Georgie shuddered at the horrific memory; quaking with cold, disorientated and nauseated to the very bone, both from the laudanum and the knowledge she’d been abused so foully by not one, but two men, she’d promptly vomited on the cobblestones before dragging her aching, shaking body upright, and letting herself inside. Too ashamed to call her maid once she’d reached her room, she’d washed herself as best she could, and had then burnt all her soiled clothes on the fire before collapsing into bed.
Pushing aside the painful recollections of that night, she continued, “The next day, I claimed I had taken ill with a terrible stomach affliction and no one, not my aunt, my maid, or any of the other servants suspected a thing. My traveling trunk—my trousseau,” she laughed briefly with undisguised bitterness, “which had been left by the servants’ door, I explained away easily enough by claiming the items were things I no longer needed and were to be donated to the poor.”
“Christ, Georgie.” Rafe wrapped his arms about her and hugged her close. “My brave, brave girl. What those heels did to you, it is unforgiveable.”
At his words and the sound of grave compassion in his voice, Georgie at last gave herself up to the tears that had been threatening to fall since she’d begun this conversation. Rafe rubbed her back and kissed her hair, offering silent comfort until she was spent and quiet in his arms.
“Thank you for listening,” she whispered huskily against his chest.
“I wish I could do more than listen, my love.” Rafe’s muscles tensed beneath her hands. “Craven and Blaire are both lucky they can still draw breath.”
A cold tremor of fear slid down Georgie’s spine as an altogether horrible thought occurred to her. She sat up and met Rafe’s icy gray gaze. Without thinking she’d confessed her deepest, most darkest secret to a man who was dangerous in his own way. “Rafe, please do not think you need to somehow avenge my honor. What happened to me, it was such a long time ago. I will not have you do anything rash. Promise me.”
Rafe gently cupped her jaw. “Georgie, I promise you I won’t do anything reckless or foolish. Not that I want to ever articulate the man’s name, but I wonder if you had heard that Fate has already meted out a form of justice to Blaire.”
Georgie frowned. “No. Whatever do you mean?”
Rafe’s jaw hardened. “I have it from a reliable source that Blaire is in a very bad way—feeble in both mind and body—after he ingested too much cognac and opium in the form of laudanum, a few months ago. He ran with pack of noblemen that included Lord Beauchamp, the first husband of Beth, the new Lady Rothsburgh. Blaire and Beauchamp were both so low, even the word degenerate isn’t strong enough to describe them. In my opinion they’ve received everything they deserved.”
But not Craven.
The words were not spoken but Georgie knew that’s exactly what Rafe was thinking. Only, he’d promised he wouldn’t do anything rash. And she trusted him to keep his word.
Besides, in the coming days, she suspected he would be devoting most of his energy to locating the Russian general, Dashkov.
As she and Rafe settled beneath the covers once more, she couldn’t help but wonder how much danger she was really in. The idea that someone she didn’t even know would want to inflict harm upon her to punish the man she loved was sobering indeed. Even though she knew Rafe would do his utmost to keep her safe, unease pricked at her like a burr until the gray light of early morning began to creep around the edges of the curtains of her bedchamber window, dispelling the darkness in her room.
Her last coherent thought before exhaustion claimed her was a wistful prayer—if only all the other shadows in her life, and Rafe’s could be chased away so easily.
Chapter 17
The Hound and Hellion Club, Soho, One night later...
“Craven’s definitely ‘ere,” murmured Cowan. “Far left corner. Been playin’ an’ losing at Hazard for the last ‘our. An’ afore tha’, Lumsden says ‘e lost a ‘uge sum at the cockfights at the Birdcage Walk. The way the money lenders ‘ave been tailing ‘im, all day an’ night, I’d wager my own soul tha’ e’s not far from losin’ everythin’. The word ‘desperate’ springs to mind.”
Perfect. Rafe took a sip of rum to help mask the wolfish grin he could feel tugging at the corners of his mouth. The cur was making this too easy for him. “Thank you, Cowan. You and Lumsden have done a sterling job. If you’d be so kind as to make yourselves scarce, I’ll take care of things from here.”
Cowan gave a curt nod and slipped away into the shadows. He knew better than to use any form of address that might draw attention to the fact that he was in the employ of a toff.
Peering through the smoky gloom and over the heads of the other unsavory characters crowding this stinking den of iniquity—an assortment of well-heeled and not so well-heeled patrons, at least a dozen burly ruffians in shabby livery who appeared to be employed as ‘doormen’ or bankers, and perhaps the same number of scantily clad barmaids who were obviously demireps—Rafe spied his quarry. Ever since Georgie had confided in him the night before, he’d been champing at the bit to finish the bastard off.
Ruining Craven financially now seemed too light a punishment given the severity of his crimes against Georgie, but he’d promised her that he wouldn’t do anything reckless.
Although technically, his pursuit of Craven was anything but reckless. Cold and calculated destruction was what he had in mind.
As Rafe neared the far left corner Cowan had indicated, he had to suppress another grin when he noted Lord Craven was attired in practically the same set of clothes he’d been wearing in Gentleman Jackson’s the day before. The light of a nearby wall sconce revealed the less than noble, nobleman’s hair was greasy, his cravat was in hopeless disarray and his satin waistcoat and linen cuffs were spotted with various stains. Staring blearily at the nearby crowd around the Hazard table, an empty glass at his elbow, he did indeed appear desperate.
Rafe leaned heavily against the water-stained, blue silk wallpaper above the chipped chair-rail and plastered a foolish smile on his face, affecting the demeanor of a man who was well into his cups. “Rumor has it you’re quite the punter, Lord Craven,” he slurred, gesturing toward the earl with his half empty glass. Rum sloshed onto the sleeve of his fine woolen tailcoat. “Up for a game? You name it, I’ll play it.”
Craven’s blood-shot eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked him up and down. “And you are?”
Rafe took the empty seat in front of him. “Lord Rafe Landsbury,” he whispered theatrically. He used his former, lesser known title.
“Never seen you in here before, nor heard of you,” sneered Craven, his lip curling like a dog that had been kicked too many times.
Rafe shrugged and yawned. “Not many have. Been on the Continent and in the East for quite some time. And I must say, now that I’ve returned to Polite Society, White’s is just too damned stuffy for words.” He waved over one of the barmaids-cum-prostitutes and pulled a wad of pound notes and coins from his coat pocket. “Two shots of rum, thank you, my sweet,” he said with an exaggerated wink and pressed several crowns into the smiling girl’s hand before patting her behind. “And keep the change for your own pocket.”
His actions had the desired effect; Craven’s eyes fairly gleamed with a lascivious light at the sight of Rafe’s money. “Landsbury, you say.”
Rafe affected a clumsy, lop-sided smile. “At your service.”
“Join me in a game of piquet then.” Craven jerked his chin pugnaciously toward a heavily populated connecting room where the card tables lay. He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “If you think you can keep up.”
So the earl clearly thought an inebriated opponent wasn’t up to concentrating during a lengthy, convoluted bout of piquet. And he obviously wanted a private game, just between the two of them with no banker involved as there would be if they sat down to Baccarat, Faro or Vingt-et-un. Rafe couldn’t suppress his smile as he stood and gestured expansively. “I concur. Lead the way, sir.”
Rafe deliberately lost the first hand in the partie—he made a series of bad calls, consistently lost track of the play during tricks, and at the end of the sixth hand, he found himself writing a vowel for four thousand five hundred pounds for a widely grinning Craven.
Given the nature of the stakes, a considerable crowd had gathered around their table by the end of the game. One of the gaudily painted demireps—who wore nothing more than a scandalously low-cut gown of sheer violet gauze—draped herself around Craven’s shoulders as soon as he tucked the signed vowel into his coat pocket. When Craven whispered something in her ear and squeezed her all-but bared breast, it took every ounce of control Rafe had to adopt an appreciative leer, considering all he really wanted to do was grab the back of the man’s head and slam it into the table to break his nose.
The demirep giggled and straightened. “Would you like another rum too, milord?” she asked Rafe, thrusting her breasts in his direction.
“The drinks will be on my chit this time, Landsbury,” added Craven, his expression smug now he’d won.
“Thank you.” Rafe sighed heavily and drummed his fingers on the sticky tabletop as though he was unsettled. “Care to go another round?” he asked, feigning a pained expression that fell somewhere between troubled and hopeful.
Craven rubbed his stubble-shadowed jaw. “Well, I don’t know...”
“What’s life without a little risk? What say we double the stakes?” suggested Rafe. He’d lowered his voice, aiming for a persuasive note with a hint of desperation. “One hundred pounds per point gained, and a thousand pound bonus for the first one to cross the Rubicon.”
Craven’s eyebrows shot up. “You can’t be serious?”
Rafe shrugged. “Call me mad if you will. But the offer still stands.”
At that moment, the demirep returned with their drinks and Rafe bolted his in one gulp before immediately ordering another.
Craven’s mouth twisted into a malicious smile as he extended his hand; it was clearly a gesture of condescension rather than a way to formally mark the closure of their deal. “All right. Done.”
Forcing himself to shake the bastard’s hand, not break it, Rafe then shuffled and cut the pack to reveal the ace of clubs. Craven’s smile became decidedly stiff when he turned over a jack of spades.
Markham blew out a low whistle between his teeth. “I’ll claim the younger hand, if you don’t mind?” he said as he began to shuffle the pack again. Craven would have the advantage during this round given that he’d get to choose from the talon first, but in the final, most important round of the partie, the advantage would be entirely with Rafe. If they made it that far...
Craven inclined his head, his dark eyes cold. “Naturally.”
Rafe again played the foxed fool and deliberately lost the first two rounds. Craven was twenty-six points ahead and judging by his self-satisfied smirk, he believed he was well on the way to claiming a second lot of sizeable winnings for the night.
As Rafe dealt the third hand, he decided it was high time his gloves came off. It was with considerable satisfaction that he declared a point of five, a septiéme followed by a trio of kings, and then watched Craven’s face blanch to the color of whey, when he won every trick gaining a capot, an additional forty points, and the lead.
During the fourth hand when he declared a quatorze of knaves, Craven sneered, “I demand proof, Captain.”
“I assure you, my name is not Sharp,” returned Rafe coolly, refuting the accusation he was cheating at once by showing him the sequence in question.
Craven ground his teeth, but nevertheless play continued until Rafe claimed victory again.
By the time Rafe dealt the fifth hand—he was a clear fifty-seven points ahead, and only fourteen points from one hundred—Craven’s hands were shaking so much he dropped several of his cards on the table as he made his selection from the talon, and judging by the sheen of sweat on his very pale face, he had the look of a man about to cast up his accounts in the moment before he stepped up to the gallows.
Declarations commenced, but when Rafe easily scored a repique, thus gaining an additional sixty-point bonus, it was clearly the last straw for Craven.
With a disgusted growl, he threw his cards on the table and jabbed a finger toward Rafe’s face. His voice shook with barely contained fury, and probably a good dose of fear. “I refuse to continue this... this farce. You must be cheating. Sir.” With this last word, he poked Rafe in the chest.
Rafe cocked his brow. “I assure you, I am not, my lord,” he returned in a deadly quiet voice. All traces of the affable drunkard cast aside, he grabbed Craven’s wrist in an uncompromising grip and slammed his arm with bone crushing force down onto the table.
A pitiful whimper escaped Craven. “Fuck you,” he hissed as he attempted but failed to wrest his arm back. “Let go. You have gone too far. I demand satisfaction.”
“So do I.” Rafe bared his teeth in a predatory grin as he ground the bones of Craven’s wrist together even harder. “You lost because you are a mediocre player at best, yet you accuse me of cheating. Name your terms. I will meet them.”
“Pistols at dawn. Battersea-fields. The common behind The Red House Inn. You know it?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“And as far as I’m concerned, your debt still stands.”
“Really?” Rafe raised his eyebrows to indicate his incredulity. “My, my we are confident aren’t we? Might I suggest we wait and see who is left standing at the end of our next tête-a-tête before any debt is settled?”
“Fuck you.” Craven at last managed to twist out of Rafe’s grip.
“Tut, tut,” Rafe chided as he stood and looked down his nose at a puce-faced Craven. “It seems you are not one to live by the expression, ‘manners maketh the man’, are you?”
With a roar, Craven leapt to his feet and attempted to hurl himself at Rafe’s throat, but Rafe, anticipating his move, neatly stepped to the side and watched Craven plough headlong into the filthy, threadbare Turkish rug on the floor.
Turning on his heel, Rafe pushed through the crowd of laughing on-lookers, making his way for the stairs and the nearest door.
Lumsden and Cowan gave up their posts at the bar and followed him outside into the narrow, littered laneway.
“Well done, my friend.”
Rafe spun around to find Georgie’s brother also emerging from the gaming hell. The dim lighting that slipped into the lane before the door slammed shut revealed that Jonathon wore a redingote of dubious quality and a somewhat dented top hat. The guise of a gentleman down on his luck.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rafe demanded, his voice a low growl.
Jonathon’s brows shot up in surprise. “Steady on. As soon as I heard you wouldn’t be dancing attendance on Georgie tonight as you usually do, I had you followed. You are not the only one with resources, old man. And I must say the show has been well worth any effort expended on my part. I wouldn’t have missed witnessing the Lord of Cowards getting his comeuppance for the world. Bravo!”
And you don’t even know the half of what your sister has suffered. Nevertheless, Rafe inclined his head. “Thank you.”
As they negotiated the filth-strewn cobblestones of the laneway, making their way toward the gas lamp lit thoroughfare beyond, Jonathon added in a grave voice, “I would be honored if you would consider me for your second.”
“Duly noted,” Rafe replied in an equally solemn tone. “However, even though I have men guarding Dudley House, I would prefer it if you remained with your sister. As you well know, I haven’t yet located Dashkov.”
A muscle worked in Jonathon’s jaw for a moment before he gave a curt nod. “Understood. I suppose you will ask Phillip to stand in as second then.”
“Yes.” Rafe hailed a hackney cab. “That is the plan. I am on my way to Latimer House now.”
Jonathon grasped his shoulder, catching his eye. “I know I shouldn’t have to wish you good luck, given the outcome is obvious,” he said with quiet sincerity, “but I will do so at any rate.” His mouth suddenly curved into a wicked grin. “And the more blood you can draw, the better.”
Rafe grinned back before he swung himself into the cab. “Naturally,” he replied.
“I look forward to hearing all of the details tomorrow.” Jonathon slammed the door and the cab rolled on.
Sinking back against the cracked leather squabs, Rafe closed his eyes and sighed. Justice would be meted out to Craven easily enough. And then he could focus all of his energies on dealing with Dashkov, once and for all.
He could hardly wait until morning.
Dudley House, Hanover Square
Georgie tossed Emma onto the floral chintz cushion of the shepherdess chair beside her, and scowled at the gilt carriage clock on the mantelpiece in her sitting room. After her sixth game of Patience, she’d taken up her favorite novel to while away the long hours of an evening spent alone. But the lively and amusing tale of Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley could only hold her attention for so long, and sadly, not at all after midnight. Especially since Rafe was not with her, and Jonathon hadn’t returned home yet.
Not that it was all that unusual for her brother to stay out until the early hours of the morning at his club—or more lately, at Lord Farley’s residence—but as Rafe had indicated he had unexpected ‘Crown business’ to attend to this evening, Jonathon had promised to keep her company. That state of affairs had only lasted until nine o’clock, when Reed had apologetically invaded the drawing room and had presented her brother with a mysterious missive.
Of course, Jonathon would not be drawn on the content of the message, or its sender, although, on noting the wicked twinkle in his eye, Georgie had at once suspected Farley had invited him on some kind of jaunt, something that Jonathon did not want her to know about. She definitely knew he was up to some sort of underhand activity when she’d spied him all but sneaking out of the front door dressed in the oddest attire—a shabby redingote and a sorry excuse for a top hat; garments that would ordinarily make her brother shudder with revulsion.
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 27