The sea swirled around them, rising like a roused beast. Its roar drowned Riot’s hurried breath, as well as the soft click. The hinge popped open. Riot unthreaded the chain and tossed the lock into the pool. The chains released their hold, and Lotario sank. Isobel dragged her twin to the surface, memories of Curtis’ limp body taunting her mind. Lotario was alive, she reminded herself. He was alive, and would live. She hooked her arm around his chest, supported his body on her hip, and swam towards the shore, reaching and kicking with every stroke.
Keeping a hand on the jacket’s strap, she slithered onto solid rock, and heaved on the jacket. Lotario was not a large man, but his body was all sleek muscle. Still, he was nothing compared to a mainsail. She pulled him onto solid ground, dragged him under the pipe and into the sand. Confused, Lotario tried to stand, but only managed to fall face first in the sand.
Shivering, she dragged him onto safer ground, and worked at the buckles of the straightjacket. “Stay with me, Ari. You cannot fall asleep.”
“Don’t you dare slap me again,” he muttered. The words unwound a knot in her gut, and she tugged and pulled on the straps, peeling him out of the wet canvas. When he was free, she tossed it down the tunnel as if it were a snake. He wore drawers and chemise, and she snatched Riot’s dry coat, wrapping it snuggly around his shoulders. The sight of Riot’s clothing gave her pause. She looked around the cave, but saw no sign of the detective.
“Riot,” she breathed, scrambling under the pipeline. The water was high and angry and she splashed through the cold, squinting across the pool.
Riot was precisely where she had left him, clinging to the pipe. “Get out of there!” she shouted over the roar.
“I cannot swim, Bel.” Despite the shout, his voice was resigned.
“You could have told me that earlier,” she hollered back. Without waiting for a retort, she plunged back into the wild surge. A swell sucked at her legs, slamming her foot against a sharp rock. The cold drowned out pain, and she kicked off, reaching for the other side.
The detective had a death grip on the pipe.
“Riot,” she said calmly into his ear, “you need to let go.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
She waited a moment. Slowly, one finger uncurled, and then two; the third hesitated. Riot was as tense as a board, and likely as heavy as a rock.
“I’m going to help you across, but you need to relax. You need to roll onto your back.”
The fingers clamped around the pipe. It was the wrong thing to say. She tried again. “We’ll use the wall.”
“It’s too slippery, I tried.” Riot reached for her, but there was a bit too much desperation in his eye. She lunged back.
“You need to relax first.”
“I am relaxed!” His voice cracked. Of all the times she had wished to see his irritating calm ruffled, this was not it. Isobel did the only thing she could think of—she slipped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips and body to his. It was a long, lingering kiss. His beard was wet, his body strong, and his lips parted. She took ruthless advantage of the break and he responded in kind.
Pulling away was like emerging from water. Isobel took a breath. Her whole body tingled. One of his hands cradled the back of her head, fingers entangled in her hair.
Isobel did not wait for his mind to return. She shifted positions, swimming behind him, and wrapped an arm around his chest. “Trust me, Riot.”
He let go. She kicked off the wall, dragging him through the water. At the far side, his shock wore off, and he tensed, twisting around, reaching for the rocks. He pulled himself out of the water, and she followed.
On the other side of the pipe, they staggered to their feet, pulling on clothes over uncooperative limbs. Isobel bent over her brother. “Time to go, Ari,” she started to pull him up, but Lotario resisted.
“Oh, no,” he chattered. “I prefer the handsome one.”
Isobel snorted. “A sure sign you’ll live, brother.”
Riot was doubled over, hands on knees, his features drawn, and his body wracked with shivers. He swallowed, gathered his strength and pride, and straightened. “I’m not near as exciting a rescuer as Bel,” he said, hoisting Lotario to his feet.
34
After the Fall
“I COULDN’T DO IT, Ari.” The twins lay in a lush bed, forehead to forehead, knees touching beneath the warm comforter. “I couldn’t kill August. I’m sorry,” Isobel whispered.
“Clearly you don’t love me enough,” Lotario drawled. With his severe shivering, the sarcasm was lost. She kicked his shin anyway.
“We may be freaks of nature, you and I, but we’re not cruel. I’m not at any rate,” Lotario amended. “The poor devils. I might feel for August and Virgil if they had not turned love into something so twisted.”
“You are too kind, Lotario,” she said toying with a lock of golden hair. Although she would never admit it, she missed her own, but her twin’s was close enough. “My first murder—solved even—and all I feel is sick. A part of me wishes I’d never stuck my nose in it. I shall turn to cocaine and have brown studies,” she announced.
“Don’t be sick,” Lotario beseeched. “It will ruin the silk.”
A small smile curved her lips.
“That’s better,” her twin smiled. “If it were me, I would have took my lover far away, to some peaceful place and lived the rest of my life free. August didn’t need to do what he did. He took it further. You know all that business about ‘an eye for an eye’,” he murmured thoughtfully, “I always thought that rather than telling us what to do, it warned a man where to stop—to go no further.”
“Theology and philosophy.” She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. It was still ice. “Where is my brother?”
“Thinking hell is not the hot place the preachers would send me—but a cold cave.” A long shiver traveled from the crown of his head to the tips of his toe. He closed his eyes. “Why is it always a cave?”
“Because you want to be free,” Isobel answered. She rubbed a hand along his arm, trying to generate some heat. “Don’t worry, I would be like Orpheus and drag you out.”
“Although you wouldn’t be so foolish as to look back.”
“I should have looked back sooner,” Isobel sighed. “Riot nearly drowned.”
“The poor man,” Lotario frowned. “To think, a man who can’t swim ventured into that pool all for me.”
“I think Riot’s the kind of man who would risk his life for anyone in need.”
“Oh, don’t take the wind from my sails,” her twin huffed. “Let me bask in his gallantry. I certainly hope you are.”
“At the moment, I’m more concerned about you,” she admitted. “I nearly got you killed.”
Lotario laughed, a clear note that pierced her gloom. “That’s never happened before. Really, Bel, you always act as though I’m incapable of making my own choices. I wanted to help, and I did. There’s always risk when you’re involved—I learned that lesson early on. And yet, I keep coming back.”
Isobel rolled on her back, staring into the mirror on the ceiling, and Lotario did the same, meeting her gaze in the reflection.
“Madame de Winter is all but dead,” she pressed the issue. “August will tell the police.”
Lotario shrugged the shoulder resting against hers. “I still have Paris.”
She looked around her twin’s bedroom. Paris, yet another one of Lotario’s nom de plumes, lived in a brothel room.
“Why do you live here, Ari?”
“I like it.”
“I don’t buy it,” she persisted. “You could have a whole house to yourself. Why here? Does Hera have something on you?”
“No, just leave it.”
“I won’t,” she persisted.
“Have you ever considered that this is the only place where I belong? I can be myself here; I don’t have to hide.”
“You can be yourself with me.”
“It’s not the same. Besides you have your Ri
ot.”
“He’s not mine.”
“Hmm.” He raised a brow.
“Why don’t we take the Lady and sail to Hawaii?” she ventured.
Lotario crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “Don’t do this, Bel. I won’t let you run away.”
“I’m not running.”
“You always run when someone gets close to you.”
Isobel opened her mouth, but nothing came to mind, so she clicked it shut. She glared at her twin, and then saw the stubborn line of her lips, and softened. “Maybe I do,” she admitted.
Lotario looked supremely satisfied with himself. “You do,” he stated. “But this time you can’t. Do you know why?”
Isobel narrowed her eyes. “Because you are enamored with Riot, and wish to live vicariously through your twin?” she asked dryly.
He ignored her sarcasm. “No, sister dear, because every queen needs a king to protect, and I think you’ve found yours. Besides, you really must teach him to swim.”
She was quiet for a time, mulling over his words.
Lotario soon broke through her thoughts. “I hope you’re pondering all the delicious possibilities of teaching that man to swim.”
She looked at him. “No, I’m thinking about Madame de Winter and my other ‘king’.”
“I prefer Queen.”
“Do you remember when we used to confuse Mother with our shell game?”
Lotario’s lips curved like a cat.
“Are you sure we’re not cruel?” she asked.
“Mother would definitely disagree.”
35
The Shell Game
MADAME DE WINTER WAVED TO the sea of faces. It may very well be her last performance, so she made the best of it. Two encores, and now, she basked in the applause. Roses sailed onto the stage along with proposals of marriage.
With a wistful smile, Lucie gathered the bouquets and sauntered off to meet her fate. Praises followed in her wake, and she accepted with graciousness. But soon after, the faces of admirers faded, and she walked through the chaotic backstage. Eventually, even friends and theatre family fell behind.
Men were waiting in front of her dressing room. Lucie did not like to worry; it gave her wrinkles. One man wore a police uniform, the other a suit with a badge. The third was Atticus Riot, and his face was grave.
“Mr. Riot,” she said. “My gallant rescuer.” With hat in hand, he bowed, brushing her knuckles with his lips. “And who are these fine gentlemen?” Her eyes roved appreciatively over the man in uniform and finally settled on the silver-haired gentleman in a suit.
“Madame de Winter, this is Deputy Inspector Coleman,” Riot introduced.
“To what do I owe the honor?” she asked, presenting her hand.
The Inspector shook it courteously. “I’ve long been an admirer, but I’m afraid I’m here on business. Mr. Riot thought it would avoid—rumor, if we spoke here. Could we step into your dressing room?”
“Of course,” Lucie said. “You’re not the first men to step inside my boudoir.” She opened the door, and they followed on her heels. “Tea, coffee, sweets?” Lucie helped herself to a glass of water to ease the performance fatigue.
“No thank you, Madame,” Coleman said.
Lucie sat, and looked up at the men. “Is this about that horrid man who abducted me? I don’t know what would have become of me if Mr. Riot had not come to the rescue.”
“I’m afraid it does,” Coleman nodded. “When we questioned Duncan August he confessed to everything, and—” the man hesitated, “more. He made accusations of you that cannot be ignored.”
“Oh.” Lucie blinked. “A murderer made accusations? How liberal.” She sipped her water, waiting.
Riot glanced at the inspector, eyes glittering. The detective was as still as a statue save for a finger tapping against his silver-knobbed stick.
“Given August’s nature,” the inspector continued. “We cannot ignore his accusations, nor the reasons he gave for your abduction.”
“I’m glad he gave you reason. He never told me a thing. I thought him mad, you know. I feared he intended to ravage me.” Her eyes flashed.
The inspector cleared his throat. “I will be blunt, Madame. August accused you of being a man.”
Lucie arched a sculpted brow. “I’ve been accused of a great many things, but never that.”
“Shocking, I know, but it’s easily put to rest,” Coleman hastened. “If you would accompany me to the station and submit to examination by a nurse, we can silence his accusations.”
“Silence?” she asked. “Inspector, I am hounded by the press daily. If I show my face at the station, rumors will fly, and reporters will plaster my good name all over their papers. I should like to keep this private. The Good Lord knows that nurses gossip, and a rumor like that is far too profitable to keep quiet.”
“Nonetheless, it must be put to rest, or it will find its way into the courts. I assure you that the examination will be conducted with the utmost privacy.”
Lucie stood. “I do not have time for a madman’s ravings. We’ll settle this argument here and now.”
“I beg your pardon?” the Inspector asked.
Lucie tugged off her gloves, tossing them down on a chair, and then began removing her jewelry. “You are both respected gentlemen. I’m sure your testimony would suffice. Mr. Riot, would you help me with my gown?”
“Madame, I would never subject you to such an examination,” Coleman protested.
“But you have no qualms with dragging me down to your station and subjecting me to some dour woman’s stares. I much prefer a male admirer. My modesty won’t be offended, I assure you.”
Coleman blushed and blustered, and Lucie sauntered behind her dressing screen.
Riot looked at the Deputy. “It would save time and possible speculation.”
“Only if Madame de Winter insists.”
“I do,” she called. “Mr. Riot?”
Riot obliged, stepping behind the screen. Silk rustled, and Riot returned, watching the white baroque wig behind the screen move up and down as Lucie shed her underthings. Dainty lace undergarments were draped over the side, and the Inspector tugged on his collar, looking uncomfortable.
In a few minutes, Madame de Winter stepped out from behind the screen. She retained her wig and heavy makeup, but wore a flimsy silk robe. The men looked at her as she teased the ties open, holding the robe out like a pair of wings, relishing the feel of air on her flesh.
The inspector cleared his throat, and nodded briskly, averting his gaze. Riot, however, let his eyes rove.
“That is all the proof we require. Thank you, Madame,” the Inspector stressed.
“Are you quite sure you don’t require a second, or even a third look?” Lucie purred.
Coleman put on his hat. “I do apologize. You have more than proven your gender.”
Slowly, she retied her robe, keeping her gaze on the raven-haired detective. He had partaken of a second look.
When Riot followed the inspector out, Isobel nearly burst out laughing. A muffled chortle rose from behind the screen, and she poked her head around, grinning down at her twin. He had a hand over his painted lips.
“That was brilliant,” he whispered.
“Too easy.”
“Your pitch was off, Bel,” he critiqued. “I don’t sound like that.”
Isobel snorted, and dropped down next to him. Lotario was wrapped in an identical robe. “The Inspector was too busy trying not to stare at my flesh.” She looked down at her own body. “God knows why.”
“You’re a sleek gazelle.”
“No, you are,” she corrected. “I prefer tigress.”
“Have your wish,” he waved a flippant hand. “What about your Riot?”
The door clicked open, and Isobel peeked around the screen. Speak of the devil.
“He’s gone,” Riot said when he closed the door. She motioned him over, and he came, staring down at the twins. The detective frowned,
looking from one to the next, dressed in identical wig, makeup, and robes. “I must admit to being unnerved. Please don’t ever pull that stunt on me.”
“You’d notice,” Isobel said with confidence. “And if you didn’t, then you’d deserve it. You are a scoundrel, Riot.”
The man cracked a smile. “Beauty should always be appreciated.”
“I think he met you, Ari,” Isobel said dryly.
Lotario fanned himself. “Obviously.” The male half of the pair nearly swooned.
36
The Dreaded Pen
THE PAGE WAS BLANK. Her fingers were poised, but no words emerged. Isobel glared at the offending page. A jumble of words wanted to tumble through her fingers, but her heart said no.
“It’s best to start small, with a detail,” a voice interrupted her growing despair. Isobel blinked, wiped a hand across her eyes, and looked for the source. Cara Sharpe leaned against the desk, smoke curling from her cigarette.
“Pardon me?”
Cara removed the cigarette from her lips. “When the paper is staring back at you, it’s intimidating. The only way to skirt its defenses is through the cracks. Start with a detail.”
“It’s the details that have me trapped,” Isobel admitted.
“Trouble with a man?”
Isobel lifted a shoulder, sitting back. “Aren’t they always trouble?”
The older woman smirked, and offered Isobel a cigarette. With muttered gratitude, she stuck the gasper between her lips, and struck a match, putting it to the end. It wasn’t the smoke, it wasn’t the taste, it was the flare of the match, and the first drag of defiance that she enjoyed.
Isobel closed her eyes, savoring the moment. When it passed, she flicked ash into a tray, gathering her thoughts. “Have you ever come across a story that you cringed to tell?”
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” Cara quoted. “That wasn’t uttered to stoke a reporter’s ego. Words can cut men down, ruin women, and slant public opinion. I’ve seen it all and I’ve done it all.”
A Bitter Draught Page 28
