Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (8 page)
A chill draft over her bare legs reminded Araminta that she wore almost nothing. “Yes, but I can take care of myself.”
“You already know that the men who work for him are dangerous. Pray, do not underestimate the man himself. Do you notice his slight limp?”
She nodded.
“I’ve hear the tale behind that limp. Apparently he accosted two women, ah, employees of his. A week later, they paid someone to break his leg.”
“Good.”
“I would never expect you to be so bloodthirsty, Araminta,” he said, and his eyes glinted with appreciative humor. He drank the rest of his coffee.
He got up, poured himself another cup and pointed to her mug.
“No, thank you. But do, pray, help yourself.”
Griffin ignored her sarcasm. He sat back down and stirred in a small lump of sugar before he spoke again. “To continue my story, the women and the assailant they’d hired disappeared without a trace soon afterward. That was more than ten years ago. Even then the police did a lackadaisical job of investigating the disappearances. Linder Kane has gained considerable power since then. He is smart enough to pay very well for protection both within and outside the law.”
Araminta shivered, and not only with the cold. “He is a beast.”
“A wealthy beast.”
Something like grudging admiration in his words made her at last remember what Olivia had said about Griffin. She stared into his eyes as she blurted, “Are you like him? I mean, might you consider going into the same sort of business?”
Calverson’s expression didn’t change and he remained silent, but a moment later, he rose from the chair again. He pulled out his pocket watch, and the gold flashed as he flipped it open and tilted it toward the light of the single candle. “I have disturbed you long enough.”
“You and Kane are two of a kind—you each feel you must warn me about the other. Do you know he told me to be careful of you? He said you have murdered at least three men.”
He tucked his watch away, and then placed his chair precisely at the table.
Araminta felt indignant. Bad enough that he apparently would not tell her if Kane told the truth—she disliked being ignored.
She got to her feet and carried her cup to the basin. “We have not made any kind of plans yet.”
“I do not think we need to discuss the plans any further tonight. And likely I can take care of this matter without disturbing you. I merely . . .” He trailed off; she hadn’t heard a sign of indecision in him before. Something had shifted in that calm voice, though she could not read what had changed.
He shook his head. “As you said, I wished to warn you about Kane. And to tell you it would be best if you do not mention any connection to me, or to appear sympathetic to me.”
“I told you, he’s already asked me about you. He remembers that I worked for your sister.”
Griffin pursed his lips. “Yes, it might be a good idea to repeat to him some of the things you have told me.”
“About which subject?”
“About my faults, naturally.”
Araminta blew out a breath as she tried to recall how insulting she’d managed to be this evening. “Should I apologize to you again?”
He gave her a slight but perfect bow. “No need, I assure you.”
She at last understood what had changed in him. His voice and eyes held no amusement.
They walked into the front parlor. He picked up the coat, the hat and the gloves.
Araminta watched him, and an odd disappointment tightened her chest. When he left, the house would feel empty. She wanted to talk to him, tell him not to go yet. Murderer, thief though he might be—at that moment in the silent parlor in the middle of the night, she did not care. Once he left, she knew she’d feel lonelier than she had for a long time.
“Griffin.”
He swiveled at once to face her, and she took an instinctive step backward, away from a perilous trap—the heat she saw that leapt straight into her. The green eyes were no longer cold.
“Um. Good night.”
He moved to her then, unceremoniously dropping everything he held. Another step forward and his leg brushed hers, but otherwise they did not touch. Then one hand moved to rest on her waist, another lightly clasped the nape of her neck beneath her plaited hair. His hands held her, and for a moment he did not move. His eyes were fixed on hers, and she understood he would let her say no, push him away. But she didn’t. His gaze dropped to her lips.
He bent to her, and his mouth on hers calmed rather than frightened her.
Something in her shifted, and she knew she was entirely wrong. His hands and mouth didn’t calm her—quite the opposite.
Restless, she stirred in his gentle grip, and the kiss deepened, his clasp tightened. His tongue stroked hers and a soft gasp came from her throat. As she strained forward, her melting limbs regained strength and purpose. She wanted to touch as much of him as possible, and she pressed close like a possessed woman. Her fingers touched the stubble of his cheeks, explored the silky hair at the nape of his neck.
He twisted closer and resumed exploring her mouth with his, tongue, teeth and lips all sweet and hot with the gently tickling mustache above her mouth, reminding her—as if she could forget—who kissed her.
He slid his hands to her shoulders and ended the embrace by gently pushing himself away. He bent to pick up his possessions, pulled on the gloves and coat and donned the hat.
She almost protested the end of the embrace, but she came to her senses and saw how she had already made a fool of herself. She would not give voice to the desire that had swept through her with no warning.
She cleared her throat. “Good night, Mr. Calverson.”
A quick doff of the hat, a quiet, “Good night, Miss Woodhall.”
At least, she thought, as she locked the door behind him, she hadn’t imagined his craving for her. She’d tasted it in his kiss, heard it in his hoarse voice as he bade her good night. Her body burned, but at least he also did not remain cold to the dratted desire. She did not see how that did her any good, but it seemed to improve her mood as she made her way up to a bed where she knew she’d lie awake until sunrise.
CHAPTER 8
Griffin shoved his balled fists into his trouser pockets and strode down the sidewalk. Bored and restless, he’d wanted to see Araminta, and it had seemed a reasonable idea after two brandies. He did not usually drink more than a glass, purely as a matter of discipline, but years of self-control seemed to be slipping lately. So was his carefully built wall against anger and other strong, useless emotions. Such as the heady desire to haul her against him. He was rattled to his core. Perhaps another glass of brandy would settle the fire she stirred in him.
Araminta’s insinuation that he was as bad as Kane had rankled beyond reason. It made no sense to feel even a trace of annoyance at the woman. t dnot know him, for all that she claimed she did.
Many other people had assumed the worst of him—though none had been bold enough to accost him with a list of his sins, as she had.
Impertinent Araminta.
In the past he’d been amused, even encouraged the reputation. With Araminta, he had been more diverted than irked when she had launched into him that day. What had changed his amusement to annoyance?
As she’d stood close in that shadowy hall, he had impulsively decided to punish her by kissing her, and then standing back and pointing out her response to him, the one he’d sensed in her. Not truly mocking her—more a matter of showing he knew she wanted him. Taking control of the situation.
Yet his own arousal had been too strong. He’d been knocked sidelong by a simple kiss, and he did not appreciate that. He would not allow anyone or anything to breach the guard. It had taken him too long to perfect the inner strength that served him well.
He slowed his walk, despite the fact that a leisurely pace would turn him into a good target for a robber or pickpocket.
A good tussle would give him a chance to clear the anger from his system.
A dark figure appeared under the gaslight, walking in his direction. Griffin tensed, ready.
Not a cutthroat, but a cop on his beat. The cop nodded to him as he passed. “Evening, sir. Everything all right?”
Griffin nodded and felt absurd at his readiness to launch into a fight. He understood that he must call for the police—the right sort of police—in a civilized metropolis. Taking matters into one’s own hands was not the best route.
It would be best to return to his original plan. He knew how to give assignments. From now on, Galvin could handle the Kane problem and keep Araminta from getting hurt. If Galvin and his men didn’t work quickly, Griffin would pay more and get some larger gears moving. Whatever it took.
The damn woman wouldn’t have the sense to run from a burning building if a cat was trapped in it.
He rubbed a hand over his face. Blast the stubborn Araminta and her refusal to leave her job. Devil take it, he might as well be transported back to the days when he spent sleepless nights worrying about Timona—or riding to her rescue. His sister had frequently gone to the aid of some lost soul or another, without a thought to her own safety. From boyhood on, Griffin had often been all that stood between the heedless Timona and her stumbles into danger.
He leaned against a streetlamp and waited for several horses and a carriage to pass before crossing the street. Rather than waste any more of his energy and time with Araminta, he would rid himself of the nagging desire. He knew how to ignore want.
Iron self-discipline had served him in the past. Time to employ it again, for he did not appreciate disruptions of his well-organized life.
The resolution to shrug off his craving for Araminta lasted until the next morning. As he stepped from the hotel, he caught the scent of fresh bread with a hint of cinnamon. Almost Araminta’s scent. It aroused hunger in him, but not for food.
As he walked to his office, he watched the women he passed. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself this sort of weakness. Yet though some of the women were good-looking, he detected faults in them. That one was too sallow. The other one was too thin. The one in red smiled at him, but in a sideways manner, whicemed furtive and annoyingly indirect. It took him a surprisingly long time to figure out that he was finding fault simply because none of them was Araminta.
He paused in front of a jeweler’s shop and saw a string of pearls. At once he pictured them nestled against her skin, at the base of her long neck. On impulse he pushed through the door of the shop.
As he handed over the large wad of cash and shoved the small velvet pouch into his pocket, he wondered how she would respond to the gift. Not by conveniently throwing herself into his arms. More likely she’d throw them at him.
He grinned at the thought. He glanced up to see the jeweler watching him with a knowing smile. Griffin scowled, and the man paled.
Damn it, he was acting like a lovesick schoolboy. If word got around that Griffin Calverson was grinning like a mooncalf, he might risk his reputation as a heartless cad, a reputation that served him well in business, and had the added benefit of keeping much of foolish society away.
Bloody hell. He would give in to Araminta’s lure, and perhaps rid himself of her control over his desires. And the power over his mind, he reflected as he nodded to the doorman of the office building. He’d thought of nothing but her since he’d left the hotel. Silly behavior for a grown man. Especially for Griffin, who did not indulge in silliness. Or, he thought as he fingered the bag of pearls, impulsiveness.
Araminta did not have to do her parade that evening, so she wore her favorite comfortable, faded chintz dress.
With her hair under a cloth and a large white apron across her, she resembled any serving girl, or so she supposed. But a girl came to the kitchen door with a note. “For you, miss,” she said, bobbing a curtsy, and thrust the note at Araminta.
“How do you suppose she knew who I was?” she asked Olivia, who’d accompanied her to the kitchen for a chat over tea.
“Your bearing is too proud to be a regular servant.”
“Ah, that’s right. I’m not a shrew. I have presence,” Araminta said, and they both dissolved into giggles.
Araminta watched Olivia as she laughed. The girl appeared less wan lately; perhaps she was recovering. But at that moment, Olivia suddenly gasped and pressed a hand to her side as if in pain.
“Are you ill?”
Olivia’s lips thinned and she shook her head. Araminta had seen that haunted look before. Olivia must have received another beating. Kane had been on the warpath that week, and she knew Olivia had borne the brunt of it.
“Olivia,” she began softly.
“Aren’t you going to read your note?” Olivia interrupted. “I am better, I assure you.”
Araminta scanned the hot-pressed paper. Another letter from a lady requesting her to come to be interviewed for a job, “offering a generous salary.” Araminta had received several such offers since starting work at Kane’s. She looked over at Olivia, who now stared absently into the teacup she clutched in her slender fingers. No, Araminta would not leave Kane’s until Olivia was safe. The dark circles under the girl’s eyes had faded, but she was not safe in this house.
At the end of the night, Hobnail waited for her by the door. The lapels of his heavy wool coat hung open in the not-so-chilled air, and he tugged the brim of his bowler hat as she walked out the kitchen door. She’d grown accustomed to his ruddy, friendly face and even begun to look forward totheir homeward walks. Somehow, knowing he worked for Griffin almost made her feel as if Griffin’s presence was at her shoulder.
After two blocks of silence she asked, “How long have you worked for Mr. Calverson?”
“Him? I don’t work for him. I work for someone else.”
After asking a few unproductive questions, she grew frustrated with his monosyllabic answers. He must be fairly low down the Calverson ladder and report to an underling of an underling. A vast organization, she thought, a peculiar spiderweb of contacts and bosses that would be hard for an outsider to trace. Rather like Kane’s.
“What would you do if Mr. Kane decided to, ah, harm Mr. Calverson?”
“Grass on ’im, of course. Tell my boss.”
“And if Mr. Calverson went after Mr. Kane?”
“That one?” He made a rude noise. “Hold his hat for him. Or maybe join in. Don’t think he’d go for anything I wouldn’t approve of. Hope not, anyway.”
His loyalties were clear. That was the nice thing about a man like Mr. Hobbes, she reflected; he had no real mystery to him.
For a few moments, as she strolled at his side, she imagined the ideal wife for Hobbes—perhaps some rosy-cheeked woman who’d present him with a gaggle of sturdy children. While Griffin—could she even picture him with his child? Her heart beat faster at the thought.
But no, a gentleman of Calverson’s stature would not be a father, not a real one who played with and loved his children. Perhaps he might do better than his own father, but that was saying little. Sir Kenneth had barely noticed he had offspring unless he needed them for his absurd projects.
When she worked for Timona, Araminta had spent more than enough time with Griffin Calverson’s wretched father, an absent-minded nitwit. Amazing that Griffin and his sister had survived under the care of that one. Perhaps that appalling father had instilled the need for frosty self-control in Griffin. The thought saddened her, especially when she recalled the moments she’d seen his self-control slip for a moment, to reveal a glimpse of the man beneath, like an unexpected swath of tender grass beneath perpetual snow.
Mr. Hobbes interrupted her thoughts. “You have the day off tomorrow? So happens I do, too. Want to go have a look at the bridge? Only a few weeks till it opens.”
To her dismay, she knew she could give only one answer. Any other would not be fair to the man. “No, thank you, Mr. Hobbes.”
“Hobnail.”
She smiled. “Hobnail, then. But still, I’m afraid I must decline.”
As she walked around her house preparing for bed, she felt restless, wishing for things she couldn’t have. She gave herself a stern scolding. Her life was full enough without dreams of a man with green eyes. She did not need kisses that drugged her senses in order to be happy. She would eventually be her own mistress, and she did not need to marry to have enough to live on. Really, she was a lucky, lucky woman.
The next afternoon, she planned a real day off. She would make some dishes for the soup kitchen, perhaps work on sorting recipes, and then attend a concert of rarely performed music. The beauty of Bach’s flute concertos would be more than enough to remind her that the world and her life held real beauty.
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