Redeeming the Rogue (45 page)

Champagne flowed freely in celebration. The ship’s orchestra played a waltz. And although Rafferty was not the most fluid or accomplished dance partner with his various injuries, those that saw Rafferty and Arianne didn’t really notice. The intensity of their locked gazes spoke in volumes of elegance.

 

SOMEONE TAPPED HIM ON THE SHOULDER. RAFFERTY turned from his conversation with Bedford, Lord Henderson, and Phineas to see a vaguely familiar face—thin, weak chin, ridiculous mustache, but with poetic blue eyes. “I wanted to congratulate you, sir.” He held out a gloved hand.

Rafferty’s eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”

“I don’t believe I have had the formal honor, though we have passed on occasion. My wife and I are returning home from our own honeymoon.” His lips turned up in something of a sneer. “Needed the rest, you might say. I’m known, of course, to your wife.” He clicked his heels and extended his hand again. “Baron Von Dieter, sir.”

Rafferty exchanged a glance with Bedford. “Have you met my wife’s brother, the Duke of Bedford?”

The man gushed. “Your Grace, this is indeed an honor.” Rafferty finished the introduction.

Bedford glanced at Rafferty. “May I?”

Rafferty gestured to his cast and stepped back. “With my blessings.”

Bedford delivered a punch to that weak chin that knocked the Baron out cold and sent him flying backward to lie sprawled on the floor.

Rafferty smiled his approval. “Well done, Bedford.” The two turned back to their conversation, letting some hysterical, vacuous woman tend to her husband on the floor. Rafferty put his good arm around Bedford’s shoulder. “Have you never tried pugilism? You’ve got a strong right. How’s your left?”

 

ARIANNE IGNORED THE CONVERSATION AROUND HER, focusing instead on her dear husband, who she loved with her heart and soul, engaged in conversation with her pompous but loving brother. Rafferty was indeed her sanctuary; her safe place, her sacred place. She had no need of a refuge outside of the home she shared with him. That familiar tingling nagged at all again, this time more insistently. Christopher! She’d waited a month; she shouldn’t be expected to wait any longer.

She left the gathering of women and crossed to her dear love. Using his shoulder for balance, she rose on the tips of her toes to whisper in his ear.

“Rafferty, my dear, I’m ready. I believe it’s time to negotiate.”

 

 

While several of my novels are influenced by true events, this may be true more so for
Redeeming the Rogue
than in my other novels. For the curious, I thought I might separate fact from fiction.

May you enjoy
Redeeming the Rogue
as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to hearing from you at
www.­DonnaMacMeans.­com
.

 

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Donna MacMeans’s next historical romance

THE CASANOVA CODE

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

PATTERNS. EDWINA HARGROVE RECOGNIZED THEM everywhere: in the design of the teacup on the table before her; in the ebb and flow of voices at the Crescent Coffee Palace; even in the grain of the wood beneath her feet. The order, the predictability of acceptable patterns formed the framework of her rather tedious life. But when the sequences in patterns were broken, forming new patterns requiring interpretation, that was when adventures began.

Edwina retrieved her brother’s encrypted letter from her reticule and held it for a moment, savoring with eagerness the process of unlocking its secrets. Laughing softly, she scanned her table, realizing even she had a pattern for transcribing the code. Her journal sat to the left, the ribbon loosened and already opened to the next blank page. She’d inked the alphabet down the left side of the page in anticipation of the coded text. The right page remained blank, waiting for the transcription. Fragrant steam lifted from her teacup sitting on her far right, and in the middle, she’d placed her copy of
Treasure Island
. A favored novel of both hers and her brother’s, it was used as the key to the letter’s meaning.

The transcription process required concentration, the sort one would not expect in such a public setting. Nevertheless she paused, letting the ring of spoons tapping fragile porcelain and the blended voices of the patrons of the Crescent dissolve into the distant cry of seabirds and the thunder of the Caribbean ocean pounding a white sand beach. She mentally transformed the lingering scent of wood and aged spirits from the once popular gin palace, now a ward of the Temperance movement, into that of imagined casks of pirates’ rum. Even the current generated by the sway of a passing skirt became a gentle island breeze. Thus solidly engrained in the world of the book, and isolated from familiar reality, she bent to the task of transcribing the letter’s nonsense patterns into meaningful discourse.

Soon she was lost in the tale of her brother’s recent trip to a Caribbean sugar plantation. Edwina sighed. How wonderful it must be to see such things, to know a little of the world outside of England, to have unlimited possibilities for future adventures . . .

“Another letter from your brother?” Faith Huddleston peered down a moment before slipping into the chair next to Edwina. “It would be so much easier if they used the King’s English. I just don’t understand why they make you decipher everything.”

There was no explaining the unleashed joy of solving the mystery behind the coded letters, so she didn’t try. She’d encountered similar skepticism and annoyance from her friends before. Instead, she slipped the letter into the relevant pages of
Treasure Island
, then set it aside, ready to turn her attentions to her friend.

Faith tossed a copy of the
Mayfair Messenger
on the table. “The publisher didn’t run Sarah’s article on the number of birds killed for women’s hats.” Faith pulled off her gloves. “She won’t be pleased.”

A cup and saucer rattled loudly as one of the Crescent’s former barmaids placed it by Faith’s elbow. The renovation of the previous gin palace into a tea-toting coffeehouse required more than just changing the gilt lettering on the windows. The barmaids had to take the Temperance pledge as well. The change had been more difficult for some than others. Faith smiled up into the woman’s lined face. “The chamomile, please.” The barmaid nodded and left.

Edwina quickly shifted through the
Messenger
’s pages, confirming the absence of Sarah’s contribution, but then paused at the “Personal & Misc” listings in the classified advertisements. Coded messages often lurked amongst the forthright and sometimes humorous ads. Men sought women, women sought men, secret arrangements were established for illicit rendezvous, and star-crossed lovers exchanged messages of longing, all on the very public pages of the
Mayfair Messenger
. Edwina scanned the column for snippets of an awkward construction, or the use of numbers instead of letters, all signs of a hidden meaning. Breaking a code was as close to adventurous as her dull life got—would ever get, she supposed.

“At least he ran Sarah’s column on the Abington party,” Faith said, her eyes wistful. “She’s so lucky that she’s allowed to attend those upper-class affairs. The ladies must be lovely with their beautiful gowns and jewelry.”

“She’s not exactly invited,” Edwina reminded her. “She goes as a reporter, and an undervalued one at that. She could write circles around the men reporters if old Ramsey wasn’t so set in his conservative ways.” But she had to agree with Faith’s envy. It would be an adventure to see how the truly wealthy lived, even if from the outside.

Faith pursed her lips. “I’d still like to attend just once. Even if I were to go as a—”

“Look at this!” Edwina stabbed the newsprint with her finger. “It’s in code. If you ignore every other word, the message really says: Husband suspects. Not tomorrow. Watch ads.” She looked up, pleased with her accomplishment. “She’s canceling a tryst.”

“Let me see.” Faith bent her nose toward the column. “How do you know to do that? The listing looks perfectly normal to me.” Astonishment registered in her friend’s eyes. “Why would you look at every other word?”

Edwina smiled, triumphant. “Patterns.” She shrugged. “It’s such a simple code, I’m surprised they bothered. Still, I wonder who sent it. Do you think Sarah would know? Whoever placed the ad must have done so through Sarah’s station at the
Messenger
.”

A bell tacked over the palace entrance, a recent annoying addition by the Temperance Committee, jangled with a discordant tone. Sarah barreled into the renovated drinking parlor like a steam engine puffing out of Victoria Station. Just as a steam engine is unmindful of the cars behind, Sarah took no notice of the fourth member of their party, Claire, who followed silently in her wake.

Sarah dropped her satchel onto an empty chair before she slipped into another. “Ramsey doesn’t think anyone would be interested in the vast quantities of birds sacrificed for women’s fashion.”

“I’m so sorry.” Faith patted her friend’s arm. “After all your research . . .”

“It’s only because you’re a woman,” Claire insisted, moving Sarah’s satchel to the floor before she lowered herself into the seat. “One of these days, Ramsey will recognize your value and remove you from the agonies.”

“You know, I dislike that reference,” Sarah scolded. “There’s more to the personal column than sad lovelorn ads and letters written in torment.” She smiled weakly and adjusted her glasses. “However, I hope you’re right.”

“But in the meantime . . .” Edwina hesitated. “Do you know who placed this ad?” She turned the paper so both Sarah and Faith could see.

“‘For my darling husband,’” Sarah read. “‘Who suspects tenderness, not neglect, tomorrow awaits. Watch praising ads multiply.’” Sarah grimaced, then released the newsprint. “It’s not as well written as Faith’s poetry, but Mrs. Bottomsly wanted a tribute to her husband.”

Edwina exchanged a satisfied look with Faith, who retrieved the paper from the table.

“What?” Sarah asked, looking from one to the other. “We just print what we’re paid to print. We don’t edit the personal ads for content.” She poured some tea from Faith’s pot into the empty cup that appeared by her wrist. “No one wants to pay a few pence more for extra words even if urgently needed.”

“Look at this one. It’s so sweet.” Faith sighed, then smirked at Edwina. “And it’s not in code.”

“He’s not a gentleman.” Sarah scowled and sipped her tea. “Refined or otherwise.”

“You know who placed this ad?” Faith asked, her eyes widened.

Sarah looked about the room as if she were about to share the Queen’s secrets. “Ashton Carswell Bradford Trewelyn III.”