His calm voice interrupted. “I regret startling you, and apologize for that.”
“Yes, all right. But your actions are generally of a piece: you have no need for manners ause the people around you think you walk on water. You must start to believe it yourself.”
The eyes went hard again. “Of all the imper—”
She drew in a deep breath and plowed on, determined to finish having her say. “The worst of it was that even Timona, God bless her, thought your every word a pearl of wisdom. My heavens, the nonsense you’d poured into your sister’s ear before I met her. ‘There is no such thing as love,’ you told her. Oh, I heard some of the things you told my darling friend, the things she grew up believing. Oh, how I wanted to . . .” Her voice died away.
“Wanted to do what, Miss Woodhall?” The hard eyes challenged her.
She was tired of intimidation by detestable men and ignored the danger in his soft and smooth-as-cream voice. Years of swallowing her words and mumbling “yes, sir” “no, sir” had built up inside her. Women like her were not permitted to say anything more. About time one of those men who thought he was the right hand of God listened to her. “To tell you what you are, Griffin Calverson. I know your sort of arrogant gentleman. You discount servants, poor relations, fools and yes-men. And since that describes every single person with whom you have contact, Griffin, you respect no one. I’ve wanted to tell you for years that you are a nincompoop. No, worse, a brute, who’d attempted to turn Timona, a happy young girl, into as scornful a monster as—”
Araminta’s mouth snapped shut. She closed her eyes. And wondered when she’d lost her mind. Last night, perhaps, when she decided to come see him.
He spoke at last. “Now that you have had your say, are you satisfied?”
She put her hand over her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words back inside. She’d heard stories about Griffin Calverson. Plenty of them. Oh Lord, this was perfect. She had yet another powerful, ruthless man angry with her. At least this time she deserved his fury.
The clatter and voices of a busy workplace outside the office barely registered; the silence inside the room weighed on her like a boulder. And all she could hear were her own reckless, asinine words echoing in her head.
“No. I’m only mortified. I—I do not know what—” She drew in a breath and tried again. “I can only say I am sorry. I do not know what came over me. I have no excuse. I think it—”
Amazing that his dry, impersonal voice again managed to cut short and roll right over hers. “Is there any reason I should accept your apology? You march in here, saying you have a matter of some urgency, and then when I attempt to find out the problem, you begin to abuse me.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “Yes. Well. It’s a good thing that I don’t need your help after all, isn’t it, sir?”
Araminta clutched her bag tight, disliking the way her hands and voice trembled, but not caring that he witnessed it. She swallowed hard and stepped back from his desk, toward the door.
“Tell me,” he said, and she was amazed he did not sound angry. Indeed, there might have been a note of amusement as he spoke. “Do you always give near-strangers a list of their shortcomings?”
His hands were relaxed now, and she noticed his blunt nails and the scars on his skin. No rings, no manicure. The only part of his surface that did not quite fit his businessman’s image.
She considered asking him if he always sneaked up on near-strangers in corridors and grabbed them from behind, but decided she had been rag-mannered enough.
Instead she smiled. It did not feelentirely forced this time. “Oh. Naturally. You should see how I exert myself for my friends.”
His eyes widened. And then he gave a brief, startled chuckle. She had never heard his laughter before, and the sound’s warmth shocked her.
It gave her the courage to speak—less like a harridan this time, thank heavens. “But you think I don’t know you? Let me explain that to know Timona is to know her brother, Griffin. The girl loves you and talked of you often. And to find someone so chill—”
She drew in a deep breath and made another attempt. “Griffin—” Good heavens, she had called him by his first name twice. That confirmed what she suspected: her mind was slipping into madness. “I—I mean, Mr. Calverson. I again apologize for behaving badly, and for interrupting your work.”
He’d regained his normal bored manner. “Despite your impertinence, Miss Woodhall, I am willing to be of service to you.”
She inclined her head. “No, but I thank you for your time and . . .” Despite her best effort, her voice quavered. “Well. Never mind, then. Good day.”
She was not brave enough to look him in the eye before she turned and bolted for the door.
He watched her stride away. And the fire that burned in his gut wasn’t entirely anger.
Last night he’d been unforgivably rude, and she must still be upset by his effrontery.
In a way, he might consider his seizing her in the dark hall fair payback. A year earlier when they’d met, he’d been thoroughly taken aback by the woman. After months of letters from his sister filled with “Araminta says” and “Araminta thinks,” he’d been prepared to face a managing, loud-mouthed female with no grace and too much influence over his sister.
In the past he’d had to quietly get rid of a couple of other leeches who’d latched on to the kind-hearted Timona, hoping to get their hands on a piece of the Calverson fortune.
Araminta was indeed managing. She was also energetic, intelligent and beautiful.
He dropped into the chair where she’d sat and allowed himself a smile.
A few months earlier, Griffin had bedded a woman who resembled Araminta—an intelligent and talented creature, the only kind with whom he bothered to waste time. But she had not suited him. Pleasant but indolent, the well-paid lady had held no heat outside the bed.
Last night the sight of Araminta at Kane’s had made his pulse race again. Today he’d been almost excited to hear that she wished to speak to him. And thus annoyed at himself and on edge, for he did not like unrestrained eagerness.
Her accusations had blindsided him, and surprised him into retorts, instead of the more intelligent answer to such nonsense—ignoring the woman. He frowned, remembering her words. Did he discount servants?
Clearly her grudge lay in the fact that a year ago he had not greeted the cook as if she were an old family friend. Yet he sensed more in her: she felt attraction, too.
Griffin stared out the window at the street below, where the midday traffic was snarled by a broken-down hay wagon. The discomfort she showed as she talked about “the friend.” Clearly she was in some sort of trouble herself. Her indignation meant it wasn’t the sort of trouble that females so often got into. If not a pregnancy, what else could it be?
He knew that a chef’s work was arduous and occupied most of a day’s waking hours. Griffin was willing to bet the trouble had something to do with Kane or his household.
Eh, he’d already decided to hire Galvin to infiltrate Kane’s empire. One more assignment wouldn’t hurt.
He rang the bell that summoned a secretary, and then propped his booted feet on the desk, as he composed a plan and waited for someone to take a letter to Galvin.
Despite her refusal of help, he’d step in.
If Kane were as bad as the rumors he’d overheard the night before, Griffin would make sure his sister’s friend was safe. He’d planned to allow Williams to take over the Kane matter, but now he’d maintain a personal interest. For Timona’s sake. And perhaps, eventually, to his own advantage. He thought of Araminta’s plump mouth and the curving body he longed to explore. A very personal interest indeed.
CHAPTER 3
In Kane’s huge and sunny kitchen, Araminta reached for her apron. Her hands didn’t tremble, but they were still not entirely steady after her latest meeting with the self-important Mr. Calverson.
She pulled the apron over her head, shoved back the thin curtains covering the windows and opened the back door that led out to the garden. A chilled draft swept through the kitchen, but the room would soon be filled with heat from the two ovens and the ranges.
Araminta stopped for a moment to catch the scent of early spring, a welcome change from the usual New York stink of waste from horse and humanity. The garden would soon be lovely, and for a moment, she regretted having to leave, but she consoled herself with the thought that when she finally found the perfect place, she’d plant her own garden, and include herbs for her future restaurant’s kitchen.
She made her way to the dark back pantry to fetch the pastry shells she’d made earlier and began to mix the ingredients for the filling. And to come up with another plan to deal with Kane.
Her staff had taken advantage of her unusual absence and had disappeared. Araminta enjoyed the peace.
Olivia drifted into the kitchen. She wore a flowing morning dress. She usually dressed formally, but today her girlish figure was unbound by stays—likely the bruises inflicted by Kane pained her too much. She drew back from the sunlight, and Araminta guessed her head still hurt.
She gave Araminta a tentative smile. “I looked for you earlier. Where did you go?”
“To see an acquaintance who’s visiting New York.” Araminta flipped open the lid on the smaller icebox to check the ice supply. The block was nearly gone. She’d have to put in an early order.
She straightened and surveyed her friend. Olivia’s soft blond hair still rippled down her back like a china doll’s. “I forgot Kane dismissed your maid. Do you need help with your hair?”
Olivia shook her head. “He wants me to wear it down.”
“Oh? There is nothing elaborate planned for tonight’s meal. Is he expected back here?”
Olivia’s ivory brow furrowed. “He—he doesn’t tell me when he’ll come back. I don’t dare ask.”
Araminta made an impatient noise and dropped a head of garlic onto the counter. God knew she wanted to help Olivia, but sometimes she wondered if the poor thing could be rescued. “Olivia, I lose patience with you. Grow a backbone, my girl.”
She seized a havy knife and pressed down on the cloves to loosen the skin.
A quiet sniff made her look up. Olivia’s china-blue eyes had filled with tears.
“Araminta, please, don’t. You sound like you would leave. I am trying, truly. I would—” Olivia’s voice broke off. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Araminta’s anger dissolved. She wiped her hands on the apron and pulled the girl into a hug. All bones. Olivia needed to eat, and she needed to be distracted from her troubles.
“Come on, now, never mind. I’ll teach you to make a proper béchamel sauce, shall I? Or better still you can help me get some work done. Maggie’s off doing errands, and I don’t know where Jack is.”
Olivia, lovely despite the tears, wiped her eyes and nodded.
Araminta set her up in the corner with a chopping board and a knife and a bunch of parsley.
Olivia clumsily hacked at the parsley. “When I came into the kitchen you looked positively grim, Araminta. Was the visit with your friend unpleasant?”
Araminta heaved a huge pot of water onto the top of the range, then shoved more coal into the firebox next to the oven.
“He isn’t actually a friend.”
Olivia stopped chopping. “Ah, a man then.”
Araminta shuddered. “Oh, indeed he is.”
“You are interested in him.”
Araminta opened her mouth to protest but knew there was no point in denying it. She’d had several dreams about Griffin over the last year. Disturbing and lingering dreams. And just thinking of his touch last night could make her feel as if her skin had been brushed by a warm feather.
“Well! Is he interested in you?”
She laughed. “Perhaps as target practice.”
Olivia’s uneven thumping stopped again. Her eyes widened. “What can you mean?”
Araminta opened the clay butter holder and scooped several spoonfuls into the pan. “At our previous meetings, he was terribly rude. He did not answer my ‘pleased to meet you.’ Ha, he didn’t even bother to smile or nod. I greeted him and he stared at me as if I were a—a talking dog or something. No, it was worse. He stared right through me.”
Araminta considered telling Olivia about the strange meeting the night before. Better not, for she knew the girl had no defenses against Kane, and she didn’t want any reports getting back to him. She opened the glass jar of flour and continued, “And today. I went to speak to him and, uh, rather lost my temper.”
As she stirred the sauce, she told Olivia all that she’d blurted out at Griffin.
Olivia gasped. She put her hands over her mouth and began to laugh. “Truly, you couldn’t have.”
“I did.”
Olivia, still laughing, shook her head. “Araminta. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t, obviously.”
“Oh, I could never speak to anyone, certainly not a man, in such a manner. I have to admire your strength.”
Araminta wrinkled her nose as she recalled the tirade she’d directed at Calverson. “Strength? You mean bad manners.”
Olivia giggled, but then the smile faded from her face and she gave a few hard whacks with the knife. “Perhaps, but if I have learned anything in the last year, it is that in some situations, it is best not to beve like a lady.”
“Not so difficult for me, for I was never one to begin with.”
“Oh, pray stop, Araminta. You are as much a lady as any woman I know. You have . . . presence.”
Araminta gave her a smile. “Thank you. I shall have to remember that word. Presence. So much more impressive than shrewishness.”
They both laughed.
Araminta stirred the thickening flour and butter as she added cream. “So your troubles began a year ago?”
Olivia’s smile disappeared. “Forgive me,” she said softly. And Araminta knew that she meant she wouldn’t say anything else. The girl refused to discuss anything about her past.
“Fine, fine. I shan’t bother you about it.” Araminta shook her spoon at Olivia, who ducked her head with a slight smile.
After she finished with the parsley, Olivia left to “go for a nap,” she said, but Araminta saw the pinched, haunted look in her face. She looked unhappy or even ill, not tired. For a few minutes Araminta considered what this could mean, until the pace of work picked up and her thoughts turned to preparing the day’s meal.
As usual, when she threw herself into cooking, she could forget anything else. Only occasionally was she tweaked by the memory of Calverson. The image of his face, his body reclining in the chair as he examined her, or his strong, limber hands would flash into her mind.
Every few weeks, the Park Avenue mansion lay silent and closed up for twenty-four hours. On those quiet days she did not have off, Araminta caught up with the bills and orders or experimented with new recipes or created dishes that would not spoil to be used the next day.
One of those mornings, Araminta went to Kane’s, glad for the quiet. Still chafing at the memory of their peculiar encounter, she’d awoken that morning thinking of Griffin, knowing he must have haunted her sleep again.
She mixed and kneaded dough for some loaves of bread, and then she checked the supplies to make a list for the next week’s menus. Alice, the younger scullery maid, stood at the basin, scrubbing out the last of the servants’ breakfast dishes. Every now and again, Alice twisted sideways to stare out the kitchen door into the garden. Plainly the girl longed to be outside.
Araminta put down her pencil and stood up. “Leave it, Alice, and trot round to the Miltie’s pushcart and see if he has any cucumbers.” She pulled her purse from her pocket and put some coins in Alice’s hand. “And I think that the corner store where he parks his cart has made some ice cream. Stop and get yourself a dish.”
Alice bobbed a curtsy and, grinning, ran out the door.
A few minutes later, Araminta went to build up the fire for the ovens, but the scuttle was empty. “Alice? Would you fetch some coal? Or get Bill to do it?”
No answer.
She gave a click of disgust—the girl was on the errand, of course. Araminta grabbed the scuttle’s handle and started down the steps to the dark basement room where the coal was kept. The lamp Jack was supposed to keep trimmed and ready at the bottom of the stairs was out of fuel. She was just starting back up the stairs for the kerosene and scissors when a soft shuffling sound stopped her.
Rats. Oh, how she despised rats.
But then a man with a peculiar wheezing voice spoke at the other end of the passageway. “Christ almighty. I told you todo him by the river. We wouldn’t have to go through all this fuss if you’d follow directions.”
Araminta clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.
Another man spoke. “Yeah, and Kane’ll have our guts for garters if he finds out we’re here. Dammit, Bacon, this ain’t private enough. We’ll have to find somewhere else for storage.”
Heart pounding, Araminta pressed tight into the dark corner by the stairs. She didn’t move, not even to brush away the cobweb tickling her cheek, until she heard the two men, thumping and cursing quietly, shoving their way out the basement hatch door.
What could they be about? Something so wicked they didn’t want Kane to know of it? A quiver of fear ran through her.
She counted to one hundred. Then, determined to appear as normal as possible, she walked with shaky steps to the room that held the bin. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she had no desire for light as she filled the scuttle, scrabbling at the chunks of coal in her rush.
When she returned to the kitchen, she couldn’t concentrate on her work, and almost sliced off her thumb.
Someone had to be told. She had to make a search. At last she forced herself to creep back down to the basement holding an oil lamp. Squatting, she scanned the hard-packed dirt floor where the men had stood. She found nothing—no drops of blood, only a rock lying in a corner, a polished bit of pink rose quartz that she slipped into her pocket.
For the rest of the day she worked automatically, her mind lost in disturbed thought. Whom could she tell? The police? Oh, certainly. A man named Bacon and his friend had dragged something into the house and then hauled it back out again. And her evidence that there was foul play?
Nothing more than a peculiar conversation, and perhaps this pretty pebble, officer.
She could imagine what might follow. The police would mark her down as a hysterical woman. Or worse, if she’d interpreted the whole thing correctly, she might be the next one dragged to a basement.
Even if the police believed her, they might not act. Timona had blithely told her about how the police were paid off by businesses like Kane’s. Griffin had told his sister about the corruption.
Of course. Calverson.
Griffin Calverson would know what to do. He said he knew a great deal about Kane, after all. The thought drifted through her head, but she tried to ignore it.
Even work could not keep Araminta from thinking of what she’d heard in the basement. Restless, and then at last discouraged, she knew she would ask Griffin Calverson whom to contact. He’d tell her if her story was even worth telling.
She’d send round a note. Anything rather than face the man again.
That evening, she crumpled sheet after sheet of paper, trying to think of how to apologize and ask for advice without groveling or further insulting the man.
She at last settled for “May I call upon you at your hotel?”
The answer came the next day in the form of an unsigned note on Fifth Avenue Hotel notepaper, delivered by messenger.
“Tomorrow morning.”