Redeeming the Rogue (31 page)

A lump sat in her throat. Was she that shallow? Was her head turned more by genteel trappings than the man himself?

The silence in the carriage was worthy of the funeral plumes that decorated it. Sad, mournful, something lost. The Duke watched the both of them but kept his opinions to himself.

Arianne cleared her throat. “How was the crossing, William?”

“Miserable, but at least this time I knew what to expect. I brought a ginger remedy for mal de mer, but without Franny, I couldn’t get the dosage right.” A strange smile twisted his lips. “Now that I’m here, I’d like to look around. Any society that produces a woman like my wife is one worth further study, I say.”

The brougham slowed to a stop in front of the legation. Rafferty exited first, then assisted Arianne. The Duke followed. Rafferty signaled Evans to send footmen for the luggage. Arianne hurried inside to alert Mrs. Watson to a new guest and to find some lavender to lessen the pounding in her head.

 

ARIANNE WAS BARELY OUT OF EARSHOT BEFORE THE Duke pulled Rafferty aside. “I’m not certain what is transpiring here, but if I discover you are playing my sister foul, you will never see the verdant isles of Ireland again.”

Rafferty cocked his head. He couldn’t very well tell him that his sister had volunteered to be his hostess without the benefit of vows. “Arianne once told me that you and your wife had two weddings, one in America and a second in England.”

The Duke smiled. “That’s correct. I wanted to prove to those who were unable to attend the American ceremony that we were indeed man and wife.”

“I would be amenable to a wedding with your sister that you could attend if that would satisfy your curiosity,” Rafferty said. “You’d just have to convince your sister of the need.”

The Duke seemed to consider this. “I still suspect you’re the one Mrs. Summers warned me about. Be aware that I’m keeping my eyes on you.”

Rafferty tossed his hands in the air and headed inside. For a man who could once blend into the shadows of a dark London alley and operate unseen by the aristocracy, he had so many eyes on his backside, he thought he might resemble a potato. What was another pair, more or less?

 

THAT AFTERNOON, RAFFERTY RECEIVED HIS FIRST OFFICIAL call as a British minister. Mr. Blaine, President Garfield’s secretary of state, braved the rain to appear at the legation. While primarily a welcoming gesture, Mr. Blaine did have a concern he wished to discuss.

“It’s a matter of coffins,” the long-bewhiskered Mr. Blaine said. “Irish coffins.”

Rafferty’s lips twisted. How ironic that he’d just supervised the loading of Lord Weston’s coffin onto a railcar that very morning and his first official call regarded more of the same.

“Lord Weston was looking into the problem at the time of his demise,” Blaine continued. “As you know, Irish immigrants are coming to our shores in ever-increasing numbers.”

Rafferty thought of the conversation on the
Irish Rose
on the way over. The potato famine began the emigration when his people couldn’t find food. Now the land couldn’t support the families trying to live off of it, so whole families filled the steerage section of the big liners trying to make a new life in America.

“Unfortunately, malnutrition for so many years and disease are taking their toll and many of the immigrants are dying,” Blaine added.

“I don’t believe that’s a condition unique to the Irish,” Rafferty said.

Blaine laughed. “No, indeed, it is not. What is unique, though, is their insistence on being returned to their native soil to be buried. The pine boxes are stacking up at all our eastern ports, New York and Baltimore in particular.”

Rafferty recalled the wall of boxes he’d observed under a tarp at the Baltimore port when they’d docked. At the time he hadn’t realized that they were coffins. His face must have betrayed his distaste at the image.

“There’s no problem with the odors. The corpses have been embalmed. It’s just unseemly. The loading of so many coffins onto steamships is not the image we want for visitors to our shores.”

“Lord Weston was involved in this in what manner?” Rafferty asked. He rubbed the back of his neck, the whole topic making him uncomfortable.

“He’d charted the destinations and the steamships used for transporting. He thought there was something unusual about the whole cycle, but he hadn’t found the answer before . . . well, before he left us. The president doesn’t wish to offend anyone, but he’d like the unsightly stacks of coffins to disappear. He thought your legation might have some suggestions on promoting cremation and returning the ashes to the old country, or burying the dead here, or . . . something that would alleviate the problem.”

Rafferty remembered the list in the safe of shipping lines and the frequent mention of the
Irish Rose
. He suspected this was the purpose of Weston’s list, but why did he lock it away in the safe? Such information could have been left on his desk. There was something more, but he’d have to speak with Phineas before he could be sure.

“I will see what I can do, and again, thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He stood and escorted Mr. Blaine out of the study. They encountered the Duke in the foyer as he was preparing to see something of the city.

“Mr. Blaine, allow me to introduce my brother-in-law, the Duke of Bedford.” Rafferty took particular delight in the Duke’s odd expression at the mention of brother-in-law. “Mr. Blaine is the secretary of state of the president of the United States.”
And he’s come for my assistance
, he wanted to add for the Duke’s benefit.

Although why the Duke’s opinion of him mattered was beyond him. He never really cared before what the other titled gentry thought of him. Lord Henderson was the only aristocrat that had previously earned his respect.

“Mrs. Blaine and I are hosting a ball in honor of the Fourth of July. I’m certain the British minister and his wife are on the guest list. I assume you’ll be on hand as well? I imagine the prospect of meeting a duke will bring the womenfolk back from their summer homes.”

“I’m sure I can adjust my schedule to be present for the dance,” the Duke said. “I have fond memories of a fancy dress ball I attended in Newport last year, just about this time of year, I believe.”

Wondering if Arianne would appreciate his diplomacy, he smiled. “I’m sure Arianne will be delighted.” Because Rafferty was absolutely certain that he was not.

 

THAT EVENING THE THREE OF THEM MET FOR DINNER in the breakfast room.

“Whatever happened to Mrs. Summers?” William asked, relaxing with a glass of wine.

“She’s getting married,” Rafferty said.

“She’s getting married!” Arianne exclaimed. “To whom? When?”

“She’s marrying Captain Briggs,” Rafferty replied. “She apologized that she wouldn’t be able to live at Sanctuary and said you’d understand that she was happy to no longer be alone.” Rafferty sipped his whiskey.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She wanted to tap him with her fan to show her displeasure, but he sat too far away. “Where is she? I’d like to see her.”

“She’s living on the
Irish Rose
for the time being,” Rafferty said. “I can take a letter to her if you like. I should see her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But the
Rose
is docked in Baltimore.”

“Yes, but I need to speak with Phineas, and he’s at the harbor. I have no way of contacting him unless I go and find him myself.”

“Phineas Connor?” William’s brows lowered.

“The same.” Rafferty leaned toward Arianne. “Mrs. Summers had another message for you. She said to express her sincere gratitude to Cupid’s Mistress.”

“Mistress?” William growled. “You’ve been associating with a mistress?” He shook his head. “Ruffians and mistresses . . . Arianne, have you forgotten you’re the daughter of a duke?”

Rafferty smiled in her direction, as if to say her brother’s question vindicated his own mistaken supposition at their first meeting.

“But I’m not, am I?” she stated, her headache building at her temples. “I’m not the daughter of a duke.”

“You were raised as one; that’s what is important,” William said. “You’ve the respect and decorum to be Lady Arianne. One’s bloodline is just blood. It’s the shaping that matters.”

“The shaping?” She stood abruptly, and the two men leapt to their feet as well, which, even if it was the proper thing to do, just irritated her even more. A mocking laugh issued from her lips. “Then I was shaped to strive for perfection, because if I failed to hold my cup just so”—she held an imaginary teacup in the air—“if I failed in my order of introductions, or if my conversation was not sufficiently witty, my father would hate me and send me away again. I was shaped to be unwanted, to not have a home, to drift from embassy to embassy, smiling at my school friends’ happiness and knowing none of my own. I was shaped to be afraid that should I find someone to love, he would beat me and desert me . . . without sanctuary.” She glanced to Rafferty, hoping he’d understand.

A quiet descended over the room.

William broke the silence. “Arianne, you’ve always had a home with Franny and I.” He frowned at Rafferty as if he were the root of her insecurities and not the old Duke. “And you’ll always have sanctuary with us at Deerfield Abbey.”

She smiled. It was the only thing that kept tears at bay. She sadly shook her head. “I don’t want your home, William. I don’t want to always be the sister of a duke. I want . . .” She looked at Rafferty, unsure what words to say, unsure what would satisfy the yearnings of her heart. “I want . . .”

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t give voice to the emptiness inside her. So she did what she always did. She ran.

 

RAFFERTY WATCHED ARIANNE FLEE THE ROOM IN TINY quick steps. That confining dress wouldn’t allow much more, which was good because that meant he’d always be able to catch her when she tried to run.

The Duke fell back into his chair, dazed.

“It’s a good thing that your sister is the witty conversationalist,” Rafferty said. “I’d hate to share your dinner table otherwise.”

“I only asked about that bloody Cupid’s Mistress. Who is that?”

“Your sister, you dolt.” Was it possible that the brother hadn’t a clue about his own sister? “It’s a silly nickname someone assigned to her. It seems wherever she goes, love and happiness abound and people rush off to get married.” He lowered his voice. “Except for her. I understand you were one of her victims.”

“Me? Arianne had nothing to do with my wedding. It was arranged by solicitors and my mother-in-law.”

Rafferty moved toward the door.

“Wait!” the Duke called. “Where are you going?”

“To my wife,” Rafferty replied. “She needs me.”

“Rafferty,” the Duke warned flatly, “if you’re not truly married to my sister . . . I will kill you.”

“Right sentiment,” Rafferty muttered under his breath. “Wrong man.”

ARIANNE STUMBLED INTO HER BEDROOM. WHAT had she done? She collapsed onto the bed. Mrs. Summers would have been abhorred by her display at the dinner table. In front of her brother, no less. What had come over her?

A tear dropped on the gold ruched silk of her dinner gown. She should call Kathleen and remove the dress before it was ruined. Another tear plopped on the bodice and spread in a moist circle, and still she didn’t move. She was tired of moving, tired of packing and going to another proper place to be a proper guest for the proper length of time. Tired of smiling when she wanted to cry, tired of taking small bites when she wanted it all, tired of keeping secrets, tired of maintaining this farce, and tired of knowing what waited when it was all over . . . a lonely existence in an isolated country village.

How had it come to this? Hadn’t she tried to be appealing to the Baron . . . the Baron with the wonderful sprawling family that was ever underfoot? Hadn’t she let him do those things to her that would ensure his affection, even though it hurt like the devil and ruined her for other serious proposals? Hadn’t she tried to be perfect? And yet the one thing that wasn’t perfect, the one thing she thought necessary to share with her future husband, the one thing William said didn’t matter—her bloodline—had cost her the future.

There is no such thing as perfection.
Lady Weston’s words echoed in her brain. The Baron would likely dispute that, she thought with a hiccup. Lady Weston had said something about Rafferty too, but Arianne couldn’t recall it now. Something about protection, she thought, surprised at how just thinking about Rafferty made her feel better. He would protect her. That’s what Lady Weston had said. Too bad she didn’t say that he would love her as well.

The door opened to the bedroom, and he was there. She expected to see his lips twist into that half-smirk smile, like he had when he caught her in the bath, but this time he didn’t smile at all. He turned and quietly closed the door, then crossed the room to her. He took her soggy tear-soaked hands in his and lifted her to her feet.