Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  Introductions were made, but Sarah stumbled over her name. She just couldn’t lie. “Sarah Byrne. I’m here with my gramma.” For whatever reason, Isobel seemed intent on keeping her new family name out of it. So this seemed an easy workaround.

  The girls giggled at her Tennessee drawl. Then a girl standing next to Helen Noble, an Annie Simpson, got wide eyes. “Say, I’ve read about you in the newspapers, haven’t I? Your picture was on the front page.”

  Sarah blushed all the way to her toes. “Yes,” she admitted. Isobel would be so disappointed with her. And the next thing she knew, the girls were pressing for details about the trouble she’d found herself in earlier that year. Sarah gave them what she could, skirting dangerously close to a lie—she couldn’t tell the whole truth without betraying a promise to Mr. Sin. “My uncle died, and I was fortunate to be taken in by a loving family.” Never mind their eccentricities.

  “Helen’s brother just died…” Annie confided.

  Helen’s eyes dimmed with grief, and Sarah felt an instant pang of sympathy. She didn’t have to pretend at all. “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I don’t know if the pain will ever go away…” It was as simple and as honest as that, and Sarah and Helen quickly bonded over their shared grief.

  37

  The Line

  Talking with Tim should have been simple. It was only a question. Then why was Isobel dreading it? One rarely approached a friend to talk about the murder he’d committed. But was it an unlawful killing? There was the crux. Fifty years ago it would’ve been called justice.

  Isobel found Tim in the stable house cleaning a rifle, of all things. She nearly left, but stopped herself in the doorway.

  “I picked up some new locks for you to practice on,” he said, without turning around.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  The old man started chuckling. It was a deranged sort of sound. “I hope to God you weren’t trying to sneak up on me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Truth be told, I was expecting you.”

  “Is that why you’re cleaning your rifle?”

  Tim put down his instruments and started reassembling the weapon. His gnarled hands were smooth and practiced enough to do it blindfolded. “Always keep your firearms clean. Never know when you might have need of one.”

  Sage advice had never sounded so sinister to her ears.

  “Don’t you worry about the other case,” Tim said, without turning. “Grimm got himself situated at the racetrack like a natural. Walked right up to a hot-blooded horse that was giving the handlers issues and calmed him right down. Got a job on the spot.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  “Me neither.”

  “If you need to contact me, you can always send a message—”

  “We got you covered, girl.” Tim turned. “I’ll keep A.J. up to speed on anything we find. That twin of yours thinks there’s something more to the tickets, too. But you know all that… Go on, blurt it out.”

  “Blurt what out?” she asked sharply. There was nothing worse than someone knowing her own mind. Small wonder others found it annoying when she did the same. Well, there was something worse—this conversation.

  Tim raised bushy brows, waiting.

  “A member of the thieving gang saw you, Tim.” Her voice wavered. “I let him go.”

  “You should’ve turned him over to the police.”

  Isobel stepped closer. “He saw you shoot Monty.”

  Tim shrugged. “Did he know my name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he see?”

  “A white-haired old man.”

  Tim scratched his beard. “Huh. Unfortunate that I’m the only one of those in the city. Guess I’m pegged.”

  Isobel glared. “He could identify you.”

  “He could identify a heap of suspects.”

  “Tim, this isn’t a game.”

  “Nope,” he agreed, and fished around for his pipe and pouch. “You know I’d never ask you to bear the burden of a secret you can’t live with. I didn’t intend for you to carry it at all.” His blue eyes were bright and piercing, without a shadow of regret.

  “You shot Monty in cold blood. Then left him on a street to rot. He wasn’t found for two days. That doesn’t bother you?” she whispered.

  Tim stuffed a pinch of tobacco into the pipe bowl. “The dead don’t bother me.”

  “You ever think just maybe they should?”

  Tim paused, then hooked a second stool with his foot, and pulled it out. “Let me tell you a story. Then you can decide if I’ve gone beyond the pale. Fair enough?”

  In answer, she sat and watched as Tim went about the business of lighting his pipe. “You ever keep a dog?” he asked.

  “My brothers kept some around. And Lotario had one that he was fond of.”

  “What I figured,” he said. “You don’t strike me as a dog person. More of a cat lady.”

  She didn’t argue.

  “I had this dog. Piper, I called her. Found her as a puppy. Frozen little starved thing. Carried her around in my coat to keep her warm till she was strong enough to fend for herself. She followed me everywhere. Sleet, snow, rain, desert. You name it. She was my constant companion for eight good years. Then I caught her playing with a fox one day. It was real friendly, till it bit her.”

  “I couldn’t risk it. I shot the fox, then much as it pained me, I tied her up to see if she’d go rabid. Sure enough…” His eyes misted. “Still stings when I think about her. I hoped it wouldn’t take, but…” His voice cracked, and he cleared the grit from his throat. “You ever see something die of rabies?”

  Isobel shook her head.

  “Awful way to go. I seen this one fellow beat his head against a stone to make the pain stop.” He lit a match and put it to the bowl, puffing, until the tobacco caught. He took a few savoring puffs until he was satisfied, then looked her in the eye.

  “Now what do you think I did?” he asked, his voice hard. “You think I let her loose out of love? So she could cause someone else to suffer?”

  “No.”

  “Sure as hell I didn’t,” he said. “You think I kicked her till her ribs broke? You think I bashed her head till she didn’t know up from down, till her eyes were swollen shut, and her jaw broken? You think I tossed her in a gutter in a cold rain and left her to die alone?”

  Cold fury blazed in his eyes, and his stare pinned Isobel to her seat.

  “’Cause that’s exactly what Monty did to A.J. That’s the kind of man he was. What do you think I did?”

  Isobel swallowed. “You shot her. Clean. One bullet.”

  Tim looked away, his hands shaking, as he rubbed at a jagged scar crossing the back of one. “Don’t think I killed her lightly. Sometimes a dog has to be put down, no matter how much you love ‘em. ’Specially a rabid one.”

  Isobel was quiet.

  “So, no,” he said, hoarsely. “I’m not troubled; I did what needed doing.”

  “There are courts for that…”

  Tim puffed out a wheezing laugh. “Those same courts have more blood on their hands then I’ll ever have.” She couldn’t deny it. Corruption poisoned the law. Alex had bought an entire jury to convict her. “Someone sent a rabid dog after your husband. And I admit it, I killed their rabid dog. It’s the only message those sorts understand—that we bite back. But the only judge and jury I care about is you. So what’s it going to be?”

  Isobel considered the old man in front of her. Creased and worn by life, his eyes bright, with laugh lines at the corners, and sadness on his lips. “You’d let me turn you in?”

  Tim wheezed with amusement. “Does a dog know it’s rabid?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, honestly.

  “Well, I don’t know either. Maybe I’m rabid; maybe I’m not. But I am an old dog. And I’d prefer an honest friend to put me down rather than some lying son of a bitch.”

  “I don’t want to turn you in, Tim,” she said with a shake of he
r head. “I just—” Isobel couldn’t bring herself to say the words. But Tim already knew. He’d been there the night she’d shot her older brother. She forced the words out. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of Curtis. I wish I had your peace.”

  Tim plucked out his pipe and pointed the stem at her. “I made a choice when I killed Piper. Same when I killed Monty. I thought long and hard before pulling the trigger. You didn’t have that choice. Curtis forced you into it. And it’s hell to make peace with things we can’t control.”

  Isobel sat, stunned. It was true. It was so true it hurt. Curtis had cornered her, attacked her, and forced her hand. She hadn’t had a choice.

  Tim gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I didn’t ask you to cover up my shit—that’s for me to worry about. And I’m not here to force you into staying silent. You do what you need to. Whatever choice you make, I’ll understand.”

  Tim left her alone. And more importantly, he left her with a choice.

  38

  Rachel Wall

  Isobel put the finishing touches on her persona: Miss Rachel Wall, named after the first female American pirate, who was eventually hanged. With what lay before her, Isobel felt like she was marching to the gallows.

  Isobel glanced at Riot in the mirror where he perched on a trunk, watching her. “You were right,” she said simply. “I spoke with Tim. He left it up to me.”

  “I wagered that, since you’re still alive.”

  “Who knows, maybe he’ll surprise me with a bullet. Tim does like to play the fool. By the way, upon my untimely demise, my inheritance will go to Sarah and Jin.”

  “That was certainly a quick change of your mother’s will.”

  “My mother doesn’t have high hopes for my life expectancy.” She frowned at her dull coat, and worked at a button, until it loosened yet still hung by a thread. Her proper clothes were simple, store bought and cheap, washed to a faded hue.

  “What do you think?”

  Riot moved closer to get a better look. No matter what he wore, that hair of his always attracted attention. Slightly curling black hair with a white streak at the temple, to go with a salted beard. He’d let it go untrimmed for two days and wore the rough clothes of a sailor—a roguishly attractive one who was currently prowling around her.

  “I hope you aren’t planning to look at the master of the house like that.”

  Isobel put on a battered pair of spectacles, then shifted her stance. She slouched like she expected to be hit from behind, and tilted her chin down and to the side, her eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere except at him.

  “Timidity doesn’t suit you,” Riot noted.

  “I agree. Hopefully, I won’t slip out of character.”

  Riot brought her left hand to his lips, then gently slid off her wedding ring. “Be careful.”

  “I should say the same to you.”

  “I’m headed to a brothel. Hardly dangerous.”

  “Yes, but you look utterly roguish.”

  “But I’ll smell like a horse.”

  “Some women like that.”

  “Whores are looking for johns flush with cash. I’m not a prime target.” Riot drew her into his arms, and she nestled her head under his chin.

  “Violet was right,” Isobel said with sigh.

  “About?”

  “All men go to brothels.”

  She felt Riot chuckle. “With the number of prostitutes and brothels in San Francisco, I’m afraid I can’t vouch for members of my sex.”

  “Yes, but how many men tell their wives where they’re headed?”

  “Now that would be dangerous.”

  “Especially if you’re married to a woman like Cowboy Mag,” she muttered. The infamous Barbary Coast saloon owner had finally snapped Thanksgiving eve and shot her husband for cheating. After she beat up his mistress.

  Riot grunted. “A shame. I’m not surprised though. Maggie always wanted to be known as a gunfighter.”

  “Well,” she said, leaning back. “Take comfort in the fact that I wouldn’t have missed the first time.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “It’s obvious.”

  He cocked a smile at her. “All things considered, with the bounty on my head, the Nymphia will be the last place anyone expects me to be.”

  “It certainly buys us some time. And if there’s anything to those betting slips, I’m sure Ari will find it.”

  “That’s my hope.”

  “Never tell my twin this—it will inflate his already inflated ego—but he’s better at ciphers than me.”

  “It’s fortunate you have a modest ego.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Riot.”

  “You’re rubbing off on me.”

  “More like rubbing on you.”

  Riot made a sound in the back of his throat that made her want to linger another day. “It will be a long few weeks,” he admitted.

  “With you surrounded by a flock of beautifully naked women.” She clucked her tongue. “Do try to behave, Mr. William Kyd. And I’ll try not to let Rachel Wall be seduced by the master of the house.”

  “Watch yourself. I haven’t heard good things about Ian Noble and there’s a high turnover of maids…”

  “Me and my tattered virtue shall remain intact. I’ll keep my tickler in my bodice at all times.”

  Riot seemed disinclined to part with her, and she wasn’t very motivated to move. She gave him a long, lingering kiss, and left before she lost her nerve.

  39

  Undercover

  Famous last words. No job in the world was worth this. Isobel was in danger of dying of a backache. She found herself on her knees scrubbing a toilet for the millionth time in a week. How many damn bathrooms did this mansion have?

  Fifteen. Fifteen bathrooms.

  Between four women, all pampered beyond imagination, the bathtubs were the worst. And the pay dismal. They’d made her take out a loan on her future wages to pay for a uniform. So now she was an indentured servant. It was a wonder more maids didn’t kill their employers.

  She climbed to her feet and tugged at a starched collar. Of all the impractical attire to—

  “You, girl, I want a bath poured and a large fire. It’s positively frigid outside.”

  Isobel hadn’t needed to bother with a pseudonym. She was simply referred to as ‘girl’ or ‘the girl’. The Noble household had such a high turnover of maids that the family never bothered learning any of their names.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Isobel bobbed a curtsy, and quickly gathered her cleaning supplies.

  “Start pouring my bath first. Then gather your things.” Faith Noble was a dark-haired beauty with carefully sculpted curls, bright blue eyes the size of quarters, and creamy skin. She was fifteen, smack in the middle of her two sisters, Imogen being eighteen and Helen twelve. Faith Noble thought highly of herself.

  Isobel stifled a crossly arched brow, and got to work on the bath without complaint. A week into her undercover investigation and she wanted to stab someone.

  As the water gushed into the porcelain tub, she cocked an ear towards the adjoining room. “I hate this dreadful black. All of it black. It’s hard enough without Dom, and now we’re being forced to wallow in misery. He’d want us to move on,” Faith complained.

  Faith was dumping clothes on the floor as she raged back and forth, venting to her lady’s maid. Her maid was a quiet woman, who had the patience of a saint and made sympathetic noises at all the right places. Isobel had yet to get her alone. When Faith wasn’t referring to her lady’s maid as ‘girl’, she occasionally called her Mary.

  “I want to have fun. I want to take my mind away from here…”

  Isobel ground her teeth as she turned to gather her things. “Then why the hell don’t you sneak out,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Did you say something, girl?”

  “Would you like any scents in your bath, ma’am?” Isobel called back pleasantly.

  “
Of course, I do! I want them every time. The lavender. Are you daft?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you contradicting me?” Faith demanded.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what that means.”

  “You’re utterly useless,” Faith raged from the doorway.

  “Let’s get you in a robe, Miss,” Mary said, ushering her away from the bathroom.

  Isobel uncorked the vial of lavender. If she were to murder Faith, she’d use some sort of poison that was absorbed through the skin. Thallium. Ricin. Or better yet, a small poisonous jellyfish floating in the bath… Irukandji venom. Yes, perfect. But perhaps murder was too drastic. Maybe something simple, like smearing poison oak leaves on a towel. Or… Isobel glanced at the toilet paper hanging on a wire loop. Then began whistling at the thought as she finished her duties in the bathroom. As she swept out, whistling merrily, Faith eyed her with suspicion. “Why are you so happy, girl?”

  “I enjoy my work, ma’am.”

  Faith glared.

  Isobel took her cleaning supplies down the servant’s stairwell to the supply closet. Then she headed down to the coal room to lug up another bucket for a girl who had never worked a second of her life. If Dominic Noble had been anything like his three sisters, then the only thing that surprised her was that he hadn’t been murdered sooner.

  As brothels went, this wasn’t the worst Riot had been in, but considering the filthy dives and mining camps he’d ventured into, that wasn’t saying much.

  “How’s your night going, Miss Small?” he asked.

  “It’s finally slowing down.” Dollie Small sidled up to the bar beside Riot, and signaled the bartender. The women who rented rooms had to entertain any man who called, but Dollie was an exception. Men often tipped their hats as they passed by her, and they kept their hands to themselves. Though women weren’t allowed clothes in the Nymphia, Dollie got away with a sheer scarf wrapped around her voluptuous body.