Somebody To Love (26 page)

Read Somebody To Love Online

Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love
3.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Yep. The strumpet,” Annie replied cheerily. “I worked in a rotten bagnio. The ab-so-lute worst. But then Mr. Calverson broke it up and gathered us up before we were pulled in by the cops. He offered work to me and some of the other girls who wanted out of the life.”
She got up and began thumping a pillow.
“Annie, why are you telling me this?”
“So’s you’d know he’s got a heart. Until you came along I wasn’t sure if he had a prick.”
Araminta winced.
Annie shot her a hopeful grin. “Did I offend you?”
She sounded so childishly eager, Araminta almost smiled. “Did you intend to?”
“Sure.”
“Then yes, I’m deeply offended.”
Annie giggled and for a moment seemed absurdly young. Araminta wondered if she was even seventeen yet. Annie’s story reminded her that there were worse things in life than falling in love with the wrong man. The reminder didn’t diminish her pain.
The girl squinted at Araminta. “Still saying good-bye?”
“Yes. I—I must.”
“Huh. If I was you, I’d take the job. I tried for months to get him interested. I stay on because the money’s good, but I’m hoping one of his flush pals will give me a go.”
“Is that so?” Araminta said faintly, feeling extremely naive once again. “Thank you for your advice, but I already have gainful employment and don’t need to take another job.”
“Oh well.” Annie shrugged. She went to a chintz chair in the corner of the room and gathered an armful of folded bedsheets. “Nothing to me. Just thought I’d do you a favor. And him one, too.”
“It’s very kind of you.” Araminta managed a smile, but Annie had already turned back to spreading the clean sheets on the bed. All evidence of Elizabeth was gone, and soon Araminta would be erased from the other bedroom.
Araminta left.
CHAPTER 22
 
Araminta’s house was too small to contain both her a
nd the hints of Griffin. She knew that he had paid to have her house thoroughly cleaned after his stay, yet she found too many small reminders. One of his guards’ racing forms lay folded on a table. The wizened lemon sat in the kitchen. She paced the house, hunting for the evidence of him.
Upstairs, she pressed her face to the sheets, but her bed had been remade and his scent was gone. The books she’d sent up for him to read lay neatly stacked near the bed.
By the books sat a small, nearly finished carving of a horse. She knew he’d been whittling wood, but had no idea that he possessed such skill. The little horse lay in her palm as she marveled at the delicate features. Another new facet of Griffin. And this was the man she’d once assumed cared only for money and had no appreciation for life or beauty.
Work had always drawn her out of her doldrums, and so she trotted downstairs and into the kitchen. Perhaps she’d experiment with some new recipes and send the results over to the soup kitchen.
As she rummaged through the pantry, however, she realized with dismay that her favorite knives and pans were still at Kane’s. Oh bother. Could she march in there and take it all back?
She brewed some tea and sat at the kitchen table to sip it, pondering how to retrieve her belongings.
Perhaps she could ask Hobnail to help—but the only way she knew how to contact him was through Griffin, and she knew she could not see Griffin yet. The sight of him would create mayhem, and if he smiled at her, she’d be undone. Pride, self-preservation would fall away, and she’d go straight into his arms.
Perhaps in a few days or weeks or months she’d gain some strength....
She slumped in the chair and knew that it would more likely be years before she could resist the man, if ever.
No. She’d have to go to Kane’s herself and soon, before the evening’s activities were in full swing. If she went in the servants’ entrance, chances were good that Kane wouldn’t see her. She could gather her things together, and even better, make sure Maggie and the scullery maids were all right. She could be gone before he found out she’d been on the premises.
A flour sack would hold her cooking tools. She’d sneak in and out like a thief.
Relieved to have a plan of action and something to do that took her out of the silent house, she set off for Kane’s. She even hummed a little as she swung down the street, the flour sack tucked under her arm.
She went through the garden and peered into the kitchen, where Jack and Maggie moved about quickly. It seemed to her they worked faster than she’d seen them go before. Sweat poured down Jack’s bald scalp. It was all she could do to keep herself from bellowing at him to wear something wrapped around his head to keep the food clean.
She opened the kitchen door. “Good afternoon,” she called out cheerily, as if paying a social call. “I’m here to pick up my knives and so on.”
Jack and Maggie looked up from what they were doing. Maggie’s hands stilled above the pastry she’d been rolling. Jack put down the oyster he’d been shucking.
“He won’t be too glad to see you,” Jack said, a smile—or perhaps a smirk—on his face. “He thinks you stole his doxy.”
Araminta walked to the cutting boand wrapped the paring knife she found there in one of the soft cloths she had brought along. She wouldn’t take the time to clean it. Being in this house made her skin crawl, and Jack seemed even more insolent than before. “He is wrong. Miss Smith left on her own accord. She is not an object that can be stolen away.”
“Still,” said Jack, “you best watch yourself.”
He peeled off the thick glove he wore to protect his hand from the shucking knife.
“Be right back,” he told Maggie. “Gotta make sure that girl isn’t eating the walnuts I told her to bring out. You get straight to work on the oysters, hear?”
Right after he left, Maggie turned to Araminta and groaned. “Please hire me. Won’t you, please? Everyone complains about the food now. Jack has been awful since you left. He’s a tyrant worse’n Kane.”
Araminta sighed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Because I’ve left this place, I won’t be able to open my own restaurant as quickly. But the moment I can, I’ll be back for you and the girls.” She thrust another covered knife into the bag.
Maggie’s pale, freckled face puckered in thought. “But maybe you could borrow the money?”
“Is it that bad here, Maggie?”
“Just about.”
Araminta paused for a moment, her nutmeg grinder in her hand, and watched Maggie deftly scrape out the oysters, dip them in flour and spices, and place them on a wide platter.
Borrow the funds?
Why not? She had always been determined to use her own money to have her restaurant. Make it a creation of her own hands. But . . . would it be cheating to temporarily use the money from the Woodhall Home, as she called the money her grandfather had left her? No, for she would pay it back.
She’d dearly love to give Maggie, and the others, too, a chance to escape, and this might be it.
“You might have something there, Maggie,” she said slowly. “It could be a good plan. In fact, we could probably—”
At that moment, the swinging door slammed open.
Kane stood on the threshold, his face wreathed in smiles. Behind him stood Jack.
Kane’s amiable face was bad enough. His words chilled her. “Hello, Miss Woodhall. Will you come into my office, please? I have something I need to discuss with you.”
Araminta picked up a heavy black skillet with both hands.
“No, Mr. Kane. We don’t have anything to talk about, sir.”
“Oh, I think we do. Where is she?”
“Who?”
He stared at her. His hands formed blocky fists and a harsh red tide swept from his neck to his clean-shaven face, but the disconcerting smile never faltered.
Araminta forced herself to keep her chin high and stare back. “I don’t know whom you mean.”
She couldn’t tell from his pleasant expression if he believed her. The brute was a smiling version of Griffin, she thought, with a face that gave nothing away.
“Jack,” he said, still amiable, “would you go fetch a couple of lads from the Seventh Avenue address? I think I need some time alone with Araminta.”
Jack turned and trotted away.
Kane limped into the kitchen. The door swooshed shut behind him, and Araminta saw he held a black, two-foot-long wooden stick, a club o some sort.
“A few taps with this and maybe we can finally get your memory moving.” The tip of his tongue briefly touched his upper lip, and, with a sinking feeling, Araminta suspected the idea excited him. Talking would do no good.
She remembered the story of the woman he’d mistreated and then had murdered—perhaps had murdered himself—and she adjusted her grasp on the pan.
“Mr. Kane?” Maggie’s voice quavered. Her thin lips trembled.
The smile momentarily vanished, but when it reappeared, his face beamed with joviality.
“Oh, dear,” he said to no one. “Perhaps I ought to start with someone smaller and less full of herself than our Araminta.”
Keeping his gaze steady on Araminta, he strode toward Maggie. He moved far faster than Araminta would have guessed possible for a man with a limp, and before Maggie realized his intention, he’d grabbed her wrist.
With a shout that sounded like joy, he sliced the cane down so hard it whistled as it flew through the air to crack across Maggie’s shoulders. Araminta’s heart congealed with anger at the brute and fear for Maggie.
Still clutching Maggie’s slender wrist, he spoke over the sound of her loud sobs. “Shall I do it again, Araminta? Or will you come with me to my office so we might discuss Miss Smith’s whereabouts?”
Araminta reluctantly lowered her skillet but decided he’d have to attack her to get her to drop it. “Leave Maggie alone.”
He didn’t take his gaze from Araminta as she walked across the kitchen. The skillet dangled loosely at her side.
“Put down the pan, Araminta.” He raised the cane in the air, ready to strike Maggie again.
“Of course, Mr. Kane,” said Araminta as she drew near. And she did.
First she put the fifteen-pound skillet down, hard, on his upraised hand, and then, as he swung around to get at her, she put it down on the side of his head.
CHAPTER 23
 
Annie wandered around Griffin’s library, humming a show-t
une, adjusting a tall, opalescent Chinese vase, running her finger over the binding of some embossed leather books and then checking for dust.
“Here, look,” she said, holding up her finger. “Me and Becky do a good job. Better than the hotel staff, I’ll tell you.”
Griffin, seated at the desk, bit back the urge to bellow. Instead he patiently repeated the question he’d just asked. “What do you mean Miss Woodhall left no other message? Simply ‘good-bye’?”
“She didn’t seem real happy.” The maid squinted at the edge of her thumb and rubbed it. “I think she was fit to be tied.”
Griffin pushed back his chair. He went to the window and stared down at the teeming street. Araminta had been relaxing lately, been less prickly. Why would she run away? “I only had to write a quick message to Galvin. Why didn’t she wait to say good-bye if she decided to go home?” he muttered.
Annie apparently thought he was addressing her. “She said she already had gainful employment.”
He quickly pivoted and frowned at her. “What? What are you talking about? What in God’s name did you discuss with her?”
“I said she ought to take a job working for you. I even put in a good word for you.good wor
Griffin did not want to imagine what that meant. He went to the desk, and shoved some money and his watch into his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you, Annie. That will be all.”
“She’s got Negro blood, don’t she?”
“I said that will be all.”
“Still a nice lady, though.”
“Annie. Go!”
She sauntered from the room.
He shoved fingers through his hair and reconsidered what he should do about Araminta.
He’d been on the verge of storming after her, demanding to know what was wrong. But he realized that it did not do to be too aggressive with her. In their dance together, when he grabbed, she ran off, but if he gently touched her, she blossomed. She was worth it—all of this nonsense he would never have tolerated in an earlier life.
He would give her time. No point in rushing her. He sat back down at his desk, picked up a letter opener and began a halfhearted look through his personal posts. Nothing but unwanted invitations. If he spent any more time in this city, he’d have to hire his own secretary instead of taking whichever was available from the company. The one characteristic he shared with his father was a dislike of companions. He’d rather travel alone.
Although he wouldn’t mind hiring one particular chef.
Why on earth had Araminta stormed off as if she were angry? Had he somehow offended her?
He reviewed their conversations but could not see where the rift had come from. Araminta was not the type of woman who’d stay silent and nurse a grudge. Even if she attempted to hide her feelings, Griffin could read her too well. Or he could, once upon a time. Lately he had not been as sure.
Perhaps she mourned the loss of her friend. She’d kept a job with a man she’d grown to despise, mostly to protect Miss Burritt. Araminta was worth a hundred Elizabeth Burritts.
He leaned back in his chair and tucked his laced fingers behind his head.
She’d go to her house. Perhaps make a huge batch of soup for the indigents. Delicious soup, with the scents of oregano and basil. Perhaps even a touch of cinnamon. Sensual delights. She’d brought scent and flavor into his life, and without her his life would be bland gruel.
She couldn’t have meant good-bye, except for the moment. And hellfire, even if she did, he would not allow it. A rush of fear filled him at the thought that she’d walk out of his life with no intention of coming back. To the devil with being careful to follow the rules of the dance. He wanted more. Not an acquisitive man, he’d decided to add this one particular woman to his permanent collection of valuables. He’d have to persuade her to add him to hers.
Griffin stalked to the front door and grabbed his hat.
 
He stood on her doorstep and hammered at the door. Either she was determined to ignore him or she wasn’t home.
The coachman called, “Wanna try somewhere else?”
He vaulted back into the cab and gave the address for the Calverson Company offices. Griffin remembered Araminta’s worry for Maggie. He had a sudden, unpleasant premonition of where Araminta might have gone. And he wasn’t up to confronting Kane on his own yet.
Potter was the only man available at the company headquarters who could perhaps be of help. Really, this sort of thing was out of the company’s puview. Griffin needed Galvin, who was God knew where.
“Afternoon, sir.” Potter had run from the back room when he’d been fetched. He panted as he climbed into the carriage next to Griffin.
Griffin briefly outlined their errand.
Potter ran a finger between his starched collar and his neck. “You’re still not recovered, sir. Are you sure this is wise?”
Griffin leaned against the greasy leather upholstery of the cab. “On the contrary, I am sure it is lunacy. It might be necessary, however. You go and check—Kane and his men don’t know you. No point in causing trouble unless we must.”
“I hope that Wurth and the others get the message you left,” Potter muttered. “Sir.”
“And that they get it soon,” Griffin agreed.
At Kane’s Park Avenue mansion, no one answered Potter’s knock. The double cream-colored front doors were not locked. One even stood a few inches ajar. No one stopped Potter and Griffin as they pounded through the marble foyer into the first parlor and through the dining room, which had been set and lay ready for the evening.
They were too late.
Or so Griffin thought, when he heard the terrible cries from behind the green baize door. And then he realized it wasn’t Araminta who screamed.
In the kitchen, Griffin glimpsed a small, plump woman in blue cowering next to the ice box. The screamer, no doubt.
Araminta stood above Kane like an avenging angel, her wild dark hair about her face, her glorious eyes blazing. She clutched a heavy iron skillet in both hands, and at her feet sprawled a groaning Kane. He half sat, half lay against a table leg. Blood covered his wilted collar and starched white front.
“Are you all right?” Griffin demanded.
Araminta turned, and as quickly as their eyes met, her gaze snapped over his shoulder. Her eyes grew wide. “Behind you.”
Four men barreled through the kitchen door. Araminta raised her skillet. Griffin, who had only his cane, slipped the sword from the sheath. The brute who’d been trotting toward him skidded to a stop and eyed the unsheathed blade.
From the corner of his eye Griffin caught a glint as another thug charged toward Potter.
Griffin shouted, “Look out! A knife.”
Potter, who now wore a happy smile, seized a large strainer and, after a struggle, ripped the knife from a fat, bald man with a huge mustache.
A redheaded gorilla circled Griffin, who held his thin blade en garde and wished that he’d paid better attention to fencing classes—or that he’d brought along a knife.
The redhead lunged and Griffin leaped out of the way—and brought the heavy head of the cane down on the man, who stumbled back, rubbing his head.
Araminta raced over to the bald one still fighting with Potter. She raised her skirt a few inches and gave the bald man a hard kick in the rear quarters. As he fell face forward onto the slate floor, she shouted, “Jack, how could you? I have changed my mind about hiring you.”
A skinny young one wearing checked trousers hurtled toward Araminta. Griffin stopped him with a slash of the blade. The man howled in pain and dropped the stuffed eelskin he carried, and clutched his injured arm. For two seconds he stared at Griffin, who slowly moved toward him. Then checked trousers turned and fled the kitchen.
“Where the hell do you thinou’re going?” bellowed Kane. Griffin twisted toward Kane, whose face was green, though he had managed to pull himself up and was reaching for an empty bowl.
Griffin pointed his blade at Kane. “Sit.”
Kane sat.
The fight did not last long, especially when Hobnail came crashing into the scene, his fists causing considerable damage on the big, bald Jack, who was lurching toward Araminta, arms outstretched. Griffin, feeling aggrieved that he hadn’t had the chance to go after Jack, eventually hauled Hobnail off his bellowing victim.
At last the thugs who’d defended Kane sat or lay in a corner near the stove, panting.
Hobnail, standing guard over them, pulled out a blue handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, which streamed blood. “Well now. I figure this means I’m done here,” he said in a muffled voice. “Be real glad to get back to regular work. Less nasty.”
“Always figured you were soft for the cook,” the redheaded bruiser who half lay on the floor in the corner sneered at Hobnail. “Didn’t think you’d be a turncoat for the bit—” Griffin didn’t have a chance to do anything because Hobnail’s foot in the man’s side made the bugger change his mind about finishing the sentence.
Araminta stood by the door, holding the small, sobbing woman’s hand. Griffin caught her eye. “You all right?” he asked.
After a pause, she nodded and turned her attention back to the woman. Maggie, no doubt. In the midst of the mayhem and blood, Griffin suddenly realized that he’d likely be once again meeting all manner of strange people with Araminta in his life. He subdued the grin that rose at the thought, but he had to clamp down hard on the anger that filled him when he realized his priceless woman had almost gotten herself killed.
Later. He would deal with her later.
He dropped to his haunches and squatted by Kane, who half lay against a table leg. “You’re finished, you know,” Griffin remarked conversationally. “You’re going to be arrested for murder.”
Kane peered at him. Despite the blood still dripping down his face, Kane managed to don his usual broad, white smile. “That’s old news. I’ve been arrested and gotten free more than once.”
“I know you murdered Pushy Pete Carter because you thought I’d hired him,” Griffin continued, as if he hadn’t interrupted. “I hadn’t, by the way. But several men who did work for me heard you brag about the incident. And they’ve heard you discuss other murders you’ve committed or hired out. I’m sure that a more careful search by policemen you haven’t paid off will turn up some evidence.”
Kane muttered something. He put his hand to the side of his head, and then squinted down at his hand. “Damn female chef.” He shuddered as he feebly wiped his blood-covered palm on his once-pristine blue worsted trousers. Araminta must have injured his arm as well. Griffin wished he could have seen her in action.
He pulled out his clean linen handkerchief and handed it to Kane. “Extortion, murder—you have been a nuisance to me and my associates. Why have you been so determined to be a pest?”
“You.” Kane spat out the word. “Because of you, ya son of a bitch. I spent years building up my businesses. And you stroll in and doing no work you think you can just park yourself in my territory.”
“You purposefully mistook my intentions. I made it very clear I’m not interested in taking up any of your trades.”
Kane used theed hief to scrub at the blood on the side of his face and then dropped the soaked cloth to the floor. “Then why the hell were you always poking around?”
“You’d proved you were a nuisance. To me and my friends. I could not very well allow you to do that.”
“Oh, no. You’re just like that Lord Courtney, just another bogus Brit confidence man. You were gonna use your fancy accent and fancy manners and your flash connections to scoop up my business. You wanted to ruin me. You won’t do it. I been in New York longer than you been alive.”
Griffin straightened. He propped his hip against the table and folded his arms. “Interesting. If you’d only left Pushy Pete alone we could have avoided all of this nonsense. Actually”—he gave a quick glance at Araminta, who listened with a frown—“if you treated your women with more respect, we could have avoided much of this trouble.”
“Says you.”
“Yes, I do indeed. But back to the point. I have a great deal more than murder on you, Kane. The springs I found on your rigged equipment when I visited. Very easy to spot. Your gambling was worse than illegal. It was fixed—and shoddily. Never allow your evidence to lie around where it can be pocketed by the help.”
He nodded at Hobnail, who pulled some playing cards from his ratty waistcoat. Hobnail held them up and intoned, “This deck of cards, taken from this establishment on the night of May third, are marked in a fashion similar to decks I confiscated earlier. I have . . . Oops—” His nose began to bleed again, and he hastily tucked the cards away.
Kane’s smile drifted back onto his face. “You can’t prove that those cards were used in my house.”
Griffin absently touched the corner of his mouth, where he’d been cut.

Other books

In Ruins by Danielle Pearl
SEALs of Honor: Mason by Dale Mayer
Soul Stealer by Martin Booth
I'd Rather Not Be Dead by Andrea Brokaw
The Alpine Escape by Mary Daheim
Summerkin by Sarah Prineas
Mummy's Little Helper by Casey Watson
The Space Between Trees by Katie Williams