CHAPTER 4
Calverson rose and walked to the front of the desk. “Have you come to apologize?”
Araminta stood in the sunny library of his hotel suite and wished she could think of someone else, anyone else, in New York who might be able to help her.
He waved to a velvet chair near the fireplace. She walked over to it and ordered her legs to bend so that she might sit.
“Yes. I am sorry,” she said, her voice as rigid as her body felt. “Mr. Calverson, once again I must say that I am dreadfully sorry to have bothered you. The only reason I have is that I do not know to whom else I might turn. Thank you for agreeing to listen.”
Rather than look up at the man standing near her chair, she focused on the huge circle of sunlight that lit the gleaming elaborate parquet floor in front of her, and seemed to set the wood on fire.
He sank into the chair that matched hers. “I suppose I should be grateful that you don’t mind returning to visit an upper-class mannerless nincompoop.”
She tried hard not to squirm or blush, without success. “I wish you didn’t recall what I said that day.”
“I assure you, I remember it well.” He pitched his voice slightly higher, not a crude mockery, at least. “ ‘In the Calverson organization when Mr. Griffin Calverson even implies a thing, it’s truth straight from the mouth of God. No wonder he’s come to believe he’s better than the rest of mankind.’ ”
She winced. Why had she said that to a man she barely knew? And a man like him!
He went on, his voice as cool and slick as silk. “In truth, Araminta, I am not sure why you would seek advice from, ah, ‘a heartless brute.’ ”
Oh bah. She had hoped he would not remember that particular phrase. She absently pulled off her gloves and squeezed them tight, trying to dismiss her discomfiture.
“Why are you frowning? Don’t you recall those words?” he asked.
“I am fighting the desire to apologize yet again.”
“Please, feel free to beg my pardon.”
She glanced over at his face at last. His gaze did not seem particularly pleasant, but then again, it was not angry. Unreadable, naturally. She’d allow herself one bit of recklessness. “I know I was unspeakably ill-mannered, but I don’t think I’ll apologize again.” At least she managed to keep from uttering the rest of her thought:
for I was also correct.
And before he could continue with this dreadful conversation, she rushed ahead. “I need to ask you, or rather tell you—or someone—I suspect that Mr. Kane has some evil men working for him. I do not know what I should do.”
Not a particularly smooth way to pose her dilemma, but she got his attention diverted from the subject of her last visit.
He leaned back, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “Go on,” he said gently. “Explain.”
And she managed to get out the story of the two men with what she thought might be an inconvenient corpse.
Griffin did not exclaim in horror or laugh at her or even widen his eyes. He waited until she’d finished her tale to ask, “You didn’t see them?”
“No.” She felt in her pocket and pulled out the small stone. “I went back later and found this.”
He bent forward. “May I?” He took it from her palm, and she started as his warm fingers grazed her bare hand.
Her gloves lay forgotten in her lap. She quickly thrust her hands back into them.
Griffin apparently didn’t notice, for he only studied the stone. “I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind.”
Something like relief filled her. At least she wasn’t wasting their time. “Then you do think the men were up to no good?”
He still stared at the stone. “I don’t know.”
“What should I do? I mean, ought I tell the police?”
He raised his head. She steadily met the considering gaze of the green eyes. When he spoke, he sounded almost tender. “I think it is best if you forget what you overheard, Araminta.”
The relief gave way to a shudder, and cold dread trickled through her again.
Her distress must have been obvious, for he remarked, “You look as if you need some tea.”
She straightened her back and groped for her bag. “Thank you, but I must return to work.”
He rose from his chair. “You say you want my advice? Leave Kane’s household, at once.”
She’d considered that idea, of course, but wasn’t about to admit it to Calverson. “Even if I did overhear something . . . horrible, Kane wasn’t in the basement. And they said he’d have their guts for garters.”
“Perhaps only because they planned to keep whatever or whoever it was in his house. Had that occurred to you?”
It had. She’d carefully watched every nuance of the swaggering, noisy Kane’s manner. “He is behaving exactly as he always does. I know he is a bully. And I can easily imagine him beating Oliv—someone to death. But cold-blooded murder? No.” She reflected a moment. “Nor do I think he is a good enough actor to hide such a thing.”
He dropped the pebble into his jacket pocket and said in his usual brisk manner, “I hope you are right. I will make sure, if you don’t mind.” He waved off her protest and said, “I have my own reasons. Call it curiosity.”
She nodded and got to her feet, glad to have told someone. “Thank you for your offer of tea, Mr. Calverson. But I think . . . there is nothing I can do but wait and watch.”
When he walked to stand near her, she was almost astonished that she did not have to lean back to see up into his eyes. She had forgotten he was only a few inches taller than she. The clean, strong lines of his features and body held so much power he might have towered over her.
“You called me Griffin last time we met,” he said. “What has changed?”
She had to smile. “Perhaps I’ve learned some manners?”
“I hope not.”
Araminta gazed into his unreadable face. She had thought a man like Griffin did not indulge in banter, but there was the unmistakable gleam of humor in his eyes.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll take some tea in the sitting room.”
This new facet of Griffin made her too curious to walk away. “Yes. Please. I think I would like a cup of tea after all.”
Clutching her handbag tight, she tried to stroll rather than scurry past him as he waited by the door. She would not feel like a mouse around the man. Or rather, she would, but she would not let him see her timidity.
As they walked across the spacious apartment, Araminta admired the huge arched windows, the thick, soft carpets, the armloads of fresh flowers. She had worked in stately homes before and could tell the difference between real and false elegance. Kane’s mansion was all show, with wood paintneaok like marble in the fireplaces and pressed veneer rather than carved mahogany furniture.
The appointments of this hotel’s apartment were less lavish—far less ornamental molding or gold and silver leaf—but she was certain that the details were real. The urn by the huge mantel, for instance, was surely ancient Chinese. Her mother would have known, for she adored antiquities.
She turned her attention to her host and studied him covertly, or so she thought until he spoke.
“Why do you stare? Have I a smudge on my brow?”
“I—I am searching for any resemblance to dear Timona.”
“And do I look like my sister?”
She hesitated. “No, though you both have brown hair and green eyes.”
“No other difference?”
Was the man trying to goad her? “Very well, then. Timona smiles easily, but you never do. In fact, your face never offers anything like encouragement.”
“I have no need to encourage anyone,” he said and shot a sidelong glance at her, as if waiting for her response.
No doubt about it. He wanted to irk her. She pasted a smile onto her face, determined not to allow herself to fly off the handle again.
He put his hand on her arm, a light touch but one that shimmered through her whole body. She held her breath. Remaining here for tea was not a good idea.
He’d been of help to her—furthermore, she felt certain that he would take some sort of action. Because of him, she could return to work and pretend she’d never heard that strange conversation in the basement. She owed him her gratitude.
But she’d be safer nosing around Kane’s business than staying too long in this man’s presence. “Mr. Calverson, I beg your pardon. Thank you for your offer of tea, but I think I should take my leave.”
Griffin grasped Araminta’s elbow, determined not to let her escape. “You act as if you’re afraid of me. Do you believe I’ll offer you a tirade with the tea? Only bread and butter, I assure you.”
She hesitated a moment, then gave him a small, almost shy smile. “You’re right, I am being silly.”
Over the last few days, since her last, unexpected visit, Griffin had wondered how he could approach her. Instead the fly had walked straight into the spider’s parlor. But no, not an apt analogy, for he did not plan to destroy Araminta. For one, his sister would never forgive him if he hurt her friend. For another... Well, Griffin had the pedigree but didn’t call himself a gentleman—he had spent too much time in too many ungentlemanly situations. Yet he had enough breeding not to hurt a woman, especially not a servant. His plans for Araminta involved far more pleasurable pursuits.
He led Araminta to the sofa. She gave a regal incline of the head in acknowledgment. Queen Araminta. When she wasn’t Termagant Araminta.
He waited for her to take a seat before taking the chair across from her.
The door opened and Annie, the maid, entered, pushing a cart laden with the teacups, two steaming silver pots and plates of small sandwiches and biscuits.
“Oh,” breathed Araminta. Her expressive face lit like a child’s upon spotting a longed-for plaything.
Griffin swallowed a smile. “Homesick?”
She shifted her dark gaze to him. “How do you manage to read minds, Mr. Calverson?”
“I haeen the same longing cross a number of English faces. And remember, I’m Griffin. Araminta.”
He enjoyed the way her face flushed with interest and suspicion at his words. Araminta Woodhall was remarkably easy to read, but an interesting subject nonetheless. Far more interesting than her dull maternal grandfather, the only other member of her family Griffin had met. A starchy British banker, Woodhall had been puffed up with his own self-worth.
Too bad he couldn’t ask Araminta what she thought of her grandfather. He wasn’t certain if she even knew the man’s identity. He was reasonably sure she’d be offended if Griffin revealed that he did.
She murmured her thanks to Annie, who retorted with her usual cheeky, “Oh, sure. You’re entirely welcome.”
Araminta sank back into the cushions, clutching a delicate Meissen china plate of food and her tea. She watched the maid, her curiosity obvious.
Griffin nodded, and Annie left.
“Are you enjoying New York?” he asked.
“Somewhat.” She picked up the teacup, took a sip and closed her eyes and gave an audible groan. Dead easy to imagine that passionate look and sound elsewhere. He watched, fascinated, as she nibbled a crustless sandwich. Such a luscious mouth.
She gave another tentative smile. “The tea is perfect, though I should not be surprised. Calverson food and drink always appears and tastes perfect.”
“That was why my sister hired you once, after all.” She looked over at him again, and her grin widened. He’d never noticed the way her eyes shone when she beamed, possibly because she hadn’t favored him with such an expression before.
Araminta sipped her tea. “That was only one reason she hired me. Perhaps I would work for her still if she had not insisted on living so far from civilization.”
She looked around the apartment as if searching for a topic of conversation. He waited, curious to see what she managed to scrape up. “Your maid . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Annie.”
“Yes. She is, er, pretty.”
Griffin hid a smile at her diplomatic way of putting “wears far too much face paint and looks like a tart.”
“She is well aware of it.”
Araminta bent her head over her teacup rather than meet his eye. “She’s unusual.”
“Indeed. And Becky is even worse. I hope you notice that Annie is not particularly deferential? Not what you’d call a toadying servant.”
She blushed, and he enjoyed the sight of her confusion for a moment before continuing. “But I’d rather not discuss my domestic staff.”
“Oh.” She seemed less bold than the Araminta he remembered.
Perhaps Kane and the city diminished her vibrancy, or perhaps she was dampened because she held a leash on her fiery temperament. He did not want to bother with polite small talk—not with her—and since she would not come to the point, he would drag her there. He already knew she wasn’t Kane’s mistress. What kind of trouble had she landed herself in?