Redeeming the Rogue (39 page)

 

KATHLEEN PINNED TINY BOUQUETS OF BLUE HYACINTHS to the pouf of embroidered gauze that swept about Arianne’s hips before gathering in a delicate cascade down her backside. Arianne added a bouquet of blue to the lowest point of the neckline, hoping to draw Rafferty’s interest there. Just the thought of him caused her breasts to push against the top of her constricting corset, while a familiar tingling began at the bottom. Not now! she scolded herself. Ever since Rafferty had taught her the value of “readiness,” she discovered her body was prepared at the most inconvenient moments.

Tiers of white lace defined her skirt, much like a wedding cake. She was the bride Rafferty never got to see but still taught to love. Kathleen added bits of lace and hyacinth bouquets to her hair while Arianne pulled on her long white gloves. Selecting a blue fan for contrast, she was ready to go.

Rafferty waited at the bottom of the stairs. Her breath caught. She’d never see him so handsome in his black tails with a blue cummerbund, a fashion she’d observed in India on a brief stay there. Christopher! There went the tingling again.

Her brother joined Rafferty at the base of the stairs, also in tails but with a red diagonal sash. Accompanied by these two, she imagined she’d be the envy of all the women at the ball.

“This is for you, Rafferty.” She pinned a small bouquet that matched those on her dress to his lapel.

His gaze, warm and appreciative, skimmed her from head to toe. “Do they have a meaning?”

“Constancy,” she replied with a soft smile.

“That will not be a problem,” he murmured, a promise smoldering in his eyes.

She turned to her brother. “I have a rose for you as well, William.” She pinned it to his lapel. “It’s called an American Beauty.”

“You’ll have to find a bush for me to take home to my Francesca.” He winked at Rafferty. “She’s an American beauty herself.”

 

THERE COULD BE NO DOUBT OF THEIR DESTINATION. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from every horizontal surface around the stately exterior of the house. Their carriage jostled with others for a point close enough to release the passengers. For a nearly deserted city, a sizeable crowd swarmed the wide veranda and first-floor rooms.

Shortly after they had arrived, Mrs. Blaine introduced them to all manner of people, some Arianne had already met through her social calls and through her garden activities. Rafferty shook hands and smiled at the right moments, but for the most part, he preferred to observe while Arianne engaged the people they met in conversation. Like a fish in water, she was in her element. She had to admit, she’d missed this aspect of city life.

The musicians took to their instruments, and the dancing began. Rafferty asked for the first dance, a waltz. With his hand on her waist and hers on his strong arm, he guided her around the ballroom. Though she missed the charm of twirling in his arms under the stars on a lonesome deck, the dance was magical nonetheless. William took her for a turn about the floor, but she preferred standing next to Rafferty to dancing with anyone else.

Rafferty engaged the affable Vice President Arthur in discussion. They discussed home rule, the vice president voicing a vote in favor of independence for Ireland, but as he quickly remarked, his opinion held no sway in another countries’ politics. President Garfield, who was leaving the next day to visit his convalescing wife on the New Jersey shore, joined their discussion. When he mentioned his disappointment that he failed to gather some books to take to his wife, who loved to read, Arianne mentioned a wonderful book of Celtic myths and legends. With Rafferty’s permission, she agreed to lend it to Mrs. Garfield. The president was delighted. Rafferty promised to bring the book to the train station before his trip.

Arianne hated to see the evening end. She would have loved to dance more with Rafferty, but she comforted herself knowing they’d have more such dances to share in the future. The future . . . It had never looked so bright. In London, she thought she was running away from the Baron when she was actually running toward Rafferty. The rhythmic jostling in the carriage combined with the late hour and Rafferty’s comfortable shoulder lulled her to sleep.

“She’s worn out,” Rafferty said, shifting her a bit so she’d be more comfortable.

William looked out the window. “She didn’t get much sleep last night.” He smiled at Rafferty. “I take it you two resolved your differences.”

“Arianne is the true diplomat between us.” Rafferty’s lips slid into a soft smile. “My wife knows how to negotiate.”

“Take care of her. She’s not as tough as she thinks,” Bedford said. “Now that I’ve met America’s gentry and I know Arianne is happy, I suppose I should plan my return to Bedfordshire. I’ll finish the scrutiny of the servants, of course. But I can see you’re capable to handle the rest without my . . . assistance.”

Rafferty carried Arianne upstairs and managed the buttons, ties, hooks, and combs to get her undressed. He pulled the bed linens over her and took a few moments to study Arianne’s face in the moonlight streaming through the window. Smoothing the hair from her face, he made a vow. “Bedford will have no cause for worry. I will always take care of you. Sleep well, my love. Have pleasant dreams. Tomorrow, I’ll be here.” He kissed her forehead, then climbed into bed himself for a few hours’ sleep before he had to take the book to the train station.

It was a perfect evening in a perfect world, which, by the next day, shattered like the crushing of a fragile American Beauty rose.

“RAFFERTY?” Arianne wasn’t fully awake, and he didn’t wish to disturb her. She had a full day ahead playing hostess at her garden party. He just couldn’t leave without a kiss to her forehead.

“Hush now, darlin’. I’ll be back before you wake.” At least, that was the plan. Deliver the book to Garfield, then rush to quietly slip back by her side.

“Don’t forget the party,” she mumbled.

“I won’t. I promise.” It tore him apart to leave. Only the comforting expectation of a swift return got him out the bedroom door.

 

THE BALTIMORE AND POTOMAC RAIL PASSENGER TERMINAL stood a block wide, all vibrant and new, like most of the capital city. Located on what was called the Mall, Rafferty could turn in any direction and see the political edifices, some still under construction. The city already bustled at this early hour on a Saturday morning. It was easy to understand the attraction this land held to his people. The honesty, the freedom . . . He could envision himself here in a more permanent capacity. The thought made him wonder how Arianne would feel living so far away from her brothers. Perhaps he and Briggs could establish a run in the shallow waters up the seaboard. It was worth consideration.

Even through the crowds of people, Rafferty spotted the president easily enough. A large man, Garfield talked with two of his cabinet members—men Rafferty knew through the legation—and two younger men, his sons perhaps. Rafferty approached the group, anxious to deliver the book and return to his sweet Arianne.

Suddenly, a man dashed before him, pulled a revolver from his pocket, and shot. Twice. The first bullet brushed Garfield’s arm, spinning him in the direction of the second.

President Garfield gazed at his chest. “My God, what is this?” Then he collapsed to the station floor.

Rafferty lunged at the gunman, catching him from behind, and crashed to the ground. With little effort, Rafferty pinned him to the dirty floor, holding him until a policeman could cuff the bloody bastard and haul him to his feet. The gunman turned and grinned. The hair on the back of Rafferty’s neck tingled. It was the man from Finnegans, Charles Guiteau.

“I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts!” the madman exclaimed. “I did it and I want to be arrested. Arthur is president now!”

Rafferty understood instantly. It all became clear. This was the foul plan overheard by Mary O’Shay. The plan that ultimately cost her life. The Fenians planned to promote Arthur to president to use his influence with the Queen to support home rule. A group that would bomb innocents wouldn’t hesitate to assassinate another, just to advance a favorite in political positioning.

With his hands cuffed behind him, Guiteau refused to budge even as the police tried to pull him toward the exit. He stared at Rafferty and yelled, “He’s part of it! Arrest the Irishman! Arthur is president.”

Immediately, bystanders fell about him, grasping at his arms and legs, punching his head, his shoulders, his stomach. He hadn’t a chance with so many assailants. Just as he feared he might be pummeled to death, a policeman sorted through the angry mob. In spite of his claims of innocence, Rafferty was handcuffed and led out of the station like a common criminal.

 

ONCE AGAIN ARIANNE WAS SUMMONED TO A POLICE station, although this time it was in Washington. The news of the attempted assassination had reached the legation, though how Rafferty could be held as responsible defied logic. Both Phineas and her brother accompanied her, but crowds surrounding the police station wouldn’t allow the carriage to get close. They left the brougham a block away and fought through the angry mob.

“String them up!”

“Shoot them like they shot the president!”

“No mercy for murderers!”

Shouts from the crowd assaulted her from every direction. Her heart hammered as she pushed past two men shouting out their favored form of execution. Rafferty had nothing to do with this. Why would the police be holding him?

A line of uniformed policemen stood in front of the station, forbidding entry to the crowd. Once she identified herself as Rafferty’s wife, they let her and William pass but denied entrance to Phineas. The crowd booed and shoved, but she was granted access to the station, which resembled the only other police station she had visited. She approached the sergeant’s desk. “What is the meaning of this? My husband had nothing to do with shooting President Garfield.”

“The shooter said he’s part of the plot, ma’am. That’s enough to hold him.”

“Plot? What plot?” Then it hit her. This was the “foul deed” that was mentioned in Mary O’Shay’s letter! The plot that had already cost the lives of Lord Weston, Mary, and Rosalie. The evil people who would kill them wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Rafferty. “Where is my husband!” she demanded. “I want to see him . . . now!”

The sergeant pointed to another uniformed policeman. Like those miserable mosquitoes, the uniforms were everywhere. “Take her back. Not him, though.” He pointed to William. “He stays here.”

She followed the policeman even while hearing William’s loud protests behind her. The sergeant apparently was not impressed with William’s credentials as the Duke of Bedford.

Her escort pointed to a cell near the end of the hall. She traveled the length, ignoring the jeers and calls from others behind bars, until she was able to see Rafferty.

He was scraped and bruised. The skin around one eye was swollen. A hard lump formed in her throat. He lifted slowly from the bench, one hand on his side, to limp toward the bars where she waited. Dear God! What had they done to him?

“Morning, darlin’.”

“Rafferty.” She put her hand through the bars to slide down his face. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll be all right, love, but listen to me. They won’t give us much time. Tell your brother that Evans is the spy. He’s probably the one who told Guiteau to implicate me.”

“But why?” Arianne asked. “Why would they want to do that?”

“Because I know their plan. I didn’t until Guiteau shot Garfield, but now I understand what they are up to.”

“It’s time, miss,” the policeman at the end of the hall called.

“I’ll get you out, Rafferty. They can’t keep you here. You’ve got diplomatic immunity,” she said.

“For the moment, I’m safer in here than outside.” Rafferty attempted to smile, but the swelling made it more of a grimace.

“Then I’ll get you a doctor.”

“Time,” the policeman repeated, then walked toward her.

“Get me Phineas,” he murmured.

 

AN HOUR LATER SHE WAS BACK AT THE SERGEANT’S DESK. “My husband needs a doctor.”

He didn’t bother to look up. “All the doctors are attending President Garfield. Your husband didn’t do an effective job.”

“My husband had nothing to do with the assault on President Garfield,” she huffed.

“Doesn’t change the fact that no doctors are available.” He kept writing in some sort of logbook.

“That’s why I brought one with me.” She placed a calling card on the logbook where it could not be missed.

“ ‘Dr. Phineas Connor,’ ” the sergeant read. He squinted up at Phineas. “I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“I’m not accustomed to making house calls in jail cells,” Phineas replied. “But when the wife of a British minister calls, I listen.”

The sergeant shifted his gaze to Arianne. “You’re that duke’s sister, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Don’t bring him back again.” The sergeant went back to his log.