Somebody To Love (6 page)

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Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love
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CHAPTER 6
 
Olivia perched on a stool, watching, as Araminta finished placing the decorative sugared violets on a cake. Araminta, lost in thought, stared at the elaborate creation without really seeing it.
She knew from his sister that Griffin rarely expressed amusement. Why was the man so bleak? Despite her indignation at his unreasonable approach to life, she felt inordinately proud that she could provoke his laughter. She realized she wished she could attempt to make him laugh again and see his striking face express something other than stony indifference.
“Did you hear my question?” Olivia’s voice pulled her from the reverie.
Araminta bit her lip.
Olivia leaned forward. “It wasn’t important. Why are you lost in thought?”
“I was thinking about my friend. The one I visited.”
“Oh, so he’s a friend now, not just an acquaintance.” The girl grinned. “Have you been to see him?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s forgiven you?”
Araminta shrugged.
She was pleased to hear Olivia sound like any happy, chattering young miss as she went on, “Surely he has. I knew he would never hold a grudge against you! You are too wonderful. Oh, what fun! You have a beau! But you haven’t told me. Who is your gentleman?”
“Calverson. Griffin Calverson.”
Olivia’s exquisite forehead furrowed. “No.”
“I assure you, that is his name.”
Olivia’s frown deepened. “Oh, Araminta. I’ve heard of him. I think he’s—he’s, ah, in the same sort of business as . . . as him.” She didn’t seem able to say Kane’s name.
A wave of nauseating dismay washed over Araminta, but she showed no sign of it. “Nonsensebleo you say that?”
“I overheard one of—of
his
assistants say something. Something about Calverson wanting territory.”
Araminta had learned that Kane was a gambler, a pimp, a thief, a man who preyed upon destitute, desperate women and drunkards. When she was particularly fretful, she added possible murderer to the list. She had known Griffin was ruthless but had never thought him as terrible as Kane.
Could that be why he wanted her to keep quiet about what she might have overheard that day in the basement?
No. She closed her eyes, saw his hard, handsome face as cold as winter. But she knew better, didn’t she? Her instinct told her the truth. She could trust him. She could only hope what she thought of as instinct was based on something more than severe lust for the man’s body.
Dudley, the butler, came into the kitchen to discuss the evening’s arrangements. She said good-bye to Olivia and followed Dudley into his pantry, glad for the distraction.
 
That night, after she and the two undercooks and the scullery maids cleaned the kitchen, she rested on a kitchen stool before walking to her snug home, eight blocks away. Kane had wanted her to live in, but she refused. And she was so much in demand as a cook that she could make some unusual conditions.
“Miss Araminta.”
Oh, bother. Kane’s bulky form blocked her kitchen door.
“Good evening, Mr. Kane. I hope tonight’s fare was satisfactory?”
“Better than satisfactory. As always.”
He lurched across the room. The way he picked his steps made her suspect he’d had more to drink than usual. Sure enough, when he stood near her, she was enveloped in a thick fog of alcohol. He beamed at her, his large eyes and smile giving him the appearance of a handsome, dissipated cherub.
“Miss Araminta,” he breathed into her face as he began what she suspected was a practiced speech. “I have enjoyed having you in my employment. I would like to personally offer my appreciation and affection.”
She resisted the urge to reach for her meat chopper to show him what she thought of his personal offer.
She slipped down from the stool. She knew she ought to be frightened, yet she rarely felt fear in these situations. Only useless belligerence. “Mr. Kane, not only am I not interested, but if you come into my kitchen again with this sort of suggestion, I will walk out the door.”
His face flushed an ugly red. “This is my kitchen.”
She took a deep breath to cool her flaring temper. “Yes, indeed it is. But you won’t have me cooking in it. And I know you like having me work for you because of those times I have to come out and prance around like a show horse in front of your guests.”
The hard red face relaxed, but she was not fooled into thinking he was amused when he showed his usual toothy smile. “Nice picture you paint there, Araminta. But I think most of the women in my employment would gladly give more than a simple curtsy.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but remembered the lesson her mother had attempted to drum into her. She did not always have to speak her mind. Araminta pressed her hands together. Only a few more months, she reminded herself. Then she would leave forever, dragging along Olivia if she must. And Maggie, too.
He watched her. “Yes?”
She didn’t speak and stared down at her hands.
“Smart girl.” Kane unsteadily perched himself on the edge of the stool she’d abandoned. “I wonder if you could tell me about your last employer.”
Ah, now she understood why he hadn’t allowed himself to explode into a rage when she’d told him to leave her kitchen, perhaps even why he’d set out to seduce her. He wanted something from her. “You want to know about Mrs. McCann?” she asked.
He grunted impatiently. “I mean Mr. Calverson.”
Had he somehow found out about her visits to Griffin? Had he beaten the information out of Olivia? How foolish she’d been, to speak Griffin’s name so freely to the girl. She swallowed and managed a cool “I have met him, yes.”
Kane chuckled. “You don’t think much of me, do you? Did you like him? Let him get to know you?”
“Mr. Kane. I really don’t think that is—”
Kane leaned close to her. ”Because Calverson is bad news, Araminta. Not a gentleman despite that classy accent of his. He’s colder’n a whore’s heart. Do you know he’s killed at least three men? Eh? And he don’t think much of women, either. They’re nothing but playthings to him.”
She was proud of herself for not asking if Kane thought he was any better.
He bent even closer. “So, tell me. Do you know what the bastard is like? Got any weaknesses, eh?”
She took a few steps back to get away from the unsavory mix of cologne and alcohol wafting into her face. “I did not socialize with him, Mr. Kane. I am afraid that I am busy just now and I can’t—”
“I can’t see why you’re so riled up by my interest. You don’t exactly got a line of men waiting at the kitchen door.”
As if on cue, a voice at the outside door interrupted. “Miss Araminta?”
On edge and startled, Araminta spun around. “Mr. Hobbes, you have startled ten years from my life.”
The large, broken-nosed and somewhat dim flunky ambled into the kitchen. Hobbes was an even more recent hire than herself. He probably did some kind of rough work, judging by his size. Perhaps he worked as one of the burly doormen set to watch the front of the house, to keep out undesirables and warn of police raids.
He tilted his hat at Araminta and then to Kane.
“Evenin’, sir.”
Kane glared. “What the hell do you want?”
“I was wondering if I might walk Miss Araminta home.”
The glare turned to a smirk. “I see I was wrong. You do have someone after all.”
Araminta opened her mouth. Hobbes’s meatloaf of a hand descended on her shoulder and gave a light squeeze. She closed her mouth.
Hobbes still clutched his hat. “’Night, sir. I’ll be back in a tick.”
But Kane had already pushed back through the kitchen door.
She turned and examined the large man with brown, close-cropped hair and sideburns, and an amiable though slightly vacant expression in his pale blue eyes.
She was not sure she wanted to go anywhere alone with him. “What on earth are you doing here, Mr. Hobbes?”
“Like I said. Walking you home.”
“I have no trouble making my own way home.”
He shrugged, but didn’t move.
Araminta watched his placid face. They’d be on public streets—surely he would not attempt anything. And really, he had a calm, stolid air about him. Hard to imagine him turning into a raging maniac. Rather than argue with him, she pulled on her gloves, hat and cloak and went out the door, locking it behind her.
Though it was almost midnight, the streets bustled with people. Mr. Kane’s establishment closed early on Sunday nights out of respect to the upper-class neighborhood, though Araminta thought the neighbors would barely notice the gambling den’s activities. Many of the residents held huge fetes of their own on a regular basis.
The night air was chilled, and she risked harming the feather on her brown hat by drawing her cloak’s hood over her head.
The gas lamps on the avenue made the first part of the walk easy. Araminta tended to speed up once they turned the corner into the less well-lit street. But she had to admit that with Hobbes at her side, she wasn’t as worried about what might lurk in the darker corners she passed.
“Your appearance in the kitchen at precisely that moment was suspiciously fortuitous, Mr. Hobbes.”
“Call me Hobnail. Everybody does.”
“Why did you show up, Mr., er, Hobnail?”
“M’boss told me to keep an eye on you.”
She slowed down and glanced up at him. “Mr. Kane is your boss. And he didn’t seem pleased to see you.”
“I got another boss. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“It isn’t? What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged, and she understood that he wasn’t going to give out any more information.
Another boss. She thought of Griffin Calverson. Who else would bother to interfere in her affairs? Annoyance at his meddling blended with a strange excitement. He cared enough to intervene for her.
Perhaps she should attempt another visit to Calverson and ask him if he’d set Mr. Hobbes on her like some lumbering watchdog. She rejected the idea as an excuse to see him again. Of late Araminta often found herself manufacturing excuses to contact Calverson. Something that put him in her debt rather than the other way around suited her best.
“I should have asked if you would prefer to take a hansom cab, Mr. Hobbes—Hobnail. But I do like to walk home.”
“Makes no difference to me. I’m used to a fair amount of walking,” he assured her.
“Do you enjoy it?”
He shrugged.
She looked around at the dark buildings, with only a few windows glowing here and there. “I love seeing the city mostly asleep. And the air this time of year. It can have such a wonderful scent. Under the usual reek of the city, I mean.”
He grunted.
“And in the mornings, it is even better. Just as the sun is coming up, even the worst places seem full of potential beauty. Rather the flip side of ‘Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud/clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,’” she recited. “Though really, come to think of it, despite the theme of sin, the rest doesn’t fit at all.”
“What’s that, anyway?”
“The sonnet? Shakespeare.”
“Oh, him.”
She continued to talk, while he only occasionally mumbled a reply. Perhaps she annoyed him with her sudden need to fill the silence.
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“Am I disturbing you by chattering?” she asked.
“No. I like it. But we’re just about there, ain’t we?”
“How do you know where I live?”
“Er. Just heard the address somewhere, I reckon.”
Griffin again, most likely. She had been pulled into his sphere of influence, and had become another subject in the feudal lord’s kingdom. Yet even that thought did not rouse resentment; instead she felt protected by his shadow.
So much for keeping that subject from haunting her, she thought as she offered her hand to Hobnail for a shake goodnight.
CHAPTER 7
 
The next day was what Maggie called one of their “fancy days.” Araminta thought of the nights the most important clients attended Kane’s as nuisances, though she did occasionally enjoy creating the more elaborate meals.
Araminta checked a mirror to make sure her dark curls had not turned too unruly in the steam and heat of the kitchen. She pulled her mother’s pearl drop earrings from the little shelf under the mirror, screwed them on, fixed a smile on her face and pushed open the swinging door separating the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house.
On the nights she changed into a fine gown, she left the cleaning up to her staff. Since many chefs never lent a hand in the tidying of their kitchens, she knew that her help most evenings was more remarkable than her occasional neglect.
She dropped a swift curtsy in response to the applause, and when she gazed through the blue haze of cigar smoke over the crowd of black-suited men seated at the long damask- and silver-laden table, she looked straight into the bored, heavy-lidded eyes of Griffin Calverson. A curious dizziness seized her as she examined him, and then noticed his companion.
Lola, who occasionally visited in order to “entertain” the gambling clients, lounged beside him. It would be more accurate to say that she was practically draped across his lap. Araminta had little contact with the light-skirts from Kane’s other establishments. She dearly wished she could grab the young creature and march her to the front door. She’d order Lola to wipe off that dreadful—and unnecessary—rouge and go home.
Araminta’s gaze traveled up from Lola’s pretty young face, and, as her eyes met Calverson’s again, her heart thumped hard. He clapped like the others. Yet he appeared so profoundly uninterested, she could swear his mind was elsewhere.
“Thank you all for your generous appreciation.” Araminta launched into the short speech Kane demanded she give. Her employer did not appear to mind that she usually adopted as dismal a tone as possible. Tonight she aimed for the voice of an undertaker announcing a viewing. “And once you have enjoyed your port and cigars, we ask that you retire to our exquisite”—she paused, and in an even more hopeless tone finished—“gaming rooms in the front parlor.”
Another round of applause. Griffin’s eyebrows raised slightly, and his eyes glimmered with a tad more interest. As close to a look of hilarious amusement as he’d allow on that face, she supposed.
She turned and marched out of the dining room. If he wanted to play with the likes of Lola, it was none of her business.
The garden door stood open, and unseasonably warm weather beckoned her to the only part of Kane’s establishment she enjoyed. She wandered the paths of the small pleasure garden that lay behind the kitchen garden. A full moon shone; the soft music floated through open windows. A night for enchantments, not rankling thoughts of men who had too much money and too little to occupy their hands.
A couple slipped from the French doors of the rear parlor, beyond the terrace and into the garden. A soft breeze picked at her skirts as she backed away from them and went to the vine-covered pergola, where she sat down in the shadows. In a few weeks, the little shelter would probably be redolent with the heady perfume of the wisteria.
Someday she’d have a garden as enchanting as the one her mother had cultivated. Charlotte, who’d never so much as touched dirt before her banishment, had had a gorgeous garden behind their small cottage. Araminta smiled at the memory of her mother’s gift of quiet happiness. If only she, Araminta, could have been content to remain in that small village. But that was a child’s memory of paradise. She could not fit life there, and though her mother had never complained, Araminta realized Charlotte had not either. Poor Charlotte must have been lonely.
“May I take a few minutes of your time?”
She jumped up from the wooden bench. He appeared to be a looming shadow, though the shape of his crisp white shirt stood out clearly.
“Good evening, Mr. Calverson,” she said. “Where is your dinner companion?”
“Not with me.”
Her heart should not have lifted at that. “Did you follow me out here?”
“I have been waiting for a moment when I could slip away.”
Not an answer to her question, of course.
He sat down across from her. In the darkness behind her, creatures—birds, she hoped—rustled sleepily in the vines.
“Why are you out here, Araminta? Do you have an assignation?”
“Pray do not be ridiculous. I come out here to slip my bonds.”
“Now you are speaking nonsense. Even Kane would not hold you against your will.”
She smiled. “No, indeed. He is a monster, but still, I enjoy my work. I mean bonds of a different sort. Mostly my own making, I suspect.”
He made a small rumble of disbelief, or perhaps mockery. He shifted on his seat, leaning toward her slightly. Her hand rested on the bench. She shivered as he absently stroked the side of his thumb over her fingers.
She knew she’d been hoping he’d seek her out. Even after she had seen Lola in his lap, she could not contain that distressing eagerness. She could only be grateful that the shadows hid her reddened cheeks, as well as her difficulty maintaining a steady breath. “What can I do for you, Mr. Calverson?”
“I am merely enjoying your company.”
“Hmm.”
“No, I am not lying, Araminta. I am not sure I should admit this to you, but I have rather admired you since that day in Minnesota when we, or rather you, discussed my sister’s marriage. My interest was furthered during your two more recent visits.”
Could he be serious? She assumed he meant the day she’d informed him that he was a worthless specimen of a man.
“I had no notion.” She was dismayed at her breathless voice. She’d hoped to sound arch.
“I did not want you to.”
Her heart beat far too fast, and she had trouble with her breathing. “Coward,” she whispered, unsure if she meant herself or him.
“Yes, I am.” His voice was dry as three-day-old bread.
Amazement helped her regain some of her composure. “Griffin, have you learned to laugh at yourself?”
“I have learned to tolerate your laughter,” he said, his face and voice still so deadpan she could not read his mood. “Araminta.”
She’d always disliked her name, but not when he spoke it. He made it a poem—about lust for her, perhaps, but still fairly beautiful. He shifted so that the outside of his leg touched hers. She grew dizzy with anticipation waiting for the touch her skin almost felt, or the kiss she could almost taste. But before he’d bent close, another voice interrupted.
“Hist, sir. He’s coming now.”
Griffin bounded to his feet. His dark shape blocked the dim light from the garden as he peered out from the doorway, but then he backed away and stood in the shadows next to her. He yanked off his jacket and tossed it to her. The wool garment still warm from his body landed across her lap, but before she could ask him what he was about, he’d pulled his shirt from his trousers. A moment later he unbuttoned his trousers, then rebuttoned them obviously wrong.
Araminta half rose from the bench. “What do you suppose you—”
He leaned close to Araminta and whispered, “Stay in the shadows and keep quiet.”
“But I—”
“Keep quiet.”
Griffin trotted down the steps and was greeted by a cheery outcry. Kane.
“Good evening, sir! Have I interrupted something?”
“A few minutes earlier you might have.”
“Oho, so you have taken a fancy to one of our ladies? Which do you have in there?”
Araminta shrank against the vines, at last understanding Griffin’s actions. She hoped.
“The one called Lola, I believe?” Griffin sounded as cool as ever, though perhaps faintly lazier. “I was just on my way inside. Did I hear you mention that you have a faro table upstairs tonight? I was going to try my hand at that.”
The men’s voices grew faint.
Araminta rubbed her hands together; her palms had grown damp. She picked up his jacket, a heavy, well-tailored piece of clothing. Almost reluctantly, she pressed the jacket against her face and inhaled his scent. Then she folded Calverson’s jacket and left it lying on the bench.
She stood in the arched doorway and glanced around the now-deserted garden, and then descended the stone steps to the path.
“Miss Araminta,” a voice hissed from the boxwood hedge next to the arbor.
She started and gasped. “Mr. Hobbes, you have removed yet another year from my life. How do you manage to pussyfoot about the place?”
“I’m Hobnail,” he reminded her. “Haven’t snuck around at all. Was stationed here.”
“Oh.”
She leaned against the thick wooden arch and considered this confirmation that Griffin had set the man on her. If Hobbes was supposed to look after her, maybe he’d be willing to threaten Kane about keeping his battering fists off Olivia’s body. After all, Calverson had said he would help.
“Mr. Hobbes—”
“You ready to go?”
“I’d like to hire you. To protect someone. Do you know Miss Smith, Mr. Hobbes? th
“Hobnail. Nah, don’t hire me. Do my best, but can’t do much. Can’t annoy Kane. Ready?” He stood and waited.
She clicked her tongue impatiently. “It is still early, well before midnight, and I do not think I’ll require—”
“He’ll have a fit if I don’t.”
“Mr. Calverson?”
“No, not him. Want me to fetch your bag?”
He was sedate, but as stubborn as Araminta herself on a good night. Since this wasn’t one of those nights, she gave up. “I shall collect my belongings and be ready to walk home in five minutes.”
“Meet you at the door, then.”
He paused. “Do you mind Mr. Kane thinks I’m courting you? ’Cause I would. Court you.”
She felt the stirrings of a headache. “I understand. But please, it’s unnecessary to feel you must—”
“Like to,” he said.
“That’s extremely kind of you, er, Hobnail, but I think not.”
He shifted his feet and spat. “Huh. Change your mind, tell me, eh?”
“Of course.”
Really, she reflected, turning him down had not been nearly as awkward as it might have been. And when they walked toward her house, she made a couple of cheery remarks about the people up and loitering on the streets.
Hobnail answered with, “When I worked at night, met all sorts, most of them running away from me.”
“Yes, I can imagine they think you’re a dangerous sort of a fellow.”
He seemed to think that was particularly funny.
When they lapsed into silence, it felt companionable rather than stiff.
 
Araminta had just fallen asleep at two in the morning when a light tapping at her front door brought her abruptly upright.
She yanked on a dressing gown over her nightgown and thumped down the stairs in the dark. Had someone fallen ill? Or died?
When she tugged open her door, Griffin Calverson stood on her doorstep, pristine again in his dark evening suit, complete with wool coat, gloves and silk top hat. He’d donned an overcoat to ward off the chill. Protected only by her thin gown and robe, Araminta shivered and stared at him through the wisps of cold fog that had settled on the city.
He peered over her shoulder into the dark house. “May I come in? I do not wish to harm your reputation by standing on your doorstep.”
She wordlessly opened the door wider. He slipped past her into the hallway.
As he sauntered into the front parlor, he pulled off his coat and hat. He turned and held them out to Araminta. She took them, surprised by the coat’s bulk. After a moment’s thought, she flung them onto the sofa.
“That will do.” He sounded amused. “Tell me what you plan to do.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Calverson?”

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