Griffin Calverson strolled from the dining room through the middle parlor,
careful to keep his face a mask of indifference. Behind him, the soft slap of
cards punctuated men’s conversation and raucous laughter. He shoved open
a massive oak door he suspected was meant to discourage any member of the public
from wandering out of the first floor gaming rooms. Cigar smoke thickened the
air and trailed him into the empty corridor.
Griffin rubbed his chin and pondered his next move. A friend had brought him
to this gambling parlor, and so far, he’d managed to avoid being introduced
to Kane, who would recognize his last name. Kane’s greedy hands were trying
to dip into Calverson Company coffers.
The man had to be stopped.
A few minutes earlier, Kane had reappeared in the dining room after a long
absence, the fixed smile more pronouncedly false. Something back here had ruffled
the man, and Griffin decided to indulge his piqued curiosity. Just a quick snoop
round. And he’d heard a rumor he wanted to confirm.
The air in this deserted back corridor was only slightly less rancid than that
in the parlors, but Griffin breathed deep, putting his thoughts in order. He became
aware of a slight prickling, like a soft touch on his skin. Someone watched him.
He glanced up, his gaze following the sweep of an ornate stair that led to
the upper chambers, to the shadows at the top where a woman’s form stood,
unmoving, looking down.
Good God, so the rumor was true. This was where the woman had ended up. There
was no mistaking the lovely curve from waist to hip. The elegant set of the slightly
tilted head, seen in silhouette, matched the memory that occasionally distracted
him.
Araminta.
What the hell was she doing working here?
If he knew her, perhaps she recognized him. He’d have to speak to her.
He started toward the stairs, tamping down sudden, unexpected eagerness.
The oak door behind him opened. Araminta vanished into the shadows of the upstairs
hall.
Kane’s starched and impressive butler stood and frowned at Griffin, who
set his shoulders and stared down the man with frigid hauteur.
The butler immediately showed an apologetic smile as wide and false as Kane’s.
“Sir? I’m sorry, but we prefer our customers remain in the front parlors.
Coffee is being served in the dining room.“
“Of course.” Griffin strolled past him. “I beg your pardon.”
In the dining room, Melrose, the odious but useful acquaintance who’d
brought Griffin here, lounged in a chair, three sheets to the wind, bragging about
his recent mining deals in Colorado. Griffin knew the dark-haired oily man listening
and beaming was Kane, and so he took a chair well away from the two of them.
He fell into conversation with a thin stick of a lawyer who looked dyspeptic.
“I enjoy a few hands of vingt et un, but mostly I come for the dinner,”
the lawyer confided. “She’ll be out soon.”
“She?”
“The gal who does it. Wish I could steal her, I tell you. All the rage
just because she cooked for a duchess and that eccentric whatshername. Timona
Caleston.”
“Calverson,” Griffin muttered. He didn’t bother to add his
sister’s last name was now actually McCann.
“Yeah. For all the fuss, she’s as skilled in the kitchen as any
Pierre or Jacques – better even.” The stick smiled. “And tastier
to look at.”
Kane’s raised voice rumbled over the conversations. “Ah, Miss Araminta.”
Griffin leaned back. He draped his arm over the top of the chair and examined
Kane’s cook.
She had the voluptuous hourglass figure of a Bowery actress, but the demeanor
of royalty. Her eyes were dark, delicious, exotic, her skin the radiant color
of dark clover honey in sunlight. Her hair, a mass of curls, had been drawn into
a tight knot at the back of her head, but enough raven locks had escaped to frame
her face. He fancied that the last time they’d met, her hair had been shorter.
She looked straight into his face. Her full lips parted slightly and she blushed.
He narrowed his eyes, hoping she’d see his warning. Perhaps she did, for
she looked away at once.
The men, filled with her excellent cooking and Kane’s good wine, applauded,
stamped their feet and whistled at her. She murmured some nonsense about “enjoying
their visit,” though Griffin was amused to hear that she sounded as if she
cursed them all.
And then for another long moment, her glowing dark eyes stared into his face.
Several of Kane’s other patrons turned to see where her attention had focused.
Amused, and a bit rattled, Griffin frowned, then shifted his gaze from her eyes
to the wineglass he held. He felt almost as if he’d broken physical contact.
Damn the woman for showing the room she recognized him. He already knew Araminta
Woodhall displayed every emotion on that lovely face. And as far as he could tell,
every emotion for her was a strong one. Luckily Kane had been distracted by Melrose
and didn’t notice.
When Griffin looked up from the ornate crystal glass, Araminta had disappeared.
He’d endure a few hands of cards and then go seek her out. He needed
to make sure she wouldn’t babble to Kane. And, he reasoned, he owed it to
his sister to find out why her former employee worked for that unscrupulous twit.
He took a gulp of wine and wondered why the blazes she’d stared at him in
such a marked manner. The possibilities were intriguing.
