Redeeming the Rogue (29 page)

“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.

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.

Rafferty replaced the lid, unlocked the salon door, and headed for the front door in sudden need of a breath of clean fresh air.

 

THERE WAS NO NOTE. ARIANNE CHECKED THE FLOOR near the door and the writing desk in case a maid had retrieved a paper from the floor. Nothing. Rafferty might not have spoken the truth about leaving a note, but she had her doubts. She was about to ring for the housekeeper when Evans, the butler, appeared at the door.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but a Mrs. James G. Blaine has come to call.” He hesitated, as if he could see the uncertainties in her mind. “She asked specifically for you.”

“Is Lady Weston about?” Arianne asked, surprised the woman hadn’t greeted her at the door with questions about their executive appointment.

“She has taken to her bed, Your Ladyship. I’m afraid the thought of escorting her husband home tomorrow has upset her spirits.”

Yes, Arianne supposed that would be a possible consequence. “Place Mrs. Blaine in the blue salon. I shall be there presently. Can you ask Mrs. Trembull to send up some tea?”

He nodded and left. Christopher! She wasn’t even sure if women in America drank tea as they did in England. What did one offer during a social visit? Her discussion with the housekeeper would have to wait. While Arianne anticipated an introduction into Washington society, she hadn’t predicted it would occur this quickly. Did everything in America occur at this breakneck speed?

Arianne entered the blue salon to find a handsome woman approximately twenty-five years her senior. “I am Lady Arianne Rafferty, Mrs. Blaine. I understand you wished to see me?” She extended her arm as an invitation to sit.

The woman smiled as she settled into a chair. “I realize you don’t know me. Under ordinary circumstances I would wait for your call, but these are not ordinary circumstances. My husband is the secretary of state, which is the chief cabinet position under the president,” the woman explained. “With the absence of the First Lady for guidance, I thought I should offer my assistance, especially as the numbers of political wives in Washington are dwindling due to the onslaught of summer. I’ve come with a proposition that you might find intriguing.”

“A proposition?” Jupiter, she’d only arrived the day before. Should she be entertaining propositions—especially from strangers?

“You could bide your time here in this humid swamp waiting for the fall to arrive and with it returning diplomats. Or you could host an affair here at the legation and invite the wives remaining in the city. Many will even postpone their departure if a social event is on the horizon, especially if they’re curious about a newcomer.”

One of the maids arrived with a silver tea set on a tray. She set it down on a low table before Arianne. The arrival with accompanying clatter gave her a few moments to think.

“You wish us to host a reception?” Arianne passed a teacup to Mrs. Blaine. She could host a reception with her eyes closed; she’d been to enough of them.

Mrs. Blaine shook her head. “Receptions are too common an occurrence. No one will delay a vacation to the country for another reception. I believe a tea or perhaps a house party, something different. Of more importance, it must be immediate.” She set down her teacup and cocked her head. “My dear, at the rate they are leaving, you simply can’t meet the women you must know fast enough, nor, I suppose, can your husband. Thus you must devise a way to bring them to your door.”

The idea held a certain appeal, as it was precisely what she had decided the evening before. Still, it seemed impossible given the rest of their agenda. “I wouldn’t even know who to invite.”

“That is precisely why you need my assistance. I’ll provide a guest list as well as information on reputable merchants, and you do the rest.”

While she thought it might be wise to consult with Rafferty, she decided a wife should be able to make such decisions on her own. After all, Lord Henderson had instructed Rafferty to trust her on social matters . . . or something to that effect. At least, he would have said it if he’d known she’d be the one playing hostess instead of Eva. Hostess. Didn’t the title imply a social gathering? She sipped from her cup. It was already midweek, and she’d need time to order invitations, have them delivered, clean up the gardens . . . The gardens! “Would a garden party suffice?”

Mrs. Blaine paused to consider. “Many of the women are avid gardeners. I’m sure they would enjoy a tour of the legation’s garden, but it must be before the weather becomes unbearable. Nothing wilts faster than a matron in the sun.”

Arianne smiled; it was better than cringing at all the work this party would require. “I’ll be sure to provide canopies for shade. Shall we say two weeks hence?”

“One week would be even better.” The older woman sipped her tea. “I’ll have the guest list delivered this afternoon.”

 

“SEVEN DAYS!” MRS. WATSON, THE HOUSEKEEPER, GASPED, then thought better of her response. She hastily composed herself. “If Your Ladyship wishes to host a garden party, we will, of course, have all ready. It may require the hiring of some additional help. We haven’t had a gardener since Mr. Wilkins passed on, God bless his soul. Will any of the guests be spending the night, Your Ladyship?”