CHAPTER 14
The next time Griffin woke, he wondered if someone had thrown him into a dark cellar. No, he lay on a floor on top of a blanket.
A familiar voice spoke—a man. “It might be best to leave him lying here.”
“I’d ask the blasted doctor,” a woman answered. Araminta. “But he refuses to come to my house.”
The familiar man said, “I’ll find another one, then.”
Griffin opened his eyes and saw he lay just inside a small parlor, not far from a marble fireplace where a cheery fire had been built.
Araminta’s house; and the man, he realized, was Hobnail.
His side might have been on fire. For a brief instant Griffin wondered if she had somehow enacted revenge for the insult she imagined he’d paid her. And then he recalled. She’d saved him, or thought she had, which was as good.
He felt like hell, but his spirits, which he hadn’t known were downcast, suddenly flew. Good. No, perfect. This was what he’d longed for. Not endless, dull days at sea or traveling through uncomfortable jungles. And not taking up with some other, more acquiescent woman. Another opportunity to wrestle with Araminta, to tease her and watch her smile.
He closed his eyes and wondered if being stabbed could turn a man into a dreadful sentimentalist.
The next time he came to, a gray-haired man was causing excruciating pain by ripping his clothes and fiddling with his side.
“Not so bad.” The man sounded disappointed. “I’ll just need to stitch this one and then wrap him up. The big fellow can haul ndered if roper bed.”
Griffin tried to sit.
“You there, stop him. He’s writhing.”
“No, I’m not. I am attempting to stand up.”
“Wait a few days before you try that kind of trick, Mr. Mouton.”
Mouton?
Griffin peered over his shoulder at the scowling man with beetling black eyebrows. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop moving about.”
Something cold dribbled on his bare skin, and then stinging hit. “Ho! Ouch.”
“That’s the alcohol,” the doctor explained, almost cheerful for the first time. He began stitching. “I like to use plenty.”
“Ruddy doctors,” Griffin mumbled and settled back for the far less painful stitching and bandaging.
After a few minutes, the doctor slapped Griffin’s shoulder. “Fine. Now you can take him to the bed.”
Huge hands grabbed him and Griffin was face to face with Hobnail, who hauled him up and wrapped a beefy arm around him.
“I can walk by myself.”
“Not a problem, sir. Miss Araminta thinks this best. You’re bigger than you look, sir,” Hobnail wheezed, as they started up the stairs.
The doctor and Araminta were in a corner speaking together. Arguing.
“No, the patient will not be moved yet. He stays here,” the doctor pronounced. He pulled out a notebook, scribbled something and handed the sheet of paper to Araminta. “Directions to a good, reliable visiting nurse. If you require more help, call on me again.”
He turned and glared up at Griffin. “Good day, ma’am, Mr. Mouton. Try not to apprehend any more pickpockets, sir.”
Hobnail deposited him on a wide, comfortable bed.
“Just a moment, Hobnail. Explain. Mr. Mouton? Pickpockets?”
“Miss Araminta told that story to the doctor, sir, because she wasn’t sure he’d keep quiet. She’s a suspicious woman now. She worries they’ll come after you here if she gives your real name.”
“My kind of woman,” Griffin muttered.
He thought he heard Hobnail say, “No, sir.”
When he twisted to look at the big man, a wave of pain washed through Griffin’s side. He shut his eyes tight for a moment, and forced away the weakness.
“I’m gonna write up a report on this, sir,” Hobnail said, his pale, mild eyes exceptionally stern.
“Fine, yes. But later, if you don’t mind.”
Hobnail scratched a bristly sideburn and pursed his lips. “I’ll agree to later, sir, if you promise to be forthcoming. What should I do now?”
“Right now I need you to get Williams. Tell him to bring a couple of the boys. I’ll need a few. Some to do some work, and others to keep an eye open around here. He’ll know which. And I’ll need an efficient secretary. Not the one I had today.”
“Anything else?”
“Go back to Kane’s. Keep an eye on Miss Woodhall.”
Hobnail’s heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs. Griffin closed his eyes again and rubbed his palms against his eyelids. Even lifting his arm caused a spasm of pain, but he had no desire to give in and stay still.
A rustle of cloth, a change in the air, meant someone had come in. And he sensed who it was.
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Araminta, I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“Who were those people? They could have killed you. They wanted to.” Her voice was raw with anger.
A sense of warmth stole over him before he could stop himself. Her anger showed that she cared. But really, she’d be indignant if she’d witnessed an attack on a lice-ridden pigeon. The woman championed the downtrodden. Had he ever known anyone so passionate about justice? Warm, strong, real sentiment, not the trite piety so popular these days...
Ha. No doubt about it. He was in danger of becoming a weak and pious fool himself.
Griffin shifted in the bed so he could see up into her face, which was etched with a frown of horror. He wouldn’t hide the truth from her, though. Maybe it would be enough to get her the hell out of the place. “They were Kane’s men. One of them breathed oddly. Perhaps he is your friend Bacon from the basement.”
She stood very still, clutching a tray. Her lips parted and her large eyes widened. “Good Lord. It’s all true, then. I think I feel sick.”
Damn, he hated the fact that he couldn’t stand up and comfort her. “Araminta? No. Don’t worry.”
“I’ll be well in a minute. It is just the thought of that basement. I don’t think I actually believed it. Oh, and what might have happened to you. Oh! To think, when I went to work for him, Kane seemed so genial.”
Griffin attempted to sit up. Pain lanced through him, but it wasn’t unbearable. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
She put the tray on the lace-covered table near his head. “Lie down, would you? As if you’re in any shape to offer protection. Here, I brought you brandy. The doctor said I could give you something for the pain.”
“No. I will not allow myself to be drugged.”
Araminta sat down at the edge of the bed, a glass clutched in her hand. She refused to so much as glance into his face. “For heaven’s sake. It is only brandy. You look dreadful—certainly it must help.”
She hated seeing the powerful Griffin lying ashen and helpless. God knew she must no longer have a notion of him as someone she might love, but she couldn’t help appreciating him as she might any dangerous, sleek and wild animal.
She carefully slid her hand under his head to lift it so he could sip the brandy. The slight contact sent a charge of desire sizzling through her body. Thank goodness she managed to hold back the small sound of longing that rose to her throat.
He still could move her. Why had she imagined that might change? Her body’s craving had grown worse, now she knew what the two of them could do and feel—oh, heavens, what he could do to her. But she’d bite off her tongue before she let him know she pined for him as she touched his soft hair, and the warmth of his skin, to raise him for the brandy.
“Come now, Araminta, I’m capable of lifting my own head.” The chiding interrupted her thoughts. His sleek voice deepened as he continued, “Although the sensation of your hand on my neck soothes me. Cool, gentle fingers. Run them over my forehead. After all, I might be growing feverish.”
With one motion, she put down the glass, yanked away her hand and stood up.
She’d been mistaken—the power of the man was not dimmed. He was like any dangerous animal. Even caught and caged, it would not lose its fierature. “Griffin Calverson, let me make one thing clear. You must stay in my house—”
“For how long?”
“The doctor said if nothing goes wrong, and you do not develop an infection, only a few days. The second, higher wound that could have been very serious is shallow. He feels certain no vital organs were injured, for you don’t show any sign of bleeding inside.”
She couldn’t help glancing at the belly in question. Under the white bandage it lay flat and muscular . . . and oh, dear, he saw where she stared. His eyes glittered.
She frowned at him.
“While you’re here,” she continued, “you will abide by my rules.” She paused to consider what those rules could possibly be, and then ticked them off on her fingers. “No attempts at—at seduction.”
“The thought would never cross my mind.”
She looked over at him, suspicious of that thin tone, but he did not meet her eyes.
She continued, “You will be a patient and behave like one. Nor will you use your lord-of-the-manor behavior to intimidate the girl who cleans and sews for me.”
He smiled at her.
She supposed he must have been weak to forget himself enough to flat-out smile at her. In her presence he’d laughed and he’d occasionally twitched up the corner of his mouth, but she couldn’t recall seeing this glorious transformation. And she at last understood why he disliked his own smile.
The man did have dimples, charming, deep ones. Along with white teeth, and eyes framed by delightful crinkles. He changed into something enchanting, almost angelic. All of the menace drained from his face. Not the visage of a man who wanted to provoke fear.
She stared, and wondered which man was illusory—the one who wore that smile or the one with the customary scowl.
To her disappointment, the smile faded. “I shall not interfere with the running of your household,” he said. “Anything else?”
“I must go to work. And I worry about leaving you here—”
“Someone will fetch help for me.” He studied her for a long moment. “I wonder if we should summon a lady to stay here so that your reputation is not ruined beyond repair.”
His concern for her took her aback. No one since her mother had expressed any such concern for her. She walked to the window and stared down at the cobblestones. “The house is too small. And it is too late to worry about my reputation.”
“My two visits here have caused harm?” He did not sound particularly worried.
“No, it has been almost since I moved in.” She did not want to tell him that she had often had trouble with leering men too eager to start conversations and tight-lipped women who refused to return her greetings.
“Ah, I think I understand. A reputation is so very fragile. You, living in this house alone. A single woman with no man and no visible source of income beyond a day job, with a figure like a slice of heaven, would cause talk and—”
“Yes, yes. Enough!” Araminta exhaled a long breath.
She would not allow herself to be teased into a temper by Griffin. In fact, she reminded herself, his stay would give her a chance to recover from his unwelcome ability to bring out the worst in her. Then again, perhaps not, as a fleeting memory of how he’d turned her into a wanton stirred something deep in her belly.
She strode to the door. “Good day, sir. I hope you are comfortable.”
She refused to turn back.
Maybe the smile put the thought into her mind, or maybe the remark he’d muttered about being too old for larks. Whatever the reason, for the first time it occurred to her that perhaps Griffin was something of a boy. She hoped that seeing him as a mischievous child, instead of a dangerous man, would reduce his appeal. Instead it only added another rather charming layer to him.
CHAPTER 15
Griffin grinned to himself. He had missed rattling Araminta. He had missed her scent, the swish of her skirts when she moved so energetically, her rounded, delightful body and that mouth. Why the devil was the woman so stiff-necked and unreasonable? She ought to take his offer gladly, especially since she’d already been labeled a loose woman and seemed to have survived with her customary strength.
Perhaps he could seduce her again, and this time keep his mouth shut about hiring her as a mistress. But that would be dishonest and leave too many untidy ends—for he knew that one more night with Araminta would not be enough to cure him of his fever for her.
His need for a formal arrangement had more to do with his own peace of mind than hers. Marriage had always struck him as a fool’s idea of happiness—only children believed in Father Christmas and the myth that a married man was happier than a single one.
Since he was not interested in an institution he did not trust, he would not take a woman without recompense, especially a woman outside of his sphere. Or to be honest, a strong woman like her. Without a businesslike agreement in place, she would attempt to take her compensation in other ways—perhaps she would try to control him, or try to delve too far in where no man or woman was welcome.
Griffin had no interest in sharing more than some entertainment—and his body and his wealth. With both of those, he would be delighted to be extremely generous.
Assuming he did not die of some dreadful infection caused by Buckler’s wound. He settled back on the pillow and grimaced at the throbbing in his side.
He looked around the room with approval. Graceful, well-made, carved furniture. Fresh flowers on the washstand, a touch of lace over the bureau, more watercolors on the wall, a thick carpet on the floor. Simple but luxurious. A woman lived in this room, but he did not feel stifled by feminine clutter. She did not have satin cloth edged with fringes or pompons covering every surface.
With a grunt he pulled himself into a sitting position. Sweat poured down his face, but he did not feel faint. He had not lost very much blood. Just a matter of good luck that the knife had not hit some artery or another.
He examined his side, which had been thoroughly and painfully washed. The doctor adhered to the theory that extreme cleanliness helped healing.
Araminta’s room was not large, so the huge, worn leather and metal trunk that lay open in the middle of the floor and took up a great deal of room must surely have been dragged down from an attic. Was she packing or unpacking?
He pulled himself slowly out of the bed. The doctor had ordered him not to move from the bed for at least a few days, but Griffin had been injured before. His dearest friends, who lived in Central America, believed that after an injury one should move as much as one could. His own experiences had borne out that theory.
He ma his slow, painful way to the trunk and saw letters scattered across the top of the clothing and items. For a full minute, Griffin considered leaving the letters alone.
But he wanted Araminta, and she was a formidable adversary. He’d almost rather face a cowardly rat like Kane in some ways. Griffin would use anything he could find to help him in his pursuit. All was fair in this sort of battle, after all.
He did not hold out much hope of the letters being a key to her. She had strewn them in such a careless manner rather than tucking them into a secret corner, all tied up with ribbon or some other private female manner.
Griffin gathered them up. And gave an exclamation of surprise when he saw to whom they were addressed.
Her grandfather?
He’d already found out about the basic facts of Araminta. She was illegitimate. Her mother, Charlotte, was the daughter of the banker Griffin had met. Charlotte had been sent to the country when the baby was born, and had never returned to London. Griffin knew that Araminta’s grandfather had pretended the child did not exist.
And the old man had never again mentioned his daughter.
Yet Woodhall hadn’t been able to destroy the rumors that circled London and that Griffin easily uncovered years later.
The story went that Araminta’s father was a family servant, a butler who died mysteriously. Murdered, they said, by an intruder.
The first letter hinted that the murderer lived much closer to home.
Sitting on the carpet, wearing only his bloodstained trousers, Griffin read the letter and forgot about the pain, forgot about being stabbed.
Only the thump of the front door brought him back. He clutched the pile of letters. After he found a few others in the trunk, he carried his stash and placed them on the table next to the brandy, and then slowly and carefully pulled himself back under the covers on Araminta’s bed.
A minute later, several people burst into the room talking at once. A strange collection of businessmen and a rougher class of men crowded in, and stood in astonishment at the foot of the bed.
“Boss!”
“Sir, when I heard what happened—”
“Mr. Calverson—”
“Quiet.” He raised a hand, but not his voice. They fell silent at once. “Gentlemen, I am not in the best of moods at the moment. And we have business to attend to.”
He sent Williams’s secretary off to arrange work to be sent to him. Then he turned to the three men who worked for Galvin, and described the tall man and the short man who’d assaulted him.
He finished with, “I don’t think we need to start some sort of war here, so merely send a message to Kane and his employees rather than conduct a battle, hmmm? And we will leave Hobnail out of these plans.”
Griffin considered what else they might do. Kane would know who sent the message, but once Griffin got Araminta out of there it would be time to show that Calverson could not be intimidated. He’d already tried to ignore the man and then attempted to jolly the idiot along. Neither had worked.
And if his guess about the Smith girl proved correct, he’d manage to thwart some of Kane’s plans and gain a useful ally.
A half-hour after the other men had been sent on their way to track down Griffin’s attackers, Galvin burst into the room, dressed in an impeccable black suit. His usual battered homburg had been replaced with a silk top hat. He must have been working at one of Kane’s better establishments.
“Damn it, sir!” Galvin shouted. “Why the hell did you do a fool thing like that? Didn’t you give me hell about traps early on? What’s happening to you? You just about deserve to get killed.”
“Galvin, no need to get sentimental. I imagine I’ll survive.”
Galvin pulled the chair from the small escritoire and plopped down by the bed. He threw the hat on the floor next to him. “What about Buckler?” he growled.
“He’s off my payroll at the very least.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“No need for my sake,” Griffin assured him.
Galvin stared at him. “You
are
getting soft.”
Griffin would have shrugged, but he suspected it would be painful. “Rumors.”
“Humph,” Galvin grunted. “Buckler’s my problem, sir. I hired him.”
Griffin sighed. “He did very little damage and nearly wet himself with fear. I’m going to throw him to Hobnail—that should be enough. If you want worse, maybe turn him loose with some damage, if you absolutely must, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. He won’t be a threat in the future.”
Galvin spat his disgust. Griffin considered telling him to clean up Araminta’s floor, but the poor man was so disappointed.
“And Kane?” Galvin sounded hopeful.
“Ah. Well, first I’ll ruin his latest scheme, I think, and then we’ll stick to the plan and close him down. Is that bad enough?”
“Kane’s a big moneymaker for Tammany—you’ll have to pay a lot. Easier to just give the man a shiv in the gut. It’s what he intended for you.”
“I have no intention of letting that menace Kane off that easily, and we’ll let the man’s deeds do the job for him. Murder him? After all the work your boys and Hobnail have done? No, no. I want to go the more complicated route. Get as much dirt as we can.”
Now that he knew Araminta would be kept safe, he’d make sure clearing up Kane would take at least a couple of weeks—time that he’d spend with Araminta. Without the injury in his side to bother him. Perhaps that would cure his obsession with the woman.
Then maybe he’d be able to concentrate on the more important matters: finishing up the sale of his father’s land in England, researching a possible investment in a new steel plant near Pittsburgh. There were the less important matters as well—avoiding invitations from new and old members of New York society, and ignoring his aunt’s long-distance attempts to marry him off to some heiress or titled female.
All part of his routine.
Left alone at last, he pulled out Araminta’s letters and glanced down at them. Her bold voice rang out in each word. He found himself smiling down at the small sheets of paper.
The first one was written when Araminta was sixteen. The date at the top showed it less than a month after her mother had died. He read it again.
You were foolish to banish my mother. You did not know me, of course, so I was no great loss. But you knew her well. How would anyone who knew darling Charlotte reject her? Why couldn’t you forgive her for your own sake, you nonsensical, pig-headed creature?
Griffin riffled through the piles of papers. Were they all filled with Araminta at her most indignant? This was positively poisonous. “You have my sympathy, old man,” he muttered to her grandfather, and then continued to read the letter.
I take up my pen to write because I wish to punish you for her sake. Charlotte never spoke badly of you, though she did not withhold the facts of what you did to her and my father. She spent her life in mourning because of you.
She mourned for your soul. Most of all, she mourned for my father, a good, kind man worth a thousand of you.
But she was not bitter and she did not hate you.
Gentle Charlotte, you old fool, was too good for you. And too good for me, for that matter. For here is the real meat of the matter: my mother often told me that I am quite like you. She meant it as a compliment. Indeed, she said more than once that I have a temperament similar to yours.
This is my vengeance then: a colored woman shares your blood. And your loud laugh, your taste for spicy foods apparently, and your foul temper.
I will write again, to remind you that I exist. Did you know that your daughter wished for a reconciliation with you? She said it was your choice to write or no. You didn’t do your duty, so I will write again, and again.
Sincerely,
Your granddaughter
Griffin read through the little pile of papers. Apparently she had more than lived up to her promise to keep writing to him.
She wrote letters about her childhood—an apparently happy time until she understood how her darker skin kept her apart. She wrote of her mother’s dreams for her, and her own dreams. She wrote of the two other people who accepted and loved her, both cooks.
One she described as “a round, happy woman who took care of my mother and me.”
The other was a chef, her teacher from France who, according to Araminta’s letter, “had a way with sugar, flour and eggs that no one could hope to imitate.”
Griffin reread the missives that mentioned the chef. He wondered if Woodhall had also seen between the lines and figured out the chef was Araminta’s lover. The mentions of the French chef ended abruptly.
Over the years, the letters changed. She grew away from bitterness and melodrama. Eventually she wrote the kind of letters any grandchild would write to her family.
She wrote about the weather and about her successes and failures, usually in the kitchen.
Griffin finished reading the last small sheet of paper and released a long breath. He frowned and flipped back to look at one dated 1880. Hadn’t Woodhall died around 1878? And yet she kept writing to him, telling her dead grandfather about her life.
And where were the man’s answers to the earlier letters? He shuffled through the pile and even eased himself out of bed to look through the trunk on the floor.
There were none.
Yet Woodhall must have answered in his own way.