seemed to drain her further.
Isobel shared a look with Riot. She wanted to press the woman, but Mrs. Spencer was unstable. Emotionally, physically, and possibly mentally. Riot gave a slight shake of his head.
A knock sounded downstairs. The infant immediately started fussing again, and Riot walked out of the room with it to give the mother some rest.
Isobel hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the photographs of Ella and her father James Spencer and followed Riot outside. He raised a brow at her theft.
“I’m going to return them,” she defended, as she tucked the frames inside her satchel.
Riot opened the door to find Maddie standing outside. She looked nervous, but showed off her dimples as soon as she saw the fussy infant drooling on Riot’s waistcoat.
“Thank you for coming,” Isobel said with feeling.
Maddie shrugged out of her coat. “I don’t mind at all, Miss Isobel. Tobias was near to fuming when I told him I was helping you with a case.”
“Dr. Wise is coming, too,” Riot explained. “You’ll have reinforcements soon.”
“Is Dr. Wise used to babies?”
“I believe so,” Riot said.
Maddie nodded, taking the infant from Riot with a practiced hand. “Some doctors don’t have a mind for babies at all.” Instead of holding the baby to her shoulder, she folded its arms just so, and laid it along her arm like a football with its legs dangling on either side and its head tucked in. The baby immediately quieted.
“You clearly do,” Riot noted.
The girl glanced down, lashes fluttering. “I want to be a physician…for children.” She was embarrassed, sharing a piece of her soul.
“That’s a fine goal, Miss Maddie.” At Riot’s sincerity, Maddie stood a little taller.
They introduced Maddie to Bertie, and then to Mrs. Spencer, who thanked her profusely and assured her that Ella would be back any moment to lend a hand.
When Isobel finally stepped outside into a crisp afternoon on the edge of night, she took a deep breath. “I feel like I’ve sailed through a storm,” she said.
Riot looked nearly spotless in hat and coat, though a wet spot of drool stained the silk of his waistcoat. “Not keen on infants, Bel?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Apparently you are. That creature was besotted with you.”
“Infants, horses, and women seem to respond to a calm nature.”
“Did you just compare me to a horse?”
The edge of his lip quirked, and he wisely hurried down the steps.
“You’ve become positively rude since we married.”
“I was aiming for disagreeable and slovenly,” he said, wiping at the drool on his waistcoat.
“That was my plan, Riot. You can’t steal my idea.”
“A rude man would steal it.”
“Precisely my point.”
“But you don’t disagree?”
“That you’ve become rude?” she asked.
“About my calm nature.”
Isobel changed the subject. “I don’t think Ella Spencer was on the lookout for a calm nature.”
“Financial stability, perhaps?” Riot suggested.
“Or excitement. I don’t think we can trust Mrs. Spencer’s opinion of her daughter. Ella had ample opportunity to live a double life. Picking up groceries, minding other children… Those are precisely the kind of opportunities I took to do everything I wasn’t supposed to be doing.”
Riot looked at her, something close to horror in his eyes. “My God, you minded children?”
Isobel crossed her arms.
“Did they survive?”
“Riot.”
“Yes, Miss Bel?”
“You are distracting.”
“So you’ve told me. And yet…” He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed a kiss over her wedding ring. “…you said yes.”
“Under extreme duress.”
“Whittled down by Nature’s tranquility,” he said wistfully.
Isobel took back her hand and reached for her watch. “Oh, let’s be honest, Riot. I was in an asylum. I clearly wasn’t in my right mind when I accepted your marriage proposal.”
Riot paused on the last stair, his walking stick on his shoulder, hat at a cocky angle, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Madly. Deeply. Fervently in love. Is there any sanity in those words?”
Isobel stared at him for a moment. Then clicked her watch shut. “Are you going to stand here waxing poetic or are you coming with me to Oliver Grant’s office? He may still be there.”
Riot fell in step beside her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She glanced at him. “Love is madness. It’s terrifying and thrilling, and I wonder if I’ll ever stop falling.”
At her quiet words, Riot reached for her hand and tucked it inside his coat, warming her skin. “As long as we’re falling together.”
10
A Blind Eye
The offices of Oliver Grant, Attorney at Law, were tucked in a residential block along with a cluster of shops—a haberdashery, a barber, and a photography studio. The rest were homes.
Riot and Isobel arrived just as the open sign was being turned in the window. Riot applied his stick to the door, careful to avoid the glass.
A silver-haired woman with rosy cheeks waved the ‘closed’ sign back at him. He knocked again. She hesitated, her cheery eyes flickering to his waist. Riot wore his revolver in a shoulder holster for that very reason. He
never went unarmed, but most only checked a man’s hips for a weapon.
Riot dipped his fingers into his breast pocket and pulled out a card, holding it up to the window.
The woman unlocked the door, and took Riot’s card. She gave it a quick glance.
“I’m Atticus Riot. This is Miss Amsel. Is Mr. Grant still in his office?”
“I’m afraid we’re closed for the day.”
“A girl has gone missing. Mr. Grant may be able to help her.”
Put like that, a person could hardly say no. “I’m Miss Potter, Mr. Grant’s stenographer,” she said.
Miss Potter closed and locked the door, lest more potential clients sneak in. “One moment.”
Isobel surveyed the office as Miss Potter poked her head into an adjoining room. The stenographer’s desk was free of clutter. A typewriter sat under its cover. File cabinets lined one wall. Miss Potter’s purse, gloves, and two tickets waited on her desk.
A murmuring of voices could be heard from the interior office. Finally, a balding man with stooped shoulders came out. Although he had black hair—what little was left of it—no one in their right mind would describe Mr. Grant as a ‘great strong-looking fellow’. He was bookish and pale, and looked like a man under a great deal of stress.
This was no Alex Kingston, attorney to the rich and famous.
“I’m Oliver Grant. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Riot, of course. And Miss Amsel.” His voice was as even, careful and calculated as that of a businessman sizing up a potential client.
“Won’t you come inside my office?”
“Miss Potter may be of help too,” Riot said.
The woman huffed.
“We only have a few questions,” Isobel said. “Plenty of time for you to make the theater.”
The woman started in surprise. Isobel let her marvel. Surely Miss Potter would realize Isobel had seen the two theater tickets sitting by her handbag?
“Elouise Spencer has gone missing,” Riot said.
Mr. Grant stood up straight. While alarmed, he did not seem particularly surprised by this statement.
“You’re acquainted with her, I believe?” Riot asked.
“Ella watched my daughter, Ruby, from time to time.”
“Watched?”
“Mrs. Whitney has charge of Ruby now.”
Riot waited expectantly, and Mr. Grant hastened to explain. “I thought a more mature woman would be better suited to watch Ruby. What with her mother’s—” He cut off, his gaze turning somewhere distant.
Perhaps Mr. Grant had been successful at one time, but grief, Isobel could see, had profoundly affected the man.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Grant,” Riot said.
Mr. Grant fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “It’s been over two years.”
Miss Potter looked on, sympathetic. “When did Ella vanish?” she asked.
“Saturday,” Riot said.
“But that’s impossible,” Mr. Grant said. “I saw her Saturday evening. I walked Ruby to the grocery store, and Ella was there.”
“It was shortly after that,” Riot said.
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“But not surprised,” Riot noted.
The attorney hesitated. “No,” he finally admitted. “Ella was… not a good influence on my daughter.”
“How so?”
Mr. Grant glanced at his assistant. “I don’t like to spread rumors. Most especially where a woman’s reputation is concerned.”
“Her disappearance trumps that, I should think.”
“I saw her being… familiar with a young man. Flirting. While she was in charge of Ruby. It was her mannerisms, you see.” He shifted, uncomfortable.
“When was this?”
“Oh, months ago. I found a more mature caretaker for Ruby shortly after.”
“Do you know the young man’s name?” Isobel asked.
Mr. Grant shook his head.
“Description?”
“Light hair. Colorful waistcoat. Clearly a rake. They were talking outside a theater. The Olympia. I don’t know anymore.”
“What did you discuss outside the store?” Riot asked.
“I asked after her mother, and Ella asked me how Ruby was getting along with Mrs. Whitney. She had bought her candies and such.”
“Mrs. Spencer said that Ella had a friend—a Miss Searlight. She claimed they met here.”
“Miss Searlight,” Mr. Grant repeated absently.
“A client of yours,” Miss Potter said suddenly. “Heather Searlight. She and Ella met in the office. I was there. They fell into easy conversation almost immediately.”
“Where can we find Heather Searlight?” Riot asked.
“That’s confidential. I’m not allowed to share any private information.”
“A girl is missing, Mr. Grant.” The gravity of the words settled in the room.
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t. Can I see you in my office, Miss Potter?” Mr. Grant shared a look with his stenographer, and the two went into his office.
Isobel beat Riot to the file cabinet. She rifled through the names, and pulled out Searlight. A woman of her own age. She had been involved in an inheritance dispute. Isobel noted the address, and slipped the folder back into place.
As the cabinet slid shut, the office door opened and Mr. Grant and Miss Potter returned. The stenographer began gathering up her belongings while humming a show tune.
“We won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Grant,” Riot said, opening the door for the women.
Before Isobel stepped out, she paused. “Can I speak with Ruby tomorrow?”
“Why?” Mr. Grant asked.
“She may have overheard something that would help us find Ella.”
“I don’t want my daughter involved in whatever this is, Miss Amsel. I’ve done enough.” He gave a pointed glance to the filing cabinets.
Riot and Isobel exited with Miss Potter, who walked briskly down the street towards the closest cable car line.
“Curious term of phrase, ‘whatever this is,’” Riot repeated in a low voice.
“And he never asked for details.”
Riot paused under a street lamp to consult his pocket watch. “Where does Miss Searlight live?”
“A boarding house across town on Mission. But that was over a year ago. I’m thinking we may have better luck at her place of employment: Hale’s department store. The court didn’t rule in her favor, so I assume she’s still working there.” Isobel shivered slightly. The sun had never broken through the fog, and now it had set. It was dark and cold, and she had left her long coat at the agency. A hollow pit in her stomach told her she had forgotten to eat, as well.
“We’ll call at Hale’s tomorrow.” Riot started to remove his overcoat, but she shook her head.
“I’m the one who left my warm coat at the office.”
He shrugged out of his coat anyway. “Humor my gallant nature.”
“I’m not sure I want to encourage it.” But she allowed him to place his coat on her shoulders. She hugged it to her, putting her nose to the collar. It smelled of Riot—sandalwood and myrrh, wool and silk, and a masculine scent that made her want to drag him home.
“Does it need laundering?”
Isobel glanced at him. “No.”
A curious glint passed over his eyes. “Why are you smelling it?”
“Because it smells like you.”
Riot gently swung his walking stick. “Missing me?”
“Terribly.”
Riot tapped his brim up, and bent towards the curve of her neck. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day.” It was a purr, and it warmed her more than his coat.
“You did. Thoroughly. Just this morning. Have you forgotten already?”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it… or about last week,” he admitted. “The male physique is hardly subtle.”
Isobel kept her eyes straight ahead. If she looked at him now they’d nev
er get anything done. She swallowed. “Shall we try Miss Searlight’s boarding house tonight?”
“It’s late, and I want to stop by the agency to check in with Tim. Maybe he’s turned up something. We can check on the fate of your newspapers, too.”
Her damn newspapers could wait, but she bit back the comment. “And if nothing turns up?” she asked instead.
Riot put a hand on the small of her back. Despite layers of wool and silk, his touch sent heat blossoming along her back. Her pulse quickened. All she could think of was firelight and his hands on her bare skin.
“I’m sure we’ll think of something to do.”
11
The Quiet One
Grimm liked horses. No words needed saying. A horse sensed moods, and Grimm supposed he could sense theirs too. Mr. Tim called the oldest mare Nag, and called the others whatever came to mind. But Grimm had his own names for the horses—names that didn’t need saying because the horses all knew who they were.
Grimm found most things didn’t need saying.
Mr. Tim and his horse were like an old married couple, the mare showing her disapproval by trying to bite Mr. Tim on a regular basis. But she never tried to bite Grimm. Tim’s mare preferred to be called Mrs. May. She was a wise old gal, and he reckoned she had been spirited in her youth. Grimm always brushed her down with respect, and she repaid him with a stately pose whenever he cared for her.
The painted gelding was younger, but ornery as heck. Except when Mr. Riot walked into the stable. Then the horse calmed and looked at him expectantly. Mr. Riot called him by his true name, Jack, though his full name was Jack-be-Nimble. That fit Jack just perfectly. He was tolerant of Grimm, but it was plain who he preferred. Grimm thought the pair of them, horse and rider, had seen too much.
The third and final horse in Ravenwood stables was calm as a still mountain lake. Sugar. He thought of her as a friend, and hoped she felt the same. Grimm was brushing her now. It was simple work—the quiet kind Grimm preferred.
Jack raised his head and turned his ears forward in alarm. It had turned dark, and there were shadows in the yard. Light spilled from the kitchen of Ravenwood Manor, where his mother was moving around, preparing dinner for the boarders. Without stilling his brush, Grimm turned slightly to look at what had caught Jack’s attention.
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