Frail Blood (6 page)

Stephen coughed over his coffee, but did not rise to her
defense.

"Perhaps a change of topic is in order," she said
after a few uncomfortable moments in which Mr. Rivers sipped from his cup and
watched her over the rim.

Damnable man!
She tried to compose her emotions while
desiring nothing so much as to wring his neck.

"Agreed," said Stephen, vocal at last. After a
long pause, he continued, "I'm still intrigued about the case, Malachi. Do
you have a specific stratagem to defend Miss Bentley? At first glance, she
seems completely guilty, I'm sorry to say."

"Her guilt or innocence can only be determined by the
jury, of course," Mr. Rivers said noncommittally.

Then he paused, frowned, and pursed his lips as if waging a
minor battle within himself. He eyed Emma thoughtfully and for such a length of
time that she began squirming internally. When he spoke, the request – uttered
in as casual a tone as if he'd just referenced the weather – jarred Emma to the
core.

"I was wondering, Miss Knight, if you would condescend
to act as my advisor in the case."

The silence in the room was palpable. She glanced at her
uncle who also seemed completely unperturbed.

Their guest rose and turned to stare into the black night
through the parlor window.

Emma's jaw dropped, rather unbecomingly, she was sure, while
Stephen merely looked self-satisfied. She snapped her mouth shut before replying
to the wide expanse of Rivers' shoulders and back. "I? What kind of
assistance could I possibly give?"

He turned around, the shadow of a smile on his face. "Considering
your interest in journalism, I thought perhaps you could assist me in gathering
information on my client's behalf."

She forced herself to control an unbecoming stutter. "W
– what kind of information?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, but there are some
interviews you might help me with. And perhaps background assessments on
various witnesses."

She thought a moment before her mind brightened at the idea.
"You mean like the detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Exactly." Rivers exchanged a look with her uncle.
"But you do understand that Holmes is a fictional character?"

"Of course," she rejoined. "But Conan Doyle
creates such a realistic and interesting character it's difficult to separate
the fiction from the fact."

He laughed and the sound was a cool relief after the heat of
the evening's discussion. "In that case, yes, exactly like Mr. Holmes, but
let's hope that you do not meet the fate of going over the Reichenbach Falls."

Irrationally pleased that Mr. Rivers was familiar with one
of her favorite authors, Emma smiled. "I shall have to take great care,"
she promised.

Stephen looked from one to the other of them with a
strangely proprietary expression at the turn of the conversation. Emma glanced
at him, an ugly suspicion blossoming in her mind. "But, as I suggested
earlier, isn't my working with you inappropriate?"

Rivers shook his head as he sat beside her on the sofa. "I
don't see how. But you will have to leave off writing about the trial for a
short period of time."

"Someone must cover the trial," she protested.

"You might ask Spencer from
The Union
to share
his articles with
The Gazette,"
her uncle interjected. "I can
also assist."

"Temporarily, of course," Rivers added.

He leaned forward as if her response meant a great deal to
him. He was close enough that she caught the scent of his cologne and the
breeze of his breath on her face. Excitement mingled with indecision in her
breast as she placed a hand over her heart to hide the thumping that must
surely show through the bodice of her dress.

To actually work on a murder trial! But she had a fleeting
thought that her excitement had less to do with the offer and more to do with
the person proffering it. Before she could respond, however, Mr. Rivers stood
and executed a slight bow.

"Think about my offer, Miss Knight." He extended
his hand to her uncle. "Sir, I must be off."

"Wait!" she urged.

He turned expectantly.

"This is a highly irregular arrangement." She
frowned. "Why are you doing it?"

"Perhaps keeping you close at hand during the trial
will discourage your meddling in the case," he answered. The words were
harsh but the accompanying grin smacked of camaraderie.

Emma grinned back at him.

"I'll walk you out," Stephen said, summoning Sarah
to retrieve their gloves, hats, and coats.

Looking very pleased with himself, Stephen kissed her
vaguely and the two men left together as if they were fast friends. Emma stood
in the quiet foyer, examining the closed door as if the peculiar puzzle that
was Mr. Malachi Rivers would present its solution in the polished grained wood.

She and he were hardly friends, she mused, merely
adversaries who enacted a truce for the purpose of the moment. Colleagues
perhaps.

Not friends at all.

Chapter 6

"Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, which we
ascribe to Heaven." –
All's Well That Ends Well

"May I give you a ride?" Stephen Knight asked as
he pointed to his motorized machine. The two men stood on the gravel just
outside the wide wraparound landing of Emma Knight's house.

Although Malachi had walked the four miles to the residence
that he'd always called the old Chester estate, he'd arrived at the same time
her uncle had swung his motorcar into the turnabout.

"It's a beautiful machine, Stephen," Malachi
murmured, eying the large front wheels and open carriage. Although tempted, he
hadn't yet purchased a runabout, preferring the use of his horse or arriving by
the strength of his own muscles.

"Built especially for me by my good friend Ransom Olds
back in ought one, first off the lot," Stephen grinned. "He calls it
the Curved Dash. Hop in."

Malachi had suspected Knight had an ulterior motive for
driving him home and after several moments of jostling over the rough terrain,
Emma's uncle finally reached the point. "Thank you for inviting my niece
to assist you on the case."

Malachi merely shrugged. In truth he didn't know why he'd
asked such an annoying distraction of a female as Emma to help with his current
case. Certainly, in part so he could keep an eye on her and manipulate what
information got out to the community. If their working together curtailed her
damaging articles, her meddling in his professional life was a small price.

Doing her uncle this favor cost Malachi little and might buy
discretion from a man who appeared to know too much about his background. Not
that his past was a secret to anyone who dug deep enough into society smut, but
he liked his privacy and disliked explaining his sordid history.

Or perhaps he'd asked Emma to help from the same impulse
that prompted him to speak to her of Alma last night. He rarely acted
irrationally any more, but occasionally he felt something so poignant when he looked
at Emma Knight that it jarred him, so he tamped it deep inside. Deep in the
fiery crucible where he kept his thoughts about Constance.

He stared into the black thicket of forest to his right and
laughed softly. Foolish notions. Most likely, the motivator was his own healthy
attraction to the woman. She was a fiery one, smart and stubborn – a seductive
lure. He'd need to be careful of that trap.

"My Emmie," Knight laughed affectionately.
"An extraordinary girl. Not the standard beauty, mind you. And too smart
by far for her own good."

That Knight's words paralleled Malachi's thoughts so closely
gave him a start, but he murmured noncommittally and let the man ramble on
about his niece.

"Headstrong, too." Knight turned to Malachi with a
look of mock outrage on his face. "Wants a motorcar of her own after
hearing about that Ramsey woman and three females who started from New York on
a cross country trip in a Maxwell. Imagine that!"

"Will you purchase one for her?" Malachi asked,
both amused and intrigued by the man's relationship with his niece.

"Humph, it's mighty hard to say no to Emma, but I may
have to refuse that one."

"She usually gets what she wants?"

"Always did know how to wrap me round her little
finger. Smart as a whip, she is." He increased the speed of the motorcar,
seeming to enjoy the bumping and swerving on the rough dirt road. "A
beauty with a mind too bright for a woman – that's my Emmie."

The runabout pulled into the clearing on which his cabin
sat. "Miss Knight seems like a very determined young woman," he said
diplomatically.

"That she is."

"So, Mr. Knight." Malachi pressed onward with a
question that'd been rattling around in his brain since the ride began.
"You've driven your fine Oldsmobile unerringly to my home. How did you
come by the knowledge of where I live?"

Knight smiled sheepishly. "If Emma was going to work
with you, I wanted at least to know your surface reputation."

"You already seem to know more than a fair amount about
me, Mr. Knight." Malachi leveled a steady gaze at the man. "You were
I believe, quite sure of me, too."

Knight slapped his hand heartily on the younger man's
shoulder. "More like I was that sure of myself. You won't be sorry you've
asked her to help you on the case."

Although he had serious doubts, Malachi mumbled, "I
hope not, sir. I hope not."

Malachi watched Knight drive off through the wooded area
where a dirt path ran. The older man had merely confirmed what Malachi
suspected.

Emma Knight was a wealthy debutante with too much time on
her idle hands and little productive work to fill them. She had the leisure and
money to meddle in affairs she had no business in.

Much as he liked Stephen Knight, he'd purchased a newspaper
for a young woman hardly out of the nursery who had little knowledge of the
business she was running. She was exactly the kind of woman he'd come to be
wary of.

Why, then, had Malachi admitted her into his professional
life? And more important, why did she remain so often in his personal musings?

But he knew the answer to the second question. Emma Knight
was a hothouse beauty, the worst kind of woman – sensual, passionate, and
selfish. Despite her cool façade, she had an air of experience and confidence.

Surely Miss Emma Knight had long ago lost her innocence.
After all, she'd been long years and thousands of miles away from her family at
a private women's college. She would've learned a thing or two about the male
sex, likely indulged the appetites of a healthy young woman.

But he was no callow youth, and certainly he could control
his lust for her. If once he had her, no doubt he'd be cured of any erotic
fantasies about her.

He'd wager his career that Stephen Knight underestimated his
niece's experience. The chit clearly knew her way around men.

#

Supervising the household chores and writing long overdue
correspondence kept Emma's mind occupied, but when she finally took a respite
from work, Mr. Rivers' strange offer of an alliance nagged at her, puzzled her.
She could not fathom his motives.

Certainly he'd demonstrated little respect for her. For her
uncle, perhaps, but certainly not for her. And especially not her newspaper
skills.

She wondered again whose idea it was. His or her uncle's? She
had a sneaky suspicion Stephen had a hand in the whole affair. She vacillated
between being offended and pleased.

In the afternoon, she changed out of her day dress, washed
up, and then stood before the cheval-glass in camisole and drawers, examining
herself critically. Even though small-breasted women were all the rage, she
admired her own rather lush bosom.

She thought her narrow waist and flared hips would appeal to
a man, regardless of her mother's opinion that they were traits of low-bred
women. She placed her hands on those hips and turned, viewing her figure from
the side and then over her shoulder. She liked what she saw and believed her
assets would appeal to a man like Malachi Rivers.

Emma had known since her first kiss – from Jimmy Saunders at
the State Fair in Capitol Park when she was thirteen – that she was different
from other girls. The Knights refused to partake of such common activities as
state fairs, but Emma was overjoyed when they conceded to let her attend the
centennial occasion with Jimmy and his parents. She had experienced true
freedom for the first time in her young life, so when Jimmy asked permission to
kiss her behind the admission booth, she'd consented.

She found she liked kissing. And the occasional furtive
fumbling stirred powerful and unexpected emotions in her. The stray glances she'd
noticed from men since that age confirmed their appreciation for her face and
form. She had no lacking in confidence in that quarter.

Regarding her sexual feelings, she was uncommonly curious. Forward.
Perhaps even improper, though she never crossed the lines of decorum. She was a
lady, after all.

An image of Mr. Rivers' roughly hewn yet pleasing features
passed through her mind. His long-limbed leanness and wide shoulders. Large yet
elegant hands with their long piano fingers and blunt tips and slight calluses.

A tingling started low in her belly, a pressure that got all
wound up in images of the man's physical attributes. Driven by a compulsion she
hardly understood, she was determined to explore these experiences she felt
were her right. Men weren't the only sex who had rights to sensual pleasures.

Feelings which Malachi Rivers appeared to bring to the
forefront. Which was ridiculous! She didn't even like the man.

If she were to take a lover, she'd certainly choose a more
malleable man than he, one like the boys who'd pursued her at Wellesley. She
couldn't imagine a liaison with such a strong-willed man as Rivers. An alliance
with a man like him would smother her. Thinking of the loss of her fledging
independence disturbed her indeed.

Nonetheless, the notion of Mr. Rivers as a lover persisted
throughout the rest of her toilette.

Late Saturday afternoon Ralston drove her into town in the
horse and buggy. Even though she was perfectly capable of handling the
two-horse roadster herself, she heaved an unladylike sigh and relented to his
concern that the horses were too wild for a lady such as herself to manage.

Emma had already decided, since Rivers had asked her help
with his investigation – and she still marveled at the oddity of that! – to
spend the Monday morning court session observing her new employer. Although she
hadn't given him an answer yet, and there'd been no mention of payment, to work
with him on a current murder case would be a major accomplishment.

Another thrill of excitement raced along her nerves. Engaging
in trial work was the purview and privilege of males, but she intended to
conduct a superior investigation for Mr. Rivers, representing as she did her
entire sex. This afternoon she would begin her investigation at
The Gazette
office. He would find no fault with her skills.

After shopping for new winter boots, an item long on her
list of purchases – although the selection in Placer Hills was limited – she
walked back to the newspaper office. She'd nearly completed the article on Alma
Bentley, but wanted to edit it more carefully before handing it over to Thomas
and his printing machine.

However, when she arrived, she found herself quite alone. Although
Thomas was nowhere in sight, his scattered work tools indicated he might have
taken a respite, intending to return.

Before removing her hat and gloves, Emma walked through the
back office to the rear door that opened onto the alley. She rarely used the musty,
narrow passageway, and never lingered there, but today, as she gazed the length
of the dirt access, she realized that her back door lay directly across from
the rear of Malachi Rivers' law office.

Their separate businesses were literally back to back.

Good grief, how could she not have previously noticed the
proximity? Curiosity piqued, she veered a little to her right, the better to
catch a glimpse of the interior. After all, his back door was opened wide and
she could see straight through to the street front on the other side.

Her mother's mordant warning about curiosity and cats came
to mind. She ignored it.

To the left she spied a wide desk set kitty-cornered, behind
which was an oversized, but empty, chair. She caught the edge of a painting and
recognized the angular, jarring lines of Pablo Picasso, a young man whom she'd
met when she and Papa had visited Spain. Her mother, disliking anything she
considered "foreign," had declined to travel with them.

Frankly, Emma doubted the emerging analytic cubism would
take hold in the art world, but she liked the daring display of naked women in
Les
Demoiselles d'Avignon
which now graced Mr. Rivers' office wall directly
over his desk. She felt a little chagrined that she admired art that had – in a
man's office – all the earmarks of pornography.

And how had Mr. Rivers acquired the work only just painted
by the artist? She also was put out that Rivers had the temerity to exhibit the
daring painting which she admired greatly but lacked the accompanying courage
to display publicly.

A lady hanging a picture of naked women cavorting around,
however abstract, would never be acceptable to the community. Nor to her
parents. She remembered Papa's shocked anger when he'd first heard of the
painting's subject.

The office appeared vacant, but with the open door, Mr.
Rivers must surely be nearby.

With a vague notice of speaking with him about the
investigation when he appeared, Emma propped the back door open, reentered her
office, and opened the storage room where past issues of the paper were filed. The
word "filing" was applied loosely, considering the dusty stacks of
papers scattered in no apparent order about the dim room.

She removed her outer clothing, covered her shirt waist and
skirt with a large apron, and began to shuffle through back issues. She would
start here, among the pages of print that might shed light on Alma Bentley's
background. Unfortunately, without a filing system, the work was tedious at
best.

After an hour's dusty work with no success, she decided
Thomas, with his wide experience at the paper, might be her best source of
information. The man had worked for the previous owner, lived in Placer Hills
all his life, and virtually knew everyone. If he could not remember the
particulars of certain events, he might well be acquainted with persons and
information that could point her in the right direction.

Emma had a good many questions about the principals in this
crime. For example, she was curious about Joseph and Frances Machado, Sr.,
parents to the slain man. Their son was twenty-three, but still lived with his
parents. Didn't young men normally fly the coop long before that age?