Rafferty didn’t appear to be in danger, at least not of the sort suggested by Miss St. Claire. The boys looked at him with respect, not as a wealthy mark. And he . . . he regarded them with compassion as well, almost as a family. The thought gave her pause and a different perspective on the surprising Mr. Rafferty.
“HERE YOU GO, LAD. HERE YOU GO.” RAFFERTY MADE his way around the group, placing a few coins in the middle of each extended hand. “Thanks for seeing me off, lads.”
“Where’re you going?”
Rafferty glanced to his right, smack into eyes too big and too worried for the tiny face surrounding them. His heart twisted. The hollows beneath the young one’s eyes spoke of hunger, the sort that even the youngest of this wealthy nation shouldn’t endure. Rafferty slipped some extra coins into the young boy’s hand, then ruffled his head. “Do you remember Phineas? The one with the rabbit?”
The boy nodded. Most of them remembered the magic show Phineas had performed for them on occasion. “Well, Phineas and I are sailing across the ocean to America.”
“Will you be coming back?” another asked.
“I always do.” Rafferty smiled. He’d left on shorter trips before, but this was different. “I just can’t tell you when that will be.”
“What’re your instructions while you’re gone?” one of the older boys asked.
“Keep your eyes and ears open and sharp, especially as it concerns Mr. Barnell. Tell Pickins”—he pointed to an older boy—“if you see something.” He turned his gaze to Pickins. “If you think it needs to go higher, tell Lord Henderson. You know where.” The boy nodded solemnly.
Rafferty looked around the circle. He’d gotten down on one knee so he could see their faces. They were good boys, loyal and trustworthy, but they knew too much of the hard side of life for such young ages. The Irish Rose released a steam blast, an announcement of imminent departure.
“Where’s Jamie?” Rafferty asked. The one boy who’d actually seen Barnell’s mystery lady was missing from the gathering. “Anyone seen him?”
They each shook their heads, so Rafferty gave a little extra blunt to Pickins to pass along to the missing lad. The captain waved a signal to Rafferty. With the assistance of the boys, Rafferty released the ropes tethering the Irish Rose to the dock, then he quickly dashed across the plank bridge moments before it was hauled aboard.
As the boys waved from the shore, Rafferty saw Jamie running toward the group. Jamie waved to Rafferty, then the lad’s face slackened a moment before he pointed toward the stern. “That’s her, Mr. Rafferty. That’s the one.”
Rafferty followed the direction of the gesture. The complete roster of the ship’s passengers lined the rail, but four women stood in the center, three known to him and the fourth a stranger. The steamer continued to put distance between the boat and the shore. Rafferty cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Which one?” to no avail. The boy continued to point, but Rafferty could not discern a differentiation. One thing was clear, though. A traitor had boarded the Irish Rose.
RAFFERTY DID NOT ATTEND DINNER THAT EVENING. Arianne told herself her disappointment stemmed from her inability to see how he interacted with the new passengers. As a British minister, he’d be expected to make new acquaintances on an ongoing basis. If he approached all strangers the same as he had with Baron Von Dieter, this would be a problem. She told herself she needed to observe and critique his methods of initiating conversation, but even she couldn’t convince herself that this was the true reason for her disappointment.
She missed him. Clean and simple. She had wanted to ask about the collection of street urchins that had surrounded him at the dock or the meaning of that one boy’s pointing gesture. She had hoped to hear the voice whose rhythms played like music to her ear.
Instead, she met their fellow passengers: Mr. Barings, a charismatic London merchant, Mr. Skylar, a shy young man returning to his home in America, and the Shulmans, a German couple excited to travel abroad.
Everyone dressed for the meal, for what else was there to do? The food was adequate, though not to her brother’s standards. She recalled Rafferty’s warning that the meals would not provide occasion to practice table etiquette. He was correct as it pertained to state dinners. Excellent table etiquette, however, was never wasted, no matter the size of the gathering.
As decided earlier, Eva was to remain Miss St. Claire until the end of the voyage so as to explain their separate rooms. Upon Arianne’s insistence, Eva’s experience as an actress was not to be mentioned.
Eva’s abilities to draw others into conversation impressed Arianne. Perhaps she would succeed as a hostess after all. While that thought should have been satisfying, it wasn’t. Arianne couldn’t explain why. Indeed the whole day and dinner had been unsettling.
“You look tired,” Mrs. Summers said when they returned to their tiny cabin. “Perhaps you’d like to retire early this evening? It has been a tiring day.”
Arianne noticed Mrs. Summers had left her knitting out. It would be difficult for her to pursue that activity with the lamps extinguished for sleep.
“I think I’d prefer to take a moonlight stroll,” Arianne replied. “Walking might help settle my stomach and the fresh air clear my head.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” Mrs. Summers had already swung a shawl over her shoulders.
“No. I should be fine,” Arianne said, her hand on the door handle. “I won’t be long.”
RAFFERTY LEANED OVER THE RAIL, LETTING THE WIND cool his coal-streaked face and billow his unbuttoned shirt like a sail behind him. His collar, waistcoat, and jacket lay in a rumpled heap at his feet. The crescent moon, sometimes obscured by racing clouds, graced the swell of the black waves with a thin white crest, visible one moment, then gone the next.
Throughout the earlier daylight, they had traveled the channel between England and France. Once they had passed the long arm of Cornwall, Rafferty knew his beloved Ireland would lie directly north. Out of his line of sight, but there nonetheless. The Irish Rose would continue across the Atlantic to America’s eastern shore, carrying him away from his home and all things familiar—except for the killer, the one he hunted. Thoughts of Toomey had plagued him every waking day for so many years, he’d become more familiar to Rafferty than his memories of Ireland. Soon Rafferty would put those tumultuous thoughts to rest.
He heard footsteps approaching and knew Phineas had joined him for the passing ritual.
“Did I miss it?”
“I think we’re passing now,” Rafferty replied. The captain had sent a message that the Irish Rose had moved sufficiently west to be as close as they would come to the green isle. The note had arrived just in time. After working away his frustrations heaving coal in the boiler room, Rafferty needed this quiet moment of self-reflection. Together, he and Phineas stood silent for a few moments at the rail.
“Have you considered the absurdity of it all, Rafe? That you, a son of Ireland, are traveling to America to impersonate a British minister in order to catch a fellow Irishman?”
Rafferty chuckled softly to himself. Phineas’s summation was all the more preposterous given this particular would-be British minister was filthy with coal dust and stinking with the sweat of hard labor.
“Which is more ridiculous do you think?” Rafferty asked. “A filthy Irishman as a British minister? Or one Irishman seeking to arrest another when we’re both seeking Irish independence?” He glanced at his friend. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
Phineas remained quiet a moment or two, all humor gone from his face. “Don’t let his politics sway your course. The murder of innocents only serves to inflame the parliament against our cause. You’re chasing a murderer who just happens to be Irish.”
“I’m chasing my own arse, I think.” Rafferty dropped his head between his hands. “Why me, do you think? The Home Office is bloody overrun with titles. Why choose someone like me to play the role of a fancy diplomat?”
“I
s that what drove you to join the stokers?”
“I was spoiling for a fight and didn’t think you’d be amenable.” Rafferty raised a brow in Phineas’s direction, but he failed to get a rise out of his friend. Or maybe Phineas just couldn’t see his expression buried beneath the coal dust. Either way, Phineas waited patiently, so Rafferty explained about Jamie pointing to Barnell’s associate.
Phineas whistled low under his breath. “At least we know it’s not Lady Arianne.”
“Do we?” Rafferty challenged. “She was at that reception. She was wearing that green dress, and she could very easily be traveling with us to make sure Toomey slips through my fingers once again.”
Phineas narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe that.”
In his heart, he didn’t want to believe that Arianne would have anything to do with the Fenians, but logically he had to keep his heart out of the equation. Rafferty sighed. “At this point, I’m not sure what I believe.”
They heard light footsteps and the feminine rustle of skirts before they heard her voice. Both men straightened, and while Phineas turned to greet the newcomer, Rafferty hastened to tuck his shirt into his trousers and pull up his braces.
“Mr. Connor. Mr. Rafferty.”
“Lady Arianne.” Phineas smiled. “This is a pleasant surprise, isn’t it, Rafferty?” He poked Rafferty with his elbow. Frantically working on the uncooperative shirt buttons, Rafe turned his head to call over his shoulder. “Yes. Pleasant surprise.”
“Is something wrong, Mr. Rafferty?” Arianne inquired. More curiosity than concern laced her voice.
His shirt was mostly buttoned, but soiled and blackened from the dust on his hands. He retrieved his waistcoat and slipped that over his shoulders, wishing all the while he had access to Phineas’s unraveling string of handkerchiefs to wipe the soot from his face.
“Rafferty was building a head of steam,” Phineas explained, a hint of humor in his voice. With his top three buttons still undone, Rafferty turned to face Lady Arianne.
“I suppose that’s why you failed to join us for dinner,” she said. The wind pulled at the wide flat collar on her pristine white dress. She shone in the moonlight like a beacon of purity and virtue. Saint Arianne. He bit back a scowl. Yes, that about explained the gulf between them, a saint and a well-experienced sinner.
“I . . . I was concerned,” she said.
“There was no need.” Rafferty swiped his hand over his cheeks in an attempt to remove some of the black dust.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Phineas interrupted, “I need to investigate those discrepancies of which we spoke. Good evening, Lady Arianne. Rafe.”
Phineas left them alone in the moonlight on a deserted deck. Rafferty expected Lady Arianne to make some excuse to hurry back to her chaperone rather than share the moonlight with the likes of him.
Instead, she turned her back to the rail, reminding him of her fear of the ocean. Obviously the vast expanse of sea hadn’t the calming effect for her as it did for him. “I must admit,” she said, “I was hesitant to believe your story of being a selkie. But seeing you like this, I can well imagine you as a black seal darting toward home.”
Her easy smile set him at ease.
“Home,” he repeated with a glance across the unbroken field of dark water. It had been so long since he’d been back in Ireland. “In a way, I suppose this rusty bucket of a ship is my home. I’ve spent more time on this deck than on my home soil.”
She nodded. “Captain Briggs mentioned that your uncle took you in after your parents died.”
“Were murdered,” he snapped.
Her smile lessened, and he instantly regretted his sharp rebuke. Just as that guarded expression had begun to fade from her face, he’d gone and snarled at her like a bulldog. He turned toward the water and silently cursed, running his hands through his hair. “It’s habit,” he explained with self-remorse. “Basil Toomey roams free while my family molders in the ground.”
She touched his arm. The contact sizzled through his muscles as if he’d touched a white-hot poker and yet couldn’t pull away. “You’ll find him,” she said, before withdrawing her hand.
He looked down at his arm, noting a clean imprint of three fingertips on his otherwise grimy shirt. “Your gloves,” he said with a jut of his chin.
“Oh.” She rubbed her filthy fingertips briefly together. “Nothing Kathleen can’t clean.” An awkward smile twisted her lips, then disappeared. She fidgeted for a moment.
“Tell me about your home,” he said, hoping to recapture the easy banter they’d shared before his outburst.
Her face brightened. “It certainly wasn’t a ship.” She laughed briefly, earning his smile. “My childhood home is in Bedford-shire, but I didn’t spend much time there. My father preferred that I stay in schools far away from London.”
Her lips pressed tightly together. There was more to the story, he gathered from the pain in her eyes.
“I wanted to thank you for talking me over the bridge,” she continued. “I imagine you think it’s silly of me to be afraid of drowning. We live on an island, after all.”
“I don’t think it’s silly. Many people have fears that—”
“I saw someone drown once,” she interrupted. “One of the girls at school toppled a boat on a lake. She wasn’t far from shore, but we couldn’t reach her, and she drowned. I’ll never forget it.”
Her face assumed a ghostly melancholy pallor. He had no doubt that the childhood experience had left a mark. But still she remained at the rail, obviously wishing to talk. He relaxed a bit. “Lord Henderson said that you’re well traveled. How did you manage to leave England if you feared the water?”
“I only took short trips to get from one land mass to another, never anything like this.” She shivered. Rafferty picked his jacket from the deck and draped it around her shoulders. While he suspected her shake was motivated more by fear than chill, she smiled her gratitude at his gesture. “My brother survived a trip to America. I suppose I will too.”
“Is that why you agreed to come?” he asked. Jamie’s pointing finger still haunted his thoughts. He doubted she would admit if she were in league with Barnell, but it would comfort him to hear her give a valid reason.
She cocked her head. “It’s important that you succeed in this endeavor. While I want to see Lord Weston’s murderer brought to justice, I also believe the integrity and reputation of the British legation must maintain a high standard.”
There it was. She couldn’t have said it any plainer. “You still believe a common bloke like me has no place representing the British government. Just because I haven’t some fancy title—”
“Not at all.” She turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “I had my doubts in the beginning, but I think that might have been an overreaction on my part. When we first met, I was insulted that you considered me someone’s mistress, and I may have inappropriately carried that resentment into that discussion with Lord Henderson.”
“But I overhead some fool refer to you as—”
“Yes. I remember that silly nickname.” Her sharp glance stopped him from repeating the name that vexed her so. Her smile quirked. “You’ve shown me both intelligence and knowledge of etiquette. I concede to Lord Henderson’s judgment and have no doubt you’ll represent England remarkably well.” She bit her lower lip, her eyes wide and imploring. “You’ll find Lord Weston’s killer as well. I have no doubt.”
She believed in him! He wanted to kiss her there in the moonlight and finally taste those luscious lips. He wanted to wrap his hands around her tiny waist and kiss her until all thoughts of manners and etiquette and diplomacy were chased from her head. He wanted to show her that her vote of confidence was not misplaced. In fact, in certain areas—such as kissing a fine lady senseless—he quite excelled. However, his hands and his face were covered in coal dust like a common laborer. An elegant, sophisticated woman such as Lady Arianne wouldn’t appreciate having her fancy white dress ruined by the lik
es of him. He balled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.
“It’s Miss St. Claire that concerns me,” she said with a frown.
“Miss St. Claire?” My God, Arianne was radiant. Desire burned in his blood in places the cool night wind couldn’t reach. She was fiery determination and dewy freshness and so . . . impeccably clean. His fingernails bit into his palm. She glowed like a goddess beyond his mortal grasp.
“She has an obsession for adulation as if her every appearance should result in applause. I don’t believe she’ll be able to maintain her façade for an extended period of time, and I don’t believe she sincerely cares about the impression she makes.” She gazed up at him, soft and yielding. “You deserve someone better than that.”
Her words struck him in the gut. She thought he deserved better? He who knew the gutters of the docklands better than the wide streets of Mayfair? The one who sought release by pummeling flesh or hoisting a shovel of coal?
The clouds parted, letting moonlight wash over her upturned face. Intuitively, his head lowered toward hers for just a moment, before he remembered just who it was he was wishing to explore in the biblical sense. His entire body ached to pull her tight, to let her feel the effect she had upon him, but he couldn’t. Sister of a duke aside, she deserved someone better as well. She deserved someone she wouldn’t be embarrassed to introduce to her brothers, someone from her own class, someone . . .
She lifted on her tiptoes and placed her lips to his. She kissed him. Ever so gently, ever so innocent, except for a moment’s tug on his lower lip. He stood there, stunned. It wasn’t his imagination, was it? She had kissed him. Him . . . a no-count common Irishman, covered in sweat and dirt as if he’d crawled from the very bowels of hell.
But the kiss held no passion, none of the fire that burned in her eyes when she spoke about diplomacy. She kissed him as she might have kissed one of her brothers, except for that tug at the end—that held promise.
She gazed sweetly into his eyes. “Good night, Mr. Rafferty.”
Redeeming the Rogue Page 11
