A Bitter Draught (Ravenwood Mysteries #2)

The Art of Swooning

ATTICUS RIOT CAUGHT THE fainting woman in his arms. Her hat tumbled off and the umbrella thudded to the ground. Little cries of concern rippled from the masses, but most walked on; some slowed, and only two stopped. With the woman's hat off, Riot got his first clear look at her face.

"Hello, Miss Bel," he whispered to the limp woman in his arms.

An eye cracked open. Today, the color was amber, reflecting the sun and her lush brown hair. "At least do me the courtesy of feigning surprise," she said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing surprises me where you are concerned."

"I didn't want to faint in some strange man's arms," she explained, as if that clarified everything.

"Most women don't get to choose."

"Most gentlemen would look worried," she retorted. "I require an ambulance."

"Do you?"

"Some panic would do, Mr. Riot."

Riot looked to one of the two gentlemen who had stopped. "This woman requires an ambulance," he said calmly. "The office there will likely have a telephone." The helpful stranger hastened inside the steamship office. "Anything else?"

Isobel's gaze flickered to the Chronicle building clock tower, and back to her savior. "What ever you generally do when a woman faints in your arms."

"This is a first."

"Improvise, then."

"You there, sir," Riot said to the lingering man, an older gentleman with a trustworthy air. "Could you gather her things?"

The man bent to comply, and Riot lifted Isobel in his arms, carrying her towards the steamship office. A flustered looking clerk opened the door, and Riot deposited her onto a lobby couch.

The first gentleman appeared. "They've telephoned for an ambulance."

Riot nodded, kneeling beside the couch to unbutton the first three buttons of her high-collared blouse. Too many men were breathing down his neck.

Riot turned. "Not to worry, I'm a doctor," he announced. "I think she's overheated. Give her room to breathe and go on about your business." Whether it was the authority in his tone or the mention of work, he could not say, but all the clerks returned to their desks.

"She'll be all right, then?" the older gentleman asked.

Riot accepted her hat, handbag, and umbrella. "I believe so, with proper care. I'll attend to her until the ambulance arrives." The two gentlemen tipped their hats and exited. Riot removed his bowler and dutifully began fanning his patient.

"Now what if I were too heavy for you to carry?" Isobel murmured when they were relatively alone.

"I'd drag the couch out to you," he replied.

She was studying him under her lashes. Despite the face powder, eye-liner, wig, and lip rouge, she could not disguise her bone structure. He tried not think about the undergarments she had used to achieve her current hourglass shape. All in all, it was a masterful disguise.

"There have been stranger sights," she mused. A ripple of movement caught his eye at the back, and she fell silent as the manager came to check on the commotion.

Riot fended off the gruff manager with assurances that the woman was not going to die in his lobby, and stood his ground when the man suggested that they wait outside for the ambulance.

"I'm sure you have work to do, Mr. Brown," Riot said sharply. The manager took his point and stomped off to shut himself in his office.

When Riot turned back to his patient, she asked, "Aren't you the least bit curious what I'm doing?"