“Is it only the five of us?” Phineas asked, hesitating in view of the dining table. “Or are twenty more guests scheduled to arrive?”
“My brother tends to entertain large gatherings.” She had requested only a portion of the table be set for their needs. Even so, the opulent sight carried an impressive impact. Phineas guided her to the head of the table, a position that allowed her to clearly observe her other guests.
A footman assisted in seating Miss St. Claire, who managed a dramatic flair even in that small exercise, while Rafferty escorted Mrs. Summers to Phineas’s left. He showed none of the surprise or discomfort that she had envisioned. Blast!
“Is something not to your liking, Lady Arianne?” he asked, taking his seat to her right. “I detect a frown.”
“Oh no,” she brought herself back to her surroundings, ignoring the tingling down her spine at the lyrical sound of his voice. “I was just . . . woolgathering, I suppose.”
While one footman served the hors d’oeuvres, another poured white wine into one of the three glasses by each plate setting.
“Oysters!” Miss St. Claire laughed. “And I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize the food.” She began to lift the half shell with her fingers.
“Mrs. Rafferty.” Rafferty’s velvety smooth murmur caught Arianne’s ear. He discretely wiggled the trident-shaped oyster fork.
“Oh!” Eva replaced the shell on the plate, then looked about the table before selecting the correct utensil. She smiled her appreciation at Rafferty. “Pardon moi.”
Phineas cringed.
“It’s probably best to stick with English,” Mrs. Summers suggested with a sympathetic smile. “I don’t think the Americans speak French.”
Eva rolled her eyes before she sampled two of the mollusks. With a sly grin, she glanced toward Rafferty, her oyster fork dangling from her fingertips. “You know they call these Aphrodite’s delight. It’s said that eating oysters increases one’s—”
“Eva!” Phineas scolded.
“We don’t discuss such things at the table,” Mrs. Summers counseled. “Remember, this is a state dinner. You’ll be seated with strangers who will be forming an opinion about your character by your conversation.”
Arianne recalled hearing that same advice while in school. In a fond sense of déjà vu, she could predict Miss St. Claire’s complaint. Though the girl was too stubborn to realize it, Eva was fortunate to have Mrs. Summers’s guidance about limited conversational topics. Arianne relaxed while Mr. Connor and Mrs. Summers launched into a litany of suitable topics that lasted through the soup course.
“Now that you’ve spent some time with Miss St. Claire, do you think the ruse will succeed?” Rafferty asked quietly, as the soup bowls were whisked away to be replaced with a serving of poached salmon.
Arianne contemplated the flamboyant actress, who seemed more enthralled with studying the table accessories than participating in the conversation. “Today she’s been more interested in the props than learning the role, but with time, she may be passable.”
“Passable?” Rafferty raised his brow. “She assumed the role of devoted wife readily enough.”
Arianne hid a stab of resentment beneath a soft laugh. “I have no doubt that she will charm the men.” She resisted the temptation to question the degree of the actress’s devotion to any one man. However, a glance at Rafferty made her suspect he surmised the same. She shook her head. “It’s the wives who worry me.”
“The wives?” Rafferty sipped his wine, waiting for her to continue. She found a quiet comfort in the way he listened to her, took her opinions seriously.
“Miss St. Claire has a certain . . . defiance that I’m afraid may hinder your efforts.” She raised her fork for a bite of salmon.
He considered her statement a moment. “Miss St. Claire’s life, I’d warrant, has not been an easy one. We’re asking her to change some basic instincts that have aided her survival. She may surprise you with her ability to adapt to new surroundings.”
“I must say, you seem remarkably comfortable with all this,” Arianne said, silently admitting defeat to her plans to intimidate him with etiquette. If anything, he encouraged her own breach of etiquette by tilting his head toward her. Her fingers ached to sooth the black strands from his brow.
Rafferty placed his fork on the plate a moment before it was whisked away. His wicked smile quickened her pulse.
“Along with reading, I’ve been known to eat upon occasion.” He emptied his white wine glass, then waited while the footman poured the red for the joint course. He winked at Arianne before sampling some of her brother’s excellent vintage. “And drink.”
Phineas turned with a smile. “Aye, in this we have bountiful experience.”
Recognizing the reprise of her earlier faux pas about reading, Arianne tightened her lips. Apparently, Rafferty didn’t forgive easily. She selected a small serving of Chicken Lyonnaise from the server. “I’ve seen others puzzled by the varied tableware. Your wife, for instance, is having some difficulty appreciating the differences in the beverages for each course.”
Rafferty followed her nod down the table to see his actress wife disagreeing with Mrs. Summers over the removal of the partially filled sherry glass that had been poured with the soup course. “She hasn’t lived a life of excess,” Rafferty observed.
“And you have?”
A slow smile slid across Rafferty’s face, making her think of the cat that stole the cream. “I’ve had occasion to dine at a well-laid table. Even an oaf from the lower classes can learn manners on occasion.”
“I don’t believe you’re an oaf from the lower classes,” Arianne said. She watched him over the rim of her wineglass. “I’m not certain yet what you are, but you’re decidedly not an oaf.”
The servers cleared the joint dishes and brought the covered dishes of lamb and beef sirloin with vegetables. She reminded herself to eat sparingly, as they were only halfway through the meal. Rafferty, however, showed no restraint.
“Your brother employs an excellent cook,” he said after sampling some of the chateau potatoes. “I appreciate that you’ve given Eva an opportunity to practice her table etiquette before we sail. I imagine we won’t be having such elaborate meals once we board.”
A cup of Roman Punch replaced Arianne’s empty plate. The icy sweet slid down the back of her throat while she mulled over Rafferty’s words. “Many of the transatlantic steamers serve dinners worthy of a state affair. The White Star Line most notably has excellent service.” She scooped the small sherbet spoon around the inside of the cup to capture the last of the ice. “Miss St. Claire should have plenty of experience by the time we reach our destination. Do you have an idea as to our departure date?”
Phineas frowned at Rafferty amid the removal of the sherbet cups and placement of the game dish. “You haven’t told her?”
The two exchanged a nervous glance that made Arianne decidedly uncomfortable. Narrowing her eyes at Rafferty, she waved off the server bearing a tray of roasted squab. “Told me what, exactly?”
Phineas took a peek at the tray. “That’s not dove, is it?”
“I believe it’s pigeon, sir,” the footman said.
“Phineas won’t eat doves or rabbits,” Rafferty murmured to Arianne. “Something about professional courtesy.”
Phineas also waved the server off. “I haven’t ruled out working with pigeons, as yet.”
“You were about to tell me when we are to depart for America,” Arianne insisted. An uncomfortable foreboding settled in her throat. Rafferty’s avoidance had not helped matters.
He reached for his burgundy. “You understand my need to arrive in America as soon as possible.”
She nodded while he sipped his wine.
“Now that we have an actress who has agreed to play the role of my wife”—his lips lifted in a parody of a smile directed toward Miss St. Claire—“there’s no reason for us to dally here any longer.”
She was about to protest that they we
re working on important preparations for the task ahead, but Rafferty held up his hand. “Accordingly, I’ve booked the first steamer that can accommodate our party. We leave on Friday.”
“Friday! We can’t possibly leave on such short notice,” Arianne exclaimed. “We have gowns to purchase and gifts to select for presentation. We can’t accomplish all that’s required in just two days!”
“We need presents?” Eva interrupted.
“Then I suggest you concentrate on those things that can’t be provided on the steamship.” Rafferty smiled. “If it’s beneficial, I shall gladly forfeit my etiquette lessons to allow you more time.”
She frowned, feeling defeated by this turn. “Squeezing years of training into a few days certainly isn’t ideal, Mr. Rafferty, but I suppose we’ll be able to continue our lessons on the voyage.”
“But we’ll need to order gowns,” Eva whined. “Appropriate gowns.”
Arianne absently waved her hand. Her mind raced, prioritizing what needed to be done in the little time available. “I suppose my maid could alter more clothing to suit Miss St. Claire.”
“I’m still proficient with a needle and thread, dear,” Mrs. Summers interjected. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Arianne smiled her gratitude, while the dance of plate and crystal removal resumed once again. Salad plates and appropriate flatware appeared. A lovely asparagus salad was placed before her.
“We’ll do our best to have everything ready,” Arianne said. “I wouldn’t want to hinder the discovery of Lord Weston’s killer for the sake of a gown or two.” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Miss St. Claire slump in her seat, then correctly predicted Mrs. Summers’s reprimand to sit up straight.
Arianne pushed the asparagus aside, preferring to eat only the lettuce. “Which line will we be using?” she asked Rafferty. “I believe Inman is the swiftest.”
“So I’ve been told, but the Inman ship won’t be departing for America for another two weeks,” Rafferty said. “It only takes about eleven days to cross the Atlantic. We’ve found another vessel that will arrive in America before the Inman vessel leaves port.”
“Then it’s White Star!” She smiled. The White Star Line was known for its elegance. At least they wouldn’t travel in discomfort.
“I do hope we’ll travel first-class,” Eva said to Mrs. Summers. “I’ve never traveled first-class.”
“No, it’s not the White Star Line.” A slight twitch in Rafferty’s jaw raised the small hairs on the back of Arianne’s neck. She set her fork on her plate. Even lettuce wouldn’t properly digest with the unease roiling in her stomach.
The servers appeared once again in their clean white gloves and silent service. Plates were removed from the left, and a small plate of pâté de foie gras was served on the right. Arianne was ready to dismiss all the service staff from the room. How was she to think with the constant changing of plates and glasses?
A sauterne was poured in her glass, and she sipped at it greedily, the sweet wine assuaging the acrid taste of foreboding. “You have me at a loss, sir.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “We’ll be sailing on a tramp steamer that hauls cargo across the Atlantic. She has berths for ten passengers beyond the crew. I’ve booked three cabins for our use.”
“A . . . a tramp steamer? I’m not sure what that is?”
“It’s a steamer that doesn’t run on a set schedule. Instead, it travels from port to port as needed.” Rafferty watched her carefully.
“I’ve not traveled on one of those,” she said hesitantly. Nor had anyone she knew. “Where is its port?”
“London. The Irish Rose is currently docked at the Royal Victoria Dock. There’s a rail spur if you’d prefer a railcar to a carriage,” Rafferty replied.
“A train.” Eva sighed dramatically. “I’ve traveled by train.”
“It’ll be a short ride,” Mrs. Summers assured her.
The pâté plate disappeared somewhere in the midst of conversation ; Arianne wasn’t sure when. While she would normally lick her lips over the chocolate-painted éclair, she found she really had no appetite for dessert. She nibbled lightly in the hopes that the chocolate would lighten her sense of gloom. But even the rich, sweet treat had no effect. She waved her hand at the fruit and cheese plate that represented the eleventh and final course.
There would be no elegant dinners, she imagined, with so few passengers. No varied assortment of passengers with which to share acquaintance. “What does one do as a passenger on a tramp steamer?” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken her thoughts until she heard Rafferty’s response.
“We read.”
Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, ARIANNE SAT WITH HER TEA and newspaper, hoping for a few moments of contemplative silence before another trying day. The rain from last night had diminished, but the sky remained bleak, depressing. A heavy sigh pulled up from her chest as she considered all the work ahead to prepare the obstinate Miss St. Claire for the difficult task ahead.
“Good morning, Arianne.” Mrs. Summers, already attired in her day dress, walked over to the sideboard to pour some tea. “Any interesting news in the paper today?”
Arianne glanced down at the political editorials, realizing that she couldn’t remember a single word she’d read, if indeed she had read. She hadn’t been able to concentrate for thoughts of Rafferty, Miss St. Claire, the work to be done, then Rafferty again. She refolded the newsprint and placed it aside.
Mrs. Summers looked askance. “Last night’s dinner was a success, don’t you think? If we could manage five or six more such dinners, I think Miss St. Claire will be stage ready.”
“We don’t have five or six more days to practice,” Arianne groused. “Have you begun packing?”
Mrs. Summers smiled. “I never really unpacked from Vienna. I suspected this London visit would be of short duration.”
“Why do you say that?” Arianne asked. She hadn’t considered the length of this stay; her only thought had been to escape Vienna.
“Well, they always are.” Mrs. Summers spread jam on a toast slice. “It’s not as if you have a real home.” Arianne began to protest, but Mrs. Summers waved it aside. “Oh, I know you have that tiny country estate, but it’s really not your nature to be away from the city.”
Arianne wanted to disagree, but she had to admit that her one stay with Nicholas and his wife at remote Black Oak had her yearning for the bustle and company of a large city’s social strata.
“One can only make so many vials of fragrance before even that loses its attraction,” Mrs. Summers added, pulling the society pages from the paper.
Again, Arianne bit back her protest. At one time, her scent concoctions had pleasant results, and she happily devoted time to them. Now, she was just too preoccupied with weightier issues to pay suitable attention to balancing florals.
“Arianne,” Mrs. Summers said absently as she perused the paper. “Eva will be expected to make and receive calls once she is in Washington, will she not? Perhaps you should use this last day to let her accompany you as you return the calls you’ve been ignoring.”
“But the packing—”
“Kathleen and I will finish packing for both you and Eva. You two need to leave the confined environment of this house.”
Hastings, on her request, brought the silver tray from the hallway filled with the cards from refused callers. Mrs. Summers eyed the collection. “I imagine most are matrons with marriage-minded daughters. Those should provide adequate practice for Eva. Just close your eyes and pick one.”
Arianne played along. Shielding her eyes, she selected a card, then peeked. With a laugh, she turned it so Mrs. Summers could see the name. Mr. Michael Rafferty.
Mrs. Summers almost snorted her tea.
“I can’t very well pay a call to him, especially with Eva in tow. She would never leave.” Arianne laughed, then caught a whiff of a faintly familiar fragrance. She sniffed Rafferty’s card. Patchouli. How apropos that a plant k
nown for its seductive qualities would lend its fragrance to Rafferty. She stirred her finger through the rest of the cards. “I’m afraid these matrons would be shocked to find Rafferty’s card touching those of their lofty stature.”
“Would they?” Mrs. Summers asked earnestly, then dabbed her lips and chin with the napkin. “He certainly behaves as a gentleman if one can judge from last night. Granted, he hasn’t a title, but I wonder if those matrons wouldn’t consider him husband-worthy.”
True. Even Arianne was beginning to believe Lord Henderson’s choice for a British minister may not have been as farfetched as she originally believed. The actress, on the other hand...
“Choose another card,” Mrs. Summers urged.
She did. “Mrs. Edward Ledsmore. I believe she’s shopping for a husband for her niece, Eugenia.” She sighed. “It would be nice if just once someone were purely interested in me and not Cupid’s Mistress.”
Just saying the name reminded her of that misunderstanding the night she first met Rafferty. So much had happened, it seemed so long ago.
“Best pick a few more cards,” Mrs. Summers advised. “It’ll be some time before you see these people again. Might as well make a full day of it and give Miss St. Claire some well-needed practice.”
AS THE BROUGHAM TURNED TOWARD HOME, ARIANNE glanced over at Eva. She was proving to be a marvelous mimic, even managing to adopt Arianne’s dialect. Mrs. Summers had been correct; the more calls they made, the more the actress molded to the façade they’d created.
The carriage rolled down Bond Street, passing a doorway mantled in black. The Cardiff residence. Immediately Arianne pounded on the back wall of the brougham, then called out new instructions to the driver.
“We’re going to make one more stop,” Arianne explained. “This time to a true diplomat’s wife. Her father was the British minister murdered in Washington.”
“Lady Weston?” Eva asked.
“Lady Cardiff,” Arianne corrected. “Lord Weston was her father.”
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