Somebody To Love

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Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love
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CLOSER. . .
 
Griffin’s face had gone as empty of expression as she’d ever seen it, but his eyes were dangerous. She stood and strode toward the door, shaken by her anger—and his. “If you will excuse me, it has been a long day. I am tired and—”
He was in front of her, pulling her into his arms. She did not dare push at him for fear of hurting his injury. Or that’s what she told herself as she slipped closer.
“I was so bloody worried,” he growled into her hair.
Before she could explore the interesting effect of those words, his mouth came down hard on hers and demanded deep kisses. Oh, Lord, his touch was instantly intoxicating. Passion flared in her, hot, sudden and intense as an electrical charge. She arched up to meet him. This was what she’d longed for, what her body demanded.
He pulled her closer and groaned. “Now, Araminta. Please.”
SOMEBODY TO LOVE
 
 
 
KATE ROTHWELL
 
 
 
 
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
 
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Michael—and just not just because of January.
For all those months, too.
 
I am grateful to the wisest of forced bats,
Bronwyn Clarke,
Julie Korzenko,
Anne Lind.
You, too, Pam Gitta.
 
Of course, as usual.
I owe Linda and Nan big time.
CHAPTER 1
 
New York City, 1883
 
Araminta Woodhall left the kitchen, slipped to a back room and donned her most stylish gown, a rose-colored satin and velvet creation. She should have felt elegant in the damask bodice, with the swaths of plain satin and damask that draped the skirt. Instead she felt even more like a circus act.
She reminded herself that no matter how much she despised being on display for her employer’s wealthy, leering clients, at least she could be proud that her
ris de veau aux pois avec haricots verts sautés au beurre
and
saumon aux concombres, sauce homard
had been exceptionally good tonight.
She hung her cotton work dress on a hook in the small storage room, and then pushed through the door separating the servants’ quarters from the main part of the mansion. After a satisfying yet hectic day’s work producing sixteen courses, she craved quiet, but first she must greet Linder Kane’s foolish guests. Wearing a smile as artificial as the silk roses at her waist, she would curtsey at their applause, and then head back to her territory, the kitchen.
But as Araminta walked past the thick, polished door barring Kane’s private sanctum, she heard a woman’s shout. She froze.
In the office, the woman gave another cry, and Araminta recognized Olivia’s voice. Oh, Lord no, not Olivia. Not again. Her protective instincts surged, but she’d interfered before and it had not helped.
Olivia must have ventured down onto the first floor of the Park Avenue mansion, and Linder Kane didn’t allow his mistress anywhere near the parlors where the well-heeled gamblers gathered at the card table or the roulette wheel.
A more muffled cry, followed by a sharp crack, forced Araminta into motion. She shoved open the unlocked door.
The normally immaculate Mr. Kane stood red-faced and disheveled in the middle of the room. Hands on knees, he bent over the sprawled figure of Olivia, a frail figure crumpled in a heap on the wine-colored Aubusson carpet.
Her heart beating double-time, Araminta cried, “Are you trying to kill her?”
Kane straightened and looked over at her, his usual affable smile fixed in place. “Ah. Araminta. No need to worry. Miss Smith is fine. She tripped. Knocked her head on the table.”
Araminta bit back a retort. She elbowed him aside and knelt on the carpet. Olivia’s blue eyes frowned up at her. Touching her friend’s cheek, Araminta saw bruises already beginning to form on the porcelain skin.
“See? I told you she’s fine.” Kane tugged at his waistcoat and adjusted his perfect, starched white cuffs. “You’d better pay attention to where you are stepping, Olivia,” he said. “And Araminta, we’ve got a most select group of customers tonight and so in five minutes—”
She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming in his face, and her voice was tight with the effort. “No, Mr. Kane.”
His smile didn’t disappear, but it seemed less wide, and the amiable eyes held an unpleasant glint. “But our clients enjoy the chance to congratulate you on your superb creations. You know that I expect you to do us this favor.”
Araminta knew he enjoyed the chance to show off the fact that he had snared this year’s novelty, the French-trained girl with the café-au-lait complexion and an upper-crust British accent. Once upon a time, the ridiculously high salary he paid her would have stopped her from telling him what he could do with his expectations. Now concern for Olivia kept her mouth shut.
She drew in a breath to steady her temper, and risked an insolent stare into his face. “You might inform them that I’m ill.”
He ran a hand over his glossy dark hair, and his lips compressed. “I most certainly will not tell them that the chef is sick.”
She raised her voice. “Mr. Kane—”
He held up a hand, palm out, in mock surrender, once again wearing the air of the jolly, good-natured fellow who wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Yes, yes. I know you chefs are temperamental. I’ll make your excuses. You will be a little late, yes?”
Araminta opened her mouth to protest, but saw the challenge in the wide crocodile grin.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be down before they rise from the table.” Araminta helped Olivia to her feet—an easy job, for the slight girl felt as if she weighed no more than a bushel of apples. “Excuse me, Mr. Kane. I need to take her upstairs.”
Olivia moaned, and her thin fingers grabbed onto Araminta’s arm.
Kane’s smile didn’t waver. “Good plan. Let me make sure the hall’s empty.”
“Naturally we don’t want the patrons to see this,” Araminta muttered.
His sleek demeanor nauseated her. She should have known that anyone that greedy for power would be corrupt. She rued the day she’d allowed herself to be lured into accepting his offer of employment. Kane wasn’t the only despicable man she’d encountered in his gambling hall. The wealthy customers who frequented the Pk Avenue establishment might not have his streak of violence, but as far as she could discern from the conversations she’d overheard, they cared more for their money and pleasure than for any honorable pursuits.
She half carried the girl up the back staircase to Olivia’s bedroom, a few doors down from where Kane slept when he stayed in the house.
After she helped Olivia change out of the blue satin gown, she settled the girl into the bed with the dark wood headboard, which towered over Olivia and made her look even more like a child. Araminta sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a few pale hairs from her friend’s forehead. The heart-shaped face might have been an echo from Araminta’s past. Darling Charlotte, Araminta’s mother, had almost the same face, the same fragile form as Olivia.
And really, Olivia was not so different from Charlotte. Frail yet loving women, trapped by heartless “gentlemen.”
At least Araminta’s grandfather hadn’t beaten Charlotte.
“I know you dislike it when I tell you to leave this place, but more and more I’m convinced he’s dangerous.” Araminta spoke softly, though she still wanted to shout. “This is the third time this week that he’s hit you. That I know of.”
“No. Really, I’ll be all right.”
“You could stay in my house.”
“I can’t leave.” Olivia’s face, which had been screwed up in pain, relaxed but grew even paler. Her blue eyes opened wide, and Araminta thought she saw fear in them. Olivia shook her head and then grimaced again. “You mustn’t ask me to.”
“Why not?”
But Olivia had closed her eyes. “I can’t,” was her only answer, and Araminta knew she’d get no other.
Her friend fell asleep almost at once. As Araminta drew the ugly puce cover over the girl, a knot of frustration and anger formed in her chest. She needed to rescue foolish Olivia, but she could not do it alone—and no one she knew would dare challenge Linder Kane. The men wasting money downstairs likely kept mistresses of their own and would have more empathy for Linder Kane than for a poor lost girl.
She extinguished the flickering gaslight. Closing the door firmly behind her, she wished she could lock it to make sure Linder Kane stayed out.
She walked slowly toward the stairs. Whenever she had broached the idea of leaving, Olivia had grown panic-stricken, so she must fear something outside the walls of Kane’s mansion. Araminta would need to find some source of protection for the girl here and once she managed to get the girl out from under Kane’s thumb. Charlotte’s daughter could not walk away from a lost soul like Olivia.
 
Griffin Calverson strolled from the dining room through the middle parlor, careful to keep his face a mask of indifference. Behind him, the soft slap of cards punctuated men’s conversation and raucous laughter. He shoved open a massive oak door he suspected was meant to discourage any member of the public from wandering out of the first-floor gaming rooms. Cigar smoke thickened the air and trailed him into the empty corridor.
Griffin rubbed his chin and pondered his next move. A friend had brought him to this gambling parlor, and so far, he’d managed to avoid being introduced to Kane, who would recognize his last name. Kane’s greedy hands were trying to dip into the Calverson Company coffers.
The man had to be stopped.
A few minutes earlier, Kane had reappeared inthe dining room after a long absence, the fixed smile more pronouncedly false. Something back here had ruffled the man, and Griffin decided to indulge his piqued curiosity. Just a quick snoop round. And he’d heard a rumor he wanted to confirm.
The air in this deserted back corridor was only slightly less rancid than that in the parlors, but Griffin breathed deeply, putting his thoughts in order. He became aware of a slight prickling, like a soft touch on his skin. Someone watched him.
He glanced up, his gaze following the sweep of an ornate stair that led to the upper chambers, to the shadows at the top where a woman’s form stood, unmoving, looking down.
Good God, so the rumor was true. This was where the woman had ended up. There was no mistaking the lovely curve from waist to hip. The elegant set of the slightly tilted head, seen in silhouette, matched the memory that occasionally distracted him.
Araminta.
What the hell was she doing working here?
If he knew her, perhaps she recognized him. He’d have to speak to her. He started toward the stairs, tamping down his sudden, unexpected eagerness.
The oak door behind him opened. Araminta vanished into the shadows of the upstairs hall.
Kane’s starched and impressive butler stood and frowned at Griffin, who set his shoulders and stared down the man with frigid hauteur.
The butler immediately showed an apologetic smile as wide and false as Kane’s. “Sir? I’m sorry, but we prefer our customers remain in the front parlors. Coffee is being served in the dining room.”
“Of course.” Griffin strolled past him. “I beg your pardon.”
In the dining room, Melrose, the odious but useful acquaintance who’d brought Griffin here, lounged in a chair, three sheets to the wind, bragging about his recent mining deals in Colorado. Griffin knew the dark-haired, oily man listening and beaming was Kane, and so he took a chair well away from the two of them.
He fell into conversation with a thin stick of a lawyer who looked dyspeptic.
“I enjoy a few hands of vingt-et-un, but mostly I come for the dinner,” the lawyer confided. “She’ll be out soon.”
“She?”
“The gal who does it. Wish I could steal her, I tell you. All the rage just because she cooked for a duchess and that eccentric whatshername. Timona Caleston.”
“Calverson,” Griffin muttered. He didn’t bother to add his sister’s name was now actually Timona McCann.
“Yeah. For all the fuss, she’s as skilled in the kitchen as any Pierre or Jacques—better even.” The stick smiled. “And tastier to look at.”
Kane’s raised voice rumbled over the conversations. “Ah, Miss Araminta.”
Griffin leaned back. He draped his arm over the top of the chair and examined Kane’s cook.
She had the voluptuous hourglass figure of a Bowery actress, but the demeanor of royalty. Her eyes were dark, delicious, exotic, her skin the radiant color of dark clover honey in sunlight. Her hair, a mass of curls, had been drawn into a tight knot at the back of her head, but enough raven locks had escaped to frame her face. He fancied that the last time they’d met, her hair had been shorter.
She looked straight into his face. Her full lips parted slightly and she blushed. He narrowed his eyes, hoping she’d see his warning. Perhaps she did, for she looked away at onceI/div>
The men, filled with her excellent cooking and Kane’s good wine, applauded, stamped their feet and whistled at her. She murmured some nonsense about “enjoying their visit,” though Griffin was amused to hear that she sounded as if she cursed them all.
And then for another long moment, her glowing dark eyes stared into his face. Several of Kane’s other patrons turned to see where her attention had focused. Amused, and a bit rattled, Griffin frowned, then shifted his gaze from her eyes to the wineglass he held. He felt almost as if he’d broken physical contact.
Damn the woman for showing the room she recognized him. He already knew Araminta Woodhall displayed every emotion on that lovely face. And as far as he could tell, every emotion for her was a strong one. Luckily Kane had been distracted by Melrose and didn’t notice.
When Griffin looked up from the ornate crystal glass, Araminta had disappeared.
He’d endure a few hands of cards and then go seek her out. He needed to make sure she wouldn’t babble to Kane. And, he reasoned, he owed it to his sister to find out why her former employee worked for that unscrupulous twit. He took a gulp of wine and wondered why the blazes she’d stared at him in such a marked manner. The possibilities were intriguing.
 
As soon as she escaped the smoke-filled dining room, Araminta let the door close behind her and leaned heavily against the wall. Her instincts had proven correct. The frisson of recognition that had shot through her had not been a lie. She’d only had a glimpse of him in the dark hallway, and had doubted her eyes—the Griffin Calverson she remembered would not be dim-witted enough to throw money away at Kane’s crooked gaming hall.
Araminta had met Calverson only twice, but had a clear picture of him in her mind as a cynical man who should have seen through Kane’s air of bonhomie at once.
Those remarkable eyes, green and cold as chips of emerald ice, had captured her gaze across the dining room. Even though she’d felt the heat rise to her cheeks, she hadn’t been able to tear her gaze away from the stern, handsome face. He’d looked out of place among the other men, and not just because he was clearly sober and alert. She could not put her finger on what set him apart. Something perilous.
She knew from that stare he recognized her, but his eyes had narrowed as if in accusation. What message had he wanted to convey?
As she pondered that, a second thought rose to her mind: despite his own mysterious and perhaps murky dealings, Calverson might be the answer to her problem. His influence and power far exceeded Kane’s. She needed a wealthy, ruthless man to help Olivia. He did not seem to be friendly with Kane—in fact, she could swear Calverson had directed a look of contempt at the man.
She walked toward the kitchen, wondering how she could approach him to ask for help. Lost in her thoughts, she started and gasped when, from behind, strong hands grasped her upper arms.
At first she suspected the regular customer who’d twice come searching for her after he’d downed several brandies. “I’ve already told you,” she said in the voice that could subdue the cheekiest kitchen assistants, “I’m not interested, and my employer has assured me that I might . . . oh.” Her indignation died away, replaced by something more complex.
The hands that held her arms were stronger than that customer’s pudgy fingers. And the scent of this man much more subtle.
“Good evening, Miss Woodhall.” The softvoice in her ear set her back rigid and tingling with awareness. “I expect you recognized me in the back hall?”
She managed to catch her breath again, but her whisper was ragged. “Yes, Mr. Calverson. Please let go, sir.”
She turned and found he stood too close. She backed away at once. Looking up into the austere face nearly hidden in the shadows, she grew light-headed. That had to explain her next words.
“I’d have thought that you had better sense than to come to a place like Kane’s,” she whispered. “Sir.”
“If it comes to that, I thought you were too intelligent to work for a man like him.” He took a step closer, and the dim light shone upon the man’s clear eyes, his high cheekbones, the harsh set of his brow. The lines next to his mouth hinted at dimples, except the blighter never smiled.
Oh, bother. As she looked at him, her insides melted into jelly. She hadn’t left behind either one of her peculiar reactions to the man: lust and incivility. Why would he create such nonsensical responses in her?
Calverson frowned down at her. “Do you come out and greet the customers every night?”
She heard his odious disapproval. “No, sir. Perhaps once a week. Only when the most elite clientele visit.” She reined in her servant’s reaction to his commanding tone. Why should she explain herself to him? “Or as some of the men who work here say, when high-flying mugs come to be parted from their cash.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And you associate with the men who work here?”
Annoyance overpowered the uncomfortable curling awareness of him. How dare he, of all people, condemn her? “Did you have anything else you wished to discuss, sir? Might I ask why you grabbed me?”
An odd expression flickered across his face. Guilt, perhaps ? Not likely. “I wanted to assure myself that you wouldn’t tell Mr. Kane that you saw me in the hall tonight.”
“Certainly, no, I won’t.” She remembered her mission and chewed on her lower lip. She drew in a deep breath. “What are you doing, sir?”
“In a few moments, I shall go back and lose some more money in Mr. Kane’s front parlor at the roulette wheel.”
“I meant why are you here, sir? Are you friends with Mr. Kane?”
“Not at all.” His voice was filled with disgust.
The vision of Olivia’s bruised cheek and temple came to her, and her own weakness in his presence seemed a petty concern. She realized she’d been holding her breath and allowed it to escape in a deep exhale. “Then I own that I’m glad to meet you—”
Footsteps and voices echoed in the corridor from the back of the house.
Araminta twisted around to see who was coming. Probably some of Kane’s assistants, on their way to the gaming rooms. When she turned back, Griffin Calverson had disappeared.
She had a flash of disappointment, but she dismissed it. There was work to do, and she didn’t want to be caught fraternizing with a customer. She’d pushed Kane far enough tonight. If he raised a hand to Olivia because of her, Araminta could not bear it.
She continued on to the kitchen, feeling absurdly glad she was not wearing her usual work garment. She smoothed the velvet on her sleeve, mussed from Calverson’s grip. Her arms remembered the strength of his hands.
He was up to something here. Though she didn’t know the man well, she guessed his presence meant te we for Kane. And perhaps salvation for Olivia.
Tomorrow she’d track Calverson down in his lair and find out.

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