Redeeming the Rogue

by Donna MacMeans

  A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. She grasped her fan off the desk and sat on the bed while stirring a breeze in the humid air. Rafferty’s shirt was molding to his chest in a most flattering fashion. “Where do we look next?” she asked.

  Wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve, he sat heavily beside her. “I suppose the key could be for a safety-deposit box in a bank or at a hotel. However, I would have thought he’d like to keep his secrets close. I know I would.”

  “We’ve looked everywhere in this room,” she said. Strange. She should be frustrated by their failure, yet she felt exhilarated by the search. They were working together, not as instructor and pupil, nor aristocrat and . . . not. They worked as equals, and it was refreshing. She hadn’t felt so free, unfettered by society’s restrictions, since she was a child.

  “You’re smiling.” He glowered, then his lips twisted to a smile. “Why are we smiling?”

  “I was thinking this was fun, working together like this.”

  “It would be more fun if we found the safe.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought Lady Weston packed all the family’s possessions in anticipation of her trip.” He pointed to a framed picture hanging on the wall near the water closet. “Why did she leave that?”

  Heat rose to Arianne’s cheeks. “I think she left it for me. Her daughter Kitty painted that portrait of me when we were both very young.” She laughed. “I’m surprised she’s kept it all these years.”

  Rafferty raised a brow and walked to the portrait. He pulled it from the wall with barely a glance at the girl in a freshly starched pinafore. “Eureka.” He grinned. “Here’s the safe.”

  While he reached in his trouser pocket for the key, she came to investigate. The key fit, and soon Rafferty extracted several documents, a letter, and a Webley RIC revolver. Rafferty looked at the gun and replaced it in the safe, but he carried the papers to the writing desk where the light was better. Arianne slipped onto the desk chair. Rafferty hovered over her shoulder.

  Arianne held the letter so they both could read it, that is if the jasmine scent on her neck didn’t distract him. She read the letter out loud, something about the assassination of Tsar Alexander II earlier in the year and the resulting influx of Russian immigrants.

  Rafferty had no interest or concern about Russian immigrants. It wasn’t part of his assignment from Lord Henderson. Instead, he listened to the lovely lilting sound of her voice and gazed at the wide expanse of skin from her earlobe, around her jaw, to her neck. If he leaned a little closer, he could nuzzle that neck with his chin, an enticing temptation.

  She picked up another document. “Looks like shipping schedules,” she said, oblivious to the true nature of his focus. “Look, here’s the Irish Rose.” She tapped the paper. “And here . . . and here . . .”

  Rafferty’s attention snapped to the paper. He pulled the sheet from her fingers to study it closely. The ships listed all traveled between Ireland and America with a stop in London along the way. While several ships were listed, the Irish Rose was listed more than most. “I’ll have to take this up with Captain Briggs,” he said. “Maybe he can make sense of it.”

  Arianne pulled the other letter from the envelope. Unlike the previous letter, this one was not written to Lord Weston. Arianne read:

  Dear Rosie:

  I need your aid most urgently. I fear for my life. I have knowledge of a plan so foul I cannot write of it for fear this letter will be found. May I approach your employer? I cannot go to the police. Toomey will kill me. Please help.

  Your cousin,

  Mary O’Shay

  “O’Shay,” Arianne repeated. “Isn’t that the name of the woman found murdered with Lord Weston?”

  “I knew it!” Rafferty straightened, slamming a fist into his open palm. “I knew Toomey was behind this.”

  “You believe it to be the same Toomey?” Arianne asked, incredulous.

  “One and the same, but he won’t get away with it,” he said with grim determination. “Not this time.”

  Arianne pushed the papers aside to uncover the list she’d begun earlier. She wrote the name Rosie beside her note to talk to the housekeeper about the servants. Already they were making progress. She glanced up at Rafferty with awe, grateful that Lord Henderson had the foresight to choose Rafferty to solve the murder of her friend. He was going to make a fine British minister.

  BY NOON THE NEXT DAY, ARIANNE PACED IN THE SALON. What was Lord Henderson thinking to assign Rafferty as British minister? He obviously had no regard for the significance of meeting President Garfield.

  Lady Weston glanced at her with concern. “You’re expected at the Executive Mansion at three o’clock. Did your husband say where he was going?”

  Arianne chafed with the reference to her husband. While it was highly doubtful that she would ever have the legitimate right to refer to another man as “husband,” if she did, it would be someone who could be counted upon to be where he should, when he should. Her question was all the more awkward, as Rafferty had left before she rose for breakfast. She hadn’t a clue where or when he had disappeared with his friend Phineas. To acknowledge that might cast aspersion on their separate sleeping arrangements.

  Fortunately, Rafferty walked into the legation before she was forced to add another layer of falsehoods. Before he dashed upstairs to change, he kissed her on the cheek.

  Lady Weston grinned. “I do believe that man takes every opportunity to kiss you. You are ever so fortunate to find a devoted husband, Annie.”

  Arianne smiled but decided this need to constantly embarrass her would be grounds for another negotiation.

  The appointment with the president was a diplomatic necessity, as it opened the door for introductions to other diplomatic and political personages. Once the legation driver delivered them to the Executive Mansion, they waited in a small antechamber until called by the president’s secretary.

  “Mr. Rafferty, is it?” The bearded president walked around his desk and extended his hand. “It’s about time they sent someone without some fancy title. Welcome to the United States of America, Ambassador Rafferty.”

  Arianne bristled at the incorrect use of title—Rafferty was not an ambassador—but knew enough not to comment. The ends of Garfield’s full mustache lifted, the only indication of a smile.

  “Mr. Rafferty is just fine, Mr. President.” Holding his hat in one hand, Rafferty shook hands with the other. “And may I congratulate you on your successful campaign.”

  Garfield nodded his head. “Much to be done, much to be done.” He turned to Arianne. “And this must be your wife, Mrs. Rafferty.” Arianne dipped in a partial curtsy.

  “Lady Arianne Rafferty,” her husband corrected.

  The president’s tired eyes widened a moment. “I didn’t know that could happen.”

  “My wife obliged me by marrying beneath her,” Rafferty explained with that half smile.

  “Don’t they all,” Garfield exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “I know my Lucretia did.”

  Arianne fought to keep her smile in place. Levity had no place in diplomacy.

  “I wish you could meet Mrs. Garfield, but she’s recuperating from malaria,” the president said to Arianne. “Blasted mosquitoes.”

  “Please convey our best wishes for her full recovery,” she said.

  “She’s convalescing along the New Jersey shore. I will pass along your wishes when I see her in a few weeks,” he promised. “Mr. Rafferty, thank you and the missus for advising me of your arrival. I hope I can call upon your expertise should there be occasion.”

  “Most assuredly, Mr. President.” They exchanged handshakes once again.

  After they had left the strange oval room, another man with a drooping mustache and bushy sideburns approached from the far end of the hallway. Christopher, these Americans loved their furry lips! Even the Baron had confined his mustache to his upper lip and didn’t allow it to droop down his face. At least Rafferty demonstrated a competent hand with a razor.


  The man approached on their left. Rafferty’s brow furled a moment. “Mr. Vice President? Mr. Chester Arthur?”

  The man stopped cautiously.

  “I recognize you from the illustrations in the Washington Post.” Rafferty extended his hand and grinned. “I’m Michael Rafferty, the new British minister and a County Cork man, myself.”

  Wariness faded from the vice president’s eyes, and he accepted the offered handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. British minister, you say? Isn’t that unusual given Ireland’s political climate?”

  Rafferty’s eyes crinkled. “May I assume you have an interest in the parliamentary discussions on home rule?”

  Arthur smiled cautiously. “My opinions on home rule are well known but are of little consequence. My loyalties are to my country and my constituents.” He paused, his brow knitted. “Your name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I heard it.” He studied Rafferty a moment and laughed. “I’m certain it will come to me after you’re gone.”

  Rafferty introduced Arianne, and the vice president acknowledged her with a nod.

  While they spoke, Arianne noted the scrutiny of a newcomer to the waiting area. She supposed the man was as shocked as she at Rafferty’s aggressive behavior, introducing himself to a stranger without the recommendation of another, especially when the stranger was the second most powerful man in the American government.

  As soon as they had left the Executive Mansion and were situated in the legation carriage, she let him know her mind.

  “Did not Lord Henderson instruct me to assist you in areas of deportment? Why then do you not listen and ignore the very advice I have striven to teach you?”

  “Christ. Not another lecture on attire. Arianne, I’ve cut my hair for your satisfaction. I’ve shaved. I’m wearing gray trousers, white shirt, swallowtail black jacket.” He held up his hand. “Gray gloves.” Then he thumped his finger on the top of his gray top hat. “Gray as well. I am the epitome of a proper British minister.”

  “You forgot to use your calling cards.” She hated the whiney tone in her voice, but it just slipped out of her mouth.

  He sighed. “Arianne, the people I’m accustomed to working with don’t carry calling cards. They know who I am and why I’m there. I need time to adjust to this card business.”

  “We were late because of you,” she complained as if he’d never spoken.

  “We weren’t late.” He looked at the passing scenery. “We just didn’t arrive as early as you wished.”

  That was true. She had hoped that by arriving early she would meet the president’s wife, but then, that was not possible.

  “I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I left a note. I needed to speak with Captain Briggs.”

  “A note?”

  “I slipped it under your door this morning before I left.” He smiled. “I hope you thrashed around enough for two people in that big bed. We wouldn’t want the servants to get suspicious.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t see a note.”

  “Perhaps one of the maids moved it when they were cleaning your room.”

  “I requested that no one enter my room until I went downstairs for breakfast.” She glanced at him. “I didn’t want anyone to see I was the only one in the bed.”

  “Wise of you. Of course, we could remedy the subterfuge if we just shared the same bed. Eva would have done as much.”

  She swatted his knee with her fan. “It was considerate of you to leave a note behind. I suppose I could have overlooked it in my hurry to prepare for the introduction to the president. When we left England, I hadn’t planned my wardrobe for such an occasion.”

  “You had no reason for concern. You had the eye of every man present.”

  A glow warmed inside her at his compliment. “Why did you need to speak with Captain Briggs?”

  “The Irish Rose appeared several times on Weston’s list. I wanted to see if the captain recognized a pattern to it.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. Phineas is going to see if he can uncover its purpose.”

  While he tried to mask his concern, Arianne could tell that the list troubled him deeply. He slipped into his thoughts. She slipped into hers. Despite her earlier words, she was fairly certain Rafferty’s note had disappeared before she had a chance to discover it. Which reminded her of her own list that she had begun last evening. One item in particular was in need of attention. It was time to learn more about the servants.

  Seventeen

  RAFFERTY TAGGED THE STRANGER OUTSIDE THE legation as a policeman before the carriage settled to a rest. The man kept his back to the brick wall and watched the street as if to memorize the faces of the people passing by. That stance was the same on both sides of the Atlantic, as was the realization that an enforcer of the law outside one’s door was never good news. Rafferty felt his muscles tense, preparing for a footrace. Too often his assignments in London had placed him, for all appearances, on the wrong side of the “Blue Devils.” He forced his expression to remain calm and aloof as he opened the door and assisted Arianne out of the carriage.

  “Would you be the British minister, sir?” the man asked with a respectful but dubious air.

  “Yes,” Rafferty replied, still wary about the man’s intentions.

  “My sergeant said you had questions about the murder at the Lincoln hotel. I was told to report over here directly.” And he was none too pleased about it, if Rafferty read the tone correctly. Rafferty relaxed, suddenly appreciating the power inherent with his new title. He never imagined the police would make a special trip to be at his beck and call—to investigate some form of wrongdoing, perhaps, but not to answer questions. It was a bit of a heady realization.

  Arianne had already entered the legation, anxious to share the experience of the presidential appointment with Lady Weston. Wishing to spare the women the details of murder, Rafferty invited the officer to join him in the study.

  “Officer . . .”

  “Simmons, sir.”

  “Officer Simmons, I read the account in the Washington Post,” Rafferty said. “They described it as a murder and a suicide.”

  “That would be correct, sir.” The man shifted uncomfortably. Rafferty indicated that he should sit. The policeman complied.

  “Tell me how you reached that conclusion.” Rafferty held up the crystal decanter in offer of a drink, but the policeman shook his head.

  “Wasn’t hard. She was lying on the bed. Stabbed in the chest, she was. He dropped the knife on the floor, then shot himself in the head. He couldn’t have lived long.”

  “And the gun?”

  “It was on the floor near his hand. He must have dropped it after the shot.” Apparently he sensed Rafferty’s unspoken criticism. “Lady Weston said her husband owned a revolver.”

  Rafferty didn’t share that the gun her husband owned was still in the safe in the bedroom. “Did you ask Lady Weston what kind of gun Lord Weston owned?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t, sir.”

  “What kind of gun was used in the shooting?”

  The officer made a great show of removing a notepad. “An English Bulldog revolver. One of those little ones that fit in a pocket.”

  “What do you know about the girl?”

  “She came here by train from New York the day before her murder. She paid for the room. We found a note from Lord Weston, a stub from the train, and some coins.”

  “It was an amorous note?”

  “It was a note with money so she could come and see him. She had that look about her, you know? Her clothes weren’t fancy, but she was pretty. If you had seen her, you would understand why a man would send money to bring her from New York.”

  Rafferty thought of how Arianne always insisted that appearance said a lot about a person. Though he was quite sure this wasn’t what she had in mind. From what he was hearing, he was beginning to believe that Arianne and Lady Weston had the right of it.

  “Did you question anyone? Did
they hear a gunshot?”

  “There was a dox . . . a woman of the evening next door.” He glanced up. “The Hotel Lincoln is the sort that keeps late hours if you know what I mean, sir.” He looked back down at his notebook. “She ran out into the hallway but says she didn’t see anyone. She knocked on the door a couple of times, but when no one answered, she notified the front desk.”

  “You wouldn’t know this woman’s name, would you?” Rafferty thought he might be able to learn more from talking to her directly.

  “She called herself Dolly Madison, but that’s not her real name. I don’t think she wants to be known, sir.”

  Rafferty sighed, his frustration evident. “Did anyone try to find her real name?” The officer shook his head. “One last question. Was Lord Weston right-handed or left-handed?”

  The policeman thought about this for a moment. “He must have been right-handed. He would have held the gun up like this.” The man demonstrated. “Then pulled the trigger and fell, right there at the foot of the bed. There was blood everywhere. Why do you ask?”

  “Thank you for making the trip out here.” Rafferty extended his hand. “You’ve given me much to consider.”

  But the policeman didn’t move. “You some sort of Pinkerton? What do they call them over there . . . a bobby or something?”

  Rafferty smiled. “They call them police, and no, I’m not one of those.”

  “You’re not like the usual sort on this row. They don’t question our investigations.”

  “No. I suppose not.” Rafferty considered a moment. “I’ll say this, though. I don’t believe Lord Weston stabbed Miss O’Shay. I believe another killed them both.”

  “Do you have any proof of that?” Officer Simmons asked, a bit more respect in his eyes than before.

  “Not yet.” Rafferty sipped from his glass. “But I will.”

  He walked the policeman to the front door. After Simmons had left, Rafferty strode into the front salon where Lord Weston rested in his coffin. Not wishing to be disturbed, Rafferty closed and locked the door. The oak coffin with gilt fittings rested on two small tables. It was a deep coffin, and the embalmed Lord Weston appeared comfortably ensconced in it. Significant damage had been done to the man’s entire skull, but, true to the policeman’s report, the bullet had entered from the right. However, if the shot had occurred as the policeman had indicated, Rafferty would have thought the thrust of the damage would be angled. Then again, perhaps it was all a matter of how he held the gun . . . if he held a gun. A bullet fired at close range by someone else would obliterate the skull just as effectively. Rafferty looked at the man who commanded such respect from Arianne, dressed as if to meet the president, down to the gray gloves on his cold dead hands. For what purpose? It was a sad way to come to one’s end.