The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Rafe grimaced. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve long suspected that someone watched us the night we first met. At Phillip and Helena’s townhouse, when we were on the terrace. But that’s just it, Georgie. It was only a suspicion. It wasn’t until the house party at Rivergate that I knew for certain that the man following you and me was probably Dashkov. That’s when Jonathon found out too. As he was arranging his departure from the White Swan, he observed a foreign man making enquiries about Rivergate. He thought it odd and confided in me.”

  “But not me.” Georgie drummed her fingers in an angry tattoo on the white marble mantelpiece.

  “I don’t know if this will make you feel any better about all of this, but I’ve had a small team of men in my employ—men whom I trust implicitly—keeping watch over you ever since the incident at Latimer House. Of course, they’ve also been looking out for Dashkov. Your new footman, Lumsden, is one of them.”

  Georgie’s expression softened a little. “I wondered why he was in Berkeley Square tonight. It was his night off. Only I suppose it wasn’t.”

  “No. It is a shame he wasn’t closer to you after Jonathon left. He told me he’d been scouting around the other side of the park in the square when you screamed.”

  Georgie shivered. “Tell me about him. Dashkov. What happened in St. Petersburg?”

  Rafe rose from the ottoman and approached the other side of the hearth. Rubbing his chin, he contemplated the best way to begin his story. And how best to edit it. “I suspect you may have heard of the Treaty of Tilsit?”

  Georgie’s brows drew together in apparent recollection. “While I admit I have heard of it, I must confess that I know little about the exact nature of the Treaty.”

  “It was an alliance formed between France, Russia and Prussia nine years ago,” explained Rafe. “At the time, it was not a popular decision with most of the Russian court as it meant Anglo-Russian trade ceased. Profits were lost on both sides. However, by all accounts, Tsar Alexander became disenchanted with Old Boney—for various reasons—and so he began to turn a blind eye toward the resumption of trade with our fair land. Indeed, by the end of 1811, our intelligence indicated that the Tsar was more than a little interested in negotiating a new alliance, but this time with England and Sweden. One of our—shall we say—friends within the Russian court had also heard that someone within the highest levels of the Russian military was still very much an ally of Bonaparte; it was believed this particular person was actively attempting to undermine the process of forging the new alliance. All sorts of classified information was making its way into the hands of the French ambassador, Caulaincourt.”

  Georgie nodded. “I know the name but little else. I’m assuming this was about the time you were ‘posted’ to Russia?”

  “Yes. I was tasked by the Foreign Secretary to travel to St. Petersburg. You may recall, our last ambassador to Russia, Lord Grenville had returned home after the Treaty of Tilsit was signed. Whilst I posed as a wealthy British arms trader, Sir Richard Mallory, the rumor was also cast about by our ally within the court that I was really a British diplomat, on a mission to secretly shore up the new treaty. There was also a good dose of speculation that I might be a candidate for the post of British ambassador, once Anglo-Russian relations were restored.”

  “So what you are saying is the traitor would see you as a target and attempt to steal information from you about any armament deals or perhaps even the treaty negotiations,” Georgie observed.

  Rafe was impressed by her quick and entirely accurate assessment. “Exactly. I was ostensibly the bait that would lure out the weasel.”

  “I take it the traitor was Dashkov.”

  “Yes, but it turned out that he wasn’t working alone. His wife, Baroness Anna Petrovina Dashkovna was involved.”

  Georgie was frowning again. “How so?”

  “When I arrived in St. Petersburg—this was in January 1812—my favor was secretly courted by certain members of the Imperial Russian Army, including the Minister of War. Aside from attending numerous closed-door meetings about security matters, a seemingly endless number of invitations to balls, soirées, and dinner parties ensued. At one of the very first balls I attended, the baroness approached me. Needless to say, her very forward approach to cultivating a closer relationship between England and Russia, had me—” He’d been about to say intrigued but decided to amend his choice of words. “I was suspicious of her motives.”

  “Surely not.” Georgie raised a cynical brow. “You are a very attractive man. I’m certain Baroness Dashkovna isn’t the first married woman to have ever taken an interest in you.”

  Rafe winced. “True, however Dashkov had an imposing presence. In all of our negotiations regarding armament contracts, he came across as a man not to be crossed. So I thought it more than passing strange that he tolerated his wife’s very blatant and very public cuckolding.”

  “Yet it sounds as if you encouraged her interest, despite the fact she was married and her husband was aware of what she was doing.” Georgie’s mouth tightened into a disapproving line. “How very... odd. And dangerous. I imagine it felt like you were playing with fire.”

  “Yes.” Rafe wasn’t about to admit that he’d actually been deeply attracted in a physical sense to the beautiful, blonde baroness. Perhaps he’d even been a little infatuated with her despite the fact he’d suspected she was attempting to use him. The element of danger had definitely heightened the thrill of their encounters. “However, it was my duty to discover who the traitor in the Russian court was,” he added, feeling compelled to explain why he’d engaged in such an unsavory affair. “I had to play along so to speak.”

  “So you really suspected that Dashkov and his wife were the spies selling information to the French.”

  Rafe permitted himself a small sigh, relieved Georgie hadn’t roundly condemned him. At least not at this stage. “Yes. Our supposed clandestine affair continued for a few weeks until I confided in Anna—well, pretended to anyway. During one of the Tsar’s private dinners at the Winter Palace, I told her I was really a diplomat and I couldn’t afford to incur the wrath of her husband, given his position within the Imperial Army and the court. When I suggested we end our affair, she implored me not to. In fact, she begged me to meet with her after the dinner at my rented townhouse on the Nevsky Prospect, not far from the Palace. Curious that she seemed so upset and desperate—she did not strike me as the sort of woman who would easily fall in love—I agreed as I suspected she had an ulterior motive. You see, we’d never met in my rooms before. Hitherto, our assignations had always been furtive, stolen moments at whatever function we both happened to be at.”

  Georgie fiddled with one of her new sapphire and diamond earrings as if it bothered her, then slid it off; the other quickly followed. She placed them both with deliberate care upon the mantel, avoiding his gaze. “I take it the baroness did have an ulterior motive.”

  Rafe swallowed, a prickle of uneasiness making him hesitant to respond. He would need to choose his next words carefully. If Georgie didn’t believe him, if she thought he was playing fast and loose with the truth. Lying...

  How much does she trust me? Will she take me at my word about what happened? Rafe searched her face and a chill touched his heart; her expression was shuttered. Wary. But there was no going back. He had to tell her everything. “We met... and afterwards, I pretended to fall into a light doze. Anna rose from the bed, found her clothes, then slipped from the room with a branch of candles. Suspicious, I threw on whatever clothes came to hand and followed a minute or two later. I found her...” Rafe clenched the marble mantel for support, forcing himself to continue. “She was in my study, rifling through all of my papers. False papers mind you, but she was doggedly looking for something of import all the same.”

  A vision of a half-dressed Anna, her silver blonde hair tumbling round her slender shoulders like a moonlit waterfall, sprang into his mind. When she’d seen him, her pale blue eyes had widened at first, then narrowe
d, their expression growing as hard and deathly cold as an arctic wasteland. Strange how the lack of fear in her eyes had stunned him the most. “It was stupid of me to be shocked. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known what she was really after all along. But nevertheless, I froze when I should have acted.”

  “What happened?” Georgie whispered.

  “She trained a pistol on me. A tiny weapon—it was small enough to be secreted in a muff or a reticule—but deadly all the same considering her hand was so steady. She aimed it straight at my chest, cocked it.” Rafe closed his eyes as the memory came flooding back. “I lunged sideways, but not fast enough. The shot grazed my side.”

  “The scar, along your rib cage. She did that?” Rafe opened his eyes; he could see that Georgie’s face had grown as pale as the white marble beneath his hand. “She could have killed you.”

  Rafe shrugged a shoulder. “The caliber of her weapon was small, thank God, so the damage wasn’t too bad. But by the time I’d regained my footing, she’d bolted. I followed of course. I had to see if her husband—or anyone else was—was waiting for her. When I gained the street, it was dark and bitterly cold. Snowing. I could barely see. Then I heard a brief cry. As if someone had been startled. And a sharp crack. Another shot. I headed toward the sound... And then I saw her...” Rafe paused and swallowed. His voice was a mere rasp when he managed to speak again. “Even though snow flurries hampered my vision, there was enough light cast by a nearby streetlamp to see that Anna... She was lying prone on the icy pavement. I think in her haste to escape, she’d slipped and fallen, and her pistol had accidently discharged.”

  “She was dead?” Georgie asked softly.

  “I believe so. Or very nearly so.” He couldn’t bear to think of the horrific damage to Anna’s beautiful face, the wet, ragged sound of her very last breaths. The dark stain in the snow beneath her head...

  Rafe raised a shaking hand to his forehead and massaged his temple. Christ, I need another drink.

  “What... what did you do?”

  Rafe dropped his hand and met Georgie’s worried gaze. “I heard a carriage approaching and then a shout. A man’s voice. This may seem callous to you, but the only sensible course of action I could take was to get the hell out of there. I knew it must have been Dashkov and he would be out for my blood despite the fact he and his wife were undoubtedly spying for the French. So I ducked down a nearby side street. After I had sighted Dashkov...” Rafe stumbled to a halt; he may have learned to harden his heart against most of the distressing recollections from his past, but whenever he recalled Dashkov’s agonized cry, whenever he pictured the baron gathering Anna’s limp form into his arms, a strange pain that he didn’t want to examine, burned deep inside him. “There was nothing I could do. And so I left. I had another set of rented rooms nearby with items I would need in case of an emergency. When I ascertained that I hadn’t been followed, I quit St. Petersburg altogether.”

  Rafe had patched himself up, then after penning a coded letter for their agent within the court about his findings, he’d stolen away like a thief in the night. Even though Dashkov had somehow managed to escape arrest for treason, Castlereagh had been pleased with the result; Rafe’s mission had been declared a success. Negotiations with the Russians resumed and a new treaty with Britain and Sweden had been signed in the Spring of 1812.

  But Anna had been killed. Even though her death had been accidental, her husband didn’t know that. One way or another, it seemed Dashkov was after his pound of flesh.

  Georgie’s. Rafe’s heart squeezed tight, as tight as his clenched fist. He could never let that happen.

  He raised his gaze to Georgie’s face. She was watching him, a deep furrow between her brows as her fingers absently played with the sapphire and diamond necklace at her throat. He wished he knew what she thought of him. Did she think he was a monster? A man who would do anything—lie, commit adultery and yes, kill. A man who was unworthy of trust. And love.

  Georgie knew that his former lover Solange had died under suspicious circumstances and now she’d learned another of his lovers had met a premature and violent end. Whether she blamed him or not for what had happened to Solange and Anna, one thing was certain—she knew the women he cared about, died.

  Rafe wouldn’t blame Georgie in the least if she decided to cut all ties with him.

  And perhaps it was best if she did. Then at least Dashkov would leave her alone.

  Georgie could clearly see that Rafe’s past was an albatross about his neck. Disclosing the details of his affair with Dashkov’s wife, and her dreadful demise had cost him dear; his gray eyes were as dark as brooding storm clouds and deep ridges bracketed his tightly compressed mouth; indeed his whole body was as rigid as marble.

  He feels guilty about Anna’s death. And Dashkov’s apparent plan for revenge.

  I am in danger...

  Georgie laid a trembling hand against her throat where her pulse fluttered as wildly as a trapped bird. God, this couldn’t be happening, could it? That she was truly the target of one Rafe’s old enemies? The muddy stains on her gown and her bruised body told a different story. She shivered, suddenly filled with the unexpected craving to imbibe alcohol in an attempt to soothe her jangled nerves.

  As if reading her mind, Rafe spoke in a low voice almost as ragged as his expression. “I think another drink is in order. For myself and for you, my love.” His own glass in hand, he pushed away from the fireplace then poured them both a brandy; Georgie always kept a decanter on the sideboard in her sitting room for those occasions when Jonathon wanted a tipple. Crossing the room, she accepted the glass from him with a less than steady hand and took a small sip. But even the fiery alcohol couldn’t loosen her tongue or alleviate the dread constricting her throat.

  Georgie hadn’t been surprised in the least to learn Rafe was a spy. She glanced at him over the rim of her glass as she took another, larger sip. What he’d shared tonight about Dashkov’s wife was probably only one of many violent incidents that he’d witnessed. Or instigated.

  She’d be naïve to think it otherwise. She studied Rafe’s imperfect yet still ridiculously handsome face as he swirled his brandy about in his glass; his expression was withdrawn. She sensed he struggled to control a deep, inner turmoil she couldn’t even begin to understand. She’d love to know what he was thinking right now. What he was planning with regards to Dashkov? And herself?

  She realized that in many respects, Rafe was still unfathomable, and that perhaps he always would be. She thought they had grown close over these past weeks—closer than she’d ever thought possible, but there was so much she didn’t know. One thing she was certain of, Rafe wasn’t an ordinary nobleman with only the usual scandals to hide—too many nights of wild carousing that he’d rather she didn’t know about; the occasional duel over a woman or some other matter related to slighted honor; a profligate brother or uncle who’d brought the family name into disrepute, or had almost bankrupted the estate.

  He has worse secrets. Dark, dark secrets, too many to count. Secrets he will never share. And enemies. Those who hate him and would do him and his loved ones, harm.

  Could she live with that?

  What Georgie did know about Rafe, all the finer qualities she’d seen so far, the things she loved—his wit, his intelligence, his honor, his strength and the care and respect he showed her, his passion—would that be enough to compensate for the darkness surrounding him? The shadows plaguing his soul?

  Her gaze traveled over his face again. He looked so harrowed, worn down by guilt and the horrors from his past that her heart ached for him. He is so alone.

  “No one truly knows you, do they?” she asked in a soft, shaky voice.

  Rafe put his brandy down on the mahogany sideboard and his mouth slanted into an approximation of a smile, although perhaps it was more of a grimace. “Not really. I’ve never had the opportunity...” He took a step closer and his turbulent gray gaze locked with hers. “I’ve never been particularly close to anyone
before... Until now.”

  Georgie’s heart began to race and her breath hitched. Anticipation swirled through her, making her breathless, almost giddy. She was suddenly so very tired of dancing around the truth. And of being afraid. The past didn’t matter. Neither his nor her own. What mattered was how she felt right at this very moment.

  Discarding her brandy, she stepped forward and touched Rafe’s smooth, strong jaw with gentle reverence. “Rafe, the man I see before me... The man I know...” She drew in a deep breath and at last allowed herself to utter the confession she’d been longing to make for weeks, “I love you.”

  “God, Georgie.” Rafe captured her face between his hands and brushed his thumbs back and forth over her cheeks as if reassuring himself she were real. That what she’d told him was real. His eyes searched hers. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to hear—” He paused then swallowed, clearly lost for words. But the moment quickly passed and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion. “My brave, sweet, beautiful, Georgie. I’m in love with you too. Utterly and completely.”

  Georgie couldn’t stem the rise of joyful tears in her eyes as Rafe pushed a hand into the tangled curls at her nape, drawing her closer. His kiss was gentle at first, a soft, satiny brush of warm lips against hers; the sweep of his tongue against the seam of her mouth, no more than a beguiling flicker. Yet whilst Rafe’s kiss clearly demonstrated his tender regard for her, it was also a teasing caress. Georgie didn’t doubt for a moment that he was ruthlessly holding himself back. She was fleetingly reminded of their very first kiss on the terrace of Latimer House. Just like then, Rafe was deliberately building her anticipation, making her want more. But this time, there was no doubt in her heart or her mind. She did indeed want more.

  She wanted everything.

  With a moan, she slid her hands into Rafe’s silky dark hair and pressed herself closer, her mouth moving urgently against his, demanding him to let go, beckoning him to take everything she offered. Her body, her heart, her soul, forever.