Redeeming the Rogue (13 page)

“But the packing—”

“Kathleen and I will finish packing for both you and Eva. You two need to leave the confined environment of this house.”

Hastings, on her request, brought the silver tray from the hallway filled with the cards from refused callers. Mrs. Summers eyed the collection. “I imagine most are matrons with marriage-minded daughters. Those should provide adequate practice for Eva. Just close your eyes and pick one.”

Arianne played along. Shielding her eyes, she selected a card, then peeked. With a laugh, she turned it so Mrs. Summers could see the name. Mr. Michael Rafferty.

Mrs. Summers almost snorted her tea.

“I can’t very well pay a call to him, especially with Eva in tow. She would never leave.” Arianne laughed, then caught a whiff of a faintly familiar fragrance. She sniffed Rafferty’s card. Patchouli. How apropos that a plant known for its seductive qualities would lend its fragrance to Rafferty. She stirred her finger through the rest of the cards. “I’m afraid these matrons would be shocked to find Rafferty’s card touching those of their lofty stature.”

“Would they?” Mrs. Summers asked earnestly, then dabbed her lips and chin with the napkin. “He certainly behaves as a gentleman if one can judge from last night. Granted, he hasn’t a title, but I wonder if those matrons wouldn’t consider him husband-worthy.”

True. Even Arianne was beginning to believe Lord Henderson’s choice for a British minister may not have been as farfetched as she originally believed. The actress, on the other hand...

“Choose another card,” Mrs. Summers urged.

She did. “Mrs. Edward Ledsmore. I believe she’s shopping for a husband for her niece, Eugenia.” She sighed. “It would be nice if just once someone were purely interested in me and not Cupid’s Mistress.”

Just saying the name reminded her of that misunderstanding the night she first met Rafferty. So much had happened, it seemed so long ago.

“Best pick a few more cards,” Mrs. Summers advised. “It’ll be some time before you see these people again. Might as well make a full day of it and give Miss St. Claire some well-needed practice.”

 

AS THE BROUGHAM TURNED TOWARD HOME, ARIANNE glanced over at Eva. She was proving to be a marvelous mimic, even managing to adopt Arianne’s dialect. Mrs. Summers had been correct; the more calls they made, the more the actress molded to the façade they’d created.

The carriage rolled down Bond Street, passing a doorway mantled in black. The Cardiff residence. Immediately Arianne pounded on the back wall of the brougham, then called out new instructions to the driver.

“We’re going to make one more stop,” Arianne explained. “This time to a true diplomat’s wife. Her father was the British minister murdered in Washington.”

“Lady Weston?” Eva asked.

“Lady Cardiff,” Arianne corrected. “Lord Weston was her father.”

The carriage rattled to a halt. A footman quickly opened the door and assisted the two women to the pavement. The wide walkway bustled with nursemaids pushing prams, servants and footmen delivering messages, and the occasional young lady on the arm of a gentleman.

“If she is deep in mourning, she may not see us,” Arianne cautioned before rapping upon the door. “I hope she does, though. I will miss her company the moment we leave England.”

However, her concerns were needless, as the two were promptly welcomed inside. Lady Cardiff, subdued in her black garments and eyes still reddened by recent tears, greeted her with a quick hug. “Thank you,” she murmured in Arianne’s ear. “Lord Henderson told me of your plans to accompany Mr. Rafferty. I was afraid I wouldn’t see you before you left.” She turned toward Eva. “And who is this?”

“This will be Mr. Rafferty’s hostess,” Arianne said. “I was hoping you would be able to offer her some advice.”

“Are you a relative of Mr. Rafferty?” Kitty squinted. “A distant cousin perhaps?”

“I’m to be his wife,” Eva answered.

Kitty smiled at Arianne. “I see Cupid’s Mistress has struck again.”

Arianne almost bit her tongue to keep from admitting that it was playacting. The three women settled into the parlor for tea and a brief chat. Kitty offered suggestions to Eva that Arianne imagined were common sense. But then, all discussion of visits and protocol would be new to Eva. Arianne’s lessons on etiquette supported Kitty’s advice about expectations. After a short while, Eva’s lip began to quiver from all she had to absorb. Afraid Eva might change her mind about accepting the role, Arianne suggested the time had come for them to return to the town house.

Glad they had stopped, Arianne led Eva toward the waiting carriage, but before they’d crossed the pavement, Arianne heard a familiar voice call her name. She turned and froze.

The late afternoon sun glinted off Baron Von Dieter’s blond hair. Lips that had kissed her in an intimate fashion lifted in greeting. Heat blossomed on her cheeks. She hadn’t expected to see him or his fiancée here, or anywhere for that matter.

She wished she could sink into the pavement and let the earth swallow her so she could avoid this embarrassing meeting. She glanced to the Cardiff residence, but no sanctuary waited there. If only they had stayed just a few moments longer, she might have avoided the Baron altogether. She turned to Eva.

“Would you wait in the carriage?”

“You don’t want to introduce me?” Eva said, her nose lifting a notch in the air.

“Please,” Arianne insisted, her chest constricting by the minute. “It’s a personal matter.”

After one last look at the approaching couple, Eva turned and walked to the waiting carriage. Arianne took a deep breath and pasted a pleasant smile on her face.

Miss Sharpe tightened her grasp of the Baron’s arm, as if she suspected Arianne would snatch him away. After her humiliation, that was unlikely. However, the possessive gesture made Arianne wonder just how much the woman knew.

“You left Vienna in such a hurry.” Baron Von Dieter lifted her fingers to his lips. His gaze held hers and begged for attention. “Much was left unsaid.”

She wanted to yank her hand back. No, that wasn’t true. She wanted to slap his face. However, neither action would be proper, and both would lead to explanations. Perhaps he felt some shame for his actions and hadn’t confided in Miss Sharpe.

Arianne forced a smile and addressed Miss Sharpe. “I apologize for not expressing my congratulations on your engagement earlier. A family emergency had called me away.”

“That was not—” the Baron began.

“I hope all is now well with your family,” Miss Sharpe interrupted, her gaze narrowed like a satisfied cat. She knew. Blast! There would be little hope of avoiding gossip now. “I do hope we shall see you at the Sugdens’ next week.”

“Yes.” The Baron perused her from head to toe, a wide, salacious grin on his lips. “You must come. We might find a quiet corner to . . . reminisce?”

Arianne stiffened. “I’m afraid I shall be gone next week. I’m leaving for America shortly.”

“But I must speak with you!” the Baron insisted. Then, apparently conscious of his fiancée’s surprise, he lowered his tone. “If I may . . . before you depart on your journey.”

“That will be impossible.” All at once, Arianne was perversely pleased that they sailed so soon. “We leave in the morning.”

He grasped her arm. “I need to explain. I’ll come tonight.”

His fiancée gasped.

“No, Karl,” Arianne said quietly. “I will not see you.”

“May I be of assistance?” Rafferty’s familiar voice eased the tightness in Arianne’s chest.

The Baron scowled over her shoulder and released her arm.

“Mr. Rafferty,” Arianne exclaimed, almost giddy by his timely rescue. But as her gaze darted to Rafferty’s face, she questioned if her exhilaration was premature. He looked as if he planned to skewer the Baron on the spot. Surely he couldn’t know of the history between the Baron and herself. She tempered her enthusiasm. “I’m so . . . pleased to see you here.”

The Baron frowned. “You know this man?”

“Mr. Rafferty is a newly appointed British minister,” she said with a smile, “and a dear friend.” Rafferty’s threatening glare softened as he turned to her. She saw his wariness and . . . enjoyment. Though she wasn’t certain if the enjoyment resulted from seeing her, or from challenging the Baron. Either way, she rejoiced to see Rafferty.

A moment passed and then another. Suddenly she realized she had neglected to make introductions.

“I was about to call upon Lord Cardiff,” he said, ignoring the others. “We’ve been meeting for the last week. Would you care to accompany me to speak with Lady Cardiff?”

It was the escape she’d hoped for, but she couldn’t return to see Kitty, especially with Eva waiting in the carriage. “I’ve just come from there myself,” she said with a nervous glance to the Baron. “Perhaps you could escort me to my carriage, instead?”

He nodded, extending his arm toward the brougham.

“Good day.” She nodded politely to the Baron and Miss Sharpe. As she moved away, Rafferty’s hand settled at the small of her back. She stiffened a moment, then relaxed. A delicious warmth radiated up her spine, inspiring an unanticipated confidence. Rafferty winked at her in response, as if they were co-conspirators and he was not rescuing her from an awkward situation.

“A dear friend, indeed,” Miss Sharpe snipped behind her. “It just goes to show you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”

“Arianne, it wasn’t my decision,” the Baron called after her.

Her step faltered, but with the subtle pressure of Rafferty’s hand, she continued to the carriage without looking back. Miss Sharpe’s anguished whispers faded behind her.

Once they reached the carriage, and the offensive couple had moved safely down the pavement, Rafferty dropped his hand from her back. Mourning the loss of that strangely intimate connection, she faced him, embarrassed that he had witnessed her in that predicament. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes lowered. “I wasn’t prepared to see him so soon.”

“I take it he’s the reason you are running away?”

She looked up sharply. “I’m not running away,” she bristled. “Lord Henderson specifically asked that I assist you. You were there. You heard him.”

Rafferty tilted his head in appraisal. “You could have said no.”

She didn’t respond. To do so would be to admit certain fears that she preferred to keep to herself. She shifted her gaze toward the carriage, then toward the ground behind Rafferty, then toward her hands—anywhere but toward Rafferty’s face.

He tipped his hat. “Till tomorrow, then.” Then he crossed the wide pavement to the Cardiffs’ front door.

Arianne slipped onto the carriage bench, anxious to leave this embarrassing encounter. She hoped Kitty had not witnessed the confrontation and prayed Rafferty wouldn’t mention it to Lord Cardiff. Somehow she knew, though, that he wouldn’t.

“Who was that man?” Eva asked, once the carriage jolted forward.

“Someone I’d prefer not to remember,” Arianne replied. She turned her face away from the window as they passed Baron Von Dieter and his fiancée. Whatever she had once felt for him was gone. “He was someone I thought I knew, but I was mistaken.”

ON ANY GIVEN DAY, THE VITAL ENGLISH PORTS bustled beneath the concerns of commerce and transportation, perhaps even more so at the Royal Victoria Dock, which had been constructed specifically for steamships. Hydraulics powered an elaborate system of winches and pulleys lifting massive weights of cargo and lowering them slowly into the deep, cavernous holds of the ocean-bound ships. Or, conversely, relieved the holds of inbound vessels of their precious agricultural goods so necessary for England’s growing population. A railway spur added the hiss of steam and squeal of metal to the cacophony of industry. The scent of water, rot, and sweat weighed heavy in the air, reminding all in the vicinity that England was an island dependent on this very activity. Stevedores and dockmen scurried on the earthen banks like ants, servicing the patient metal giants secured to the docks with ropes the thickness of Arianne’s arm.

No stranger to traveling by ship, Arianne scanned the hulls of the vessels attached to the dock, searching for one with the name
Irish Rose
. She found it, and her heart sank.

This was not a four-stack liner used to transport large quantities of wide-eyed dreamers in luxurious, and not so luxurious, accommodations. That much was obvious. The
Irish Rose
hadn’t even the grace and elegance of the three-mast sailing vessels that still plied the trade to more local shores. The
Irish Rose
appeared more of a plodding draft horse in need of a bucket of oats and a good night’s rest before hauling the next day’s laden cart.

“Is she safe?” Arianne asked no one in particular. They had debarked from the carriage that carried them to the far east side of London, to the Royal Victoria Dock. While her brother’s footmen and porters unloaded the sizeable quantity of luggage needed for a venture of this undertaking, she had wandered down the length of the railway spur in search of their ship.