She led Arianne around the upstairs, opening doors for a peek inside the guest rooms, then moving on. “It’s a shame that you arrived in June. The most important families will be moving to the countryside to escape Washington’s humidity.” She paused as if having sudden inspiration. “I’ll introduce you to Mrs. James Blaine. That’s what I’ll do. She’s the wife of the secretary of state and is still in town. She’ll take you under her wing. You know, Mrs. James Blaine has a daughter about seventeen. I wonder . . . Kitty mentioned something about a nickname . . . Do they still call you Cupid’s Mistress?”
RAFFERTY WORKED HIS WAY DOWN THE CORRIDOR, stealing a look inside rooms, until he found the one that appeared to be a combination library and office. Already he’d noticed one thing he found to be a definite improvement in America. The place wasn’t crawling with servants in the way of the aristocratic residences back home. He hadn’t seen a one of them in his search for the study.
Even though the sun burned brightly outside, the study was dark and stale. “The place could use some of Arianne’s concoctions,” he murmured, feeling his way to the window. He pulled and secured the long, heavy drapes, then opened the window to admit some fresh air. Then, he turned to see the task before him.
He wasn’t the first to search the minister’s office, that much was clear. Desk drawers hung open; papers were scattered. Any clues he might have found were most likely gone. A stack of newsprint had been placed on a large upholstered chair. The newspapers, most likely, that Lady Weston insisted contained lies and slander. It was as good a spot as any to begin.
He moved the papers to the floor near the large comfortable chair behind the desk, removed the insufferably hot jacket Arianne had insisted he wear, and tugged the uncomfortable neck cloth free from his collar. The recently admitted light found its way to a crystal decanter that painted a rainbow on a paneled wall. The late Lord Weston must have been an agreeable fellow, he decided, as he poured some of the decanter’s liquid into a waiting glass. Thus fortified, Rafferty settled to work his way through the daily editions of something called the Washington Post.
Eventually, the light from the window dimmed, but Rafferty still had a few more papers to check. He spotted an oil lamp near the desk and deduced safety matches must be nearby. He pulled out the middle desk drawer and guessed by the scant contents that the drawer, like the rest of the office, had been searched and documents perhaps removed. Rafferty found calling cards, bottles of ink, a bottle of glue, stationery, envelopes, a gold fountain pen, a key, some strange coins—American currency he guessed—but no matches. On a hunch, he slipped the key into the lock above the drawers. It fit perfectly. Not that he was surprised. If anything of value had been in those drawers, it would have been removed by this time.
None of which helped him in his quest for more light. Rafferty slipped his hand into the drawer to explore the very back. His fingertips touched a metallic box. With a bit of prodding, he wiggled the box forward, but in the process he felt a paper skim the top of his knuckles. Something had been glued to the bottom of the desktop. The matches forgotten, Rafferty negotiated the drawer from its mounting mechanism and placed the drawer with contents on the desk so he could see the paper, but it was too dark to peer under the desktop.
The small metallic box, gold from the looks of it, that had initiated his search was now readily available in the removed drawer and indeed full of thick safety matches. After lighting the lamp, he got down on his hands and knees to further scrutinize the paper. He discovered it to be of little consequence; something merely applied by the desk manufacturer. The paper had small rips missing, as if someone had tried to remove it, but it was glued tight.
Glue . . . He picked up the bottle of viscous fish glue from the drawer. The cheap glue didn’t fit with the fancy embossed cards and stationery, the gold fountain pen, and small bottles of ink with self-droppers. Even the matches were stored in a gold container.
If Lord Weston was smart, and there was every reason to think he was, given Arianne’s admiration, he may have assumed secrets hidden in conventional fashion would not remain secret for long. Rafferty flipped the drawer over, letting the contents scatter across the top of the desk. A small envelope had been glued to the bottom of the drawer, in the far back. Now this was something worth inspection. He opened the envelope and found another key, one different than the key for the desk. He turned it slowly in the light of the lamp. This one, he suspected, went to a safe. Footsteps thudded in the hall. He quickly pocketed the key and flipped the drawer so it was once again upright.
A knock sounded on the door. Rafferty called out permission to enter.
“Sir, it’s time to change for dinner.” It was the butler who had admitted them earlier.
“Thank you . . .” Rafferty struggled to remember if he had heard the man’s name.
“Evans, sir.”
“Yes. Thank you, Evans. I wonder if you can direct me to where my room might be?”
The butler smiled. It was a bit hard to distinguish, but Rafferty believed it was a smile. “The master’s chambers are at the top of the stairs to the left, sir.”
Master’s chambers. He liked the sound of that. He collected his discarded jacket and neck cloth and proceeded to make his way upstairs, pleased with the progress for this first day.
ARIANNE INHALED DEEPLY. HER ROSE-INFUSED BATHWATER filled the room with a lovely garden scent. Closing her eyes, she could imagine herself in simpler times, before the Baron, before learning that her father was not the Duke. She slipped lower in the tub, letting the warm, scented water barely cover her breasts. After a week and a half of sponge baths, the real thing felt luxurious, indulgent, and relaxing . . . until the bedroom door opened.
Arianne glanced in the door’s direction, but the hinged screen around the tub blocked her view. It was most likely Kathleen returning, though it seemed she was hardly gone long enough. She smiled. Something about the warm water made minutes stand still, when of course they didn’t. “Is it time to dress already?” she called to Kathleen.
Rafferty stepped around the screened enclosure, a wicked smile surrounded by the start of a raspy stubble. “Don’t feel you need to dress on my account.”
Panicked, she scrambled to cover herself with her hands, splashing water on the metal pad beneath the tub in the process.
“Your Ladyship,” he scolded, shaking his head. “Have you forgotten that we are only temporary residents?” He reached for one of the towels left behind by Kathleen. “We wouldn’t want to ruin the floors during our brief stay.” He stooped so as to mop the water; however, that placed his head on a level with her own. She was so exposed and vulnerable. His gaze heated a path along her body like a living flame, scorching her from her neck to her toes.
Her eyes narrowed. “I had hoped our lessons would have turned you into a gentleman. I can see that they haven’t.”
He settled himself more comfortably on the floor and rolled the sleeve of his shirt, the fine dark hairs on his arm a sharp contrast with the crisp white linen. “I told you when we first met that I was no gentleman.” His fingers dangled over the edge, drawing tiny circles in the water near the spot where her hand covered her breast. On occasion they touched her knuckle, trying to nudge it away, but she held firm. His mouth drew nearer. “You do realize that I’ve seen you before much like this.”
“Never!” she challenged.
He ran his fingernails down the inside of her arm that covered the juncture of her legs. Even the Baron had not seen her thusly, preferring to do the deed in the dark and while she wore her nightgown. Her breath caught when his slow dragging finger touched the inside of her elbow.
“The night of the storm.” His eyelids lowered as he stroked the curve of her hip. “You wore a thin nightgown that was drenched with seawater. I could see right through it.”
She couldn’t slap his hand away without exposing herself, so she closed her eyes and suffered in silence.
“Eva would have given me full acc
ess,” he said.
“Eva would have given you a knife in your back as well,” she replied.
His fingers paused in their sensual exploration of her side. “That’s correct. While her ladyship prefers to aim straight for the heart.” He pulled his hand from the water and shook it dry, then placed her dressing gown within reach. “Get dressed,” he said. “Let’s see how well you negotiate.”
Her heart racing, Arianne patted herself dry as best she could, then slipped her arms into her thin dressing gown. Whatever had made her think he was anything more than a rogue?
She’d thought she’d have time to take a bath before he’d halt his work in the study. She wasn’t even certain he’d remember the need to dress for dinner. Her cheeks must glow with embarrassment. Even as she tied the sash and clasped the lapels under her chin, she could feel the silk sticking to missed moisture, molding the gown to her contours. Christopher! How was she to negotiate anything from this damp, unsupported, downright humiliating position? For that matter, what sort of negotiations was he referring to?
She tentatively poked her head around the screen. From the sound, she suspected he was using the water closet, which meant she hadn’t much time. Her dinner ensemble lay sprawled on the bed, right next to what appeared to be his discarded jacket. While she was tempted to grab her chemise, she would have to remove the dressing gown to put it on. Instead she tiptoed on the lush Persian carpet to the bed where she grabbed her drawers with the layered lace at the leg holes.
She hiked the dressing gown to her thigh, preparing to slip her foot in one leg, when his footsteps sounded in the closet hallway. She pushed down the gown and hid the drawers behind her.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin defiantly. “What exactly did you wish to negotiate?”
Fifteen
RAFFERTY PAUSED NEAR THE BED, HIS GAZE FLITTING over her form, lingering in the spots where the silk molded to her breasts, her hips. Lord, he wanted her. As much as he reminded himself that Lady Arianne was a thoroughbred while he was a draft horse strapped to the plow, he wanted her. Even though she’d rejected him—Christ, maybe because she rejected him—he wanted her. His hands slipped to unfasten the button at the top of his shirt. “There’s only one bed.”
Her gaze was locked on his fingers. He liked that. He unfastened the next two buttons. “There’s only one room.” He unfastened the next two buttons, then slipped off his braces. “We both need to change clothes, sleep . . . bathe.” Did her cheeks darken? Good. If he intimidated her enough, she would move into one of the other bedrooms, making his life less complicated. He pulled his shirt from his trousers and unbuttoned the final button, letting the shirt hang open. “How does her ladyship propose to do that?”
“I assumed that you, being a gentleman, would move to one of the smaller guest rooms.”
He laughed, slipped the shirt off his shoulders, and tossed it to land on his jacket. “We’ve already established that her ladyship’s presumptions are misplaced.” He crossed his arms in front of him and pulled off his cotton undervest. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t seen him like this before. He thought he should see some signs of alarm, but instead, all he saw was . . . appreciation? What was wrong with her? The door was right there.
He sat in a chair and worked on his boot. “Now the way I see it, Lord Henderson sent me to accomplish a mission and, by the grace of God, I plan to do just that.” The boot hit the floor with a thud. He crossed the other to his knee. “Your Ladyship decided to come along on this journey,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her, “for the thrill?” The second boot hit the floor. He stood and unfastened the button at his waistline. “By rights, I should have complete rights to the room, the bed, and the bath. But if her ladyship wants to exchange something—”
“Stop that,” she said, or was it commanded? Well, it was about time. He was running out of buttons.
“Her ladyship speaks. What—”
“Stop calling me that.”
He hadn’t expected that. “Isn’t that what you want, Miss Lady-of-the-Manor, Lady Aristocrat, Lady Uppity?”
“I’d prefer it if you called me Anne, or Ari, or Arianne.” She pulled her fancy lacy drawers from behind her back, then rolled one leg into a fabric circle. Standing on one foot, she stepped through the hole.
“But aren’t you the daughter of a duke?” he asked. He’d seen women get dressed before, but not with this sort of graceful dance.
“Not really.” She stepped into the second leg, then bending forward, she pulled the material up behind her. “I am the sister of a duke, though.”
If any of those flies they’d seen on their way to the legation were buzzing in this room, his gaping jaw would have swallowed them for dinner. She turned her back to him and pulled the fancy things up in front. He fell into the chair he’d just vacated. “How can that be, woman? Is this a riddle? You are either . . . wait! . . . wait one minute.” He slapped his hand to his head. “You must be illegitimate! Don’t tell me you’re baseborn.”
She picked up a frilly slip of linen from the bed. “I spent my entire life believing my father was the old Duke of Bedford. I only learned recently that he could not sire children. He arranged for another to take his place.” She turned her back to him once again.
In short order, she removed the dressing gown. Her bare elegant back rose above her linen-encased buttocks. Desire slammed hard in his gut. She lifted her arms, offering the briefest glimpse of the sides of her breasts before white linen drifted down her back. She spun around to face him. Though her charms were hidden beneath the cloth, knowing there was just one layer between them had a tantalizing effect. They were the equals they’d been on the night of the storm.
“So you can see, I haven’t aristocratic blood flowing through my veins. I’m not some highly sought prize. So if we could just treat each other with respect, I think we can survive this forced intimacy.”
Rafferty stood. “You’re wrong.” He picked up the clothes she’d selected for him for the evening and tucked them under his arm. He headed for the door, but turned, his face as sober as a minister on Sunday. “You’re still a prize,” he said, “and a highly sought one at that.”
RAFFERTY STOOD IN THE PASSAGEWAY AND LOOKED AT the closed door. That hadn’t turned out quite the way he’d anticipated. Not that he hadn’t supposed he’d be the one sneaking down the hall late at night, but he thought he’d at least manage another of those passionate kisses for his sacrifice, especially after he’d glimpsed her in her bath. He’d hoped to reestablish that sense of intimacy they’d experienced the night of the storm. He hadn’t counted on gaining a piece of her soul.
Nor had he counted on her feelings of guilt when addressed as a lady. All this time he had felt less than her equal due to her aristocratic title, while she had felt less than an aristocrat because of her status.
One thing was certain; aristocrat or not, she would not approve of him standing bare-chested in the upstairs passageway. He looked down the hall. Now what? Phineas was behind one of these doors, Lady Weston behind another, both probably in some state of undress, much like himself. There were other doors as well, but who knew what awaited him there?
He heard women’s laughter and footsteps on the wide staircase. Lady’s maids, given the proximity of the dinner hour, most likely. He couldn’t be caught like this, even by the servants. He opened the first door on the left and prayed the shock wouldn’t jolt Lady Weston into an early reunion with her poor departed husband.
“Rafferty?” Phineas glanced to the door. “Even you know that a shirt is required at the dinner table. What are you doing?”
Rafferty explained that to maintain peace between he and Arianne, he’d agreed to dress in a room apart from her preparations.
“What about the sleeping arrangements?” Phineas asked. “Have you reached an agreement on that as well?”
Though he hadn’t actually discussed it with Arianne, Rafferty already knew the outcome. While buttoning his dinner shirt, Rafferty g
lanced over his shoulder at the double bed in this guest room, obviously designed for a married couple. He looked back at Phineas, eyebrow raised.
“I was afraid of that.” Phineas sighed.
“I can’t very well go someplace else,” Rafferty said. “The servants would know. The essence of a secret is that as few people are aware of the situation as possible.” He replaced his trousers with a black pair and pulled the braces over his shoulders.
“It’s a good thing I know you well, my friend.” Phineas slapped him on the shoulder. “Just make certain to leave the room in the morning before the servants arrive, old chap. There are other sorts of rumors I’d like to avoid.”
Rafferty smiled. “Agreed.” He worked the silk neck cloth around the collar. “Did you discover anything today?”
“I found the shipping office,” Phineas replied. “I don’t think you want to put Barings and Eva on the same liner as Lady Weston. That one is sailing out of New York in a few days. The SS Germanic is due in Baltimore Harbor in two days. It’ll stay in port for another three to unload the cargo, restock, and prepare for the trip back. That one might be the best bet for dispensing with Miss St. Claire.”
“I knew the Irish Rose could beat the Germanic given our head start,” Rafferty crowed.
“Maybe it would be best to keep Miss St. Claire here for a while,” Phineas said. “Without someone to watch over her, she could bugger the works if she tells anyone what we’re about.”
“That’s true,” Rafferty said, considering. The two hadn’t married yet, though they’d announced that was their intention. “Let’s leave her on the Irish Rose for the time being. Briggs is taking the Rose up the coast for some repairs. Barings can stay on board with her if he likes.” He checked the fit of his jacket in the mahogany-framed mirror. “So, what do you think? Will I meet Lady Arianne’s lofty standards?”
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