Redeeming the Rogue (36 page)

“And how much do you need for these grave robbers?” He unlocked the desk drawers so he could retrieve the book of withdrawals on the legation account.

“They’re gravediggers, sir. They said they needed two dollars.”

At that price, he thought grave
robbers
would be more realistic. “One more thing, Rosalie,” Rafferty said. “How did you find out about the Friends of the Irish Trust?”

“I found this notice, sir.” Her face brightened. “I brought it with me. Would you like to see it?”

She pulled a paper folded over many times. He straightened it out and pressed it down on the desk before him. As Rosalie had indicated, this group was offering to arrange for shipment of her cousin’s corpse and coffin back to Ireland, at no charge whatsoever. Strange arrangement, that. He knew well that the shipment of coffins was a costly affair, to say nothing of the steep expense to embalm the bodies. Only the wealthy could afford such services, which was one of the reasons the sheer numbers on the dock were confounding.

He withdrew a pen from its holder and a sheet of paper from the desk and wrote down the name and the New York address of the Irish Trust and Funeral Fund. Phineas was due back for a report. This sounded like something he could investigate. He set that aside to dry while he scribbled out a draft to the bank authorizing Rosalie double the sum she’d requested. While he didn’t feel the legation was obligated to pay Mary’s funeral expenses, Rosalie had provided some valuable information, even without realizing it, and for that she should be well compensated.

 

ARIANNE WALKED ROSALIE INTO THE HALLWAY. SPOTTING Ben, she instructed him to see Miss Murray home using the legation carriage. Then she returned to Rafferty’s office, closing the door behind her. Immediately, he rose to his feet. He was so handsome, it twisted her heart that they had managed so successfully to avoid having a meaningful conversation in the past several days.

“Rafferty,” she said. “I want to negotiate.”

He paused on his way around the desk. “I see.” He stroked his lip with his knuckle, reminding her of the kisses they once shared. “I take it there is something you desire?”

You
, she thought but, of course, couldn’t say. She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped toward him. He moved closer as well, with that half smile she loved and his gaze fixed firmly on her lips. “The garden party will take place in just a few days. I’d like you to attend and welcome the ladies.”

“An appearance?” His eyebrow raised. He stood but an arm’s reach away until he slipped his arms over hers, clasped her fingers above her bustle, and tugged her closer. “And what am I to receive for this sacrifice?”

She arched her back and lifted her chin. “What would you like?”

He took the bait and trailed kisses up her neck. Christopher, his lips made her weak in the knees. He dragged his nose to her cheekbone. “Is that a new scent concoction, darlin’?”

Heavens above, she’d forgotten how much she missed his sweet brogue until he murmured in her ear. “I’m experimenting with patchouli oils. I mixed it with—”

He captured her lips, or she captured his—she wasn’t sure which, nor did she care. He backed her to a wall—the one with the stern photograph of Queen Victoria, if she remembered correctly. He braced his arms on either side of her shoulders and traced her cheekbones with his fingertips.

“You should marry me, darlin’, so we can stop this pretending.”

“I’m willing to be your wife in all the ways that matter, Rafferty.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You could show me what the Baron couldn’t. Then, when this is over, I’ll have memories.”

She felt the shift in him, saw the lust in his eyes cool.

“Memories? You could end up with a lot more than memories.” His words whipped at her like cold driving rain. “You could end up with babies. Did you think of that? Would her ladyship even bother to tell the Irish cur of a father that she was carrying his whelp? We Irish breed like rabbits; isn’t that what the English aristocracy say?”

He pushed away from her and walked back to his desk. He studied some papers, moving them from one side of the desk to the other. “This party seems more appropriate for your brother. I would think the ladies would have more interest in a duke than just another Irishman,” he said without once looking up. “I assume garden parties, like knowing the proper uses for fifty different types of spoons, are essential for proper diplomatic appearances.”

Tears stung her eyes; a lump lodged in her throat. “You don’t understand.” Her voice shook. “Marriage—a real marriage—is not a game for me.”

He looked up. “And sharing your bed—sharing your body—is? Sweet Jesus, woman. I thought you had more pride than that.”

She couldn’t breathe. His words slapped across her face like an open hand. She turned on her heel and ran from his office, passing Evans and William in the hall. She stumbled up the steps and slammed the door to the bedroom.

Falling across the bed, she let the tears flow. It all came back. The resounding slap. Her father, the old Duke, screaming at her mother who lay crying at his feet,
I thought you had more pride than that.
She remembered that same look of disgust on her father’s face whenever Arianne came home on holiday. “You look just like your mother,” he’d say, then close himself away in his room.

William thought understanding the real reason her father acted that way would somehow make her feel better, but he was wrong. Knowing that the old Duke was not her true sire somehow justified his aversion. Arianne was disgusting to him. Living proof of the Duchess’s perfidy. Just as the old Duke’s violence toward her mother justified Arianne’s need to keep Sanctuary for her own.

This is your sanctuary
, Rafferty had said, but he didn’t understand.

She knew one day he would turn to her with disgust. She should be surprised he’d waited this long. She’d committed the unforgivable. She’d given her virtue to someone who didn’t deserve it. Then she’d given her heart to another who expected more.

 

DOWN IN HIS OFFICE, RAFFERTY SUNK HIS HEAD IN HIS hands, devastated. He’d never thought he’d ever ask a woman to marry him, and certainly when he did, he hadn’t thought it would be an insult. But apparently to Lady Upper Crust it was. Damn it, he loved her. Why couldn’t she see that? He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Heaven knew he wasn’t averse to bedding a willing lass a time or two, but Arianne was no laced mutton looking for a quick ride. She was the elegant, passionate, vulnerable Lady Arianne, who right now was deep in tears because he refused to take advantage of her.

“What did you do to my sister?”

He didn’t need to look up to know who had entered his office. “Leave it alone, Bedford.”

“I saw her run up the stairs in tears. She only cares about one person enough to let him hurt her like that.” The Duke dropped into a chair in front of his desk. “Go apologize to her.”

Rafferty pulled his head out of the nest of his hands just enough to see Bedford. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you probably think you’re right about whatever you’re arguing about, but take it from me—a happily married man—the woman is always right. Give her what she wants. It’ll make the both of you happy.”

This was bloody ridiculous. He’d asked Arianne to marry him. She’d refused, and now her brother was telling him to just go have his jolly way with his sister without the benefit of marriage! How was he supposed to respond to that . . . diplomatically?

“Don’t you have a wife and new baby in England?” Rafferty asked, sitting back in his seat. “Isn’t it time to go see them?”

“My mother-in-law is there with Franny and the baby.” William shook his head. “Deerfield Abbey is large enough for two hundred monks but not nearly sufficient for my mother-in-law and I to exist under the same roof.”

Rafferty knew the feeling. “Tell me, Bedford, do you ever fight, engage in a little fisticuffs strictly for sport, of course?”

“Me? No, I’m more of a horseman.”

“Pity that,” Rafferty said, feeling the need to hit something.

“Go and talk to her,” William continued. “You said yourself, she needs you. There’s no pending confrontation between Queen Victoria and President Garfield that requires your immediate intervention . . . Go on and tend to your wife.”

“I think you’d be wise to counsel her to concede to my wishes,” Rafferty said, then rose from behind the desk. “Let me consider your advice, then I’ll see what can be done.”

But rather than follow his wife’s path up the steps, Rafferty chose to put some distance between himself and the legation, between himself and Arianne and her brother, between himself and the entitled aristocracy. Arianne had sent Rosalie Murray home in the legation carriage, so Rafferty thought he’d flag down a hansom. The cabbie might know a thing or two about a drinking establishment where a man didn’t have to think about diplomacy, compromise, or negotiation. Of course, he had to admit, when it came to Arianne, it was hard to think of anything but negotiation.

He stormed out the front door and saw Evans standing a short way down the street, talking to a stranger in a top hat. The man glanced at him, then commented something to Evans, who also turned in his direction. Another word or two was shared, then the two parted ways, Evans returning to the legation.

“Are you going out, sir? Should I call for the carriage?”

Rafferty stared at the departing man. Something about him seemed out of place; he just couldn’t identify what that something was.

Evans followed the direction of Rafferty’s gaze. “He was asking for directions, sir. Easy to get lost in this end of the city.”

Unfortunately, Bedford wasn’t having that difficulty, Rafferty thought. He managed to find his way back to the legation every bloody day.

“Would you like me to call the carriage, sir?” Evans asked again.

“No. I thought I’d walk a bit. Need to stretch my legs.” With that he set off down to the first cross street and followed that till he saw some idle cabs.

 

FINNEGANS. IT WAS LOCATED IN THE SORT OF AREA that most reasonable men with coin in their pockets would avoid, which meant Rafferty felt right at home. The smell of rot and refuse mingled with the thick, humid air. The front windows to the establishment had been backed with a dark paper, thus allowing the patrons to drink without knowledge of the time or people passing. Paint peeled off the wooden exterior like bark from a tree. Rafferty smiled. With luck he would satisfy not only his curiosity but also his desire to feel his knuckles connect with flesh. He paid the driver, then went in.

The interior met the promise of the exterior. Enough young lassies worked the crowd that he imagined he might fill another need here as well. His determination to not take what Arianne offered was taking a toll. He ordered a whiskey at the bar and leaned his back upon it to study the patrons. Which one of these men would have come to Eva’s assistance in her betrayal of Rafferty?

“You must be lost, love.” A buxom brunette with a neckline low enough to distract sidled up to his side. He felt her quick check for his billfold and knew she came up empty. She was good, but not good enough.

He looked at her askance. “What makes you say that?” The woman laughed in response.

“Look at you.” She spread her arm toward the jumbled occupied tables. “Look at them.” She turned back toward him. “Either you’re lost or you’re looking for something, or someone. Which is it?” Her eyelids lowered in an attempt at seduction. “I can be a help, I can, with the proper incentive.”

He didn’t fit in? He glanced down at the tailored clothes Arianne had insisted he procure. Good Lord, he was wearing gloves—so fine and light, he’d forgotten about them. His hair dangled only occasionally in his eyes these days. He supposed he must look the part of a rich dandy to the inside patrons—especially to the man in the corner who was watching him intently. “Who is that man?” Rafferty asked the woman. “The one in the corner.”

His otherwise talkative companion suddenly turned mute. Rafferty reached into his inside jacket and withdrew his purse. Careful to conceal the contents, he withdrew some coins and handed them to her. Her greedy eyes watched as he replaced it in his jacket. “His name is Charles Guiteau. He’s not a regular, but he comes in every so often. He has a soft spot for Sarah.” She nodded with her chin to another woman working the tables. She turned toward him, placing one hand on his chest, while the other fingered his cheekbone. “My name is Constance. Do you have a soft spot for me?”

He captured the hand that was inching toward his billfold. He may no longer appear to be the ruffian he was once assumed to be, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his wits. He imagined he could easily strike a price with Constance, and she would do the sort of things that Arianne couldn’t even imagine, but he discovered he wasn’t interested. She wasn’t the woman he longed to sink into. This one wouldn’t satisfy his body, much less his mind. “I think you’re correct, Constance. I think I made a wrong turn when I came in here today.” Holding her hand in place, he finished his drink in one long burning swallow. “So if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll be on my way.”

It would do no good to make inquiries; not when he looked like a bloody government official. He’d have to leave the interrogation of Finnegans’ patrons to Phineas. He hadn’t really believed that Arianne could transform his sow’s ear into a silk purse, yet he was faced with the proof. Rafferty pulled the woman’s hand off his chest, then headed for the door. Before he could leave, a big brute—larger than the size of the door—blocked his path.

“There’s a toll for leaving Finnegans,” the bruiser said. Rafferty heard the scraping of chairs on either side of him. A smile crept to his face. At least he’d have the opportunity to accomplish one of his goals.

“And what might that toll be?” he asked.

“Whatever you have in that billfold will satisfy it,” the brute said. “Hand it over.”