She had a few words to share with him about this free business, but she’d do that in private. She turned to Lord Henderson. “How did you find him?”
“The explosion of the Irish Rose was in the Baltimore papers. I had planned to come to the legation to express my sympathies, but I was waylaid by young Ben, who took me to the hospital.”
Miffed that everyone knew that Rafferty lived but her, she was too ecstatically happy to give it weight. She laughed. “I suppose that you’re all on this same voyage is a grand coincidence?”
“That would be my doing,” William said from his position at the rail.
“William? You arranged this?” Had anyone ever been so manipulated?
“I saw Ben hanging about outside of the legation. Once I caught him by the collar, he told me that Mr. Rafferty—”
“Sir Rafferty, if you please,” Rafferty corrected.
William grimaced. “Sir Rafferty was alive and had asked him to watch over you. He told me Lord Henderson had come over as well, so I went to have a talk with these fine gentlemen.” William took Arianne’s hand in his. “Anne, I only want what’s best for you. I wanted you to have a choice about your future and not be forced into anything. Part of being free is knowing what choices are available.” He pointed his chin toward Rafferty. “As that one suggested, you can return to London as a widow to find a proper aristocrat. But you needed to know that Sir Rafferty was alive and available as well. So I told them of our travel arrangements.”
“Thank you, William.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for loving me enough to look out for my best interests. I’ve considered my options over the past weeks very carefully, and I choose the man I know is worthy of being married to the sister of a duke.” She captured Rafferty’s gaze and held it. “I wish to be Mrs. Michael Rafferty, if you’ll have me.”
Love and lust smoldered in his eyes, warming Arianne to the tips of her toes. “Oh darlin’, that I will.”
Thirty
WILLIAM PUSHED HIS HANDS BETWEEN ARIANNE and Rafferty, separating them. “There will be no having or willing until after a valid marriage.” He brushed aside the jeers and hisses from Phineas and Henderson. “Furthermore, there will be no public kissing of widows in full mourning, even if the man she’s kissing looks as if he has one foot in the grave. Let us keep some sense of propriety.”
“William!” Arianne scolded.
“Need I remind you that I am a duke—and your brother—which presents sound footing for pronouncements in this regard. I believe it is this very oversight that placed us in such extreme conflict in the first place. I insist that the legalities be completed.”
“I agree,” Rafferty said, to William’s obvious surprise. “I recall espousing a similar position not too long ago.” His gaze at Arianne started a familiar tingling in her rib cage and below. “Speed, however, is of the essence.”
Captain Briggs and his wife, having witnessed the reunion at a respectful distance, joined the celebratory gathering. Mrs. Briggs hugged Arianne. “I’m so happy for you. I knew you would choose Rafferty, but your brother insisted you should be given a chance to consider otherwise. He must have never seen the way you two look at each other.”
“Captain Briggs,” William said. “I understand you are just the man we need. Can you marry these two before they surrender to scandalous behavior?” He puffed out his chest as if it were decorated with medals from past military campaigns.
Rafferty leaned closer to Arianne. “Your brother is a bit of a pompous—”
“Yes, I know,” she replied, patting Rafferty’s arm. “He means well, though.”
“The thing is, Your Grace,” Briggs said, a bit more humbly than Rafferty anticipated. “I can’t really do that. I only have the authority to record a marriage, not actually perform one.” He glanced about the crestfallen faces. “As I’m not the captain of this ship, I haven’t even the authority to do that.”
While the other passengers laughed and pointed at the passing scenery, a heavy fog of silence engulfed the group. “Can the captain of this ship . . . ?” Mrs. Briggs asked hopefully.
Briggs shook his head. “Not unless the laws are different in Germany. A British sea captain hasn’t the authority. What you need is a minister or a justice of the peace.”
“Phineas?” Rafferty asked with a raised brow.
He nodded and melded into the crowd of passengers.
Arianne gazed up at Rafferty. “It’s all right if we have to wait. I wouldn’t wish to be married in all this black.” She held out her skirts. “The important thing is that you’re alive and near. If we have to wait a little longer, I can do that.”
The Duke’s cheek tightened. “You wouldn’t be getting married in black.”
She turned. “I wouldn’t?”
“Remember I said no man would approach you in all that morbid veiling?” He fluttered his hand over the excess of black lace and black crepe. “I instructed Kathleen to pack colorful clothes for the journey and to especially include that white dress you wore to the red, white, and blue ball.”
“You did? William, thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much.”
“Now let us hope Phineas can locate someone.” Mrs. Briggs sighed.
“Have no fear. We’ll be married by nightfall,” Rafferty said confidently. “Phineas will find a minister.” He leaned over and murmured in Lord Henderson’s ear. “Even if he has to impersonate one himself.”
LATER THAT EVENING, BEFORE A GATHERING OF FIRST-CLASS passengers in the ballroom of the SS Koenig, Lady Arianne Chambers, in her white ball gown accented with a white silk lace mantilla, loaned to her by Mrs. Briggs, repeated her vows before God and an Anglican minister on holiday. Sir Michael Rafferty placed a ring on her finger, binding her to him before various members of London society, family, and friends. There was no pretense, no false appearance, no masquerade. They were undeniably, truly married, though William had already insisted that they repeat the ceremony in Bedfordshire in the chapel at Deerfield Abbey for the sake of his wife, Nicholas, Emma, and Thackett. Two weddings had served him well, he’d said. It would do so for them as well.
Champagne flowed freely in celebration. The ship’s orchestra played a waltz. And although Rafferty was not the most fluid or accomplished dance partner with his various injuries, those that saw Rafferty and Arianne didn’t really notice. The intensity of their locked gazes spoke in volumes of elegance.
SOMEONE TAPPED HIM ON THE SHOULDER. RAFFERTY turned from his conversation with Bedford, Lord Henderson, and Phineas to see a vaguely familiar face—thin, weak chin, ridiculous mustache, but with poetic blue eyes. “I wanted to congratulate you, sir.” He held out a gloved hand.
Rafferty’s eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”
“I don’t believe I have had the formal honor, though we have passed on occasion. My wife and I are returning home from our own honeymoon.” His lips turned up in something of a sneer. “Needed the rest, you might say. I’m known, of course, to your wife.” He clicked his heels and extended his hand again. “Baron Von Dieter, sir.”
Rafferty exchanged a glance with Bedford. “Have you met my wife’s brother, the Duke of Bedford?”
The man gushed. “Your Grace, this is indeed an honor.” Rafferty finished the introduction.
Bedford glanced at Rafferty. “May I?”
Rafferty gestured to his cast and stepped back. “With my blessings.”
Bedford delivered a punch to that weak chin that knocked the Baron out cold and sent him flying backward to lie sprawled on the floor.
Rafferty smiled his approval. “Well done, Bedford.” The two turned back to their conversation, letting some hysterical, vacuous woman tend to her husband on the floor. Rafferty put his good arm around Bedford’s shoulder. “Have you never tried pugilism? You’ve got a strong right. How’s your left?”
ARIANNE IGNORED THE CONVERSATION AROUND HER, focusing instead on her dear husband, who she loved with her heart and soul, engaged in conversation with her pompous b
ut loving brother. Rafferty was indeed her sanctuary; her safe place, her sacred place. She had no need of a refuge outside of the home she shared with him. That familiar tingling nagged at all again, this time more insistently. Christopher! She’d waited a month; she shouldn’t be expected to wait any longer.
She left the gathering of women and crossed to her dear love. Using his shoulder for balance, she rose on the tips of her toes to whisper in his ear.
“Rafferty, my dear, I’m ready. I believe it’s time to negotiate.”
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Dear Readers,
While several of my novels are influenced by true events, this may be true more so for Redeeming the Rogue than in my other novels. For the curious, I thought I might separate fact from fiction.
Though I’m sure a murder did not precipitate the assignment of Lord Lionel Sackville to the British legation in Washington, D.C., in 1881, he was presented with the problem of finding a suitable hostess. American ladies did not attend functions where there was no hostess to receive them, and as Lord Sackville was unmarried, he needed someone to fill this role. His solution was to make his illegitimate French daughter his hostess. This bold move required the Queen’s approval. She insisted a committee of the most important American political hostesses be formed to determine whether society would accept this young eighteen-year-old of questionable parentage as an important political hostess. They decided to give her a chance. Victoria Sackville proved to be a tremendous success.
While my characters are all fictional, the assassination of President Garfield is not. Other than the accusations against my hero, all the other information is factual. Vice President Arthur Chester was briefly accused as being a conspirator in the assassination of Garfield due to his Irish heritage. The charges were quickly dismissed. Guiteau did claim to shoot the president because he was denied a political position for which he was not qualified. He was executed in 1882 after the president’s death. It is said that President Garfield did not die so much from the bullet that remained lodged in his chest as from the incapable doctors that attended him. Many probed his wound with unsterilized fingers, searching for the bullet. One even punctured Garfield’s liver. The unsanitary methods led to blood poisoning, and at that time, there were no antibiotics to treat that condition. Thankfully, medical practices have come a long way since then.
Finally, I was surprised to learn that ship captains cannot perform marriages at sea, unless they are also a minister, a justice of the peace, a judge, or have a specific license that allows them to do so. I hope you enjoy the little complication that information provided.
May you enjoy Redeeming the Rogue as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to hearing from you at www.DonnaMacMeans.com.
Donna
Turn the page for a sneak peek of Donna MacMeans’s next historical romance
THE CASANOVA CODE
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
PATTERNS. EDWINA HARGROVE RECOGNIZED THEM everywhere: in the design of the teacup on the table before her; in the ebb and flow of voices at the Crescent Coffee Palace; even in the grain of the wood beneath her feet. The order, the predictability of acceptable patterns formed the framework of her rather tedious life. But when the sequences in patterns were broken, forming new patterns requiring interpretation, that was when adventures began.
Edwina retrieved her brother’s encrypted letter from her reticule and held it for a moment, savoring with eagerness the process of unlocking its secrets. Laughing softly, she scanned her table, realizing even she had a pattern for transcribing the code. Her journal sat to the left, the ribbon loosened and already opened to the next blank page. She’d inked the alphabet down the left side of the page in anticipation of the coded text. The right page remained blank, waiting for the transcription. Fragrant steam lifted from her teacup sitting on her far right, and in the middle, she’d placed her copy of Treasure Island. A favored novel of both hers and her brother’s, it was used as the key to the letter’s meaning.
The transcription process required concentration, the sort one would not expect in such a public setting. Nevertheless she paused, letting the ring of spoons tapping fragile porcelain and the blended voices of the patrons of the Crescent dissolve into the distant cry of seabirds and the thunder of the Caribbean ocean pounding a white sand beach. She mentally transformed the lingering scent of wood and aged spirits from the once popular gin palace, now a ward of the Temperance movement, into that of imagined casks of pirates’ rum. Even the current generated by the sway of a passing skirt became a gentle island breeze. Thus solidly engrained in the world of the book, and isolated from familiar reality, she bent to the task of transcribing the letter’s nonsense patterns into meaningful discourse.
Soon she was lost in the tale of her brother’s recent trip to a Caribbean sugar plantation. Edwina sighed. How wonderful it must be to see such things, to know a little of the world outside of England, to have unlimited possibilities for future adventures . . .
“Another letter from your brother?” Faith Huddleston peered down a moment before slipping into the chair next to Edwina. “It would be so much easier if they used the King’s English. I just don’t understand why they make you decipher everything.”
There was no explaining the unleashed joy of solving the mystery behind the coded letters, so she didn’t try. She’d encountered similar skepticism and annoyance from her friends before. Instead, she slipped the letter into the relevant pages of Treasure Island, then set it aside, ready to turn her attentions to her friend.
Faith tossed a copy of the Mayfair Messenger on the table. “The publisher didn’t run Sarah’s article on the number of birds killed for women’s hats.” Faith pulled off her gloves. “She won’t be pleased.”
A cup and saucer rattled loudly as one of the Crescent’s former barmaids placed it by Faith’s elbow. The renovation of the previous gin palace into a tea-toting coffeehouse required more than just changing the gilt lettering on the windows. The barmaids had to take the Temperance pledge as well. The change had been more difficult for some than others. Faith smiled up into the woman’s lined face. “The chamomile, please.” The barmaid nodded and left.
Edwina quickly shifted through the Messenger’s pages, confirming the absence of Sarah’s contribution, but then paused at the “Personal & Misc” listings in the classified advertisements. Coded messages often lurked amongst the forthright and sometimes humorous ads. Men sought women, women sought men, secret arrangements were established for illicit rendezvous, and star-crossed lovers exchanged messages of longing, all on the very public pages of the Mayfair Messenger. Edwina scanned the column for snippets of an awkward construction, or the use of numbers instead of letters, all signs of a hidden meaning. Breaking a code was as close to adventurous as her dull life got—would ever get, she supposed.
“At least he ran Sarah’s column on the Abington party,” Faith said, her eyes wistful. “She’s so lucky that she’s allowed to attend those upper-class affairs. The ladies must be lovely with their beautiful gowns and jewelry.”
“She’s not exactly invited,” Edwina reminded her. “She goes as a reporter, and an undervalued one at that. She could write circles around the men reporters if old Ramsey wasn’t so set in his conservative ways.” But she had to agree with Faith’s envy. It would be an adventure to see how the truly wealthy lived, even if from the outside.
Faith pursed her lips. “I’d still like to attend just once. Even if I were to go as a—”
“Look at this!” Edwina stabbed the newsprint with her finger. “It’s in code. If you ignore every other word, the message really says: Husband suspects. Not tomorrow. Watch ads.” She looked up, pleased with her accomplishment. “She’s canceling a tryst.”
“Let me see.” Faith bent her nose toward the column. “How do you know to do that? The listing looks perfectly normal to me.” Astonishment registered in her friend’s eyes. “Why would you look at every other word?
”
Edwina smiled, triumphant. “Patterns.” She shrugged. “It’s such a simple code, I’m surprised they bothered. Still, I wonder who sent it. Do you think Sarah would know? Whoever placed the ad must have done so through Sarah’s station at the Messenger.”
A bell tacked over the palace entrance, a recent annoying addition by the Temperance Committee, jangled with a discordant tone. Sarah barreled into the renovated drinking parlor like a steam engine puffing out of Victoria Station. Just as a steam engine is unmindful of the cars behind, Sarah took no notice of the fourth member of their party, Claire, who followed silently in her wake.
Sarah dropped her satchel onto an empty chair before she slipped into another. “Ramsey doesn’t think anyone would be interested in the vast quantities of birds sacrificed for women’s fashion.”
“I’m so sorry.” Faith patted her friend’s arm. “After all your research . . .”
“It’s only because you’re a woman,” Claire insisted, moving Sarah’s satchel to the floor before she lowered herself into the seat. “One of these days, Ramsey will recognize your value and remove you from the agonies.”
“You know, I dislike that reference,” Sarah scolded. “There’s more to the personal column than sad lovelorn ads and letters written in torment.” She smiled weakly and adjusted her glasses. “However, I hope you’re right.”
“But in the meantime . . .” Edwina hesitated. “Do you know who placed this ad?” She turned the paper so both Sarah and Faith could see.
“‘For my darling husband,’” Sarah read. “‘Who suspects tenderness, not neglect, tomorrow awaits. Watch praising ads multiply.’” Sarah grimaced, then released the newsprint. “It’s not as well written as Faith’s poetry, but Mrs. Bottomsly wanted a tribute to her husband.”
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