Redeeming the Rogue (3 page)

Phineas examined the envelope. “I can’t lift the seal without the woman knowing it’s been read. If we had the time to go back . . .” He glanced at Rafferty. “Maybe we should just deliver this and follow her. I can always finger the message later.” He smiled. “My sleight of hand may prove useful yet.”

Rafferty pushed his hair back from his face. The long, shabby cut allowed him to blend in among the criminal underbelly where vital intelligence accumulated for those who knew the treacherous route. Rafferty knew it well.

“So, Mr. Connor, master of feats of wonder and illusion.” Rafferty bowed in a mimicked salute. “Can you use your powers to foresee this woman? That information would be helpful if every woman is dressed in green.”

Phineas laughed. “Even if I had such abilities, I wouldn’t tell you. Locating her should make the reception much more appealing.”

Rafferty was tempted to argue. His experience with the hoity-toity sort of woman likely in attendance suggested they would not be interested in dallying with the likes of him.

The clop of hooves and the jangle of a carriage brought his attention back to the town house. Another diplomat arriving for idle chatter and secretive glances. Phineas tapped Rafferty’s elbow. “I’ll watch the outside while you question the ladies inside.”

If he had his druthers, Rafferty would have preferred that Phineas play the role of gentleman diplomat and he be the outside lookout. After all, Phineas was the stage performer. But Lord Henderson had been explicit that Rafferty alone was to attend the reception. He started to cross the street.

“Wait.”

Rafferty glanced back. “What’s wrong?”

“Your jacket is ripped.” Phineas pointed to the deep rent under Rafferty’s arm. “And your lip is bleeding on your silk. You won’t get past the doorman looking like that.”

A matched set of black horses pulled another liveried brougham to the entrance. The streetlights caught a shimmer of green on the skirts of the woman emerging from its depths.

Rafferty cursed under his breath and glanced at Phineas’s frock coat. He tugged the end of his own bloodied white cravat. “Quick. Exchange with me.”

“Hell, you say!” Phineas shook his head, but Rafferty had already shed his cravat and was shrugging out of his ripped coat. With a sigh, Phineas loosened his black neck cloth, then removed his jacket. “You’re too broad for this to fit properly, you know.”

Rafferty accepted the garment with a smile, then slipped one arm in the sleeve. It was a little short, but it would suffice. He tugged the jacket across his back to secure the other arm.

“That’s my best performance coat,” Phineas cautioned. “Have mercy on the seams!”

The fit was tight, but it would have to do. He moved the knife from his trousers to his boot, the purloined letter to an inside jacket pocket, and tied the cravat in a four-in-hand knot.

Phineas shook his head. “All you need is a black mask and a swift horse and you’d pass for a highwayman. You won’t look at all like the other swells.”

“That, my friend, is a compliment,” Rafferty replied, then started across the street.

Phineas called after him. “There is one thing you should know . . . The last time I wore that coat—”

“Tell me tomorrow,” Rafferty yelled back, anxious to track down the woman who had just entered the town house. “Lord Henderson’s residence at three.”

 

“CUPID’S MISTRESS!” THE BACHELOR’S JAW DROPPED AND trembled like a fish gasping air. “I didn’t realize you were the matchmaker.”

Before Lady Arianne Chambers could explain that those arrangements were purely accidental and not something she consciously practiced, the frightened man vanished into the chattering crowd of diplomats and their spouses gathered in the Italian ambassador’s salon. Ever since word had spread of Arianne’s success at suggesting successful matrimonial matches, bachelors had run shrieking the moment she entered a room. Two years ago, such rejection would have startled her. Now she’d come to expect it.

“I’m sorry, Anne.” Lady Cardiff’s gaze held that special pity married women reserved for those less fortunate. “I thought Crenshaw would be different.”

“It matters not. I’m resigned to spinsterhood.” Arianne patted her best friend’s arm before fluffing the lace attached to her green satin sleeve. “I’m bound to be happier that way.”

Lady Cardiff frowned. “Not all men treat their wives as did your father. It’s possible to find love and companionship within the bounds of matrimony.”

Arianne did not correct her friend’s mistaken assumption, for no amount of explanation would convince her otherwise. Kitty had not lived in the Chambers household and therefore had not witnessed her mother’s decline. Abuse was neither pretty nor easily forgotten.

“I wish, though, they hadn’t assigned me that awful name.” Arianne glanced toward the string quartet whose vibrant chords were lost in the noisy crowd. “I’m afraid it will become my epitaph. Cupid’s Mistress . . .”

“The one who coined that phrase never witnessed your lack of ability on the archery field,” her old schoolmate taunted. “If so, men and women alike would run with fear for their lives.”

Arianne chuckled at the mental image of the bejeweled ton seeking shelter from her arrows. “Perhaps then society matrons would be hesitant to trot their daughters forward for an introduction.” Though she imagined that would cease soon enough for another reason, but she pushed that thought aside. Tonight, she intended to concentrate on her childhood friend. After all, as long as Arianne’s secrets remained hidden, she could socialize at receptions such as this.

She turned toward Lady Cardiff. “Have you received word of Lord Cardiff’s posting?”

Kitty turned with her lips poised for reply, then stopped and sniffed before leaning closer. Her nose wrinkled. “Anne, is that another of your scent concoctions?”

“Have the florals failed?” Arianne gasped. “I thought to substitute the white wine in my summer formula with something stronger. I hoped it would draw more of the oil from the petals.” She sniffed at her own wrist. “Perhaps I should have used more water for balance?” Blessed Saint Christopher. She smelled less like the sister of a duke and more like a distillery maid. She snapped her fan into motion.

Kitty shook her head. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s too faint for anyone to notice unless they stand unusually close. I’m quite sure Crenshaw disappeared due to your reputation, not your scent.”

Arianne’s eyes widened. Had gossip already started?

“Oh!” Kitty laughed. “That did not sound right. What I meant to say was—” Her expression shifted. “Good Lord, who is that man? The one speaking with Lady Trembel.”

Arianne followed Kitty’s gaze. A man, fascinating in his total unsuitability for a gathering of this nature known for strict adherence to convention, mesmerized Lady Trembel with his attentive smile. Long black hair dangled low on his forehead. Lady Trembel’s gloved hands clenched at her side, causing Arianne to think she was having difficulty not brushing the dark strands aside. Yes. Arianne suspected she might feel a similar strain, if only to gain a better view of those engaging eyes. He looked as disreputable as a buccaneer, yet something about him hummed along her skin, scattered her thoughts, and sent a tremor down her spine. She wished he’d glance her way so she could see his features more clearly.

“Some people should not wear that pale shade of green. It does nothing for Lady Trembel,” Kitty groused beside her. “She has managed to capture his interest, though. Do you know him?”

Arianne shook her head, noting similar reactions repeated behind a multitude of quickly fluttering fans. Apparently he’d been noticed by every female in the room. Did they feel that same invisible force that prickled her skin?

“His jacket is wrong for this affair,” Kitty observed. “And entirely too small.”

“Or his chest is too big,” Arianne replied absently. “I wonder if the rest of him—”

Kitty lightly smacked her with her fan. “An unmarried woman shouldn’t make such observations,” she scolded. “Even one with a notorious artist brother.”

Either Kitty’s playful gesture or Arianne’s fervent wishes caught the stranger’s attention, as his gaze swept the room for a moment.

“If I remember correctly,” Arianne said, observing Lady Trembel tap his arm with her fan to regain his attention, “such things interested you before you married.”

Back in their schoolgirl days, Kitty had joined Arianne at her brother’s Yorkshire residence. When Nicholas wasn’t about, they had sneaked into his studio to peruse his sketches of scantily clad figures.

“Well, I’m married now,” Kitty said with a smug smile. “Look! He’s caught the Countess’s notice. Perhaps we can garner his credentials from her.”

Countess D’Orange, the wife of the Italian minister assigned to London, had sponsored the reception in honor of some new envoy. A purpose was always stated on the invitation but rarely needed at these affairs. Diplomats loved to talk and needed little incentive to congregate and swap pleasantries. Due to her extensive travels, Arianne knew most in the room and enjoyed the opportunity to renew acquaintances.

“He is a handsome devil, even with his questionable attire,” Lady Cardiff observed. “If I weren’t a married woman . . .”

“Kitty!” Arianne scolded. They hid soft laughter behind their gloves. Both knew the observation was in jest. “He can’t possibly be a diplomat; he’s too . . . different. I wonder what he’s doing here?”

Fascinated, she watched a dimple form in his cheek as he smiled at something the Countess said. His visage transformed to one with a shy flirtatious charm. “I believe the Countess D’Orange has considerably improved his demeanor,” Arianne said. “He’s lost some of his menacing aspect.”

“Menacing?” Kitty’s brows lifted. “Whatever do you mean?”

Was it not obvious? Arianne was about to reply when both the Countess and the stranger turned toward them. Quickly she averted her gaze, embarrassed that he might recognize her curiosity, but then her pulse slowed. Of what consequence could that knowledge bring? Once he discovered her identity, he was bound to retreat to the distant wall to join Crenshaw and every other bachelor in the room.

She glanced at that very group as they tried to hide their sidelong glances at the stranger. The newcomer made them uneasy. There was justice in that.

“They’re coming this way,” Lady Cardiff said with exuberance. “Perhaps we won’t have to wait till the end of the reception to learn his identity.”

Oh dear! Arianne’s heartbeat hastened. Even though she had chosen spinsterhood, she wasn’t immune to male attention. Perhaps she’d been hasty in believing this man was an unlikely negotiator, for at this moment, under his dark perusal, she felt robbed of protest.

“Lady Arianne Chambers, Lady Cardiff”—the Countess nodded to each of them—“allow me to introduce Mr. Rafferty, a recent addition to the diplomatic corps.”

A quick doubt crossed her mind even as she and Lady Cardiff nodded acknowledgment. A fresh cut on his lip confirmed this man spoke as much with his fists as with a diplomat’s clever words. She should be wary of that proclivity given her mother’s experience, yet something about this man called to her, something that defied common sense.

“Mr. Rafferty,” Kitty said. “You must be newly come to London. I do not believe I’ve seen you at any embassy functions.”

“Perhaps you weren’t looking in the dark corners,” he responded with a faint Irish brogue. A mischievous sparkle lit his watchful eyes.

“Lady Arianne.” His sudden attention robbed her of breath. “I expressly requested an introduction so that we might share a private word.”

Kitty’s expression twisted into one of shock, while surprise rattled Arianne’s bones. Men simply did not seek her out, especially dangerously handsome ones. Her mouth dried to ash a moment before she realized her jaw was agape. Dear heavens, she must resemble Lord Crenshaw!

“I’m not sure there is such a thing as privacy in this salon,” the Countess teased. “Come along, Lady Cardiff, I have someone you should meet.” Kitty hesitated, then reluctantly followed their hostess.

“Perhaps we might move away from that popular punch bowl?” Mr. Rafferty clasped his hands behind his back as if to reinforce that he posed no threat, yet every nerve in her body tensed. Sensing a current of envy from the feminine eyes that followed their progress, she led the way toward a grouping of potted palms where the crowd thinned.

“Lady Arianne.” His voice purred as soothing as the violin’s lilting refrain. “I believe I carry a message intended for you . . .”

A fringe of black hair dipped just below his eyebrow. Arianne clenched her fan more tightly to avoid smoothing it aside.

“. . . But I find I’m hesitant to deliver it.” His lips curled in a pleasant line at odds with the alert assessment in his eyes.

“Why is that, sir?” Her chest expanded, pushing forcefully against her stays. Christopher! She, of all people, should know better than to fall victim to stirring accents and seductive smiles.

“I fear as soon as you read this note, you will rush from the salon, denying me further opportunity to share your company.”

While she accepted the false flattery as a social staple, the unexpected delivery of a note lifted the fine hairs on her neck. Only bad news carried such urgency. Her pulse quickened. “Is it a message from my brother?” she asked with due gravity. “His wife is expecting their first child. If something has gone awry, I must leave immediately!”

“No.” Mr. Rafferty’s fingers grasped her arm as if to stop her immediate departure. A ribbon of tingling awareness raced to her shoulder. Shocked, she searched his gaze, surprised at the disdain she noted there. What had she done to earn such derision?

“I apologize if I alarmed you,” he said. “The note is not from your family.” Yet he still held her captive. She stared pointedly at his inappropriate touch. Recognizing his error, he released her, but without apology.