Redeeming the Rogue (9 page)

“I accompanied Lord Henderson yesterday to assure Lady Cardiff that I would do everything possible to find Lord Weston’s murderer.”

“And Toomey,” Arianne added quickly. “He’s the real reason you’re doing all this, isn’t it?”

“And Toomey,” he agreed slowly. He studied her for a moment. “I suspect his presence in America is connected to Lord Weston’s murder. As to the other, I’m a patriotic British citizen; why wouldn’t I agree to help where needed?” He plopped his hat on his head and bowed casually. “Good day, Lady Arianne.”

Her very words from yesterday. The cad.

“Mr. Rafferty.” He turned toward her. “I don’t think you truly value my contribution to this endeavor. While you may not be concerned about the impression you make upon the Americans, I am. First impressions are the lasting ones. I fear you will come to regret not having invested sufficient time in matters of social responsibilities. I may not be a gambler, but I’d put money on that.”

An eyebrow raised along with one corner of his lips. While he didn’t laugh at her little speech, he certainly appeared to find humor in it. The scoundrel.

His gaze shifted from her face to the velvet draperies by the window, to the Millais painting over the fireplace, to the inlaid tripod table supporting the chess set, before returning to her. His lips tightened. “Maybe you should. I’d wager you’d find favorable odds.”

 

RAFFERTY STEPPED OUTSIDE AND TOOK A DEEP BREATH. The air tasted sweet in this part of London, devoid of the sewage and coal dust that fouled many of the streets where his investigations led him. Still, there was an honesty in the poorer sections of town. A man with coin in his pocket had no need to prove himself. He was lord of his own circumstance.

Here one was judged not by his accomplishments but by his birth. Money was lavishly spent on the most ridiculous refinements, fine porcelain urns to support leafy ferns, ceilings with paintings of plump cavorting cherubs, lavish draperies that puddled on parquet floors. Thousands had starved in nearby Ireland while the British landlords collected rents to purchase carved ivory chess sets. He shook his head, wondering how the Duke managed to sleep at night when his money could buy comfort for so many.

There was much to do before they left for America and little time to accomplish it all. He had, indeed, arranged to meet with Phineas, but he also needed to confer with the many eyes watching Barnell. The identity of the lady in green was still a mystery. She might still play a part in unraveling the plot behind Lord Weston’s murder.

He flagged down a two-wheeled hansom. Even finding transportation was easier in this end of town. After shouting directions to the driver, he climbed onto the worn leather bench.

Lady Arianne was a pleasant distraction, too pleasant by half. Given his current pressing commitments, he had thought to avoid any “gentleman” lessons, but curiosity had carried him to her doorstep. Her fiery spirit shone through, even while she wore that morbid mourning attire. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge on her face, not a distracting speck of white on her trim, curvy silhouette. Though she admitted she had been hasty in her judgment, she obviously still looked down her pert little upper-class nose at him. What was it she’d said? First impressions were the lasting ones? What she needed was one night in his bed, then those impressions would be altered. That brought a smile to his lips. The woman would benefit from having her corset loosened, and he was just the man to do it.

Of course, her straitlaced, prudish world would most likely be turned upside down once she stepped aboard that steamer. Lady Arianne probably anticipated sailing on one of those large luxury transatlantic steamers that were all the rage. He had tried to warn her in Lord Henderson’s office, but she was determined to see this through. Yes, her extravagant, well-ordered world was about to spin on its head. And an amusing spin it promised to be, provided he stayed near to catch her should she fall.

BRANNIGAN’S HAD FEW AMENITIES. THE FURNISHINGS were sparse, the chippies hard, and gin and beer flowed easily. It was not the sort of place one would expect to find a well-mannered gentleman, which was precisely why Rafferty favored it.

He loosened the neck cloth he’d worn to please Lady Arianne’s ladylike sensibilities and crammed it into his pocket. Then he removed his jacket and hooked it over his back with his thumb. Even the heavily besotted customers scrambled to move out of his path as he made his way toward the back wall.

A dirty wharf rat with a full set of whiskers slumped in a shadowy corner amid the alcohol vapors. Rafferty narrowed his glance, then noticed a bottle of Irish whiskey by the sailor’s elbow. He smiled. Phineas! No one else would dare occupy Rafferty’s table.

Rafferty approached, then poured a finger of whiskey into a waiting empty glass. “Why the disguise?”

“Someone’s been asking about me.” Phineas glanced up at him, his eyes stark against the dirt-smeared face. He kicked a chair out from under the table. “Didn’t want to be too easy to find.”

“Any idea why?” Rafferty dropped his jacket on a dry stretch of wooden table before settling into the chair.

Phineas emptied his glass. “Could be any one of a hundred reasons.”

The topic was now closed. Rafferty had always assumed Phineas had shady dealings in his past. His talent at disguise evolved from a need to escape, just at Rafferty’s talent with his fists developed from too much practice. They both respected each other’s secrets, so he let this one pass unchallenged.

“I found an actress.” Phineas lifted fake gnarled eyebrows. “She’s young and not well known. You’ll meet her tonight after the curtain.”

“You work quickly.” Rafferty tried to mask his disappointment.

Phineas studied him in quiet assessment. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

Damnation. Sometimes he wished Phineas didn’t know him half as well. Rafferty tossed the alcohol to the back of his throat, letting the satisfying warmth spread outward from his gut. “I’m in a hurry to get to America. Not to be saddled with a pretend wife in the process.” In spite of Lady Arianne’s insistence, he wasn’t convinced a wife was essential.

He poured another finger, letting the rattle of clinking glass fill the silence. Rafferty frowned at Phineas’s scrutiny and swirled the light amber liquid in his glass. “She’s willing to travel, then?”

“For the right price. She wants to meet you first.”

“Reasonable,” Rafferty agreed, then sipped the whiskey. The alcohol burned the split in his lip, reminding him of Lady Arianne and her references to past wounds. What could such a pampered, well-bred woman know of pain? He scowled thinking of the bastard who would—

“Any word from the net?” Phineas asked, referring to the street lads and cooperative coppers that Rafferty paid to be his eyes and ears about London. Lord Henderson, unaware of how Rafferty got his information, once claimed Rafferty landed leads to criminals like fish in a net. The name stuck.

Rafferty shook his head, as much to respond as to clear his recent conversation with Lady Arianne from his thoughts. “I made the rounds before coming here. Barnell has been staying close to home. A few members of parliament have paid him calls, but that’s to be expected. No sign of the mystery woman.”

One of Brannigan’s resident sporting women approached their table with an eye on Rafferty, but Phineas chased her away with lewd shouts and a seaman’s curse. Rafferty hid silent laughter behind a tight smile, then lifted his glass. “You didn’t have to frighten the poor chit.”

“You’re married now,” Phineas muttered with a twisted grin. He poured more whiskey into his own glass. “You would have turned her down anyway. Your cap is set for Lady Upper Crust.”

Rafferty choked on his swallow of whiskey. Gasping for breath, he managed to inhale more fiery alcoholic fumes. Phineas jumped up and pounded his back with resounding whacks, which did not help at all.

“Wrong hatch,” Phineas explained in a gruff tone to those who bothered to glance in their direction.

“Enough,” Rafferty rasped, waving Phineas back to his seat. “Enough.” A few deep, slow draughts of air into his lungs loosened the constriction in his throat. While frowning at Phineas, he managed in a breathy whisper, “Lady Upper . . .” He sucked in more air. “Why . . . say that?”

“You’ve never cared enough about a woman to complain before. You’ve done nothing but complain ever since you met this one.”

“Never met . . . anyone . . . as irritating.” His voice scraped like a man on his death bed. Surely someone who haunted his dreams and invaded his thoughts that much could be called an irritant. Besides, there was that one overriding concern. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest and rasped, “Not good enough.”

“There is that,” Phineas conceded in solemn agreement. Rafferty tilted his head to glare a response, but it was wasted. Phineas emptied his glass. “We should be on our way if we’re going to catch Miss St. Claire.”

“Who’s Miss St. Claire?” Rafferty managed with a bit more strength.

Phineas pushed his chair back, then lowered his chin to bellow like an old sea crab. “Your wife, mate.” He stood, then swung a battered cloth sack over his shoulder. He slapped Rafferty on the shoulder. “She awaits.”

 

PHINEAS’S RAPID TRANSFORMATION NEVER FAILED TO amaze Rafferty. Once they climbed into a hackney, Phineas retrieved a bottle and a large cloth from the bag and in minutes had a clean face, devoid of a bushy beard and eyebrows. A tug on a seeming void of teeth produced a black cap. A clean shirt and his magician’s jacket emerged from the sack to replace his seaman’s togs. With a few twists, a truncheon of the sort carried by coppers became a stylish walking stick. While Rafferty was still fumbling with his neck cloth, Phineas popped a flat disk into a top hat.

Rafferty leaned forward to peek into the bag’s opening. “Is there a rabbit in there as well?”

Phineas smiled. “Not today.”

 

THE HACKNEY RATTLED TO A HALT AMID A SWARM OF people outside the Britannia Theatre.

Phineas looked out the window. “Our timing is perfect. The show just let out.” He glanced back at Rafferty. “Wait here and I’ll find her.”

“And then what?” Rafferty grumbled before Phineas could close the hackney door. Waiting in a hackney felt akin to asking a clock to stop ticking.

Phineas glanced down the walk. “The Bard and Bull caters to the performers. We’ll take her there to talk.” He shifted his gaze back to Rafferty and grinned. “After that . . . it’s up to you.” The door closed. Phineas signaled to the cabbie, then disappeared into the crowd, once again blending into the surroundings.

“Up to me,” Rafferty groused and glanced out the window. “If it was up to me, we’d be halfway across the Atlantic by now.”

He watched the activity on the street awhile, then noted one of his lads waving his arms. “What the . . .”

Rafferty exited onto the street, gave the hackney driver some money, then crossed to see the boy.

“I saw ’im, sir. Mr. Barnell. ’E was with a lady.”

“Where did you see him, Jamie?” Rafferty asked, scrutinizing the crowd.

“They went that way, sir.” Jamie pointed down the street, in the opposite direction from Phineas’s cafe. “Round that corner.”

“Good job, lad!” Rafferty ruffled the boy’s head, then tossed him a few coins. He heard the boy’s jubilant cry behind him as he followed the path suggested by the sighting.

The corner represented the intersection of two streets: one well traveled and busy with the theater patrons and their noisy carriages, the other quiet, and dark. Rafferty scanned the gaslit sidewalks. Empty. Either the two had entered one of the many storefronts facing the road, or they were out of sight, around a curve in the road just a block or so away.

He proceeded cautiously to a stage door entrance to the theater. No one waited outside. He continued past darkened storefronts, but not so much as a candle glowed to indicate a presence behind the glass. The street noises gradually faded behind him. A smell of rotting garbage drifted on the same breeze that pushed an empty can along the cobblestones. A rat scurried down a gutter. Water dripped, the sound amplified in the vacant street.

Rafferty reached the curve and scanned the sidewalks. A movement farther down the street on one side caught his eye. Perhaps it was the closing of a door. Perhaps it was . . .

“Rafferty!” Even from this distance, he recognized the irritation in Phineas’s voice. No point pursuing Barnell and his lady friend now that Phineas had announced his presence. He turned slowly.

Phineas stood at the opening of the road with a woman by his side. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Rafferty reluctantly made his way back to the busy street. The lad could have been mistaken, or Barnell could have slipped behind a door, but the woman who was to play his wife was a certainty and waited for him a mere block away.