The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  The maid was rambling and close to tears again, so Rafe cut in. “Miss Lovedale, you just said you’ve been to this man’s residence. Do you know the exact address in Marylebone?”

  “Why yes. It’s number 14 Gloucester Place Mews.”

  Hallelujah! Rafe strode to the door and called Cowan and Lumsden. Could it really be that easy? Could Dashkov really have taken Georgie to an address that was so close to Hanover Square?

  God, he prayed with everything he had within him that it was so.

  Chapter 20

  Georgie would have dozed all day if she could have possibly managed it. Then she wouldn’t have to face the waking nightmare she was presently in. But the unrelenting pain radiating through her body was reaching a pitch that could only be described as intolerable—a state not conducive to sleep at all. Her back and shoulders and derriere ached, her throat was as dry as a desert, and her forehead pounded every time she moved her head. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when she’d first awoken, but the room was bitterly cold. Her fingers were frozen, her feet like blocks of ice. She couldn’t stop shivering. How ironic that her soubriquet, the Ice Duchess, seemed very apt at the present moment.

  Her only consolation was that Dashkov hadn’t returned.

  Every time her thoughts strayed in that direction, she quaked even harder, her stomach churning with sheer terror. Focusing on what she could do to save herself seemed to be the only way to keep herself sane.

  She’d rubbed her wrists raw trying to loosen the ropes, but they hadn’t budged in the slightest. If she could dislodge her gag and call out, someone might hear her. Dashkov was clearly concerned about that. The intermittent sounds of human activity in the alley below were both comforting and frustrating.

  Yes, if she could just get the blasted gag off, she would scream and scream and scream.

  Someone would definitely hear her.

  Help would arrive.

  Oh, please, God, send help.

  Send Rafe.

  A vision of him, handsome and strong, capable and fearless—a man like no other—sprang into her mind. Since Rafe had entered her life, she had so much to hope for. To live for. A future filled with love and laughter and untold joy.

  She had faith in him. He had come through the duel unscathed and he was searching for her at this very moment. This couldn’t be the end.

  For Rafe and herself, she wouldn’t give up.

  Her gaze darted to the window. Perhaps if she were closer, she could attract someone’s attention across the street. There was a window opposite this one, she was sure of it. She began to rock and wiggle in the chair and it moved a little on the wooden floor. Yes. She applied herself to the task with vigor, jostling and jiggling as hard as she could, until she was sweating and panting with exertion. But after a few minutes, she realized it was a futile exercise. The chair was too heavy and her bonds too tight. All she’d managed to do was shuffle around in a half circle so that now she was facing toward the door with the window behind her.

  Tears of frustration welled, burning her eyes and blurring her vision. Hope faded and cold, dark fear returned to keep her company once more.

  Please find me, Rafe.

  The heavy clomp of footsteps on the stairs and then in the hallway outside made Georgie start so violently, her chair moved again. Her gaze riveted on the door, she held her breath.

  Not Dashkov. Please, God, not Dashkov.

  The key grated in the lock and Georgie clamped her eyes shut. She was too terrified to look.

  “Ah, moya dorogaya, I see you have been busy in my absence.” She heard Dashkov cross the room. He stroked her cheek with his finger. If she could have bitten it off, she would have. “You are just like my Anna,” he crooned. “Very brave. I like that about you.”

  Georgie forced herself to open her eyes. To give Dashkov an imploring look. She made a noise around the gag. If he removed it, even for a second...

  Dashkov smiled down at her, his pale gray eyes as cold as arctic ice. “No, no, my pet. I cannot remove it. I cannot risk you making a single sound.”

  And that’s when she saw it. The knife. The wicked-looking steel blade caught the light filtering through the window, and it was like a living thing. Winking at her.

  Mocking her.

  Dashkov bent forward and whispered, “Your Lord Markham ruined my beautiful Anna’s face, and so I will ruin yours.”

  Bile rose in Georgie’s throat.

  She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look...

  Dashkov’s fingers touched her ear. Pinched hard.

  Oh, God save me.

  Hold on, Georgie. I’m coming, my love.

  Pistol in hand, Rafe eyed the door of number 14 Gloucester Place Mews. The dull green paint was peeling and the hinges and doorknob were rusted. It would be child’s play breaking in.

  He nodded at Cowan. “Pick the lock if you would.”

  While he was all for kicking down doors—and he had so much rage pounding through his veins right at this moment he would like nothing more than to do it—he didn’t want to startle Dashkov into taking rash action.

  As expected, the lock tumbled quickly and Cowan stepped back. “I’ll keep a watch, milord whilst you and Lumsden check inside.”

  Rafe gave him a curt nod. Taking a fortifying breath, he pushed on the door.

  It creaked open on its rusty hinges, revealing a dim, filthy hallway. A narrow set of stairs. A door to the right and left. He nodded at Lumsden who’d already drawn his own pistol. Together they entered and quickly checked each downstairs room, taking care not to make a sound.

  The tiny room to the left was bare of furniture but the next showed definite signs of occupation. Dirty glasses, plates and food scraps littered a scratched deal table. A misshapen tallow candle and a cracked spill jar of tapers sat on the roughly hewn mantel beside a dented teapot. A pile of potatoes sat by the hearth where the remnants of a fire smoldered, and a black greatcoat hung lopsidedly off the back of a rickety wooden chair.

  Rafe caught Lumsden’s eye and gestured with his head. Upstairs.

  But for the occasional creak of a floorboard, the shabby townhouse was silent as the grave as Rafe led the way to the next floor.

  That did not bode well.

  Like downstairs, one room was deserted whilst the other contained signs of habitation. A pallet bed, roughly made up with threadbare sheets and a scratchy woolen blanket stood against one water-stained wall. More men’s clothes were piled over the back of a worn leather armchair or spilled out of a battered traveling trunk onto the bare wooden floorboards.

  “Milord,” murmured Lumsden. He held out a sheaf of papers. Ivory parchment. Good quality and covered in neat, feminine handwriting.

  Rafe’s heart leapt.

  Georgie’s schedule.

  This was definitely Dashkov’s bolt-hole.

  But where the hell were Dashkov and Georgie?

  Shit. Rafe blew out a breath in frustration. He was so close to finding his duchess. Of course, he could lie in wait for Dashkov, but how long would that take? The monster was probably with Georgie right now, doing God knows what to her. He crossed to the window and rested his forearm against the splintered frame, gazing out the grime-crusted pane to the alley below and the building opposite.

  What next?

  A movement in the window directly across from him caught his eye.

  A figure. A man.

  Tall and dark-haired. Broad-shouldered.

  It couldn’t be...

  Rafe sure as hell wasn’t going to wait a moment longer to find out.

  He bolted down the stairs and sprinted across the mews, his pistol drawn, Lumsden close on his heels. The dull green door gave way with a single kick and then he was taking the stairs, two at a time to the floor above.

  The door on the right.

  Another explosive kick to the lock and the door splintered. Swung open.

  And there was Georgie—his beautiful Georgie—gagged and tied to a chair, her blue eyes as wide as
saucers while Dashkov stood behind her, a maniacal grin contorting his face as he pressed a knife to her throat.

  Blood welled over the blade.

  Fuck the bastard.

  Rafe fired and the shot hit Dashkov right between the eyes. The knife clattered to the floor and the Russian toppled backwards, his head hitting the windowsill before he slumped to the floor.

  It was over.

  Thank, God, it was over.

  Rafe is here. He’s alive and so am I.

  Georgie had never felt such sweet, blessed relief until the moment Rafe burst into the room like a furious god of vengeance. Now, as he knelt before her, murmuring she was safe and that he loved her, checking the cut on her neck and using his own neck cloth to bandage it, she could barely see his adored face through the tears falling thick and fast onto her cheeks.

  He removed the gag and she tried to speak. Croaked, then tried again. “Thank you,” she rasped, her voice starchy from misuse and from a lack of anything to drink.

  “No. Don’t thank me, Georgie. Not when I brought this evil to your door.”

  “But—”

  Rafe leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “We will talk of this later. Let me take you home. Your wounds need attending.”

  Georgie wasn’t about to disagree with him on that score.

  Once her bonds were cut, Rafe helped her to stand, but her legs buckled. Rafe immediately swept her into his arms and bore her from that most hellish of rooms, down the stairs and into a waiting carriage that had appeared, as if by magic, outside the door.

  “How is Jonathon?” she asked as soon as the carriage door closed. Rafe hadn’t relinquished his hold on her; draped across his lap, she had to draw back to see his face.

  His mouth twitched into a wry smile. “He has an impressive lump on the back of his head, and a devilish megrim. Aside from being worried sick about you, he is all right.”

  Georgie nodded and relaxed into Rafe’s strong arms again, her head on his shoulder. The cut on her neck stung, her wrists burned, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against Rafe’s black coat, breathing in his familiar scent—musk and leather, and the bergamot cologne he favored. The scent of home and heaven.

  Rafe’s hand gently kneaded the back of her head. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him—about the duel, how he’d found her in time—but her mind began to wander. She was so, so tired.

  Lulled by the steady beat of Rafe’s heart and the rise and fall of his chest, she drifted to sleep.

  Georgie was barely awake when Rafe carried her into her bedroom in Dudley House.

  Exhaustion and the lingering effects of the laudanum made her so drowsy, she could barely keep her eyes open. She had a vague impression that Rafe kissed her forehead before he left her in the care of Dudley House’s housekeeper and a chamber maid; it seemed that Constance was still indisposed. Georgie’s wounds were cleaned and dressed, she was offered barley-water to ease her thirst, and then, after being helped to don a loose cotton nightrail, she was tucked up in her bed.

  Alone.

  As Georgie slipped into sleep again, she wondered why Rafe hadn’t stayed with her. He must have business to attend to...

  She wasn’t sure how long she slumbered, but when she awoke it was with a start. Momentarily disorientated, her heart pounding, she blinked at the festoons of pale blue silk forming a canopy above her head.

  You are home, you are safe, she repeated to herself until her breathing and pulse returned to a pace approaching normal. The nightmare is over.

  Sitting up gingerly, Georgie winced when the bandage at her neck pulled and the cut beneath stung. She sensed it was late in the day given how dark it was, and a quick glance at the mantel clock confirmed she was correct—it was close to five o’clock. The curtains at the windows had been drawn and a fire crackled brightly in the grate, but she didn’t feel cheered by the sight.

  She was unsettled. She wanted Rafe.

  Scanning the cluster of chairs before the fire, and then all the dark corners of her room, her heart sank when she realized she was indeed alone. But perhaps Rafe was in the sitting room. She slid from the bed and after putting on slippers and wrapping a silk dressing gown about herself, she padded to the door.

  “Jonathon,” she cried, her voice cracking with emotion when she saw her brother sitting by the fire.

  He jumped to his feet and within a moment had enveloped her in a gentle hug. “Oh dear, Lord, Georgie-bean. What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I could ask you the same question. You could have been killed.” She drew back to study his face. “Tell me how you are. Does your head still hurt? What did the physician say?”

  An affectionate smile lit her brother’s eyes as he chucked her under the chin. “I’ve been officially diagnosed with a ‘sore head’. Apart from a tender spot at the back, I am well.” He led her over to the shepherdess chair on the hearthrug and urged her to sit. “I will ring for tea and supper, and then, if you feel up to it, you can tell me your version of this morning’s events.”

  “So you have spoken with Rafe?” Georgie couldn’t hide the note of melancholy in her voice when she added, “I’m surprised he isn’t here...”

  Jonathon rang the bell-pull then returned to the fireside, taking the chair beside hers. “Yes, I have spoken with him...” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “He... I understand he’s had to tidy up some loose ends. With the Bow Street Runners and the Foreign Secretary’s office. As you would expect.”

  “Of course.” Georgie plucked at the lace edging of her robe. Her brother had been assaulted. She, a duchess, had been kidnapped. And a man had been shot—a former spy, a traitor to his own king and country. A mad man.

  She closed her eyes and shivered as a memory of feeling utterly helpless with a knife at her throat intruded into her thoughts.

  “Here, drink this, sis.” Jonathon offered her a sherry, which she accepted with thanks. “As I said, if you’d like to talk about it...” He resumed his seat and then stared into the fire, leaving it entirely up to her to continue. Or not.

  “I would.” She had questions too and she was certain her brother would be able to fill in the gaps. She took a large sip of sherry to bolster her courage and then began her story at the point where Jonathon had been knocked out and Dashkov had kidnapped her. By the time she’d finished, she was trembling again and Jonathon’s scowl was as black as a thunder cloud.

  “I could kill him for what he’s put you through, Georgie.”

  Georgie frowned in confusion. “What? Dashkov? But he’s already d—”

  “No. Bloody Markham.” Jonathon’s blue eyes flashed with anger. “If it weren’t for him—”

  Georgie leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “If it weren’t for him, I’d still be a sad, lonely widow, hiding myself away with nothing to look forward to. Simply existing and never really living. I don’t regret anything. Not a single thing.”

  Jonathon’s gaze sharpened on her face. “You really love him so much that you can forgive him for putting you in danger?”

  “Yes. I do love him that much, Jonathon. There’s nothing to forgive.”

  Jonathon puffed out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “So be it. I was intending to give Markham his marching orders when he returned, but if he really makes you that happy, I suppose I can hold my tongue.”

  “Thank you. Although, there’s something that’s been perplexing me. How on earth did Rafe find me?”

  Jonathon hesitated for a moment before responding, “I gather your maid Constance provided him with the information.”

  Georgie’s brows shot up. “Whatever do you mean? What on earth has my maid got to do with any of this?”

  “It seems Dashkov was coercing her, threatening her family with physical harm if she didn’t divulge a detailed account of your daily schedule,” explained Jonathon. “That’s how Dashkov always seemed to be lurking in the wing
s, ready to pounce out at odd moments. Like this morning.”

  When Jonathon explained the exact nature of Dashkov’s threats, Georgie felt sick with horror. Poor Constance. No wonder the girl had been looking so unwell these past few weeks. “Where is Constance now? Is she all right? She must be riddled with guilt.”

  “She’s distraught, as you’d expect,” replied Jonathon. “I’ve given her a few days to recuperate. She’s staying with her sister and younger brother in Grafton Street.”

  Georgie nodded. “That’s probably for the best. However, I would like to send word to her tomorrow to reassure her that her position is safe. None of this is her fault.”

  “Of course.”

  Georgie sighed. “I still don’t understand how Rafe found me. How was Constance able to help?”

  “Apparently Constance and her younger brother would deliver your schedule to an address in Marylebone. When Markham went to investigate, you weren’t there, but then he was lucky enough to sight Dashkov through the window across the street. And you know the rest.”

  Indeed she did. If Rafe hadn’t seen Dashkov... Georgie shuddered. No, she didn’t want to think about it. Instead she turned the conversation in another direction. “Did you hear...?” Her voice quivered so she took a fortifying breath before continuing, “What was the outcome of the duel?”