Somebody To Love (10 page)

Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love

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Griffin narrowed his eyes. “But I hope you will not mind if Mr. Potter escorts you?”

Rather than argue, she allowed Mr. Potter to lead her from the restaurant.

She sighed and wished she’d left after the concert. The dinner did not strike her as a disaster, but it somehow detracted from the moments of magic in ay.

Griffin had waited, hoping Araminta would give Richardson one of her set-downs, but instead she had fled the scene. Now he wished he’d stepped in and stopped the idiot before he’d chased her off.

Oh, the devil with it. The meeting could wait.

He stood and tossed his napkin on the table. “I shall return in half an hour, gentlemen. Nelson, if you would go over the thoughts you shared with me about the northern corridor’s requirements?”

He strode from the restaurant without another word.

Potter was just helping Araminta into a hansom.

Griffin tapped his shoulder. “Go back and help Nelson set their minds at ease.”

Potter wheeled around. “But sir, this deal represents a whopping sum—”

Griffin, leaping into the cab, interrupted. “I trust you to represent Calverson’s interest in this, Potter. You and Nelson can keep Richardson’s inflated expectations in line. I’ll be back.”

He closed the door on the young man’s goggling face.

In the dark interior of the carriage he leaned back and tried to make out Araminta’s expression.

Her smile gleamed briefly as she smiled at him. “It wasn’t necessary to come after me.”

“Potter and Nelson’ll do fine. Araminta, I am sorry Mr. Richardson annoyed you. I don’t know if the man was drunk or just a natural boor.”

“He was an annoyance, but at least he kept his hands to himself—for the most part.”

“Why the blazes didn’t you cut him to shreds with your sharp tongue?”

“I had supposed you did not want your dinner guests offended.”

Her hesitant answer bothered him. He did not like to think of Araminta as anything but strong and defiant.

He shifted irritably. “To hell with Richardson. You were my dinner guest. And I apologize if you were offended.”

She drew in an audible breath. “Thank you.”

She’d been perched at the edge of the seat, holding the strap; now she slid back and settled into the corner. “It was a good concert,” she said. “I am glad I saw it with you.”

Her soft, measured words made the simple statement ring through him. Griffin was at a loss. If he opened his mouth, he would either say something idiotically frothy or, far worse, he’d say too much, offer more than he should. He might press too hard, too fast.

The carriage paused under a streetlamp. Some of her ringlets had fallen and framed her face. The strange light through the window cast a harsh shadow across her features. He leaned forward and tucked her hair behind her ear so he could see the fine, dark eyes. Her smile faded, though her lips remained parted. The hunger he saw in her face made him light-headed with desire. He took off his hat. And as the carriage lurched into motion again, he slipped across the seat to her and leaned in for a kiss. She gave a small, muted whimper.

For a moment he thought she would pull away and protest, but when she shifted, it was to tilt her head so their mouths fit more perfectly. He tasted her—splendid, delicate kisses that escalated into delicious moaning ones and drove him beyond pleasant anticipation to raging arousal—until the thump of the driver pulling back the hatch brought them back.

“Wait here,” Griffin instructed thedriver, though he hated saying the words.

At the top of her steps, Araminta held out a hand. “Good night.”

He kissed her gloved fingers, and then, remembering her response the last time he’d done it, turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. Her answering gasp was gratifying.

He bowed. “Good night, Araminta.”

Settling back in the cab, he considered his next move. He had never had any interest in setting up a mistress, but knew well enough how one approached this sort of business.

Surely Araminta had lived in the world long enough to understand these matters as well. Thank goodness the idea would not send her off into some weak womanly vapors. At worst, she would give him a sharp set-down. Remembering the kisses and the way she melted in his arms, he rather believed she would not.

In the restaurant, the men were deep in discussion—which stopped when Griffin entered and dropped into his seat again.

He idly wondered if they were talking about him when Richardson piped up. “Thought you wouldn’t be back so soon. A fine woman, that Woodhall.”

Griffin wondered how he might wipe the grin off the man’s face without spilling blood on the restaurant’s carpets. “She is.”

Midler, the older gentleman next to Griffin, put down his glass of wine and darted a nervous glance between Griffin and Richardson.

But Richardson apparently hadn’t noticed the fury in Griffin’s voice. He snickered. “I can imagine how fine she is. Tell me, is she available, or do you keep her busy to the exclusion of other gentlemen?”

To hell with the rich Richardson’s interest in the steel deal....

Then he recalled that the idiot was not so far off the mark. He did indeed plan to make Araminta his mistress. But surely Griffin’s intentions for her were not as revolting as this imbecile implied. He appreciated Araminta’s voluptuous figure, yet he would treat her as more than a receptacle for lust. She deserved a man’s respect.

He swallowed the brandy the waiter had brought him and wished he had not invited her to this dinner. And he knew he couldn’t entirely blame the loathsome Richardson, who must have expected Griffin to be the kind of host to provide his guests with women.

He, Griffin, had been to any number of dinners where the sponsor provided charming young girls who expected to make private arrangements with the guests. And on occasion, Griffin had even indulged himself with the more tempting females.

In a less hostile tone, he said, “You mistake who I am, Mr. Richardson. I am not attempting to bribe you with food and females. We are here to share a meal and perhaps discuss what to expect in Chicago.”

Richardson, who’d been attempting unsuccessfully to light a cigar, stopped fiddling with it and frowned. “Then why’d you invite the girl?”

A good question. The answer had to be that Griffin had experienced a moment of weakness. After the concert, he hadn’t wanted to say good-bye to Araminta. But of all people, he should know how to order his life so that it would not be an untidy jumble.

“I shan’t make that mistake again,” Griffin replied coldly.

He was still annoyed with himself for not telling Richardson to go to hell earlier, and he wished Araminta had driven a fork into Richardson’s hand when the idiot attempted to grab hers.

He wrestled his attention back to businessinhe rest of the long evening.

From now on, he’d remember to keep the worlds separate.

Twinges of a nameless apprehension bothered him through the rest of the evening. The memory of the delectable, though far too brief, interlude in the carriage ought to cheer him up. And certainly convince him that his plan for her was a fine idea.

The men rose to leave. They shook hands and talk reverted to trivial matters—the bridge opening, a horse race, gambling. A stray thought froze Griffin. Oh hell. What might happen if word got back to Kane that his prized chef was fraternizing with Griffin? The thought curdled his blood. If she wouldn’t get out of there as soon as possible, he’d have to take some other steps.

CHAPTER
10

Two days later, when a sleepy Araminta arrived at work at her usual six in the morning, she found Olivia, white and trembling, sitting in the kitchen, clutching her arm to her chest.

Araminta sent a maid out for a doctor.

She made Olivia lie down on a sofa in the silent front parlor, which, before the gaming began, reminded Araminta of a house of mourning. Around them, two maids quietly went about their business, only occasionally looking over and whispering.

Araminta dragged over a heavy padded chair from one of the tables and sat down next to her. “He did this?”

Olivia nodded.

“Why? What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Olivia whispered. Her face was white with pain, but the stubborn set to her lips showed Araminta she still had some strength in her.

“Is he still upstairs?”

Olivia shook her head. “No.”

It was a good thing he was gone. Araminta knew she’d be hard-pressed to restrain her rage if she’d caught sight of the man’s smirking face. She summoned a maid to fetch some tonic from the parlor and ask Jack, the other undercook, to make beef tea for Olivia.

He came out to complain, of course. Jack took every occasion offered to him to make it clear he disliked working for a woman. He stroked his bald head and twisted the ends of his oversized walrus mustache. “We don’t need no beef tea for tonight. It’s a big crowd this evening. He’s got a lot of big players coming—you know he warned us to make it memorable. And you don’t have that pâté stuff done yet. That will take a good hour.”

“We need broth, and you or Maggie will make it. And ask Dudley to fetch the Madeira wine. I shall make a panada for Miss Smith.”

“But the lad has gone to fetch a last-minute market basket, and the girl who—”

Araminta waved an impatient hand. “Go. I will send for more outside help later if we require it.”

Jack kicked at a chair halfheartedly and grumbled his way back into the kitchen.

The doctor arrived, a grim gray-haired man with stern, thick black eyebrows. He made a quick examination and announced that Olivia’s arm was “only” cracked. After he bound the arm with a splint and cloth, he stroked his wispy goatee and frowned down at the patient. “You’re far too thin and pale. I have my suspicions that you must have formed an addiction to some sort of drug, hey?”

Araminta, who stood nearby pretending to check the bowls of roses, froze and waited for the answer. Even she, who prided herself on bluntness, had never managed to form that question, which had lingered in her mind since Griffin’s middle-of-the-night visit and his offhand remark about Olivia.

“Not anymore, sir,” Olivia finally said.

“You there, girl,” the doctor called to Araminta. Her newly formed good opinion of the man ebbed slightly.

She turned and eyed him icily. “Yes?”

“Don’t allow your mistress to have any kind of pain reliever. Maybe a touch of brandy, but nothing more. Understand?”

Araminta nodded.

He rolled up the last of the cloth and shoved it into his bag. “I’ll send my bill to Mr. Kane.”

Olivia gasped her dismay. Kane would never approve of a doctor’s visit. At once, Araminta drew some money from her pocket. “That won’t be necessary, doctor. How much is your fee?”

His dark brow furrowed, but he answered. “Five dollars.”

She handed him the money. “Please do not mention your visit to anyone.”

He clapped his hat to his head. “No need for you to be telling me my business, girl.” And with that he turned and stomped out of the house.

“What a rude man.” Olivia stared down at her uninjured hand as she spasmodically rubbed the fabric of her chair.

“Yes, very, but a good doctor nonetheless.” Araminta pulled the chair the doctor had used even closer to Olivia. At last she understood Griffin’s words, an illness of need.

She leaned forward to study the exhausted, thin Olivia. “You were addicted to taking a drug?”

“Yes, opium and hashish. But I am doing much better. He . . .” She swallowed and at last met Araminta’s steady gaze. “Mr. Kane will not allow it, and so I’ve—I have learned to do without.” Olivia heaved a sigh. “My arm feels much better now. Thank you.”

“But you’ve had some since you’ve been here?”

Olivia nodded. “I don’t want to talk about it, Araminta. It’s been horrible.”

Araminta could ill afford the time for chitchat, yet she took Olivia’s uninjured hand in hers. “Very well, we will not talk about the past. Let’s discuss the future. You must leave him. I am afraid he will hurt you badly, and—and you do not belong in this place. He disgusts me more each day. I won’t work for him much longer”—she ignored Olivia’s attempts at interruption, including her gasp at this point, and plowed on—“and at any rate, it is clear I can’t protect you. You must get away from Mr. Kane.”

Olivia slowly shook her head. “I cannot,” she said at last.

Araminta got to her feet. She only just managed to hold back the torrent of words building up inside her.

“If you can’t leave on your own, I shall have to find a way to make you,” she announced, and swept off to the kitchen to finish preparing the elaborate dinner.

Over Jack’s objections, she sent a scullery maid out to help Olivia to a bedchamber and to bear her company for a short while.

The kitchen was in an uproar. The timbales and bouchées she’d created were perfect, as were the day’s selections of vegetables. But the trout had not even been boned, the pigeons had yet to be plucked, the quail meat was questionable, the saddle of lamb was not large enough, the ice cream would not set, the meringue was too brittle to serve as the base of Araminta’s elaborate creation—the centerpiece the dessert—and there were not enough pistachios to finish off the Pudding à la Parisienne. And the palate-cleansing sorbet, to be served between the fish and meat courses, was too grainy.

Araminta sighed and tied on her apron, and then called out to one of the scullery maids to get started on the pigeons.

The day before she’d been befuddled by the strange incident with Griffin, and she’d not paid proper attention to her work. Today she chopped, roasted, fried and stewed with a vengeance, her anger at Kane causing her to crackle with energy. The man was too dangerous to threaten; what could she do?

Nothing other than get Olivia—and herself—out.

Hours later, as she curtsyed to the applause, she was not surprised to see Griffin at the table, elegant in his black cutaway jacket. He could have been a different man; his face showed none of the light she’d glimpsed at the concert. Or on the carriage ride home. Ice settled in the pit of her stomach.

Then she saw the attractive young woman who sat at his right. This one was not one of Kane’s hired women. She bit the inside of her lower lip to counteract the peculiar sting caused by the sight of them together. She allowed her gaze to wander over the rest of the table. More women than usual attended this evening—and very few of them were professional girls visiting from one of Kane’s other houses.

The candlelight reflected off the rich women’s glittering diamonds and jewels and bounced around the walls. Mr. Kane had drawn a wealthier crowd than usual. Surely that was in part because of Mr. Calverson. Didn’t he know that gracing the gaming parlor with his presence meant he helped its success? Kane must know, or he would not tolerate Griffin’s presence. The man would dance with the devil if he could turn a profit doing it.

Araminta dragged herself wearily back to the kitchen and the small crowd gathered there. Before cleaning up, the staff had gathered at the back table to eat the scraps of the feast.

“This here’s the best I’ve ever had,” muttered a maid who’d been hired for the day. As usual, several of Kane’s bagmen and flunkies had managed to escape their duties and find their way to the kitchen.

Araminta smiled, waved and headed for the garden. And the pergola.

She didn’t expect him so quickly, but less than five minutes later, he stood in the arched doorway, his dark form blotting out the light.

Would he want to kiss her again? She’d thought of little else for two days. Just recalling his kisses made her feel as if warm chocolate slid through her—when the memory didn’t fill her with paralyzing shame. What would she do if he tried again? She still wasn’t certain she’d let him. She was too rattled by Olivia’s injury, as well as discouraged at her own inability to convince the girl to leave Kane’s.

That whole day—the concert, the dinner and the kisses—was an aberration. A piece of some other woman’s life set down in the middle of hers. It could mean nothing. The kisses meant nothing. She had repeated those words to herself so often she was heartily sick of them. An almost as tired of reminding herself that if she gave in to him, for a time she would be happy, but he would ultimately cause her pain. What else could he offer?

“Good evening, Araminta.”

She blurted. “Why did you come to Mr. Kane’s this evening?”

He did not answer right away. When he spoke, he sounded unusually serious. “I think I wanted to lull him into believing I am not his foe.”

Of course he hadn’t come to see her, and she wondered why she felt disappointed. “You
think
that’s what you wanted?”

“Yes. For once I am not sure.” The habitual accent of world-weary amusement had returned to his voice. “Do you recall that you recently accused me of being like Kane?”

“Yes, but I knew it was a silly—”

“I wondered if perhaps you are not the only one who believes I am going into the same sort of business.” He sat on the bench near her. “And I was right. I think that Kane believes that I am a threat to him. This must be one of the reasons he has become such a nuisance. I hoped my visits would allay his fears that I am his enemy.”

The side of her body nearest him was almost too warm. She sidled a few inches away. “Why bother with him and his fears?”

“Several reasons. You’re one. The other is that it’s the easier path. Otherwise I will have to take a less diplomatic approach. I
was
hoping the police would curtail his most destructive behavior.”

She wanted to ask how she could be a reason. And then her insides congealed slightly at the implications of “less diplomatic approach.” She asked, “What would your next step be?”

“I don’t know.”

She did not believe him, but thought it best not to pursue the subject. “The woman who sat next to you tonight.” Araminta hesitated. “She seemed very taken with you. She is exceedingly pretty, too. And wealthy. She would make an ideal wife.”

“Are you suggesting that I could be interested in the Myles girl?”

She did not like the way his incredulous words gave her a warm pleasure.

“Even if she was ideal,” he said, “I am not looking for a wife.” He leaned forward, and the golden glow from the house momentarily touched his face, which wore an extraordinarily grim expression.

His voice was as level and light as it had ever been. If she hadn’t caught a glimpse of that bleak face, she would not have guessed he felt any pain.

Pain? Griffin Calverson? She must be tired.

“I am glad to have a chance to speak to you,” she said briskly, dismissing that fanciful impression as well as any lingering thoughts of kisses. “I have thought over what you advised. And I think it is high time I leave this place.”

She hesitated. “You do know that some of Mr. Kane’s aides are wondering if you are considering becoming his partner?” Certainly he might lie, but she thought she should ask one more time. Even if she managed to anger him.

“Nonsense,” he said shortly. “But I might let him believe it. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

She believed him, and realized that except for a single moment when Olivia first mentioned the idea, she’d never truly doubted him. A dismaying thing, her growing trust in Griffin Calverson. She feared she liked him too much. She almost wished he’d show a touch of evil. A boring sort of evil would be best, she reflected, because anything else might make him even more interesting to her.

She rubbed at the base of her neck, which ached from a long day’s work. “I shan’t go without my friend, however.”

She wondered if she heard him groan at her words, but continued, “Might you give me a name of someone such as Mr. Hobbes, who might be able to help Miss Smith? I asked Mr. Hobbes himself, but he refused.”

“I’m glad to hear it. He’s got more important work.”

She turned to face him. “She needs help. What can be more important than protecting an innocent woman?”

Griffin did not answer. He folded his arms and looked out toward the garden. “Who is this woman to you?”

“A friend. That is all you need know.”

“Ah. The friend on whose behalf you first approached me.”

“Yes.”