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  Malachi eyed her skeptically and abruptly changed the subject. "Alma believes – no, she is quite convinced – she shot Joe Machado only once."

  Emma gaped at him. "Should you tell me that?"

  Malachi shrugged. "Probably not. But don't you think it significant?"

  She fairly hissed through her teeth, looking around the empty office as though someone might overhear them. "I'm a newspaper editor, for heaven's sake! What you say in front of me might find its way to the front page of The Gazette."

  "As it has surely done before," he countered.

  "Exactly!"

  "Then you agree that you overstepped the bounds of your office when you interviewed Alma." He eyed her like a mouse caught in his giant cat's paw.

  "Oh, you infuriating man," she cried, turning away and trying to compose herself. What game was he playing with her?

  "If so, then I most certainly should keep my counsel," he continued, all rancor over the newspaper article apparently gone.

  "Yes!" She turned around and pretended to shuffle papers on the counter, but after a moment curiosity won out. "Are you going to claim Alma didn't shoot Joseph?"

  Malachi grinned wickedly. "I didn't say that, and surely you understand I cannot comment on such a speculation without revealing private communications between my client and me."

  "Well, it's too late for that," she snapped. "Isn't it?

  #

  Emma banged the cutlery on the oak dining table and rearranged the centerpiece – roses from her own garden that she'd clipped and arranged herself this afternoon.

  After the third slamming clatter, Sarah shouted from the kitchen. "Miss Emma, stop that racket. A body can't hardly think about the meal they're supposed to fix with you clackin' and clangin' around out there."

  Emma pursed her lips and blew out a sigh. Sarah was right. No need to take out her ill humor on the silver. It was neither the fault of her cook nor the eating utensils that Malachi Rivers was coming to spend an awkward and very uncomfortable several hours as her unwelcome dinner guest.

  What had her uncle been thinking? Why had she complied?

  And why in heavens had he accepted?

  Damn him!

  Thinking of her half-hearted invitation to Mr. Rivers mortified her. She could have been more graceful, she supposed grudgingly.

  But really! The man was more frequently insufferable than not. Why did she allow him to perturb her so? A man certainly beneath the Knights in social standing, he was not likely to attend the same social functions as they. She certainly could have ignored her uncle's wishes.

  But wasn't the abolition of social barriers one of the causes she wished to champion? Of course! Therefore, asking Mr. Rivers to dinner was merely a step in the direction of the independence and equality she wished to pursue.

  The circumlocutory logic suddenly made Emma feel better.

  Pounding on the door interrupted her reverie, followed quickly by her uncle's voice as he stepped over the threshold into the foyer. "We're here, Emmie," he shouted on a chuckle. "Malachi's just arrived too, on foot, and with a hearty appetite, I'll wager!"

  Malachi? Already Stephen had ploughed ahead with this strange intimacy as though the two of them had been fast friends forever. Well, the man would always be Mr. Rivers to her.

  Yes, Mr. Rivers sounded perfect. She worked to compose herself, clasped her hands at the front of her green evening dress, and prepared a suitable greeting as her guests crossed into the dining room.

  "Good evening, Uncle." She inclined her head in what she hoped was a mature and regal gesture. "Mr. Rivers."

  Did she imagine his eyes darkening in amusement?

  "Hello, darling." Stephen bussed her on the cheek.

  It was the first time Emma had seen Mr. Rivers with his head covered. So he could dress appropriately if called upon. She noticed the fine quality of his beaver hat and the rich leather of the gloves.

  Apparently, he was sufficiently wealthy to gain even Papa's approval. Not that Papa was likely to meet him. Nor would Mr. Rivers ever reach the extent of her father's or Stephen's fortunes.

  Papa was very, very rich. Decadently so. As was Stephen.

  "Good evening, Miss Knight." Mr. Rivers removed his hat and gloves and handed them to Ralston, Sarah's husband, and the only other servant Emma kept besides the cleaning woman who came in every other day.

  He shook her hand like a man's, and while she applauded the sign of equality, the disconcerting smell of his cologne lingered on the tips of her fingers. As his hand swallowed hers, she felt callow and gauche.

  Dinner lasted a millennium. Emma could not keep her mind on the topics of conversation. She found herself touching her lips, her cheek, her temple merely to inhale the heady masculine odor that clung there.

  Over dessert – a rich chocolate mousse which was Sarah's specialty – Uncle Stephen veered the conversation toward the current notorious murder case. "What are you able to tell us about the trial, Malachi? Without breaching confidentiality, naturally."

  "Very little, I'm afraid." Mr. Rivers dipped his spoon into the rich pudding and appeared to savor the smooth texture.

  "We can deduce much from your actions in court, however," Emma said sharply.

  "Really?" He smiled broadly. "And what have you deduced, Miss Knight?"

  "You are quite cavalier in defending Miss Bentley," she charged. "You allowed Mr. Fulton to connect the murder weapon to her and you hardly objected to anything he implied about your client."

  Emma worked herself up until her bosom heaved and she felt her cheeks redden. The effect seemed to interest Mr. Rivers, for his smile deepened.

  "Hmmm," he responded noncommittally, failing to be drawn into the argument and cleverly sidestepping every effort she made to provoke a controversy during the entire meal.

  The real trouble began shortly after dessert when her uncle suggested retiring with Mr. Rivers to the library. Emma hardly wished to remain in the company of her guest any longer than necessary, but the antiquated practice of men adjourning to engage in discussion fit only for male conversations irked her.

  Without thinking, she found herself protesting. "Uncle Stephen, wouldn't gathering in the sitting room for a nice cup of coffee be preferable?"

  Mr. Rivers spoke up. "Actually, I'd love a strong cup of brew."

  "Very well," Stephen readily agreed with a sly look.

  Although her uncle seldom meddled in her affairs to the extent her parents did, he was fully capable of manipulating a situation. Terribly modern in his thinking about women, he nonetheless made no secret that he wished his niece happily settled in a good marriage.

  She'd best keep an eye on her wily relative.

  Twenty minutes later, coffee was served in the parlor, and Emma was embroiled in a heated discussion with Mr. Rivers about the franchise for women.

  She sat on the edge of the sofa and poured the coffee while Rivers reclined in the wide armchair by the window, as relaxed as if he hadn't a care in the world. In a matching chair Stephen sipped noisily at his brew and chomped on one of the tiny biscuits prepared by Sarah.

  Emma took up the argument immediately. "Surely you don't believe that a woman is intellectually inferior to a man."

  "Not at all," Rivers said. "I simply believe that society runs more smoothly with women in their proper places. After all, the home, hearth, babies – these noble endeavors hardly fit into the world of politics and business."

  Stephen nodded approvingly even though Emma knew he'd worked tirelessly for a woman's right to vote.

  "But what about the very excellent arguments Mrs. Wollstonecraft makes in Vindication of the Rights of Woman?" she asked.

  "Gads, the woman's been dead for over a century!" Rivers retorted. "And this is America, not England."

  "That does not, sir, make her arguments less valid." Heat rushed into her cheeks, and to Emma's dismay, her cup rattled slightly on its saucer. "What about the Australian and New Zealand women, who have already been extended
the vote? We are sorely behind the times in this country!"

  Mr. Rivers' voice was mild, but she detected a spark of interest in his eyes as his mouth curved up at the corners. "Oh yes, those women were given suffrage, but what of the aboriginal women, Miss Knight? Because they are unpropertied, are their rights any less important?"

  She saw he was enjoying her discomfiture. "You bait me, sir!"

  "Not at all, Emmie," Stephen intercepted, playing the mediator. "But Malachi's right about the aboriginal women. And the suffragists have created quite a hullabaloo in their conventions."

  "The issues are complicated," Mr. Rivers added in a voice that implied Emma was too dunderheaded to understand such complexities.

  Her temper rose further and her cheeks flamed with indignation on behalf of all her sex at his cavalier dismissal of women's intellect. Her lips set in a thin, stubborn line. "Notwithstanding," she ground out, "independence is a God-given right. Surely you cannot deny that."

  "Hmmm, and yet your independence ... " Mr. Rivers gestured around the spacious room, "in both your home and business appears to have been purchased by the sweat of someone else's brow."

  Emma ground her teeth. "You presume too much with little information about a personal situation."

  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 s
o 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."