by Eva Grace
That was his intent until he saw the reason that the coach had stopped.
A horse and rider had ridden directly in the path of the coach, forcing it to a halt. And just as Raff was then about to direct his venom at said rider, he took another look, realising that he in fact knew the man on the back of the horse. And knew him well.
"Nigel?!" He called out with confusion. "What on earth are you doing?"
Nigel was Lord Drakefield's head butler, in much the same way that Jonathan was Raff's. He had met the butler several times when he had called on Drakefield, and thus recognised him instantly.
"Your Grace," Nigel exclaimed with a sense of urgency. "Thank God I found you when I did."
"I'm afraid that this is not a good time," Raff began, attempting as he did to curb his growing anger. "We really are in hurry to --"
"I know what has happened!" Nigel cut in quickly. "I know that the Duchess has been taken."
There was no way that Raff could have been expecting this and as such, he took a few moments to recover from the shock before he was able to realign himself and ask how Nigel knew such a thing.
"It was Lady Drakefield," Nigel continued with what sounded to be remorse. "I came across some letters earlier today, and although I know I should not have been reading them, Lord Drakefield has asked that I keep an eye on Lady Drakefield's ah—affairs-- and I just thought --"
"Speak!" Raff commanded as the nervous butler began to ramble.
"Oh yes, I am sorry." He gave his head a quick shake. "Canary Wharf, the docks, the final pier. She has taken Her Grace to the docks to --"
Before Nigel was able to finish what it was he was saying, Raff indicated to the driver of the coach that it was time to go. The driver, knowing only too well the urgency of the moment, wasted no time in steering the horses around Nigel and taking off at pace.
As the carriage tore down the near deserted streets of London, Raff found himself suddenly overcome with even more worry than he had been feeling earlier. When he had not known who had taken his wife, he been able to convince himself it was for means of a ransom or something of that nature. But now that he knew it to be Lady Drakefield who was responsible for the kidnapping, well... well he had no idea what it was that Constance wanted, but he knew all to well what she was capable of. The violent outbursts that had marred their brief affair were all too vivid in his memory. The thought that Constance might direct that rage at his wife made Raff shudder.
The more he thought on this very odd change of circumstance, the colder he began to feel, as if he had suddenly slipped into an ice bath. He knew Lady Drakefield to be a detached, remorseless woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. The only question was, what did she want?
He tried to not think on this as he felt the carriage gain pace. To worry over such things now was all but useless. Instead he thought of his wife, his unborn baby and how no matter what, he would see them rescued. Or he would die trying.
*****
Raff rushed down the cobblestones of the docks at such a pace that it was a wonder he didn't trip over a stray piece of rope and break his neck in the process. But even if that did happen, he was sure that he would be able to continue onward, for not even a snapped vertebrate would be enough to stop him while his wife's life was in danger.
It was only a few dozen feet into his dash when he suddenly heard screams, piercing the silence of the night like a war cry.
They came from the far end of the dock, another hundred feet away, and to his relief – if it could be described in such a way – they didn't sound like the type of blood curdling screams coming from a woman being tortured or killed. Rather, they sounded more akin to that of two women engaged in a scuffle.
It took another twenty seconds or so for Raff to come upon the source of the noise and when he did... well he took a moment to register what exactly it was that he was seeing.
The first thing he saw were the backs of two large men. Some thirty feet away, they were far too interested in what was happening in front of them to notice Raff coming up from behind. Indeed, he felt that he could have tripped over a metal bucket and they would not have broken their gaze.
Raff made straight for them, slowing his pace as he snuck up behind the two men – the screams now in full force, coming from right in front of the two.
Closer, Raff was able to better see what it was exactly that had the two men so engaged, and what was causing such a racket. It was two women, locked in combat; one wielding a short knife and the other trying to keep it at bay. The one with the knife was none other than Lady Drakefield, looking deranged as she stabbed and stabbed at the air before her. The other was his wife, dancing backwards while using her hands to try and swat the blade back, fear etched across her beautiful face.
As this was taking place, the two men seemed content to watch on, as if it were a show. Indeed, he actually heard one of them cheer when Lady Drakefield lunged and Catherine dodged backward.
As Lady Drakefield took another swing at his wife, Raff had to fight the urge to rush through the two men and tackle her. He knew that if he did so, he would become overwhelmed by the two men who were surely on the opposite side to him, and then they would both be dead.
Instead of this most foolish of ideas, he cast his eyes downward where he saw a metal pipe, a piece of broken gutter, lying idle by his feet. Roughly the length and width of his forearm, it was long past fit for its original purpose, but its new purpose was all too telling. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up.
The moment the pipe was gripped in his hand, Raff sprang forward and walloped it with all the strength he could muster over the skull of the closest of the two men. The sound of the metal crushing skull was terrific, and no sooner had it connected with the first man, did Raff turn it on the second. The second man was caught completely off guard by the appearance of the angry Duke and was barely able to register what had happened before his face too was met with steel.
Such was Raff's shock over the ease at which he had taken out the two men, and the way in which their bodies had crumbled to the ground, that he was initially struck with an overwhelming sense of pride at his feat. That was until he heard a blood curdling scream, anyhow.
Snapping back to the moment, he looked up, fully expecting to find his wife maimed or worse by the blade of Lady Drakefield.
To his surprise, and indescribable relief, the fighting had stopped, and where he had expected his wife Catherine to be injured, it was in fact the complete opposite of this. Catherine remained standing, seemingly unharmed, while it was Lady Drakefield who lay on the ground, the knife sticking from her thigh and blood gushing from it.
Caring not for the state of Lady Drakefield, Raff rushed to his wife, taking her in his arms and pulling her into a hug, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. "Catherine!"
"Raff?" she half gasped in surprise, half exclaimed in relief. "What are you doing here? How did you --"
"That does not matter," he said, not for a second letting her go. "The important thing is that you and the baby are both safe."
He could feel Catherine stiffen in his embrace as she pushed herself free. "How did you... who told... what baby..."
"Urgh..." Lady Drakefield suddenly moaned from beneath them, drawing both of their attentions away from the moment.
Raff pulled Catherine back into a firm hug as he looked over her shoulder and down at the good Lady Drakefield, who was still bleeding heavily from the thigh. He had never felt such disdain for another human, and if it weren't for the fact that even he wasn't so callous as to stand idly y and watch a woman bleed to death, he may very well have left her where she was, to bleed out and be gone from this world.
But alas, for his conscience prodded him, and as the Lady wept and moaned, touching gingerly at the knife still wedged deep within her flesh, he knew that he had to do something, lest she bleed out and die.
"What should we do about her?" Raff asked his wife, just loud enough so that Lady Drakefield would be a
ble to hear the repulsion in his voice.
"We shall have to do something —shall I try fetch a doctor from one of the ships?"
Raff paused, a smile crossing his face as an idea suddenly came to mind. "You know, I actually have a better idea."
*****
"Albright," Lord Drakefield said with a knowing smile as he opened the front door of his London town house to greet him. "I thought I'd be graced with the pleasure of your company at some stage this evening."
"Lord Drakefield," Raff greeted the old man with ease. He had actually expected to be surprising Lord Drakefield with his sudden, and very late arrival, but evidently that was not to be the case. "I have somewhat of a surprise for you."
"It's not my lovely wife, is it?" Lord Drakefield asked with an amused chuckle. He then looked out the door and around Raff, in the direction of the carriage waiting below on the roadside "I suppose that she is laid out in that fine vehicle? I do hope that she didn't cause too much concern?"
Raff assessed Lord Drakefield with complete surprise. As said, he had arrived at the Viscount's home with the intention of breaking the news to Lord Drakefield that his wife was a liar, a murderess and by all accounts a psychopath. It seemed that Lord Drakefield was already aware of these facts... and that he found them to be terribly amusing.
"Your wife has... ah, has suffered an injury I am afraid," Raff said cautiously. "She has taken a knife wound to the thigh. We've managed to stop the bleeding but she will need some care."
Lord Drakefield glanced apathetically at the carriage one more time, looked back to Raff and asked, "Would you care for a drink? I have a bottle of brandy that has aged just to perfection and a sniff or two would do us both well, I would say."
Raff narrowed his eyes as he reassessed the Lord. He appeared almost jovial in his manner, as if the idea of his wife bleeding out in the back of a carriage did not bother him at all.
"Your wife...."
"Will be fine," Lord Drakefield waved Raff off. "I'll send some of the staff out to collect her. We have an excellent physician they will call, and he'll take a look at that leg without delay. Now, that drink." He took a step out the door and toward Albright, threw his arm around Raff's shoulder and all but forced him inside.
With no choice, and left numb by confusion more than anything, Raff allowed himself to be led, sparing a final glance back at the carriage, still parked on the road and still housing a bleeding Lady Drakefield.
Lord Drakefield led Raff through his home, through a dark corridor and into his library. There, two very comfortable looking couches sat pushed toward a raging fire, contained within a marble hearth. Lord Drakefield indicated to the Chesterfield couches while he himself went and poured two glasses of brandy. Raff took a seat, took the brandy when it was handed to him, and settled himself in for what he was beginning to believe was going to be a very interesting story.
"So," Lord Drakefield said with a sigh of relief as he settled himself slowly into the couch. The act itself seemed to take its toll on the aged Lord. "Nigel has of course already informed me as to what she has gone and done."
"Oh," Raff rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. That explained perfectly why Lord Drakefield was so nonplussed by his arrival. "I'm afraid it's all true as well," Raff confirmed solemnly. "I can't begin to imagine the shock you must be feeling."
"Shock?" Lord Drakefield scrunched his brow and tilted his head. "None whatsoever. I'm afraid that this is by no means Constance's first offence. But it will be her last, I can assure you of that – ah, that is a fine drop." He smacked his lips as he sipped at the brandy.
"Surely you jest?" The brandy in Raff's hand remained untouched. In that moment he could think of nothing he wanted to do less than drink.
"I'm afraid not." Another deep sip. "It's a bit of a tale if you'll care to indulge in it?"
Raff slowly nodded his head, all the while wondering what on earth he was about to learn.
Lord Drakefield smiled to himself, as if suddenly remembering something amusing from days past. "I first met Constance when she was an actress in one of Covent Garden's less glamorous establishments. And although this is general knowledge among our peers, what is not known is that her heritage is less than adequate. She is from the Seven Dials, if you would believe that? Born into poverty and raised in it. When I first met her she was no more a Lady than Nigel. But alas, my heart —and other parts-- yearned for the woman and I threw caution to the wind and made her my bride."
Raff listened, almost unable to believe what it was that he was hearing. While indeed it was no secret that Lady Drakefield had once been an actress, most assumed her to have been from the middle class at the very worst. But poverty? The slums of St. Giles? It was unheard of.
"I was willing to ignore her origins however. Call it an old man in search of a final adventure. What I was not willing to endure though was the way she lusted after you every chance she got."
Raff felt himself go red. "I am truly sorry for --"
Lord Drakefield waved him down. "I don't blame you for this. Constance can be quite the temptress when she puts her mind to it, though I had rather expected a little more loyalty after all I had done for her. Besides," Lord Drakefield gave an amused chuckle, spreading out his arms, "It is not as though she would have had to wait long before I shuffled off this mortal coil. Oh, I felt her betrayal to my bones, for I knew that she thought herself in love with you. That was why I sent you that letter, the one inviting you into... ah, Lady Catherine's —as she was at the time-- quarters that night."
Raff's eyes bulged with realisation and he clenched his fist so tight that he very nearly shattered the glass he was holding. "That was you!" he exclaimed. "That was... that night... your wife... you sent me the letter?"
Lord Drakefield could not have looked more smug. "I did. I knew you lusted after Constance, and I knew Lady Catherine to be sound asleep in her room. It was only too easy to lure you there, catch you in the act and force a marriage upon you. I was rather proud of myself, truth be told."
Raff wasn't sure if he should be enraged with what he was being told, or grateful. Oh, on the one hand, he hated being taken advantage of and made to look a fool. Indeed, if this were a month ago he would command that the good Lord meet him outside so that they could settle this dispute like men.
But it wasn't a month ago. It was now. A lot had changed in that time, including his feelings for Catherine. He loved his wife with all his heart and could not imagine being without her.
But even still, that didn't excuse Lord Drakefield's actions one wit. Raff felt muddled with anger, as he tried to decide what course of action to take. And apparently, Lord Drakefield could sense this too, for he hurried on with his next point before Raff had a chance to act.
"I want you to know that I am truly sorry for what I did. Nothing I say can redeem my actions, and I only hope that in time you learn to forgive me. And, if it is any consolation, know that after tonight I will be forced to send Constance away for good. It seems that the ultimate loser in all of this is me. The irony is not lost on me either, I assure you."
Despite himself, Raff actually found that he felt sorry for the aged Lord. In that moment, the man sitting before him didn't look the powerful, wealthy Viscount that he was known to be. But rather an old fool who had lost everything in the pursuit of love... or a version of it, anyhow. Try as he might, Raff just couldn't find it in himself to be angry.
"Lord Drakefield, I'm sorry for how this all turned out," Raff said with dignity.
Lord Drakefield waved him away and took one final sip of his brandy. "Don't be," he said cheerfully. "I do not love Constance by any stretch of the imagination. Our marriage was... was a marriage of convenience. I got what I wanted and she what she wanted. Now that it's done with... perhaps it is for the best?"
And that was that. Not much else was said that night. The two men finished their drinks -- or rather Lord Drakefield finished Raff's for him – they said their goodbyes and Raff left.
As he sat in the back of the carriage on the journey home, thinking about everything that had taken place this evening, he found that it wasn't Lord Drakefield's stunning admission – that being that he was the architect of Raff's marriage, nor that his wife was a low level street uchin of the worst kind – that occupied his thoughts the most. Not by a long way.
What had left Raff the most bereft of speech was the Lord's admittance, and apparent apathy, toward his own feelings for his wife. He did not love her, she did not love him, and he seemed to care not on little bit. In fact, he acted almost as if this were expected, that the idea of Lady Drakefield loving him, and he her, was never on the cards.
It was amusing in some way how the Raff of a month previously would have been well and truly in support of this kind of sham marriage, seeing it as ideal and in many ways necessary. But now he could not think of anything worse.
Again, the unflinching love that he felt for his wife – and their soon to be born child – was only confirmed to be stronger than ever. Seeing what Lord Drakefield had been through, what he had lived with, only firmed Raff's resolve to treat his own wife like the angel she was every single day, until the day he died.
It was with this final thought that a smile actually began to creep across Raff's face, not just on his lips either, but across his brow and eyes too. It was the first time he had truly smiled in hours, and it was all on account of Catherine.
With the drama well and truly dealt with and put behind them, they now had their whole lives to live together, and for that he could not wait.
Catherine paced back and forth in the living room of Raff's Ducal bedchamber with such a level of concern and fear that one wouldn't think that she had been the victim of a kidnapping just a few hours previously. In fact, the nerves that she felt pulsating through her body as she paced were such that if anyone was to witness the way she was acting – fidgeting with her hands, eyes continuously darting toward the closed front door – they would assume that she was in the wrong and awaiting a punishment of some kind.
