Redeeming the Rogue

by Donna MacMeans

  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.

  Five

  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 P
hineas 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.

  Her blonde hair was bobbed, not like the rich chestnut of Lady Arianne’s hair, coiled with the promise of a lush curtain when let down in the company of a lover. The actress held herself well, though she lacked that defiant chin that epitomized Lady Arianne. This one was more diminutive, less of a challenge. From the low cut of her neckline, he guessed she wasn’t about to defy anyone. He smiled. Yes. He would guess from that neckline that she had a far more giving nature than Lady Arianne. What did Phineas call her? St. Claire? He almost laughed out loud. As he neared the waiting couple, he could see there was very little saintliness about Miss St. Claire.

  “Miss St. Claire.” Phineas gestured toward Rafferty. “Allow me to present your husband, Mr. Michael Rafferty.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Miss St. Claire.” Rafferty bowed over her extended hand.

  “As am I, Mr. Rafferty.” Her calculating gaze slipped around his features like that of an experienced Fleet Street dove. What she saw apparently pleased, as her lips turned in an amused smile. “However, I haven’t accepted this role quite yet. I should like to get to know you better.”

  “That can be remedied,” Rafferty said, offering his arm. Together the three of them walked back the way he had originally come.

  “Were you in this evening’s performance?” Phineas asked. “It’s disappointing that She Stoops to Conquer has to close its run.”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight.” She shifted her gaze to Rafferty. “I was the understudy for Miss Hardcastle, but I did manage three performances. Perhaps you had occasion to see me?”

  She was an attractive miss with a sly charm that lacked Lady Arianne’s reserved polish. Was that something an actress could learn in time? He recalled Lady Arianne’s opinion that an actress would not suit. Could she be right? And what did that say about his abilities to pass as a proper British minister? Rafferty shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t had that pleasure.”

  Phineas and she conversed about inconsequential topics, acting venues and playwrights, until they arrived at their destination. Rafferty waited until they were seated and the wine poured before he turned the conversation to more significant matters.

  “Miss St. Claire. While I’m pleased my friend, Mr. Connor, was able to locate such a talented individual in a short time . . . you do understand that we will be traveling overseas?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” Her face brightened. “I do hope our travels will take us to New York. I’ve heard that there’s something afoot called ‘vaudeville’ and acts are auditioning—”

  “If you accept this role,” Rafferty interrupted with a stern glower, “no one is to know that you’re an actress. There will be no auditions of any sort.” He glared at Phineas, questioning if Miss St. Claire understood exactly what would be demanded of her. Was this the best he could find? When Phineas didn’t meet his gaze, he turned toward Miss St. Claire. “You are aware of the role you’ll be expected to play?”

  “You require someone to act the role of the British minister’s wife.” She offered a coquettish smile. “Your wife.” Beneath the table, Rafferty felt her hand slide down the length of his thigh. A smile spread across her face. “I can be very convincing as a wife.”

  “A pretend wife,” Rafferty reminded her, gripping her exploring hand to halt its progress before she reached the inside of his thigh. “But there is more to this part than playing a wife.”

  She tugged her hand free. “I have a knack for quickly learning my lines.”

  “There’ll be no lines to memorize,” Phineas added with a quick apologetic glance toward Rafferty. “You will have to be . . . extemporaneous.”

  She raised her brow and sipped at her wine.

  Phineas filled Rafferty’s glass. “I think you’ll be pleased with Miss St. Claire’s stage presence once she understands her role. But she insisted on seeing you in person before she decided to accept.”

  “The role of a wife is a delicate affair,” she explained with a practiced pout. “I wanted to be certain that the leading man was worthy of my best efforts.”

  Rafferty smiled tightly. “Do I pass inspection, Miss St. Claire?”

  Her smile smoldered with seduction. Rafferty recognized her experience ran more along the lines of mistress than wife. Given the jewels on her fingers and the tiny butterfly tattoo above her right breast, he suspected she was not lacking for men willing to offer favors.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You do not strike me as a woman without means.”

  She understood his implication. It appeared in her sly smile. “There is . . . an association that I would like to end. Distance would be advisable.”

  “You’re afraid of him?” Rafferty’s jaw set. He saw Phineas tense as well. Neither felt mercy for a man that would raise a fist to a woman.

  Miss St. Claire lowered her gaze and raised her glass. The liquid vibrated with a tremor. “I suppose I’m curious as to how it feels to be viewed with respect by the ladies of society.” She smiled tightly. “One could say this would be research for the stage.”

  “Or for another life,” Rafferty said quietly.

  “We’ve a tutor to help you learn the social responsibilities and mannerisms of the position,” Phineas added. “She’ll be traveling to America so as to offer instruction on the way.”

  “In
struction?” Miss St. Claire sipped her wine, and a mischievous gleam replaced her earlier apprehension. “There are certain aspects that will not require—”

  “Of course, you’ll be provided with a new wardrobe,” Phineas continued. “And steady pay for the time we’re away.”

  She smiled. “And a handsome, wealthy husband to boot.”

  “A pretend husband,” Rafferty amended, lifting his glass for a toast. “We won’t actually be married.”

  “But we’ll have to be convincing, won’t we?” Her tongue moistened her lips. “You should start by calling me Eva.”

  “Eva,” Rafferty repeated, a grin upon his face. Well, why not? She was offering him the sort of intimate knowledge a man would naturally have of a wife. The sort of knowledge, he was quite certain, that would not be available from the high-and-mighty Lady Arianne. She probably stopped at a church just to pray away her earlier brazen act of touching his chest.

  He knew Lady Arianne would balk when she saw their mode of transportation. She was liable to make his days a living hell. Why not allow Miss St. Claire to provide his nights with a bit of heavenly delight? The ring of their wineglasses meeting signaled agreement. “Most definitely.” Rafferty caught her gaze. “Convincing we shall be.”

  THE NEXT DAY, RAFFERTY AND HIS “WIFE” CALLED UPON Lady Arianne at her London town house. Hastings ushered them into the same blue salon as before.

  “Look at this room!” Eva gushed. “Will our residence in America be like this?”

  Rafferty supposed that her patrons had been careful not to invite her into their homes. The life of a kept mistress tended to be one of isolation.