Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Not well, but she’s relieved their father smothered a scandal. If whispers started… It might affect her own pending marriage.”

  Isobel wondered if Violet’s word choice was intentional. “To the Englishman in New York?”

  “Englishman?” Violet gave a little laugh. “Fredrick Starling lives in New York, but he does travel quite often and he likes to play the Englishman for the ladies. He’s utterly refined, and I imagine his family wouldn’t take the truth about Dominic lightly.”

  “This isn’t England,” Isobel pointed out. “Scandal doesn’t ruin a family quite so much in San Francisco.”

  “True, but Freddie is from a well-bred Bostonian family, which might as well be British society, considering the family ties. The Starlings only gave their blessing to Freddie and Imogen’s engagement because of the money involved, not the blood line.”

  “How was he killed?” Margaret asked.

  Violet looked to Isobel, but she didn’t answer. “The police said he was choked,” Violet finally said.

  “And Dominic’s youngest sisters, do they know?” Isobel asked.

  Violet shook her head. “I think Faith and Helen suspect something more. They’re heartbroken, of course. Dom was their older brother, but he was more like a father to them.”

  “And their own father? Ian Noble?”

  “No one crosses Ian Noble,” Violet said. “Well… Dom did, indirectly.”

  Isobel arched a brow.

  “He avoided his father as much as possible.”

  “Do you know what they argued about before Dominic died?”

  “Katherine hired you, didn’t she?”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Imogen said her mother and father decided against telling Katherine, to save her from further pain. It’s a shame… I think she and Dominic would’ve been happy together.”

  “Did Katherine and Imogen get along?”

  Violet narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions about the family? Shouldn’t you be searching for his murderer at the Nymphia?”

  “I like to be thorough.”

  “I don’t want to see Imogen hurt,” Violet said. “And this doesn’t feel right. I’m not your spy, Isobel.”

  “I’m not asking you to spy. I’m asking you what you already know.”

  “I don’t gossip about friends.”

  Margaret cleared her throat. She was pretending to read the book on her lap.

  Violet amended her statement. “About important things.”

  “That’s loyal of you,” Isobel said. “I’m only trying to find the truth. I don’t want any of this to get out either, but there is a murderer on the loose. Others may be in danger, and it’s important I find out why Dominic was in the Nymphia.”

  “Why else would he go there? He’s a man.”

  “A rich one, who could afford much better than the Nymphia has to offer.”

  “Who knows with men,” Violet said. “Get enough whiskey in them and they’d think a mule attractive.”

  “Mules are adorable,” Margaret agreed, flipping through pages.

  A silence fell over the colorful caravan as Violet grappled with her conscience. “Are you looking to be introduced to the family?”

  “Not exactly,” Isobel said. “Not as myself, at any rate. I’d like you to write a letter of reference for me. For a position in the household.”

  “You mean you want me to lie?”

  Margaret grimaced.

  “It’s not so much a lie as a deception for the good of the family.”

  “You’re an acquaintance, Isobel. Imogen is a friend. I won’t lie to her. What if she ends up hurt by your meddling?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Isobel admitted. “I don’t know what I’ll discover in the household. I may find nothing at all.”

  Violet glared at her. “I still haven’t forgiven you for claiming to be Charlotte Bonnie.”

  “Well, I was—and am, after a fashion,” Isobel said. “Besides, I thought I made up for that by getting rid of that horrid gentleman’s club and their brick building.”

  “The building is still there,” Violet said dryly. “Only now it’s run-down, and there are no handsome men prancing about.”

  Margaret slapped the book closed. “Wouldn’t it all be worth it just to see Isobel posing as a maid? You could even go over for dinner and snicker at her.”

  Violet tapped a finger to her lips. “They did lose another maid.”

  “Another?” Isobel asked.

  “Faith and Helen don’t get out much, so they tend to be bored. They make a game out of chasing away maids. Mrs. Noble tries to hire women in need.”

  “Prostitutes?”

  “Heavens, no. Mrs. Noble hires them before they sink that low. She believes in giving any woman, no matter her race, a chance. By doing that, she’s keeping them from turning to a life of prostitution. And…” Violet hesitated. “Given Faith and Helen’s reputation, she finds it hard to staff the household with anyone save the truly desperate.”

  “That sounds splendid,” Margaret said, with a glint in her eyes.

  Violet appeared to be warming to the idea, too. “Yes, I think I shall write you a reference.”

  32

  Changing of the Guard

  Riot nearly missed his own agency. Granted, it’d moved from another building, then been blown to bits with dynamite, but he’d been inside when it was attacked, so he should’ve recognized it.

  When he realized the address, he quickly knocked on the hack’s ceiling. It rolled to a stop, and he turned to stare back at the brick building. Isobel could’ve warned him.

  It was on the corner, white, on a street of red brick and wooden faux fronts. His fingers twitched for his missing walking stick.

  Riot searched the street and windows, then hopped out and flipped the driver a coin. He pushed open the door and stepped into his agency.

  Matthew was leaning on a counter, talking with the girl behind it. Aside from plush armchairs, the waiting room was empty.

  Matthew grew pale, then straightened.

  The girl smiled. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Riot felt a stranger in his own agency. But then he hardly looked like a detective in rough cap and clothes; he looked more like a sailor lost in the Barbary Coast.

  “Where is Lotario?” Riot asked Matthew.

  Matthew hurried to open a reinforced door, then pointed down a hallway. Riot passed a room with multiple desks, where Tim was chatting with Miss Off and a gentleman with a curling mustache, then stopped at a door with a plate that read: Director of Operations.

  Riot didn’t bother knocking; he let himself in. Lotario was leaning over a set of plans, in conference with a keg of a man who looked like he used his fists to hammer in nails.

  When Riot entered, the keg-like man straightened, cracking his knuckles. Lotario glanced up from the plans, his face draining of blood.

  It was a well-appointed office. Rich but stylish furniture, the kind one would find at a gentleman’s club. Wooden filing cabinets lined an entire wall, and Riot was glad to see a modern lock on the inside of the door.

  Lotario stood ramrod straight, his fingers carefully placed on the desk top. “Whatever you think best, Flinch. If you’ll excuse me… I need to speak with this gentleman.”

  “He a problem, Mr. Amsel?”

  “Goodness, no. My twin will kill him if he harms me.”

  After Flinch gathered up the plans and left, Riot shut the door.

  “You’re looking well, Atticus. The last time I saw you, you were lurching out of bed naked.” Lotario couldn’t resist a brow waggle. “As much as I enjoyed the show, I must say those trousers are well-fitte—”

  “Don’t. Start.” Riot pointed a finger at the young man. Identical to his twin in nearly every way save gender, it was always a little dizzying to face Lotario. The same eyes, the same lips, the same bone structure and slim build. But whereas Isobel was all arrogance and sharpness, Lotario was l
anguid and easily bored. He didn’t look bored now.

  Riot pulled a chair in front of the desk and sat to regard his new business partner—a partner who now owned Ravenwood Agency.

  “Would you like a drink?” Lotario asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lotario turned to a sideboard, and poured two whiskeys. He handed one to Riot with a slight nod, downed his own, and sat down.

  Riot waited.

  It didn’t take long for Lotario to crack. Words poured from his lips like a geyser. “You needed capital, and I had money I was looking to invest in a new business. Tim sold me his share. There’s really nothing more to say.”

  “You’re babbling,” Riot said.

  “What else am I supposed to do? You’re just staring at me.”

  “Feeling guilty?”

  “Now I am. Though I have no idea why I should be.”

  “None whatsoever?” Riot asked.

  “This agency was in debt. I bought you out. That’s what investors do.”

  “You invested in a detective agency. That’s hardly good business.”

  “As if you’d know,” Lotario said, with a roll of his eyes. “Look, it was either this or a brothel. And I really didn’t want to deal with the drama of running a whorehouse.”

  “As good a reason as any, I suppose.”

  Lotario sniffed. “You’re mocking me.”

  “I’m not mocking you, Lotario.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Do I look angry?”

  Lotario’s eyes sharpened. “Honestly, I have no idea. Do you know how much that vexes me?”

  “Do I look like I care?”

  “You don’t give me much to work with. How on earth does Bel put up with you?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea,” Riot said.

  Lotario took a calming breath. “I’ll be blunt. You’re a horrid businessman. There was no money to fix up the agency after it was dynamited. Tim couldn’t even pay the surviving agents. This agency means a lot to you and Bel, so I stepped in. I have a mind for business and investigation. It’s all been very diverting.”

  “Diverting,” Riot drawled the word. “That’s what I was waiting to hear.”

  “You were?”

  “What happens when you tire of this? How many hats do you already have?”

  Lotario sat back. “I’ve seen your hat collection; it far surpasses mine.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “This is business, Atticus. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t my life’s work. It’s not my passion—it’s a hobby of mine. Occasionally I purchase failing businesses, turn them around until they make a profit, and move on to something else.”

  “We kept the agency small for a reason. This is not small.”

  “And?”

  “The only way the Pinkertons could stay afloat was by hiring out to the railroads and mining magnates. They became their own personal army, and I don’t want to go down that road.”

  “For God’s sake, I’m not planning on opening branches across America. And yes, I can turn a profit. The detective business really isn’t much different from the whoring business. And I’ve had an excellent teacher.”

  “That concerns me.”

  “That I’m occasionally a whore?”

  “No, your teacher. Hera. I don’t trust her.”

  “You and Bel.”

  “That should tell you something.”

  “Why don’t you trust her?”

  “Because I know what’s involved in operating a brothel in this city. It requires bribery, blackmail, and powerful connections with people willing to look the other way.”

  Lotario leaned forward. “Or a number of powerful men who lust after some good, hard cock.” His eyes flashed at the last whipcrack of a word. But Riot wasn’t scandalized. “You’re no fun at all to shock,” Lotario huffed.

  “I’ve worked these streets longer than you’ve been alive.”

  “And I respect that, which is why I’m only planning to run the business side of things. I’m not Bel. I won’t wrestle you for control of an investigation.”

  “You’re hiring agents, Lotario. The people out there have no idea who I am. That means you’re in charge now. When you bought this agency, you bought the name which means you have a host of hired guns, a network of informants, and a long history in this city.”

  Lotario’s lips parted in surprise. Riot watched as a slow sort of realization crept into his eyes. “I don’t have your experience, Atticus. I wouldn’t presume to—” Lotario cut off as Riot leaned forward.

  “I never wanted to run this agency,” Riot confided in a low voice. “I have no interest in overseeing its day-to-day operations. Ravenwood hired me for my gun, not my mind.”

  “But Bel said it’s your life.”

  “I have a family now. They’re my life.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Lotario said, preening.

  Riot stood. “Fair warning. I’m not known for following orders. As soon as—”

  The door opened, and Isobel strode in, her eyes flickering between men. “Are you two playing nice?”

  “I’ve just finished telling Atticus who’s boss around here,” Lotario said, settling his pince-nez back in place.

  “I’m sure,” Isobel said dryly.

  “From now on you’ll be taking orders from me.”

  Isobel snorted and looked to Riot. “How’d it go with Taft?”

  “I think we can trust him. He’s in. Did you get your references?”

  She nodded, then stepped out to call in Matthew and Tim.

  When Tim entered, he gave Riot a pat on the shoulder. “Knew you didn’t shoot Monty, boy.”

  “Your confidence in me is heartwarming,” Riot said.

  Lotario glared at his twin. “We have an interoffice telephone for that. Yelling down the hallway is so—”

  “Practical?” Isobel shot back.

  “Uncouth,” Lotario finished.

  Tim yanked on his beard. “What now?”

  “It means my twin is an arrogant ass.”

  Lotario snatched a notepad from the desk. “I’m writing you up for that.”

  Isobel gave her twin a rude gesture as she fell into the chair Riot had vacated for her.

  “What is it, Matthew?” Riot asked, noticing the younger man’s stony face.

  He glanced between Riot and Lotario. “Who do I take orders from, sir?”

  “Me,” Isobel said, then dodged a thrown pencil. She stuck her tongue out at her twin.

  Riot went over to the Mappin and Webb cabinet and lifted the lid, surveying the bottles of expensive liquor. “Lotario is now the owner of Ravenwood Agency. But that doesn’t mean you have to take orders from him, Matt. Any more than you have to take them from me. On the rare occasions when I take orders, it’s generally from whoever sounds the most sensible.”

  “So probably not Miss Off,” Isobel noted.

  Riot selected a decanter, and sniffed at it. Water. He spared a glance at his wife, who he’d noted had walked in with a stiff stride and sat down with care. She was also covered in a sheen of dust and looked to be melting in her chair. He poured a glass, cut a lime, then squeezed it in before setting the glass in front of her.

  She looked up at him, eyes full of warmth. “Will you do the honors?”

  Riot gave a quick summary of the Noble case, during which Lotario fell silent. Then Riot told them what he’d learned from Liam Taft.

  “’Bout that,” Tim said. His pipe wasn’t lit, but he’d stuck the stem between his lips to search his pockets. “There’s a fellow there, Carson, in charge of security. An old saddle tramp I’ve been hanging about with seems to think Carson’s a Pinkerton.”

  “At the racetrack?” Riot asked, surprised.

  Tim nodded. “Ask that fellow Taft about him.”

  “What is a saddle tramp?” Lotario asked.

  Tim cackled. “His name’s Skunk. Old cowboy, who spent most his time in the chuck line.”
/>
  Lotario wrinkled his nose. “How appetizing.”

  “Me and Mack met him during that stolen horse case.”

  The room fell silent—heavy with grief, with the memory of a man, and the absence of his booming Scottish voice. Riot placed a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. “Have you discovered anything more about Carson?” he asked.

  Tim finally found what he was looking for. “Sure as heck. But I’m not certain this fellow Carson claims to be a Pinkerton. Skunk has an ear for rumor, but that doesn’t mean it’s all true. I tried to hire on with security, but I’m old and used up far as these young’uns are concerned, so that didn’t end well. But…” Tim slapped a wad of crumpled papers on the desk. “Got a peek into his office and garbage can.”

  Tim had slapped down a wadded pile of papers stuck together with chewing gum. Lotario used a letter opener to poke at the mess.

  “Carson had a bunch more of those on his desk. Stuck through a spike like an accountant’s receipt holder.”

  “They’re betting slips,” Isobel said.

  Lotario nudged one over with his letter opener. “Who saves betting slips? They’re usually torn up and tossed on the ground after a race.”

  “I thought that odd, too,” Tim said, then gave a shrug. “I’ll keep poking around. But I thought… Well, I’d like Grimm to hire on at the track. You hiring him as a detective?”

  Lotario looked up. “Absolutely. He’s exceptional. But he darted out before I could tell him. I’ve telephoned and sent a wire, but he hasn’t given an answer.”

  Tim grunted. “Boy spooks easily. I’ll talk with him. I don’t think it’ll be dangerous. He’ll have an easy time hiring on as a horse handler. He’s got the gift. And everyone will think he’s deaf and dumb.”

  Riot watched Lotario for a reaction. Did he understand the responsibility involved—the guilt and regret of assigning an agent to a case that proved lethal? Unfortunately, he’d learn. One day. Riot just hoped it wouldn’t be Isobel.

  “Yes, but only if Grimm is willing,” Lotario said. “And I want you to check on him. Daily, if possible.”

  Tim nodded. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Matthew,” Isobel said, eyeing the man. “You look like you’ve done some rowing in your day.”