When informed by her butler that the Earl of Pentland had called unannounced and was awaiting her inside, Helen Ipswich had been at first extremely pleased. After all these years, her standoffish country neighbour was calling on her. Perhaps she was finally going to be accepted by the haut ton. Those prized vouchers for Almack’s would be hers this Season. At last!
Her triumph was short-lived, however. As she discarded her bonnet and anxiously checked her reflection in her boudoir mirror, several things colluded to disabuse her of her initial optimism. It was four in the afternoon, well past the time for morning calls. In any case, single gentlemen did not pay morning calls unaccompanied—not unless they had a certain purpose in mind, and she knew for a fact that Rafe St Alban was not one of those. The man was a rake, but he did not rake with the likes of her. And come to think of it, the card of invitation she had sent for her last rout party had been politely declined and by his secretary at that—she doubted it had even reached his high-and-mighty lordship’s eyes. No, whatever had brought Rafe St Alban here, it was neither to exchange polite pleasantries nor offer improper contracts.
In her drawing room, as she looked up into his hard countenance, at those slate-grey eyes of his that met hers with cold contempt, Helen Ipswich repressed a shudder. There were few people capable of intimidating her, but there was something about this man that warned her he was not to be trifled with. Wisely, she refrained from extending her hand and instead took a seat, disposing the full skirts of her salmon-pink walking dress elegantly around her. ‘Well, my lord, I am sorry to have kept you waiting. If you had perhaps informed me that you intended calling… .’
‘I did not know until a short while ago that it would be necessary.’ Rafe remained standing, ignoring her suggestion that he be seated. ‘I have come upon a matter of some import.’
Now that she had had a chance to recover her nerves, Helen Ipswich coolly appraised her unexpected guest. He looked tired and his boots were far from the glossy perfection for which he was famed. His coat, too, was somewhat creased, and as for his neckcloth—it looked as if it had been tied without a mirror. ‘We have not seen you in town this last while,’ she said sweetly.
‘Since we have very few acquaintance in common, that is hardly surprising,’ Rafe replied curtly.
‘I believe you were in the country until recently, like myself. A shame you did not see fit to call on me then,’ Helen Ipswich continued, through gritted teeth.
‘With luck, this will be my first and last visit.’
‘Sir, you are impertinent.’
‘And you, my lady, are a fraud.’
Lady Ipswich gasped. ‘How dare you!’ Beneath her delicately applied rouge, her cheeks flushed. ‘I will not stand to be insulted in my own home.’ Frantically trawling through her memory for a clue as to what on earth Rafe St Alban could possibly hold against her, Helen Ipswich found herself at a temporary loss. Then a truly horrible thought occurred to her, but it was instantly dismissed. She had covered her tracks too well. She flicked open a fan and applied it vigorously. ‘La, my lord, I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about,’ she said more confidently.
Rafe forced himself to take a seat opposite her, crossing his legs, taking his time to calm himself, to order his thoughts. Helen Ipswich was definitely rattled. He recrossed his legs. ‘Then I shall enlighten you,’ he said laconically. ‘I require several things, none of them negotiable.’
Helen Ipswich raised a delicately plucked brow. ‘Indeed? You will forgive me if I tell you, my lord, that you are impertinent. The days are long gone when I entered into any non-negotiable deal.’ She permitted herself a small smile.
Rafe’s brows snapped together. ‘You will discover to your cost, my lady, that if you do not heed me, then the next deal you will be negotiating will be with the Newgate gatekeeper.’ Ignoring her protest, he got to his feet and began to list his demands. ‘The first, and most important, thing I want is for the outrageous allegations made by you concerning Henrietta Markham to be withdrawn.’
Lady Ipswich put a hand to her mouth to suppress her gasp of horror. She had no intention of going down without a fight. ‘Ah, yes, Miss Markham,’ she said with admirable control. ‘You have surely not fallen for that cock-and-bull story she told you?’
‘You mean the one where she was hit over the head by a housebreaker, then accused by you as an accessory and threatened with incarceration? Not only do I believe her, I have irrefutable proof that she is telling the truth.’
‘What proof?’
‘Why, the best proof of all, from the horse’s mouth,’ Rafe said carefully. He watched as the full import of what he had said sank in. Even Helen Ipswich’s perfect maquillage could not disguise the grey tinge to her complexion. Her hands were visibly shaking.
‘I’ve met the gentleman you employed to fake the break-in, who goes by the somewhat colourful sobriquet of Scouse Larry, and had a most enlightening conversation with him.’
Helen Ipswich’s mouth dropped open most unbecomingly, her fan clattered to the floor, but she made a valiant attempt to pull herself together, sitting up straight in her seat and clasping her fingers tightly together. ‘You have quite lost me, I’m afraid.’ She sounded as if a sharp stone had caught in her throat. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
In contrast, Rafe’s tone was smooth. ‘He was not over-eager to confess, your stooge, but he was even less eager to go to the gallows for a crime he did not commit. When he found out that you’d duped him, he was most keen to cooperate. The facts are irrefutable. You paid him to fake a break-in in order to cover your own tracks. You’d already sold your emeralds by then. What was it, gambling debts?’ He could tell by the way she flinched that he’d hit the mark. ‘Don’t you know that you shouldn’t play if you can’t pay, my lady? Very bad ton. But then, how would you know?’
‘I did not—’
Rafe raised a hand imperiously. ‘Do not even attempt to deny it. You will call off that Runner of yours, tell him there was no robbery. Tell him your emeralds were away being cleaned at the jewellers and it slipped your mind. Tell him the housebreaker was a figment of your fevered imagination. Tell him the whole thing was a mean trick being played on you by one of your friends. Tell him anything you like, provided you make it clear there was no crime.’
‘But I can’t do that. I’ll look a complete fool.’
‘If you don’t, that will be the least of your worries. I’ll make you a social outcast, a pariah. To say nothing of ensuring that it is known you are reduced to selling off your children’s inheritance.’
Lady Ipswich clutched at her bosom.
Rafe settled back into his chair. Helen Ipswich looked like a whipped cur. ‘Let’s face facts—were it not for the protection of your dead husband’s name, you wouldn’t even be tolerated on the fringes of society, as you are now. Your reputation is as flimsy as gossamer; one puff from me and you will be quite gone. Do you really want that?’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘You know perfectly well that I would and I could.’
She did, perfectly well. It was one thing for the Earl of Pentland to look down his aristocratic nose at her from a distance, but quite another for him to publicly spurn her, and that was all it would take for uncomfortable questions to be raised and all those years of discretion undone. ‘How can I tell them it was a mistake? What the devil do you care, anyway, about that damned governess? A mere nobody! Why, she—’
Rafe was towering over her before she could move to avoid him. She shrank back in her chair, her hands instinctively at her throat as if to prevent him throttling her—for that is what he looked as if he would do.
‘Unlike you, Henrietta Markham has scruples. Not only is she innocent, the accusations you have levelled upon her weigh extremely heavy. She has been crushed by your maligning her. God dammit, she was in your employ. You were responsible for her. Could not you of all people understand what it is to be alone and helpless? Deception is your stock-
in-trade, my lady. I’m sure you will come up with some plausible tale to tell the authorities. I don’t give a damn what it is, provided you succeed. Do I make myself perfectly plain?’
Helen Ipswich nodded slowly.
‘And I want it done now. Today. At once. Or I fear the rumours will begin to fly, and the paste copies you have no doubt had made of your damned emeralds will be subject to rather closer inspection than they can bear. Are we clear upon that, too?’
Another reluctant nod. Helen Ipswich licked her lips. They felt dry and thin, despite the carmine she had applied earlier.
‘Then I will take my leave, madam. I trust our paths will not have to cross again.’
‘I will ensure that they do not,’ Helen Ipswich said, through very gritted teeth. ‘I will do as you ask.’
‘I never doubted it,’ Rafe replied contemptuously. ‘Self-preservation often walks hand in hand with self-interest. You are endowed with an acute sense of both. I will bid you goodbye.’
The door closed behind him. Helen Ipswich sat for some moments, pleating the elegant fringe that bordered her walking dress, her mind seeking frantically for another way out, darting first one way and another, like a rat in a trap. But there was no other way and she was never a woman to waste energy repining over lost causes.
With a resigned sigh she rose, rang the bell by the fireplace to summon her butler and demanded that her footman be sent immediately to Bow Street and not to return without either the magistrate or a certain Runner, as she had important news for them. Then she set her mind to the tricky task of fabricating a plausible story to tell them.
* * *
Henrietta paced up and down the bedchamber at the Mouse and Vole, anxiously checking the time on the clock tower outside. She felt as if she had been whirled too fast in a country jig. Her mind was positively reeling. To have been falsely accused was bad enough, but to discover it had been a quite deliberate act! That someone could be so utterly self-serving, and that someone then turn out to be her employer, was beyond belief. And yet it must be true. Why would Scouse Larry lie?
In the course of these last three days at the Mouse and Vole, while Benjamin had attempted to track down the thief, she had almost forgotten the shame and horror of the accusations levelled against her. Now they returned with full force. When she thought of how close she had come to being arrested, of the real possibility that she would have been found guilty—dear heavens, she felt as if she might faint for the first time in her life. And all because Lady Ipswich needed money. Not that she could really need money, not in the way those people in Petticoat Lane needed it. That was real need! And not even need such as that would justify putting two other innocent lives in danger. A criminal Scouse Larry might be, but he didn’t deserve to be hanged. Henrietta’s blood positively boiled.
‘Let Rafe make her confess,’ she said fervently. ‘Please, let Rafe make her confess and let her beg for forgiveness on bended knees,’ she added, warming to the subject. ‘Let her promise to change. Let her see the error of her ways. Oh, and let her call off the Runners. Please let her call off the Runners.’
Where was Rafe? Perhaps Lady Ipswich was not in town, after all. Would he have travelled back to the country in search of her? What if he could not persuade her to drop the charges? What if she simply denied it all? But Rafe would find a way to persuade Lady Ipswich. Most likely he was late because—because…
Where was Rafe?
The clock outside chimed another hour. The time was passing interminably slowly. Pulling a pair of woollen stockings, which were long overdue for darning, from her bandbox, Henrietta threaded a needle and sat down on the bed. He would be back as soon as he could. She had utter faith in him, even if she had no idea where he was and what he was doing.
She set a neat stitch, then paused, her needle in mid-air. She missed him. She would miss him a lot more in the very near future, when all of this was over. It was a most melancholy fact, and she wished fervently that it had not occurred to her just now, but the thing she had most wanted, to clear her name, was now the thing which would deprive her of her heart’s desire.
Her heart’s desire.
She loved him.
Oh, dear heavens! She loved him. She was in love with Rafe St Alban. Her needle dropped into her lap. She loved him. It was ridiculous. Impossible. And absolutely, irrefutably true. The Honourable Rafe St Alban, Earl of Pentland, Baron of Gyle and who knows what other titles he possessed—this man, this one, was the love of her life. Of course he was!
Of course. The smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth faded. She could not be in love with him. But why else did she feel as she did whenever he was near her? That tingling, bubbling, breathless feeling—what else could that be but love? Why else did she desire him and only him, save that she loved him? Why else had she never felt any of this before? Because she hadn’t met him. Because she was still waiting to meet him. Because she would only ever feel any of this for him. Only him.
She loved him. Surely love conquered all? Surely love could redeem and reform? Surely if he knew—if he could see—if he could…
‘Could what, Henrietta?’ she asked herself. ‘Love you?’
She shivered. Rafe said he could never love again. Rafe said he would never marry again. But Rafe had also said that Henrietta made him break his own rules.
‘He said I turn his world upside down,’ she said, picking up her needle. ‘He said I make him feel. Surely one feeling can lead to another, more profound feeling?’ In the first flush of optimism that love inspires, she thought it might. The desperate yearning to have it so ensured that any doubts were banished to the cold recesses of her mind, forbidden even the faint tapping on the window of reality. She loved him. She longed for him to love her. It could happen. It would!
The clock chimed another hour. Her needle was making very desultory progress on the threadbare patch of her stocking, so entranced was she by the dreams she was weaving, that she was barely aware of time passing, until the door opened. Needle, stocking and her spare skein of wool went flying as Henrietta launched herself at the tall figure in the doorway.
Chapter Nine
‘You’re back. You’ve been an age. I’ve been so worried.’ Her arms were around his neck before she could stop herself, her body pressed safe against his.
Rafe kicked shut the door, but made no attempt to disentangle himself. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her and leant his chin on her curls and breathed in her scent. It felt so good. She felt so good. ‘Lady Ipswich was out when I got there. I had to wait,’ he said.
‘But you saw her?’ With her cheek pressed against his chest, her voice was muffled.
‘Yes, I saw her. And it took a bit of persuasion, but she admitted to it all in the end. She will call off her Runner.’
‘Oh, my God! I can’t believe it. Really? Truly?’
Henrietta raised a shining face to his. Her eyes were dark chocolate-coloured tonight, the gold flecks in them more pronounced. She looked as if he had just given her something priceless. Perhaps he had. ‘Really,’ Rafe said, planting a kiss on her upturned nose. ‘Truly.’
‘And I will be cleared of all her accusations?’
‘All of them.’
‘Oh, Rafe! You’re wonderful. I never doubted— But I didn’t know how and— But you are simply marvellous.’ She pressed a fervent kiss on his gloved hand. ‘Sit down and tell me everything.’
Rafe laughed. Tossing his hat and gloves on to the table, he pulled her down on the bed beside him and gave her an account of his interview. He could not have asked for a more enthusiastic or grateful audience. Henrietta clapped her hands, praised his ingenuity and positively hissed at Helen Ipswich’s perfidy, as if she were the audience at a melodrama. He had thought he understood how much of a burden the crime had weighed upon her, but he realised, seeing her unalloyed delight at it being removed, how much he had underestimated it. He felt good. He felt he had done something good for the first time in ages.
‘So, you can now stop fretting about Newgate,’ he said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.
‘And gaol fever,’ Henrietta said with a chuckle. The relief was so intense, she felt almost drunk with it. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me,’ she said before placing a hand on his shoulder and brushing his cheek with her mouth. A thank-you kiss, no more. But the taste of his skin made her lips linger and he moved his face just a fraction, so that they lingered on his mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean— I just wanted to…’ She tried to shuffle away from him, but he restrained her. She tried to ignore the sharp stab of awareness that accelerated her breathing. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous,’ Rafe murmured, nuzzling his cheek against hers.
‘Shall I— Would you like me to ask Meg to send up some food?’
‘I’m not that kind of hungry,’ Rafe said, kissing her. Then he kissed her again, pulling her closer, absorbing the feel of her, the softness, the curves, the sweetness, the delicious taste of her, with every part of him. He kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head down and kissed him back just exactly as if she felt the same.
Passion flared and quickly, greedily, consumed them. Their kisses fired it, the memory of their previous pleasures fuelled it, the traumatic events of the day lent it an edge of desperation, stood them high on a precipice from which they yearned to tumble.
Henrietta kissed and clutched and moaned and pressed her lips, her breasts, her thighs, closer and closer to the man she loved so desperately, the man she so desperately wanted to love her back. Clothes ripped and were frantically discarded. Rafe’s hands on her face, on her arms, her shoulders, her waist, stoked heat and fire and flame, making her burn, searing her, so that the slow build, the gentle climb, to her first climax seemed tame by comparison. This heat, this wild desire, this not-to-be-denied, aching, pulsing need, was beyond anything she had ever dreamed of. If she did not—if he did not—she would die. She would die, anyway, of this, and she didn’t care.
Rake with a Frozen Heart Page 16