Araminta noticed that his eyes gleamed as if he were about to divulge the last line of a wonderful joke.
“No, but Officer Hobbes will be happy to testify that they were,” said Griffin. “And so will Gregory Galvin, a man of many trades, including private detection.”
One of Kane’s men in the corner groaned and buried his face in his hands.
Araminta couldn’t believe her ears. “Officer Hobbes?” she gasped.
“Hobnail,” Hobbes reminded her, his blue eyes surprisingly gentle in his battered, bloody face.
Griffin still stood propped against the chopping table, calm as always, hardly a seam askew or a golden brown hair out of place. If she hadn’t just witnessed his involvement in the imbroglio, she would have thought he’d come in from a stroll in the park. Araminta demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He gazed at her, and then at Hobnail, his face devoid of expression. “It was up to Hobnail to decide whether or not he’d tell you.”
She turned to Hobnail. No, Officer Hobbes, her burly protector. “What kind of officer are you?”
“New York City Police Department,” he said. “I’m a fly cop, or plainclothes officer.”
“No uniform,” she said. Of course. No wonder he’d been so sharp-eyed on their walks.
Hobnail swiped at his nose and nodded. “Sorry I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know if you’d be mad.”
“Mad? I don’t think that—”
Griffin interrupted. “Might we have this discussion later? I am still busy threatening Mr. Kane.”
Araminta’s eyes narrowed, bu she fell silent.
Kane growled. “Yah, well, it won’t work. I got friends in high places—”
“Yes, but you also have enemies in high places. You made those enemies on your own, you know. Murder is frowned upon. And gambling is a crime, of course. However, cheating is an offense that your most important customers, those important friends of yours, will never forgive. And you were insane to mess with Elizabeth Burritt.”
Kane started to climb to his feet, but Griffin straightened, and Kane sat back down on the floor again, hard. He glowered up at Griffin. “Ho! You stole her from me.”
“Of course I did. And Senator Burritt was extremely grateful to me for my rescue of his darling daughter.”
“He wouldn’t dare move against me. I’ll tell the world the truth about the girl.”
Araminta wondered if Hobnail would arrest her if she brought the skillet down on Kane’s head again.
Griffin didn’t seem particularly disturbed, however. She could swear she still saw the light of amusement in his eyes.
He drawled, “You’d tell the world that you lured an innocent young girl into drug addiction and then used her as your mistress? No. I don’t think you want to do that. Oh, and at any rate it would be your word against those of the Dr. Haynes Sanitorium about where the girl spent the last few months. I doubt the maids who observed her here would qualify as reliable witnesses.”
Kane stared up at Griffin, but when he spoke, the aggressive cockiness had vanished. “I cared about Olivia. I wanted to marry the girl. I took good care of her.”
His blood-streaked face twisted as he fought tears, and Araminta was appalled to realize he thought it was true.
Within minutes, it felt as if every square inch of the room had filled with men. Calverson types, Araminta saw by the way they deferred to Griffin, and a couple of policemen who seemed to treat Hobnail with marked respect. She was soothing a confused Alice, who’d just returned from her half-day off, when someone tapped her arm.
The man called Galvin jerked his head in Griffin’s direction. “He says you gotta leave as soon as possible. More police are on their way.”
“Alice, you go home to your mother’s,” she said.
Galvin shoved his hands into his baggy trousers’ pockets. “Ready?”
Araminta frowned at him. “I will speak to the police first, and—”
“Later. Maybe.” Galvin ignored her protests and led her to the kitchen door.
But before they were through it, Griffin strode over and blocked her path. His face was twisted into a scowl of undisguised rage. He seized her shoulders. “What in bloody hell were you thinking? Why did you come here?” he bellowed.
All around the kitchen activity stopped. Griffin Calverson actually shouted?
Araminta ignored the stares in their direction and refused to raise her gaze from his precisely tied white cravat. “I wanted to get my equipment.”
Griffin’s voice dropped closer to his usual volume, though not his usual controlled, unemotional quality. “Didn’t you listen when I told you about Kane? Why didn’t you ask me or Hobnail for help? You knew when you left the same day as Miss Burritt he’d suspect you in her disappearance. And I made it clear he was not at all happy to lose her. Why did you come back? Are you a fool, Araminta?”
She reflected how oothing liar it was that when others raged, she could more easily control her temper. “Perhaps. But if I am, it is none of your concern, Griffin. I am grateful for your help, but I’m a grown woman. If I make mistakes they are my problem alone.”
She was not so unaffected after all, for her head spun and her hands trembled as she turned and walked out the door.
Hobnail had said he’d take a statement from her at home, so she would go straight there. Halfway down the path, she stopped and turned to Mr. Galvin. “But my things.” A rush of dizziness overcame her and she gave a dry sob. “I had them in a bag. And Maggie. I worry about her. I should never have left just because Mr. Calverson told me to.”
Galvin fingered his untidy gray mustache and gave an impatient grunt and trotted back to the kitchen. He came out bearing the sack and accompanied by the still-sniffling Maggie.
Galvin said, “Miss Maggie here says she’s fine but she was worried about you. Maybe she ought to stay with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Araminta started to put an arm around Maggie, but the girl flinched. Kane’s hit probably still stung.
She took Maggie’s hand and squeezed it instead. “You come home with me and we’ll have a cup of tea.”
The tension at the corners of Maggie’s cinnamon-brown eyes eased, and a ghost of a smile brushed her lips. She wasn’t British, but Araminta had managed to teach her about the healing properties of having a hot cup of something when crises struck.
Galvin hustled them to a carriage next to the building. Already several policemen had appeared out front, and a crowd of interested gawkers gathered at the iron fence at the front of the mansion.
Galvin helped Araminta and Maggie climb onto the gig’s bench. He unhitched the horse, clambered up next to Araminta and picked up the reins.
The streets were not horribly congested, and he managed to steer them into the stream of traffic after only a minute of waiting.
Araminta watched the scarred, gray-haired old man for a moment. “Mr. Galvin, you know Kane. Is he as dangerous as Mr. Calverson said?”
Galvin grunted, and she realized he chuckled. “Worse. Calverson underestimated the scum and his connections. He’s not in jail yet neither. Kane’s got one of the best lawyers in New York. He’ll likely get off, unless Calverson pays out some more. Which I’ll bet he’s willing to do.”
He hauled back at the reins to avoid hitting a pushcart vendor who’d steered a rattling cart into the street. “Never seen him get so riled up,” he said thoughtfully. “Calverson, I mean.”
His sharp, bright eyes gave Araminta a speculative examination that made her feel as if he were boring through her brain.
“I’ve known Calverson for a dozen or so years,” Galvin continued. “He’s a cold son of a . . . gun on occasion. But usually when he is, someone’s messed with a person or thing he cares about. Like Timona.”
Araminta nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“You would. You were out in Minnesota, weren’t you, when she got married?” He twisted the end of his grizzled mustache and eyed her for another moment before turning his attention back to traffic. “Calverson didn’t mind that marriage as much as we all thought he would. In fact, he didn’t mind it at all. He said he reckoned the McCanns were a good match. Said that someone he trusted told him they were a perfect pair and would be more’n comfortable together.”
She had used those exact phrases, the day she thought he had ignored her every word.
She smiled, warmed by his words and the memory of the McCanns. “They are happy. Very happy.”
She turned away from the gray-haired man’s careful scrutiny of her, and pretended to watch an organ grinder on a street corner. Griffin had trusted her even then? She did not like how happy Mr. Galvin’s words made her.
At her house, she bid good-bye to Mr. Galvin and settled Maggie into the back bedroom. The girl was apparently so excited about the prospect of being Araminta’s guest she was down the stairs at once and helping put away her cooking tools.
Araminta had planned to feel sorry for herself, and nurse her broken heart, but she could only be grateful for Maggie’s presence.
“I’m sorry you lost your job,” Araminta said as she cleaned and dried the knives she’d retrieved from Kane’s house. “Kane paid better than I’ll be able to at first. And I’m not sure where I shall open my restaurant.”
Maggie, sitting at the kitchen table, looked up at her and grinned. “Learning to cook from you, miss, is worth a cut in my pay or even leaving New York. Besides, I’m on my own now. My sister’s married and don’t need me any longer. But tell me what you’ll serve, miss. And do you think we—I mean you—will be able to get Alice, too? She’s a biddable girl. Oh, are these your recipes? Might I take a look?”
Her eagerness didn’t entirely spark Araminta’s enthusiasm for her old dreams. But it kept her from wailing in misery, which, as Griffin would say, would have been a useless exercise. Griffin. Oh bother. For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Araminta chewed on her bottom lip to stop the tears.
Maggie stayed only one night. She declared that she wanted to gather her few belongings from her bedroom at Kane’s and go stay with her sister in Brooklyn.
Araminta hugged her. “I shall come find you the moment I can.”
An hour after Maggie left, someone rapped on the door. Araminta assumed Hobnail had come to take her report of Kane.
Griffin stood at her doorstep splendid in a snowy cravat, silk top hat and bored expression.
CHAPTER 24
Her heart pounding, Araminta considered not opening the do
or at all. She did, of course, but instead of inviting Griffin to enter, she stepped into the doorway. “I’m still not up for company.”
If he managed to get into her house, only a miracle would keep her out of his arms. A miracle or, more unlikely, a Griffin Calverson who was too upstanding and noble to try to seduce her again.
He was dressed in tan trousers and a blue morning coat. Griffin never wore the skintight trousers or ridiculous jackets with long tails of the fashionable young men called dudes. But his air seemed more dashing than usual.
He swept off his silk top hat and ran a gloved hand over his glinting hair. A small line of concern appeared between his eyes as he examined her. Everywhere his gaze touched, a wave of heat rose. Heavens, he wouldn’t need to seduce her. She’d jump on him.
He replaced his hat at a slightly jaunty angle, and leaned against the doorjamb so she wouldn’t be able to close the door without giving him a firm shove. “I am sorry to hear that. Were you injured?”
She shook her head.
“I sent along that girl to keep you company; where is she?”
“Maggie? She left.”
His body shifted ever so slightly closer. “So you’re alone?”
She closed the door a few inches, blocking him. “Yes.”
Instead of appearing pleased, his face darkened. “I worry that you might not feel well enough to stay alone.”
She was about to protest that there was nothing wrong with her when she recalled that she was using her weakness as an excuse to not invite him in.
He searched her face. “Araminta, I am sorry if I offended you by berating you yesterday.”
She gave him a brief, wan smile. “No, you were right. I was entirely stupid to go there. And I thank you for your concern.”
He stepped up, onto the last marble stair, too close to her again. Oh God, she caught the scent of him, warm Griffin. More mouthwatering than fresh bread. She clenched her hands together.
“Then tell me, what is the matter? You won’t look at me. You are acting so very . . .”
She waited.
“Very polite,” he finished.
She couldn’t help tilting her head back. “And that is so unusual?”
“There we go!” he said happily. “I knew you were in there somewhere, Araminta.”
When she began to open her mouth to explain, she saw the warmth in his eyes, the painfully magnificent green eyes glowing for her.
He would leave when she explained that she could not be his mistress, and perhaps she could get on with planning her life. But with him next to her, she could not say good-bye, stupid woman. She lied instead. “I think I am still feeling the effects of that dreadful scene in the kitchen.”
“Well, then,” he said briskly and pulled out an impressive sheet of parchment from his waistcoat. “Let me help you take your mind off of it, shall I? I have a specific reason for my visit.”
For physical relief?
she almost asked.
Because you find you want someone under you in your bed again?
He did not deserve the sharp edge of her tongue. He’d never lied.
So she only nodded.
He waved the paper.
“I have an invitation from the trustees of the New York and Brooklyn Bridge to attend the opening ceremony of the Great East River Bridge.” He read from the paper and then pulled out his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock now. The official festivities commence at two o’clock. But let’s wait until the speeches are over. I am rather tired of hearing the phrase ‘Eighth Wonder of the World.’ ”
Before she managed to stop him, he’d walked past her into the house, taking off his hat and still talking. “Might as well join the whole city, eh? Schools and businesses close soon in celebration. Of course,” he said as he drew off his gloves and shoved them into his hat, “I can think of wonderful ways we could privately celebrate.”
He slipped his arms around her and pulled her to him.
Throbbing hunger blasted through her. With her eyes closed tight, she wiggled from his embrace. She had planned to tell him no, to send him on his way. But a visit to the bridge could not hurt, could it? An hour or two, outside, surrounded by crowds. He could not flay her heart any more than he’d already done.
She had recently learned to think ofhim as more than a lover. If she could convince him that they might be friends without intimacy, perhaps she might not lose him altogether.
“Griffin. Thank you. I would like to go to the bridge. With you. But . . . I would appreciate it if you did not allow any overly familiar behavior.”
He looked amused. “I’m about as familiar with you as a man can be with a woman. What the devil do you mean?”
“I suppose touching in a—an unacceptable manner. And making references to subjects that you would not speak of in mixed company.”
His mouth tightened and his eyes grew hard as he stared at her for a moment. “Damn it, Araminta, I keep waiting for you to burst into laughter and tell me it’s a joke.”
“Please, Griffin. I know it sounds unreasonable, considering our past, but I hope you understand that I would be more comfortable this way.”
He took a step toward her. She folded her arms across her breasts and backed away.
“It’s back to the dance, is it?” he muttered. She wondered what he meant, and was about to ask when he shook his head. “You are so polite, and I want to shake you until you grow angry enough to be the real and passionate Araminta I know.”
She wet her lips and prepared herself to say the words. To explain that the passionate Araminta must be gone, and that she could never be anything other than polite with him. But before she could open her mouth, he was turning and walking out the door. “Very well, Miss Woodhall. I agree to your terms. I shall return here at two. That should give us enough time to escape most of the speeches, eh?”
As they drove to the bridge, he kept up a stream of polite remarks that flowed past her. Though she was taken aback that he was capable of showing such elegant manners, almost those of a most polished member of the ton, she barely noticed the words he spoke. Her heart thumped far too hard and loud.
As she’d prepared for the outing—frantically changing into a gown and then ruthlessly rooting through her armoire for a prettier one—she discovered the truth about herself: friendship would never work.
At the end of their day together, she would say good-bye and God bless to the man she loved. She could not bear to be around him. She could only hope she could bear to be away from him.
Throngs of people had paid the penny fee and stood waiting to walk across the bridge.
Griffin touched Araminta’s silk-covered arm. “Does it make you nervous to see all of these people and vehicles? Do you suppose the bridge will bear all of this weight?”
She turned and at last looked at him with a smile in her shadowed eyes and on her lush mouth. A bit of dark hair blew across her cheek, and she grabbed at her straw boater and arranged it more firmly on her head. She wore a rosy gown that matched the pink of her cheeks. An audacious color, nothing that a prim woman would wear.
“I am going to cross, Griffin. With or without you.”
They set off, and at once the cool breeze from the river washed over his face. They tilted their heads—the cables and towers of the bridge soared into the sky.
“Oh, I feel as if I am flying,” she murmured.
“A very apt description.”
They walked slowly and people strolled past them, chattering and pointing. Everyone on the bridge was caught up in the giddy atmosphere of a celebration. Everyne but Griffin, who could concentrate only on one woman, instead of the impressive vista spread out all around them.
She stopped under an archway to run her hand over the coarse rock, and closed her eyes. Sensation was heightened when one closed one’s eyes, she’d said, and he wished she would rub her hand over him in the same ecstatic fashion.
Unable to resist, he moved close to her, lifted her hand and put it flat against his chest. “Smoother stone, eh?”
Her startled eyes stared into his before she turned away.
“I apologize,” he said as he quickly strode after her. “No overly familiar behavior.”
She slowed down. “Thank you.”
He didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted her. “Mind you, I want to howl with frustration, but I shan’t touch you again until you ask.”
A shadow of a smile crossed her face and she nodded. Agreement about the dreadful frustration, he supposed, or more blasted gratitude.
He’d force himself to enjoy the day, the sights and her company, dammit. And control the urge to seize her and kiss her senseless. Or rather back into sense, as far as he was concerned.
The walk across lasted forty minutes. Along the way, they stopped and rested on a bench and gazed off at the horizon, elegantly framed in the bridge’s cables.
Griffin squinted through the sunlight at the vast skyline of the city of Brooklyn. “Should be an even better view going into Manhattan. Unless you wish to hire a carriage back?”
She shook her head. He was glad. The longer they stayed together, the longer he could take to learn why she had changed into this withdrawn, polite woman, so different from the open Araminta he knew.
But on the walk back her answers, though polite, were even more uninformative.
“Do you feel ill?”
“Oh, no. I’m well.”
“Would you care for some refreshment?”
“No, I thank you.”
When they reached the Manhattan side again, she turned and held out her hand. “Well. It has been a most pleasant day. Thank you for a fine expedition.”
He pulled her close, trapping her arm in the crook of his elbow. “No, I shall escort you home, Araminta.”
He hailed a hansom cab and handed her in.
“Lucky you found me,” called down the cheery driver. “I’ve been on the bridge. They say it’s the eighth wonder of the world, and I don’t doubt it. Quite a party it’s been all day.”
He chirruped to his horse, and they lurched forward into a trot.
Araminta stared out the window of the cab, so all he could see was the curve of her soft cheek. He recalled that not so long ago he’d been pompously certain he could read her face and see what her heart held, but for days he’d been at a loss.
“Araminta.”
She turned toward him, but stared at his neckcloth, not into his eyes.
“Tell me, what is wrong? Have I made you angry?”
“No, not at all. It was a very pleasant afternoon.” She shook her head, and in a slanting ray of late-afternoon sun, he saw her eyes grow suddenly brighter. Tears.
Enough absurd tiptoeing. He moved close to her but could feel her body stiffen and shift away from him. “For God’s sake, Araminta. Is ther anything I can do? What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I think perhaps I am tired. It was a long walk today, wasn’t it?”
He decided to believe her.
Perhaps he could take her inside and start again on a long, patient seduction, show her again how well they suited one another—hell, far too sedate a term for what they had. How well they caught fire together.
He glanced down at her sturdy brown button-up boots.
Rest time is over, Araminta,
he thought.
Definitely time for the dance again.
He’d move slowly, stroking, not grabbing. Yes, he’d begin with a thorough massage of her feet. And then he would stroke his fingers over her lovely calves. Just the thought of her shapely legs was enough to bring him to uncomfortable arousal. He was desperate for the woman. More than just wanting her in his bed, he wanted to see her smile at him again, hear her throaty, wonderful laugh.
They reached her house.
“Want me to wait?” the cabman called from his perch.
Araminta wasn’t sure if she was glad or dismayed to hear Griffin’s response as he handed up the fare. “No, thank you.”
Araminta could barely breathe. She was a fool to allow the man back into her life even for a single day. She could not function when under his intoxicating influence.
He unlocked the door and ushered her into her own house.
And then he closed the front door and leaned against it.
“I am tired,” she began, but her voice died away as he walked close and put a finger on her lips.
“You will rest, then. And I shan’t bother you. But I am not ready to leave yet.”
Arrogant Griffin. Worse, weak Araminta, for she seemed unable to order him out. She would have licked her lips, but his hand still touched her. She managed to speak anyway. “Perhaps I am not interested in inviting you in. You—you are like wine. I cannot think properly when you are near.”