The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  And what of Rafe?

  What if he’d been injured or killed as she had feared from the very start?

  And if Rafe and Jonathon were both dead, who would come for her?

  A muffled sob escaped Georgie as wave after wave of painful despair coursed through her heart. This couldn’t be the end. For her, or those dearest to her.

  Offering up a silent prayer to heaven, she vowed she would do whatever it took to save herself.

  Time dragged on and despite her distress and physical discomfort, she eventually succumbed to the lingering effects of the laudanum and slid into a fitful doze.

  Then something roused her. A metallic rattle and scrape. A key turning in a lock.

  Her heart crashing against her ribs, Georgie raised her head and turned toward the sound, ears straining. The door was somewhere behind her, out of her line of sight.

  Who was on the other side?

  And if it was the man she thought of as Baron Dashkov, what in God’s name did he want?

  The door opened, clicked shut, and the key scraped in the lock again. Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden floor and her heart leapt into a full gallop.

  Dashkov then.

  Georgie tried but failed to stifle a whimper when her captor stroked a hand lightly down the back of her hair. Threading his fingers through the tangled locks at her nape, he then caressed the sensitive skin beneath, raising gooseflesh.

  “Shhh, moya dorogaya,” he crooned beside her ear. She recognized the deep, guttural tones of the man who’d crashed into her outside Latimer House and had then tried to abduct her at knife point in Berkeley Square. The man who’d called her whore. “This part will not hurt.”

  Terror snaked its way down Georgie’s spine, making her shiver uncontrollably. What is he going to do to me? She didn’t understand. She didn’t even know the man, had never done anything to deserve this cruel treatment.

  He was clearly mad.

  She closed her eyes and bit down on the gag to stop herself from making another sound. She wouldn’t give the monster the satisfaction of seeing her cry, whatever happened next.

  The man suddenly gripped and twisted her hair, giving it such a vicious tug, her eyes watered. And then something cold and metallic touched the back of Georgie’s neck. A blade.

  Oh, no. Please, God, no!

  There was a snipping sound, the sound of scissors, and a lock of her hair fell onto her shoulder and then into her lap. He was cutting off her hair! All of the long curls that Rafe loved so much.

  Despite Georgie’s resolution not to cry, a tear escaped. Whether she wept with relief or sorrow she really had no idea. Why? Why would Dashkov do such a horrible thing? An act meant to disfigure and debase her?

  She’d been callously abused and humiliated a decade ago, and she really didn’t want to go through anything like that again.

  But there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all.

  Another tear slid down her check, then another. It’s only your hair, Georgie she told herself. It will grow back.

  But then Dashkov had said ‘this part will not hurt’, which begged the question, what about the other parts? What else was he going to do?

  Georgie thrust the thought aside. She didn’t want to think about it. If she did, she might go mad.

  The cutting ceased. Cold air drifted over the back of her neck. Her hair had been completely hacked off at the nape.

  Then another whisper gusted over her ear. “Do you know who I am, Your Grace?” the man asked. His breath smelled sour—like stale cabbages and onions. Small beer. Georgie tried not to shudder. “Did your lover solve the puzzle?”

  She hesitated, not sure how to respond until Dashkov squeezed the back of her neck in a vice-like grip. “Answer me, blyad. Do you know my name?”

  Georgie nodded and the pressure on her neck eased. Became a caress again.

  “Then you know why I do this. He told you about our history did he not? What he did to my poor Anna.”

  It was Baron Dashkov. Rafe had been right.

  Georgie nodded again. The baron might be insane, but the motivation behind her kidnapping was as clear as crystal. Revenge. An eye for an eye. Just as Rafe had suspected.

  But how far would Dashkov go?

  Will he actually kill me to punish Rafe?

  Dashkov suddenly stepped in front of her, and she jumped in her seat, her startled gasp muffled by the gag.

  She’d never seen him properly before, up so close with his face fully exposed by the light of day. He might be tall and well-made beneath his brown woolen frock coat, but his cheeks were gaunt and his jaw was covered in dark stubble. His dark hair was unruly, in need of a cut. He appeared to be older than Rafe—perhaps about forty—and he would have been attractive but for his unkept appearance and the wild look in his pale gray eyes, the dark shadows beneath. And the sneering smile.

  “I’ve made you cry, moya dorogaya,” he said softly, bending down and stroking her cheek. A mocking caress. “Do not worry. I will send this,” he held up her lopped off curls, “to your Lord Markham.”

  If he is alive... No, don’t think that way, Georgiana Dudley. She swallowed past her tight, aching throat. Then nodded.

  Dashkov seemed to like that as his smile widened. “Very good. I will leave you now. But never fear, I shall be back before too long. For the next part.”

  The next part? Did he mean to take something else away from her? Her clothing? Surely he couldn’t mean anything else. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The door shut, the key turned in the lock, and Georgie let the tears flow unheeded as she struggled to loosen her bonds again.

  And she prayed.

  Dudley House, Hanover Square, Eleven o’clock in the morning...

  Rafe knew the news wasn’t what he wanted to hear as soon as Cowan entered the library at Dudley House.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” he said, cap in hand, his tone as grave as an undertaker’s. “Your men and I ‘ave not been able to dredge up a single clue these last few ‘ours.”

  “Any word from Lord Maxwell?” Phillip was working with John Townsend, the former head of the Bow Street Runners, helping him to coordinate the London based search. A peeress of the realm had been abducted and every effort would be expended, no expense spared.

  Cowan shook his head. “No, milord. It seems there ain’t a trace to be found of Baron Dashkov or the duchess. But we will keep lookin’. No stone left unturned ‘an all tha’.”

  Rafe ground his teeth together with frustration. Nevertheless he gave Cowan a curt nod of thanks. It wasn’t his fault that nothing helpful had come to light.

  No, the blame for this entire nightmarish debacle lay squarely at his own feet. “Is Lumsden still questioning the servants?”

  “Yes, milord. Reed is ‘elping out too. There ain’t many to go, so I might lend a ‘and, if that’s all right wif you. An’ you never know...”

  “Yes, of course.” Rafe replied. “One must never give up hope.”

  But as the door shut behind Cowan, he did indeed feel there was precious little hope.

  He closed his eyes as insidious despair suddenly broke through his carefully constructed armor of icy composure. Shit. The thought of Georgie in pain... of being tortured... He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

  Stop it, Markham. Buck up. Keep calm and think. Georgie’s fate wouldn’t be the same as Solange’s, not if he could help it.

  Somehow he would find a way to save her. His duchess.

  He crossed over to Jonathon’s desk and poured himself a cognac, his chosen remedy to keep his head clear. Jonathon was currently indisposed with an abominable headache and had quite rightly taken to his bed. Although it was fortunate indeed that he hadn’t actually been killed, now wasn’t the time to worry about Georgie’s brother.

  Taking a large swig of his drink, Rafe began to sift through the scraps of information they did have, which at this stage, was nothing substantial at all.

  Dashkov was pro
ving to be far too clever—not new intelligence by any means; the man had been alternately taunting and evading Rafe and all of his men for weeks now. This morning he’d struck hard and fast like the true snake he was, before disappearing without a trace.

  The most disconcerting part was, Rafe sensed Dashkov would only rear his ugly head again when he wanted to share what he had done to Georgie. To torment and to gloat. The message on his calling card was very clear in that regard. The sick bastard might be torturing Georgie right at this very moment and there was nothing on earth that he could do about it.

  Rafe closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Think, man. There was something he was missing, some link, a puzzle piece.

  Dashkov had always been one step ahead. He always seemed to anticipate both his and Georgie’s movements.

  This morning was a case in point. Barely anyone knew about the duel, and that it would be in a location as remote as Battersea-fields.

  But by all accounts, Dashkov had been there, lying in wait for Georgie and Jonathon. Benson, Dudley House’s coachman, had reported that there were four other carriages in the field adjacent to the dueling ground when they arrived. Rafe had traveled with Phillip in his carriage; the surgeon, Mr. Emerson had arrived in his own conveyance; and Craven had traveled with Bolton.

  So who had taken the fourth carriage to Battersea-fields?

  It must have been Dashkov.

  Benson had also reported that after Georgie and Jonathon had disappeared behind the hedgerow, he’d left Perkins, the footman, to mind the carriage whilst he’d walked back to The Red House Inn to purchase a pint of small beer and a crumpet. When he’d returned, the fourth mystery carriage had gone. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Not until the alarm was raised that Sir Jonathon had been attacked and the duchess had been kidnapped.

  Perkins, at one point during Benson’s absence, had gone into the bushes to relieve himself and had not noticed anything untoward either.

  The other coach drivers had been as equally unhelpful. Lord Bolton’s man had fallen asleep in his seat, and Mr. Emerson’s man had been attending to the traces and back straps on one of the horses when the other coach had driven off. The only other attendant footman was Lord Bolton’s, and he had been assisting his master on the dueling field.

  As expected, Jonathon didn’t recall a single damn thing.

  Which meant Georgie could be anywhere in, or outside of London. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  Rafe was just reloading his dueling pistol and another barreled flintlock—it paid to be prepared for any circumstance—when there came another knock at the door.

  At his bidding, Cowan entered and his expression was so grave, Rafe was immediately filled with a sense of foreboding all over again. Especially when he noticed that Cowan was holding a parcel.

  “It’s addressed to you and Sir Jonathon, milord.” He placed the package very carefully on the oak desk then stepped back. “An urchin delivered it to Perkins, not one minute ago. Lumsden is questionin’ the lad, but I don’t think he’ll get much out of ‘im.”

  Rafe took a deep breath and stepped forward. As he’d expected, red ink had been used. The handwriting was undoubtedly Dashkov’s.

  He found a letter opener and sliced through the wrappings. Beneath the brown paper and string was a plain wooden box. A plain sheet of folded parchment lay on top.

  Rafe snatched it up.

  The first piece.

  His heart hammering, he lifted the lid and didn’t know whether to sigh with relief, or curse the heavens.

  A large cluster of long, soft brown curls lay inside. Georgie’s hair.

  Sweet Jesus. Dashkov was clearly insane.

  Cowan cleared his throat. “What is it, milord, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

  Rafe pushed the box toward him and Cowan paled.

  “We need to act quickly,” Rafe said; somehow his voice held steady. “If we don’t, there will be more parcels.”

  Cowan nodded. “Yes, milord. I’ll make sure the men—”

  Another knock sounded and Lumsden entered without waiting for a summons. “My lord, a word if you would.” His expression was sober but Rafe detected a decided glint of excitement in the young man’s eyes.

  “Go on,” he prompted, not daring to hope that this might be the missing piece.

  Lumsden closed the door and took a few steps closer. “Her Grace’s lady’s maid, Miss Constance Lovedale, might be able to shed some light on the situation at hand. At two o’clock this morning, the night footman witnessed Miss Lovedale leaving via the servants’ entrance, and she didn’t return home until an hour and a half later. I’ve attempted to question her, but she became very agitated and teary. She says she won’t speak to anyone but you, my lord.”

  Whatever Miss Lovedale had to say, Rafe would listen. “Bring her in.”

  The young woman was indeed tearful and trembling like a leaf when she entered the room and took a seat at Rafe’s direction. He was familiar with her; had passed her in the hallways of Dudley House many times.

  Georgie had always spoken highly of her.

  He leaned his hip against Jonathon’s desk and folded his arms. “I believe you wanted to speak with me, Miss Lovedale,” he said as gently as he could. “That you may have some information regarding Her Grace’s kidnapping.”

  The maid dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with a wrinkled kerchief. “Yes... Yes, I might have.” She bit her lip then took a shuddering breath. “It’s all my fault, my lord. And I’ve been so, so frightened. For... for weeks if truth be told.” She twisted the kerchief in her hands and her words began to tumble out so quickly, Rafe could barely keep up. “I... I had no idea that what I was doing would lead to this. I knew it was wrong, but I kept telling myself it couldn’t do any harm, not really. But then, what else could I do?” She looked at him beseechingly, her large hazel eyes glazed with tears and her bottom lip wobbling.

  Rafe tried not to lose his patience. A gentle, sympathetic approach was clearly required. “Miss Lovedale, I am grateful you feel you can confide in me, but I’m afraid you are going to have to speak more plainly.”

  “I’m sorry.” A tear dripped onto the girl’s cheek and she sniffed. “I hardly know where to begin...”

  Rafe prompted her. “You said this all began some weeks ago. That you’ve been frightened. What happened?”

  “A man. A foreign man. I don’t know his name. He... he accosted me in the street one day when I was completing some errands for the duchess.”

  Dashkov. Rafe should have guessed the man would go to any lengths to carry out his warped plan of revenge. Anticipation thrumming through his veins, he asked, “What did he say to you?”

  “He told me I must give him an account of the duchess’s daily schedule, every single day—her appointments, social engagements, excursions, anticipated visitors. Everything. Of course, I said no. I would never, ever do such a thing, give a complete stranger that sort of private information about my employer. The duchess is the loveliest woman... Oh—” Constance pushed her kerchief against her mouth and screwed up her eyes as if attempting to stem another flood of tears.

  Rafe gave the girl a few moments to compose herself. This was the missing piece. It explained how Dashkov had been able to keep track of Georgie’s movements without being detected. But he needed more details. “If you didn’t want to give this man the information he asked for, why did you, Miss Lovedale? Did he threaten you?”

  The maid’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she breathed. “How... how did you know?”

  “I know who the man is and his nature. He is Russian. A baron by the name of Dashkov.” Rafe softened his tone. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did he threaten you?”

  “It wasn’t me that he threatened so much; it was my family,” she said, her voice quivering. “My sister, Faith—she’s widowed with a young son—and my younger brother, Thomas who lives with them. Faith owns a milliner’s shop in Grafton Str
eet, just off Bond Street. Her Grace purchases most of her hats from there.”

  Rafe frowned. He knew the shop. Had been there with Georgie. “What did he say he would do?”

  Constance bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears again. “Well, he had already done something. Something terrible. The day before he spoke to me in the street, my sister found her cat...” She sucked in shaky breath. “Her cat had been slaughtered, cut open. Gutted like a fish and left on the doorstep at the back of the shop. My sister lives upstairs so if one of the boys had seen it...” Constance shuddered and her face grew as pale as her white linen kerchief. “The man—Dashkov you say?—he said that if I didn’t do as he instructed, then my sister and the boys would end up just like the cat. And... and I believed him. I’m so, so sorry, my lord.”

  The maid began crying in earnest again, but Rafe didn’t have time for her tears right now. Not when he was so close to finding out something truly useful. “Miss Lovedale, I can see this is difficult for you. And believe me, I understand that you felt you had no other option than to comply with this man’s demands. However, I need to know more.”

  Rafe offered Constance his own handkerchief as hers was clearly sodden. She accepted it with thanks, and after she’d blown her nose and swiped at her eyes, he continued with his questioning. “You mentioned you give Dashkov an account of the duchess’s schedule, every day. How do you do this? Do you meet with him somewhere? Does he send someone to collect it?”

  She shook her head. “No. My brother, Tom—he’s twelve—he’s been coming to Dudley House very early, well before sunrise, and I give the schedule to him at the servants’ door.”

  Rafe tried to keep the sharp note of impatience out of his voice. He was getting so close to the information he needed to find Georgie, he could feel it. “And how does Tom get it to Dashkov?”

  “He delivers it to an address in Marylebone. Pushes it under the door. It’s only about a mile from here and Tom is fast, being a link boy and all. But if something happens, a change in Her Grace’s schedule, I have to send a message straightaway. Or... or there are consequences. For instance, the last time I failed to provide the correct schedule, a brick was thrown through my sister’s shop window. And another time, just last week, my nephew found a beheaded rat by the door. Last night, I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on Her Grace, but I could tell something was afoot. When I heard she was going to Battersea-fields at first light, I knew I had to get word to Dashkov, or something bad would happen again. Perhaps something even worse than dead cats and rats and broken windows. So I delivered the note myself. And I knocked very hard on the door to make sure the man, Dashkov, knew it was there. Please forgive me, my lord. I know I should have come to you, or Sir Jonathon, or gone to the Bow Street Runners, but I was too terrified, and—”