A quiet bell chimed through the apartment. Griffin slowly rose to his feet. Araminta refused to feel guilty for his winces of pain.
“Dinner.” He held out an arm to each woman. “Shall we?”
As always, Elizabeth toyed with her food. Araminta, who loved eating food other people had cooked, enjoyed the meal, although she thought the meat a trifle overcooked and the sauce for the fish contained too much salt.
Griffin drank some wine and stared at Elizabeth. “Not nearlas delicious as Miss Woodhall’s cooking, is it?”
Elizabeth murmured something about the wonderful food.
The clink of silver against china was the only sound for several minutes. Araminta reflected that she was in a pitiful state, for, when she didn’t take care, her attention wandered to Griffin. She found herself fascinated by every small gesture, or the way his skillful fingers loosely grasped his silverware or lifted his wineglass.
Griffin met her gaze, and the hunger in his eyes caused her stomach to do the strange flip she so often experienced these days. He turned away from her and focused his attention on Elizabeth. “Have you considered what you will tell your father, Miss Burritt?”
Elizabeth’s fork clattered to the plate.
“I should imagine the truth will suffice,” Araminta said warningly. “Miss Burritt felt that she protected her parents, you see.”
The corner of Griffin’s mouth quirked and he had the devil in his eyes as he gazed at her. “Yes, I understood that.”
Elizabeth looked politely interested, but Araminta gasped with dismay. She knew what his words meant.
He’d listened to her conversation with Elizabeth. Probably stood with his ear pressed to the door.
He carved a piece from his slice of duck. “I think that might work. What would you like to say about your rescue—I mean for public consumption?”
Araminta’s consternation was replaced by another, perhaps even more unpleasant apprehension. She’d overheard conversations like this before, when she traveled with Timona. “Why would anyone need to say anything about the rescue?”
His eyebrows rose. “A story of some sort will come out. I’m afraid that the best thing we can do is make sure that it is the version we want.”
“Oh, no,” Araminta groaned.
Elizabeth leaned toward her, worried. “Oh, dear, what’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?”
“No, it’s something worse than illness. The press. He’s going to feed a story to the newspapers.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth. “No,” she squeaked faintly. “How could you?”
“Relax, ladies.” No doubt about it. Griffin was enjoying himself. “We’ll come up with something wholesome. Nothing about sordid drug use.”
Elizabeth moaned softly. “How horrible it all is.”
“Beastly.” Griffin directed a long, blank-faced stare at Araminta as he spoke the same word she had used. She had to dive for her napkin and press it against her mouth to choke back the sudden laughter. Not only had he eavesdropped, he had no shame about it.
Griffin showed no outward emotion, but Araminta knew him well enough now to discern the glint of enjoyment in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not ill?” he asked her, all touching concern.
She put down the napkin, but refused to meet his gaze. “Quite sure.”
Odd. She had expected to feel mortification and sorrow following their illicit tryst and her sudden understanding of her heart. She had been certain it would be torture to be near him. Instead he provoked her into laughter.
“I think we should consider our story—” he began, but Annie appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Tothman has arrived.”
Araminta shut her eyes tight. It needed only this. Would the day never end? Soy Tothman, the overenergetic reporter, bounded into the room. Araminta knew the gangling, wiry-haired man appeared harmless, but he would peck at them all until he got a story that would sell the most papers.
“Hello, Solly,” she said, as the reporter, all elbows and knees, plunked onto a chair next to her. “Has Mr. Calverson decided to employ you to dupe the public?”
“Sure has. At least I hope so!” He waggled his fingers at Annie. “Hey, you! A plate, please?” He might have been summoning a waiter in a busy tavern.
He beamed at Araminta. “How have you been, love of my life?”
Apparently Annie did not bring his plate quickly enough.
He reached across Araminta and grabbed a bread roll from the bowl and a chicken leg from the platter at the center of the table.
“Gad! How I have missed your cooking!” he said through a mouthful.
“You’re still missing it,” she muttered, slightly nettled that he didn’t recognize the food wasn’t as good as a dinner she’d prepare. Solly’s saving grace was that he appreciated good food. Though perhaps he would wolf down any food at all.
Griffin turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Burritt, this is Solly Tothman. He will help us by writing an article about you.”
Solly bounced up from his chair and held out a hand to Elizabeth. He was a ferret, Araminta decided. Long, lean and excitable to the point where he could not hold still. Even at rest, he sniffed at people. Perhaps considering them for his next meal.
His bright, beady eyes peered at Elizabeth as he spoke. “Came the moment I was needed. Always ready to be of service to the Calversons. And to you, of course. Pleased! Very pleased! Miss Elizabeth Burritt, am I right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Been some speculation about you lately.” Solly goggled at her with a wide smile that grew sharper and hungrier as he scrutinized Elizabeth. He didn’t let go of her hand. “A breathtaking young lady like you—stands to reason you’ll bring attention to yourself simply by being the rose of perfection—”
Griffin reached over and tapped Solly’s wrist with a butter knife. “Stick to business, Tothman.”
“Yes! Right you are, boss!”
Solly pulled a notepad and the stub of a pencil from his jacket pocket and threw himself onto his chair.
Griffin put down his silverware and leaned back in the chair. “What do you think, Miss Burritt? I think perhaps we’d do best with a severe attack of diphtheria that left you weakened. And several months at a sanitorium in New England.”
“No,” protested Solly. “Dull! Far too pedestrian!”
“Spice it up with a description of her brush with death. Just make it convincing. Very convincing.” Griffin continued to aim a long, thoughtful stare at Elizabeth. “We don’t want any of your friends recalling visits to any unfortunate houses to detract from the story. Those rumors must be made to seem impossible, or at least outrageous.”
She made a small choking noise. Had the damnable Griffin reduced her to tears? No, Elizabeth recovered herself.
She nodded.
Solly, flipping to a fresh page, apparently didn’t notice Miss Burritt’s embarrassment. “What about you, Calverson? What part do you play in all this?”
“None,” Griffin said firmly.
“And Aramint So you’ve taken to eating with your employers?”
She glared at Solly. “I am acting as chaperone for Miss Burritt.”
“Not cooking here, then? Where are you working these days?”
“Nowhere.” She and Griffin answered simultaneously.
Solly’s thin lips curled into a disgusted smirk. “You better give me a nice sum for this story, Calverson. Mysterious houses and all. I’ve heard the rumors, and I know I’m getting fobbed off with some second-rate ho-hum trash.” He stared at his notebook glumly. “At the very least you might come up with something more creative.”
“Tothman, you will get your nice sum. And you will write the story as we have presented it.”
Solly raised both hands in the air. “I surrender.”
They ironed out a few details. Solly even suggested he leave at once to find a sanitorium to fit the story. “I think I know the perfect one. It’s small, so you won’t have to pay many bribes. I’ll do the interviews tomorrow.” He slapped his forehead with his small notebook. “Oh, I’ve come down so far in the world,” he moaned. “To think that I managed to present some of the biggest stories ever to grace the pages of—”
“Enough, Tothman.”
Solly left with a parcel of food and quite a lot of cash for the trip north.
Griffin inspected Elizabeth. “That was not so dreadful, was it, Miss Burritt?”
She still stared down at her almost untouched dinner. “No. I suppose not. When will I see my father?”
“I think we might have to wait until tomorrow.”
After a few minutes, Elizabeth excused herself and went to her room.
Araminta pushed back her chair. “I think Elizabeth expected to see her father, not Solly Tothman.”
Griffin gave a small shrug. “I don’t know what’s keeping the man. If he shows up tonight then it will be a pleasant surprise for the girl. If he doesn’t then I’ll wait for regular working hours to send someone to drag him over here.”
CHAPTER 20
Griffin thought
dinner would never end. Miss Burritt was a poor conversationalist, and Araminta too subdued in her friend’s presence. When at last the china was removed from the table and Elizabeth had abandoned them for the sanctuary of her rooms, he did not hesitate to stand and hold out his hand to Araminta.
“Thank you,” Griffin said in a low voice. “For this afternoon.”
He’d been about to say something else to Araminta. She raised her exotic dark eyes to his, her succulent complexion flattered by the peach and gold gown that bared her slender neck. Griffin curled his fingers around hers.
Come with me,
he wanted to say.
To hell with it all, let’s go to bed and stay there until they pry us out.
He wanted to sweep the table clear of dishes and make love on the polished mahogany. Later they could crawl onto the couch in the sitting room. And after that, they would experiment in each of the bedrooms. Long, slow sessions. Furtive, quick ones in the parlor. Araminta in a froth of silk petticoats, wearing nothing but her own fine café-au-lait skin, or also in nothing but her thin chemise with the delicate embroidery.
He kept his fantasies to himself. They needed a plan. An arrangement. Hecould not fall into unbridled sex without something to guarantee her well-being once their time together was over. He would not look back on any time with Araminta with regret or fear that he’d hurt her.
And if she were the one to end it? The thought made him swallow hard. What if she were to refuse, again?
Ah, well, he’d always appreciated a challenge.
And perhaps he could remind her of her own words to Miss Burritt—that hiding from the world because of a sense of shame was a crime against life.
Candlelight glowed on the rise and fall of the lace bodice covering her full breasts as she drew a deep breath and rose from her chair. “I am quite tired, so perhaps I’ll follow Elizabeth’s example.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. Better that than grab her. He reminded himself he would act the part of a gentleman and woo her, despite the test on his patience. “No. Don’t go yet. Come have coffee with me.”
She didn’t move, and an almost imperceptible pursing of her lush lips betrayed her uncertainty. What inner battle did she wage? he wondered. They wanted each other. Why wasn’t that enough? At last, to his relief, she nodded.
He led her to the sitting room, dark and cozy at night, gracious and wide open during the day. The gaslights were off, though several branches of candles glowed on the mantel and a side table.
“Timona told me that the suite’s furnishings belong to the company. Who chose them?”
“I selected much of it several years ago.”
“Why do you stay in this hotel?” she asked as she arranged her silk skirts and lowered herself into a chair by the window. “Why not rent or buy a house?”
“I don’t like being surrounded by servants.”
“Ah, your father doesn’t like that, either.”
“Yes, and both of us like to feel as if we can walk out the door at any time.”
She plainly interpreted his meaning as some sinister warning. Her shoulders went back and her chin lifted. Perfect posture. “You restless Calversons. Do you suppose you will ever put down roots in one place? Don’t you long for the comfort of a real home?”
He shrugged and sat down on the sofa. This was not the sort of conversation he relished—about himself, at any rate. “Perhaps someday. Since we are speaking of comfort, a sofa is a more pleasant place to settle than a chair, don’t you think?” He patted the cushioned seat next to him.
“I am fine, thank you.” Then tension melted from her features and proud shoulders. She grinned at him and shook her head. “You are a rogue, you know.”
“And why do you say that?”
“You listened to my conversation with Elizabeth.”
“You were in the parlor, a public area. And your voice carries, Araminta.”
Her eyes went wide with alarm. She even peered around the room as if listeners lurked in the corners.
“Don’t worry. I am the only one who heard you. And I think I’m the only one who paid attention.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your little friend is too wrapped up in her own misery to hear yours.”
“I am not miserable,” she said, and her back went straight. No doubt her mother had taught her that ladies sat with perfect posture. “But you will admit that the circumstances of my birth were satdeal.”
“I’m mistaken. And you are correct—you do not wallow in misfortune. You turn it to your advantage.”
Her shoulders remained stiff, but her lashes dropped over her expressive eyes. “I resorted to blackmail.”
He should have known her strict moral code would create twinges of conscience. What a deuced nuisance that code of hers was. He had dearly wished she’d given the self-righteous Elizabeth Burritt a dressing down, but apparently Araminta agreed with Elizabeth’s view of the situation. Or perhaps she reserved her best work for Griffin alone.
She sat, head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap, and he wanted to gather her into his arms. Instead he gruffly told her, “Nothing more than the old man deserved. But tell me, what about the other time you met him?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you met him twice. And described only the one meeting. Oh, and was that before or after you wrote the letter in which you called him a ridiculous old fool?”
Her chin went higher and her back straighter, if such a thing was possible. “I do not know why this interests you.”
“Your past interests me,” he admitted. “It positively fascinates me. No, don’t glare. I am not being ironic. Please. Tell me.”
She continued to frown at him, but answered, “I think I wrote the letter first. I really cannot recall any longer. I have glanced at them, but I’ve never reread the letters.”
“You should. They will show you a remarkable woman.” He stopped and wondered at his own warmth. He did not know if she heard it in his words, but he’d sensed it—a heaviness, a thick ache in his lungs.
“The last meeting?” he reminded her.
“He was dying, but I did not know it at the time. I was in a foul mood, but I’d come despite the fact I did not want to. All I learned from the letter his lawyer sent was that he’d grown ill and for the first time had summoned me.”
“But surely after all of your letters, didn’t you want to meet him again?”
“I had written hundreds of thousands of words to him. At that moment I thought that was more attention than he deserved.”
“Hundreds of thousands of words?”
“I destroyed most of the letters.”
Griffin wished she hadn’t. “But you went, anyway.”
“Yes. For my mother’s sake, I went.”
“Tell me more.”
She played with a length of her skirt, rubbing it between her fingers. “What else is there to tell?”
He pulled his attention away from the hypnotic play of her hands. “All of it. Was the house crowded? Woodhall was a well-known man in his day.”
“They must have shooed off the well-wishers. I was the only visitor.” She was silent a moment, as if summoning up the picture from her past. “He was even paler than I’d remembered him, almost invisible against the white sheets of his bed.
“That’s when it occurred to me at last that he was dying. I almost fell over in surprise. For some reason I thought him immortal.”
“Could he still speak? Did he know you?”
“Oh, yes, he knew me, and he didn’t waste any time with maudlin greetings. I think the first words he spoke were, ‘I do not acknowledge you still because it is bad for business.’ ”
She fell silent again and brushed the wrinkles she’d created on her skirt.
Griffin couldn’t imagine she’d remained silent that day with her grandfather. “What did you say to that?”
“I had no interest in arguing with an old idiot who was on his deathbed. So I just nodded. But that’s when he thoroughly infuriated me.
“He said, ‘Araminta, I want you to know you are my granddaughter. I know it. You are truly my granddaughter. ’ ”
Griffin believed he understood. “Ah. And you were annoyed because he acted as if he conferred some wonderful present.”
She nodded. “Precisely. I knew he thought I’d crow with delight at his private acknowledgment. Oh, I boiled with rage, and was on the verge of telling him to enjoy his trip to hell, when I recalled my mother, and I knew that she would say it was more than enough.”
Griffin wanted to stroke away her sorrow, make her forget the inadequate fool of a grandfather from her past. He’d replace that despondent look with one of delightful eagerness. But he sensed she wouldn’t welcome his touch at that moment, so he made a stab at humor. “Poor Araminta. You never got to tell Woodhall off in person.”
Apparently still lost in the memory, she stared into a candle flame on the table near her, and didn’t smile at his dig. “I held my breath against the stench of the room and his breath. I leaned over and kissed his forehead.”
She shook her head. “Ha, I even told him that I loved him, though I wasn’t sure if that bit of news pleased either of us.
“His mouth twisted into a terrible grimace. I thought he was having a seizure of some sort, until I realized it was a smile.
“About then, a manservant came in, and I excused myself. That was that. He died that evening.”
Griffin wondered if he could have forgiven the old villain. Not likely. He cleared his throat of a strange lump that had formed. “And he left you money.”
She looked up at him again, the candle flame reflected in her huge, liquid eyes. “Yes. He left the money in a trust, a very quiet one, administered by lawyers he had never before used. Fifty thousand pounds, all mine.”
Griffin had known about the trust, of course, but hadn’t understood she had so much money. “Why on earth did you go back to work?”
“Several reasons. I discovered I dislike using his money.”
Of course she’d be moralistic about it. Griffin waved a hand impatiently. “Ridiculous. Money is money.”
“You heard what I told Elizabeth. It was tainted money, used to keep my poor mother in place. She was confined to one little cottage by those pounds of his. No, I don’t want his horrible money. In fact,” she said, and the mischief he cherished returned to her voice, “I plan to leave most of his trust to establish a home for unwed mothers.”
He laughed. “Using his name, I hope?”
“Of course.” She grinned at him. “But that was not my only reason. I tried to be a lady of leisure, but it did not suit me. I grew too restless and cooked huge meals that only I ate and found that I was still writing letters to my grandfather though he was dead. One day I woke at noon, and knew I had to find something to do with myself.”
Any woman of his social circle would have considered it a fine ambition to lead a life of leisure. “During the Season, my aunt rarely rises before noon.”
“No. And I’m not surprised to hear that you don’t thrive in indolence.”
“I like to cook for multitudes. Chopping up two potatoes seems useless. A twenty-five-pound sack, now that’s worth rolling up your sleeves to tackle.”
He remembered the sight of her at work in her kitchen and nodded his understanding.
The candlelight picked out a red glow in the dark curls that escaped the bun at the back of her head. No matter how carefully she pinned up her hair, the curls always slipped their bonds. Just like the woman. No matter how polite and calm the surface, a wild, impulsive creature lay beneath.
She was watching him. “I know that you enjoy working with your hands. Do you miss the active life you led on your father’s expeditions?”
“We were talking of you.”
“I’m tired of the subject.”
“Ah, but I am not, and as host I declare the right to steer the conversation.”
“My life has been extremely dull, Griffin. Especially compared to yours.”
“I don’t find anything about you dull.” The words came out unbidden, too passionate.
She frowned at him. “Now you sound like the young bucks who’d corner pretty girls at the countess’s dances.”
“I do, don’t I,” he said, relieved that she did not take him seriously. “How do you know what the young bucks say? Did you attend those dances?”
“Good heavens, no. The footmen would recount the best of the parties afterward. They overheard the most absurd conversations. William, my favorite, could mimic any accent and voice. Of course he’d only do that when Blackwell the butler wasn’t around. Or when he thought I wasn’t listening.”
For the first time since their meeting at the concert, Griffin saw clearly how Araminta had never quite fit in any of the worlds she’d occupied. Too well-off and well educated to be a servant, yet not accepted as a member of society.