The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2
Page 21
He held her worried gaze and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, of course.”
She gave a tight smile in return before heading toward the stairs.
Hell. She doesn’t believe me.
With a heavy sigh, he entered his suite and rang for his valet. If Jonathon told her about Riddle before he did, she would be as angry as a cat caught in the rain. Even worse than that, her faith in him would be shattered.
Christ, I need a drink. As he poured himself a brandy—there was always a full decanter in his sitting room—he tried to convince himself that it would be unfair to burden Georgie with insubstantial information about an indistinct threat. Which meant he would continue to lie to her unless and until her brother forced him to reveal what little he did know.
Needs must when the devil drives, eh, Markham? He tossed back a sizeable swig of the brandy and his mouth twisted into a wry grimace.
Sadly, that expression should probably be his epitaph.
“Markham, I thought I’d find you here.”
Rafe turned in his seat before the library fire and met Jonathon Winterbourne’s hard, blue gaze. He raised his whisky glass. “Care for a dram before bed? It’s courtesy of Rothsburgh. From his illicit stash.” Dinner was long since over and it seemed that everyone bar himself and Jonathon had retired for the night. Rafe had simply been filling in time until he could pay an unobserved visit to Georgie’s suite. However, it now appeared he and Jonathon were about to have ‘their talk’.
“No.” Jonathon flicked out the tails of his evening jacket as he took a seat in the opposite wingback chair. “Care to explain this?” He tossed a calling card onto the mahogany table beside Rafe.
Frowning, Rafe, put down his glass and picked up the card. Ice-cold fear gripped his chest as he took in the print. Herr Maximilian Scherzfrage appeared in embossed black letters upon the ivory card. But it was the message scrawled on the back in blood-red ink that chilled him the most.
Please give my regards to the Duchess. It would be most rude of a gentleman to dash off without having done so.
Fuck. His instincts had been correct. This was a very personal cat and mouse game. The problem was, he still hadn’t the slightest idea who his opponent was, or his endgame. And Georgie was in danger.
“Well? Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Rafe met Jonathon’s blistering glare. “How did you come by this?”
“My valet found it when he was laundering the greatcoat I wore this morning. That bloody foreign bastard must have slipped it into my pocket when I was settling the account.”
Rafe nodded. “Winterbourne...” There was no way around it; he didn’t like it but he was going to have to make a confession about his past occupation. “Not many know this—actually only Phillip and a few others in Lord Castlereagh’s office—but up until a year ago, I worked for the Crown. But not as a diplomat.”
Jonathon smirked. “So a bloody spy then. I thought as much.”
“I know Georgie has her suspicions as well, but I have refrained from disclosing any information to her about my past. As you can well understand, the fewer people who know about my former activities, the better.”
“That’s all well and good, but it looks like your past,” Jonathon glanced meaningfully at the calling card that Rafe still held, “is not dead and buried. And somehow my sister has been dragged into the whole murky business. Who is this devil, Scherzfrage, and what does he want?”
Rafe tossed the card onto the table before running a hand down his face. Frustration clawed at his gut. “Believe me, I wish I knew.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Rafe sighed. “I know.”
Jonathon leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward his chest. “I don’t believe you. You strike me as a fellow who has a formidable memory for names and faces.”
“He’s using a false name,” explained Rafe. “Its literal translation is ‘greatest riddle’. The bastard is playing some sick game. He probably isn’t even German.”
“Christ.” Jonathon sat back in his chair. His face had grown as pale as the card on the table between them. “I think I will have a drink. Whisky as well. A large one.”
Rafe fulfilled Jonathon’s request then resumed his seat. “Are you sure you don’t recall any other distinguishing features or mannerisms about the man? Any detail, however small, may help me work out who he is.”
Jonathon rubbed his temple and his gaze became unfocused as he appeared to sift through his memories. “His hair was brown and styled in the current fashion—cropped short at the back but messy and overly long in the front. I think that’s why I didn’t really notice his eyes. He didn’t strike me as handsome, but neither was he unattractive. His coat was well-cut; travel-stained but not worn or cheap looking. He was tall and seemed relatively well-made beneath his clothes. For instance he didn’t stoop. He was neither too thin nor fat. Neither old nor young. Perhaps he was your age, or a little older. Apart from his manner of speaking, he was in fact, rather ordinary.”
Except he isn’t. Rafe sipped at his whisky, mulling over what to say next. “This cloak and dagger act, it strikes me as unusual. Riddle—that’s what I have dubbed him in my mind—is taunting me. It seems very personal. Like an act of revenge. Unfortunately, the list of men who might wish me ill is a long one.”
“Why do you think he has involved Georgie in all of this then? She’s not a part of your past.”
Yes, but she’s the woman I care about. The woman I now realize I want to share a future with. Rafe straightened in his seat as a blinding realization struck him. Maybe... Why haven’t I thought of him until now?
Jonathon’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
“I think I might have an idea who it is after all.”
“Who?”
“A Russian baron and general by the name of Dashkov. Four years ago, when I was in St. Petersburg, I had an affair with his wife.”
“Bloody hell, Markham. That’s playing it a bit fast and loose, isn’t it?”
Rafe shrugged. You have barely scratched the surface. “One does what one has to in the line of duty.”
“What, you mean to say you used the wife of this, Baron Dashkov, to gather information for the Crown?”
“Yes.”
“By Jove, that’s a tad ruthless. But I’m confused. Why would he exact revenge for that now? Four years have passed.”
“I suppose some scars never heal, Winterbourne.”
“I suppose you are right.” Jonathon sipped his whisky, his expression pensive. “Well, if this fellow is your Dashkov, we shouldn’t have too much to worry about then. I mean, it’s not as if Georgie is going to respond to this devil’s clumsy attempts to ensnare her. Especially when she finds out he is married. And not when she is so smitten by you.”
Rafe wanted to smile at Jonathon’s last observation, but found himself grimacing instead. “You misunderstand. My explanation of the situation has been inadequate.”
Jonathon raised his eyebrows and cold wariness hardened his stare. “Enlighten me then.”
“I’ll spare you the details. But basically Dashkov blames me for the death of his wife.”
Jonathon’s brow plunged into a deep scowl. “What?”
Rafe looked him in the eye. “I can assure you I am innocent. I had nothing at all to do with Baroness Dashkovna’s demise. It was, quite simply, an unfortunate accident. I would never, ever, hurt a woman.”
“But...” Jonathon shook his head as if trying to knock his thoughts into order. “Why involve, Georg—” His face grew ashen. “He wants to avenge his wife’s death by hurting the woman you love.”
Rafe inclined his head. “It would seem so. However I would remind you, this is all just speculation at this point.” The words printed on the back of Scherzfrage’s card suddenly sprang into his mind—the phrase ‘dash off’ was close to Dashkov. It could be a coincidence, however, Rafe’s gut instinct told him the choice of words was deliberate.
“Support my courtship of your sister?”
Jonathon lifted his chin. “Yes. And I did support you. Now I am not so sure.”
Markham felt a muscle work in his jaw. “Phillip will vouch for me. He knows almost everything. And really, isn’t it up to Georgiana to decide if she will accept my suit?”
“She doesn’t know the truth about you. What you are.” Jonathon’s tone was acerbic. Accusatory.
“No. No she doesn’t.” Rafe’s voice was weighted with a guilt heavier than lead. “Please believe me, I want to tell her everything there is to know about me. But, men like me...” He dragged a hand down his face as he struggled to find a way to explain. “Sometimes it’s best that those around us are kept in the dark. Knowledge—and by that I mean having too much of the wrong type of knowledge—can be dangerous also. Aside from that, I’m loath to burden Georgie with something so worrisome. Particularly if my current assumptions are incorrect.”
The scorn in Jonathon’s eyes was clear as he scrutinized Rafe over the rim of his whisky glass for one long moment. He threw back the last mouthful then placed his glass on the marble mantel with a decided click. “What measures will you take to keep my sister safe?” he asked in a flinty tone. “God knows she’s already been through enough with Craven. I won’t see her hurt again.”
Rafe breathed an inward sigh of relief. Jonathon wasn’t going to drag Georgie off into the night and forbid her from seeing him again. Not that he could imagine Georgie letting her brother dictate how she should live her life.
He turned his attention back to Jonathon and outlined the additional security measures he’d put in place around Rivergate. “Actually, I don’t know if you noticed anything during the week, but since the incident outside Latimer House last Friday, I’ve had a team of my men—all former Bow Street Runners or soldiers with impeccable records—conducting continuous surveillance around Dudley House and monitoring Georgiana’s movements. I’d started to think I was being overly vigilante as no one reported seeing a man fitting Riddle’s description. But now I am relieved that I did.”
Jonathon snorted. “Egads you’re a crafty bastard. I had no idea you had put any type of surveillance in place.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “So you have been seriously worried about Georgie’s well-being for that long?”
“One can never be too careful. I promise that I will double my team’s efforts in keeping an eye on Georgie. And of course, if you are still in agreeance, I will continue to see your sister on a daily basis. Not a single hair on her head will be harmed whilst she is under my protection.”
Jonathon dropped his gaze to the fire; he was clearly considering the situation and everything they’d discussed. At length, he sighed heavily and skewered Rafe with a gimlet stare. “If anything happens to Georgie, I will hold you personally accountable.”
“Understood.”
“And I agree that we should both stay silent about the matter until more information comes to hand. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but,” Jonathon’s expression softened a little, “I have never seen Georgie so uplifted. Brimming with life. I do not want to see her happiness crushed.”
“Nor do I.” Rafe’s heart swelled with quiet joy but he kept his expression suitably grave to mollify Jonathon. “And thank you. Again, I promise you that Georgiana will not be hurt. I care deeply for her.”
Jonathon gave a curt nod. “Good. She deserves nothing less.” He marched toward the library door, but then paused on the threshold. “Keep in mind, my warning stands. If anything untoward should befall my sister, it won’t be Riddle—or Dashkov, or whatever his name is—you have to worry about. It will be me.”
As the door clicked shut, Rafe sighed, his heart heavy with remorse and untold regret. And I will not blame you for that, my friend he thought to himself as he tossed back the last of his whisky. If the worst should happen, there is no doubt at all that the fault will be mine.
And for that, I will never be able to forgive myself.
Chapter 14
Dudley House, Hanover Square, London. A week later...
“Your Grace, would you like to wear the silk bonnet with the tea roses and ivory ribbons or the wine velvet cap? Either would go well with your raspberry, pink and ivory striped walking gown... Your Grace?”
Georgie shook herself from her delicious daydream about Markham, and what they’d done in this very bedroom at Dudley House last night. She blinked and met her maid’s expectant gaze. “My apologies for wool gathering, Constance. I’m afraid I haven’t been sleeping too well of late.” She blushed when Constance pursed her lips a little; the girl must have a fair idea why her mistress was sleep deprived; not only had Lord Markham dined at Dudley House every single night of the week since they’d returned to London, Georgie had also dismissed Constance early every single night. But as usual, it seemed her ever-discreet and patient maid would hold her tongue.
“That’s quite all right, ma’am,” she replied in a neutral tone. “I just wanted to make sure that your ensemble would be ready in time for your... ‘er outing with Sir Jonathon and...” She bit her lip. And Lord Markham were the words she’d obviously left unsaid.
“Yes. Of course.” Georgie focused her wandering attention back on the hats Constance still held. Rafe had insisted she accompany him on a shopping expedition in and around nearby Bond Street today. To what end, she had no idea, but it seemed she was powerless to resist any of his requests of late. His company—and his love-making—were as addictive as laudanum. “The silk with the tea roses I think.”
“Very good, ma’am.” As Constance helped her to put the bonnet in place without destroying the arrangement of curls around her face, Georgie suddenly noticed shadows of fatigue beneath the young woman’s eyes that were even worse than her own. Despite the reduction in her evening duties, Constance didn’t appear to be getting enough sleep either.
“Constance, are you well?” she asked gently. “You seem a little out of sorts also.”
Her maid blushed hotly as she finished adjusting the bow beneath Georgie’s chin. “Why, yes, Your Grace. I am perfectly well.” She gave Georgie a small smile then stepped away from the mahogany dressing table. “Shall I fetch the matching spencer and your ivory kid gloves? Or do you think you will need your burgundy wool pelisse?”
Georgie glanced toward the windows. It was overcast, but the clouds were high and the threat of rain slight for once. “My spencer will suffice I should think.”
Once she was ready, Georgie descended to the vestibule to find Jonathon pulling on his own gloves. “Hey-ho, sis.” He threw her an irreverent smile and winked. “Ready to spend a bit of Markham’s blunt?”
“Jonathon,” she admonished under her breath as their footmen—Perkins and the very well-proportioned and very recently employed, Lumsden—stood on duty by the front door. “Please, watch your tongue. That is not what this morning is about.”
Jonathon quirked an eyebrow. “Oh really? Don’t tell me you’re not anticipating getting a little spoiled this morning. Lord knows, you deserve it.”
“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” Georgie demanded, her whisper harsh, her glare fierce. Jonathon must have guessed by now that Rafe shared her bed, but to suggest she deserved some type of reward or worse still, payment like a common harlot... Well that sort of thinking was beyond the pale.
Jonathon blushed a little. “Nothing at all,” he muttered, suddenly interested in the fit of his gloves until a sudden and decisive knock on the door drew his glance. “Ah, saved by the devil himself I suspect.”
Sure enough, Rafe was at the door. As usual, his wide smile and the drift of his gaze over her body sent Georgie’s pulse racing and her heart flipping. “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing over her hand. “You are looking more than splendid this morning
.” He straightened and inclined his head toward a still flushed Jonathon. “Sir Jonathon.”
Jonathon gave him an overly bright smile and rubbed his hands together. “Well, let’s sally-forth you two, and make the most of this morning. I think a bite to eat at Gunter’s could well be on the cards, if we don’t dillydally over this shopping business.”
Rafe raised a quizzical brow at Georgie as she took his offered arm. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Jonathon is simply being an ass,” she whispered as they exited Dudley House. Rafe chuckled low in her ear and she shivered with warm delight. It was moments like these that it struck her how close she and Rafe had grown within the last week. Only a fortnight ago, she would have been loath to acknowledge a connection with him. But now, as they strolled across Hanover Square in the direction of Bond Street, she realized she didn’t give a fig what the gossipmongers within the ton thought.
The only cloud shadowing the horizon was Rafe’s constant evasion when it came to discussing his past. Despite the growing intimacy between them, Georgie could not coax him into revealing anything more than amusing anecdotes about his time abroad. He never again brought up the topic of Solange, and truth be told, she didn’t have the heart to quiz him about his former lover. At the back of her mind, she was also concerned that if he did share details about his affair with Solange, he might expect her to reciprocate and confide in him about her disastrous liaison with Lord Craven. And that was something she could never do.
She’d never related the entire account to a single soul—not even Jonathon or Teddy. She sighed heavily; some things were just too painful to revisit.
“Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart. I swear you haven’t heard a single word I’ve said since we left Dudley House.”
Georgie felt a blush heat her cheeks and she offered Markham an embarrassed smile. “My apologies, Rafe. I... I’m afraid I’ve been a little absent minded this morning.”