The only oddity to Cordelia was her mother, who insisted on dressing her in ruffles and treating her as though she belonged in the schoolroom – but no one should be blamed for their parents’ peculiarities.
Aideen ought to have detested her, but to both their surprises, they had met and enjoyed each other’s conversation during a tedious musical soirée. They appeared to bring out the best in each other, or in Aideen’s case, she supressed her worst tendencies in Cordelia’s proper company.
Since losing her cousin and close friend Sophie Beckford to marriage and rustication in the countryside last year, Aideen had felt rather adrift this Season.
Despite Mrs Beckford’s admirable efforts, she didn’t fit within the Beau Monde. She struggled to control her unruly tongue, mangled dance steps and ate too many lobster patties. She was too robust, loud and forward.
“Did Miss Gibbon really faint though?” She prodded Cordelia as Mrs Beckford wandered out to check on luncheon preparations. “Can one really faint simply at a word?”
An uncharacteristic grimace graced her friend’s fair features, and Aideen was aware Cordelia had been in the doldrums for much of the morning, although the amount of lace around her collar was enough to put anyone in an itchy mood.
“Well, no…but that is not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“There were gentlemen present, and by swooning, she displayed her delicate feminine sensibilities.”
“Pfff. If she’d missed that couch, she would have displayed more than her sensibilities.”
Cordelia’s lips curved, but no sparkle reached her bright-blue eyes. “Aunty Bridget says society is becoming staid. The slightest indiscretion and one is…ruined.”
Huffing dramatically at the absurdity of fainting over a thigh faux pas, Aideen thanked Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the disciples and the Holy Lamb that no one had discovered she’d been held against her will for more than a few hours by a scurvy French knave last spring.
Now that was an indiscretion of ruinous proportions.
The Duke of Rakecombe should probably also be thanked, as she was sure he had supressed – or frightened – any gossipers.
But that would be adding the trait of kindness to his lack of personality.
A loud sniffing, and one look at Cordelia’s pretty but woebegone face made Aideen huddle close. “What’s wrong, Cordy? You’ve been sad all day. Has your handsome viscount been ignoring you?”
“No…it’s… Oh, Aideen, I’m ruined!”
A bundle of frilly white muslin collapsed into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
Patting Cordelia’s back, Aideen let her wail a short while before lifting her chin. “Did you mention thighs?” She stroked her friend’s hair, becoming entangled with a lacy ribbon. “Has Lord Oakdean hurt you? I’ll show you how to knee him in the nutm–”
“Aideen!” Cordelia cried, clamping hands over her ears and managing a soggy chuckle. “Don’t mention any more unmentionable words. But no, it’s…it’s…”
“Yes?”
“My piano tutor.”
Frowning, Aideen’s shoulders slumped. How dull. “What’s he doing? Making you learn scales? Patting your knee? I can show you how to twist his–”
“No. I… This is most embarrassing.” A rose flush swamped Cordelia’s wan cheeks. “I haven’t seen him for an age, but at sixteen, I had a slight…infatuation, and I wrote poetry to him.”
Aideen lurched back. “Did you?”
“Hmm. They were awful. I portrayed myself as a lamb and bid him be my shepherd.”
“Eugh.”
“Precisely. The problem is, I have received a note requesting me break my betrothal or my poems will be revealed.”
“No!” Aideen cried. “But would it matter? Surely they’re not that bad?”
“It isn’t only that, although there was one about gambolling on the heath…” Cordelia coughed delicately. “No, it’s just Lord Oakdean’s relatives are such sticklers for propriety, especially his grandmother, and I believe she would then disapprove of our union and forbid it.”
“But Oakdean loves you. Surely he won’t fash over some foolish old poems.”
Cordelia scrunched her dejected face. “He hasn’t actually told me he loves me. And he did request a long engagement.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.”
Tapping her lip, Aideen mulled. “Have you spoken to your piano tutor?”
“Yes. I sent a message asking him to meet me at Hatchards. I took my maid of course, and…and…”
“And?”
“He told me it wasn’t him who’d sent the blackmail note but admitted my poems had been…sold!”
Aideen gasped. “Lawks, they must have been good then. Will they be serialised?”
“No!” Cordelia wailed. “He sold them to Viscountess Gibbon. Her daughter, the fainting one, was always the favourite choice of Oakdean’s grandmother, and I’m certain she means to betroth the delicate flower to him. The beastly blackmailing…so-and-so.”
There were many words Aideen might have chosen but Cordelia was ever polite.
Stroking her friend’s hand in consolation, she set her mind to work. “But surely this is all a smidgeon melodramatic.”
“Aideen,” her friend wailed again, “have you not observed the underhand deeds at these balls?”
“Well, not when there are lobster patties to be had and if they happen to have scotch eggs too, I’m oblivio–”
“According to the gossip columns and naming no names, a certain Miss R laid a piece of string across the library at Mr O’s last month, causing Lord G to trip and fall straight into her bosom. They are now engaged. And Lady U trapped Sir E in the retiring room with a pink muff.”
“Are they engaged?” Aideen asked, thoroughly confused.
Cordelia frowned. “No. He’s gone to the Continent. Better Napoleon than Lady U’s sisters, I suppose. But that’s not the point.” She stared darkly. “It’s a predator’s lair in the ballroom.”
Breath stuttered in Aideen’s throat as she imagined the black-clad Duke of Rakecombe prowling some glittering event, snarling at any debutante that got in his way, swiping with clawed paw at any badgering marriage-minded mothers…or was that marriage-minded badgers.
Either way, there was always a bigger predator.
“I will have a ponder, Cordelia. Anyone who faints at thighs cannot be allowed to get away with such wickedness.”
Staring at the mantelpiece in consideration, Aideen smiled. Amid the stack of correspondence, if memory served, sat an invite to Lady Gibbon’s ball on Wednesday.
Coincidence or divine intervention?
Finally, some intrigue to enliven the Season.
∞∞∞
The Duke of Rakecombe’s stomach gurgled and he held a palm to the un-ducal noise. How dare it.
His mother had obtained a new French chef, a certain Monsieur Pascale Dupont, for the Rakecombe residence, but something was…off. Always the sauce was over-peppered or the meat too rare – his lamb had practically bleated its displeasure from the plate last night.
“Apologies, Rakecombe, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
He surveyed the man that kept him waiting.
Busy scribbling away, Lord Rainham was one of the principal spy coordinators here at Whitehall. Honoured with the rank of viscount last year for saving a bosky duke from poisoning – not himself, obviously, but Cousin Humphrey twice removed – Rainham was a somewhat strange chap. Nevertheless, this steadfast leader commanded Rakecombe’s profound respect.
His gaze wandered; the office appeared as well-ordered as ever, but even here something else was…off.
Over the past months, he’d perceived a difference in the newly ennobled Lord Rainham. He’d put it down to Napoleon, the cause of all ills, but there felt more to it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Lord Rainham had more grey hairs but didn’t look so tired as usual, despite the desperate situation
on the Continent. In fact, he looked in fine fettle as he set the ink well to an exact angle and steepled his fingers.
Documents were perfectly aligned on his desk.
Maps covered the walls, set at equal distances.
Quills remained raised, ready for flight.
A single white lily stood to attention in a tall crystal vase left of the desk. What the–
“We have a traitor in our midst.”
Those blunt words put paid to Rakecombe’s unease over deviant blooms. “Who?”
“I don’t know but two of my men have gone missing along with some valuable documents.”
“How important are these documents?”
“They include a list of informants.”
“Dear God,” snapped Rakecombe, hitching forward. “If that falls into the wrong hands…”
“Exactly. I’m investigating how the documents were taken, but we need to locate these men, Stuart Penbury and Gabriel Stafford. Use your network to find out whatever you can. Are they alive? If so, were they coerced? Or have they turned on us?” Rainham smoothed the desk with a palm. “Both have been with me for years, recruited from the army, but this is too much of a coincidence.”
“Any of their family missing?”
Rakecombe thumbed the silver filigree adorning his cane. Last year, he’d shot the whoreson who’d abducted Miss Quinlan, a putrid villain who enjoyed kidnapping the relatives of key persons in the government and military in order to extort information, but they’d never recovered his body from the river estuary depths…
“Not as far as I’m aware. Penbury’s roots are in the north and Stafford was raised in an orphanage. Purely on gut instinct,” Rainham continued, “I believe Penbury to be the weaker. Stafford has always been blunt but dedicated. Descriptions and so forth are with my secretary.”
“Very well. Anything else?”
“Yes, take Winterbourne with you. I have the perfect mission coming up for him, but some preparation would do no harm.”
“Must I?” he growled, stamping his top boot in impatience. He worked better alone. People just got in the way.
“Don’t feign joy on account of my delicate feelings, Rakehell,” a jovial voice lobbed from the doorway. “Where have you been lurking, my dear fellow? It’s been an age.”
“Not long enough, I’m sure,” he replied, standing to greet the Marquess of Winterbourne with a vague modicum of warmth. And why did the marquess always feel the need to disparage his noble title? His Viking ancestors wouldn’t have put up with it. “I’ve been busy, as unlike some, I also tend to my estates.”
The modish smiling Winterbourne was a well-known rogue, but Rakecombe had to admit a miniscule liking for the affable fellow despite his lascivious habits. Wouldn’t let him know that, of course – he had a pitiless nature to uphold, after all.
Briefly, he wondered how the marquess would handle a night out in the seamier side of London… Well, they would find out soon enough. The thought of the enemy with their grubby paws on a document listing covert names brought bile to his throat and urgency to his step.
“I’ll have you know I work tirelessly at my estate,” Winterbourne replied, eyes twinkling.
“Seducing milkmaids is not work.”
“Faugh! Never in my life have I touched an estate milkmaid. In truth, half of them are probably relations as dear departed Father was rather prolific in his youth…and later years…and middling–”
“I must leave you gentlemen now,” Rainham interrupted. “I’m for home, as there is an eighty-four per cent chance of rain by the hour of six.”
A little taken aback, they both glanced over as their leader gathered his greatcoat and hat.
As long as Rakecombe had known him, he’d never seen Rainham leave his office – ever. He’d thought their leader slept here, and possibly that a clerk came in every morning to wind him up like a mechanical automaton.
“Give my regards to Lily,” said Winterbourne, smiling broadly, “and thank her for the advice on Tamesworth shipping. I made a cod of blunt.”
Rakecombe stared in unmitigated horror as Rainham nodded and, after centring his chair beneath the desk, headed for the door with indecent haste.
Turning to Winterbourne, he met a smug expression. “Who the bloody hell is Lily?”
“Ah, sweet Lily,” the chap mused. “All thanks to me…again. Thought I might change my name to Lord Cupid.” The smug expression became smugger. “No one – well except me – is impervious to amour, even Rainham. In fact, the taller you are, the harder you fall on your arse.” He raised a brow in perusal. “Have you grown loftier in my absence?”
Glowering seemed to have no effect on the irritating marquess, so fixing his hat and donning his cloak, Rakecombe opened the door. “After you…Moth.”
Winterbourne’s face fell to a scowl.
Their leader always assigned meticulously considered code names to his men and the unfortunate marquess had been saddled with a flying lepidopterous insect.
Mind you, Rakecombe’s own wasn’t much better.
As they strode from Whitehall, he nonchalantly asked the question that had been nagging him. “What do you know of young Lord Sherburn? Any vices?”
Deliberately not catching the eye of the man matching his stride, he marched faster and city folk shot out of the way like billiard balls.
“Pleasant chap. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”
“No reason,” he asserted coldly. That tone ended conversations without fail.
“Not a cherry-lipped Miss Quinlan reason, by any chance? He’s courting her, I understand.”
Rakecombe turned into busy Pall Mall. Surely that would be an end to it. A buxom matron in green shuffled across his path and he veered, causing her to totter in his wake.
“She asked after you, last year,” continued the annoying bugger. “Worried about you.”
What should he say to that? He’d spent the past summer in France, even missing his friend Kelmarsh’s wedding, but on his return, he’d purposefully stayed away from that Irish lure, reminding himself once more of the dangers of becoming too close to others.
Miss Quinlan hadn’t been the first to be hurt by his carelessness, and he would ensure it never happened again.
He ploughed directly through the middle of a group of young bucks blocking the pavement, might have trodden on someone’s foot, but no one complained.
“Sherburn will suit her,” Winterbourne wittered. “Nice fellow.”
Would the man not shut his bloody bonebox? This wasn’t some intimate tête-à-tête. “Bah,” he found himself declaring. “He is a stripling.”
“I agree his taste for pastel waistcoats is a mite disconcerting but–”
“And an unfledged greenhorn. Who else has shown an interest?” He twisted to see Winterbourne raise a dark brow, so he merely stared down imperiously, marching on. “I feel a certain concern after her rescue, ’tis all.”
And concern was all he would allow – the memory of his own dear Gwen would ensure that. He would protect Miss Quinlan from himself even if it meant his misery…and her disgust.
“Hmm, concern, eh?” The marquess winked. Bloody winked. Perhaps he should just stab the rogue with his cane and give all the widows a well-earned rest.
“Who else?” he repeated.
A mother plucked her son from the pavement as it became obvious the duke’s velocity was not going to slow for a meandering tot.
“Well, there’s Cambourne,” Winterbourne said, ticking off his fingers and avoiding a purple ostrich plume from an ornately embellished hat.
“Lecher,” Rakecombe snarled.
“Wilson.”
“Gambler.”
“Tythmore.”
“Skinflint.”
“Cockfield.”
“The obvious.”
“You?”
St James’s Street was somewhat crowded – otherwise he’d consider deploying his cane so that Winterbourne couldn’t sit for a month.
> “One day, Winterbore,” he purred instead, “I shall enjoy watching a woman take you apart till you plead for mercy.”
“Hmm,” the vexing rogue muttered, “I never took you, the strait-laced duke, as having a thrill for voyeurism, but I can probably arrange something with my little opera dancer. Millie can–”
“I am for White’s,” he interrupted, not in the slightest amused. “Meet me at The Cooper’s Arms on Rose Street. Friday. And wear something inconspicuous. We will be heading for the Rookery.”
With a devil’s gleam, Winterbourne saluted and turned, ambling towards Brooks’s whilst tipping his hat at a pretty girl.
Banishing cherry-red lips from his disloyal brain, Rakecombe glowered and strolled to his club for a decent plateful of grub and some careful planning.
Before the Rookery, there was another useful source of information to tap and he would need to take the utmost care.
Chapter Three
What shall we be today? Sweet or tart?
“Thighs, forearms…arse.” Aideen ran through all the words that might cause Miss Gibbon to faint, although at this moment, she would prefer the girl’s mother, Viscountess Gibbon, to collapse in an untidy heap.
The lady was waltzing with the Duke of Rakecombe and both seemed to be having a grand time of it.
Earlier, Aideen had noted his arrival at the Gibbon’s ball, but he’d barely glowered an acknowledgement from his position by the gold jardinière, chinwagged with other nobles and guzzled all the pigeon pie, a disapproving effigy of spotless black and white.
A few ladies had attempted to talk to him, but he’d peered at them as though inspecting rodents, before nodding and turning away. Not exactly a direct cut, but definitely a light graze.
Then to everyone’s surprise, he had requested a dance with their hostess, and even from across the room, Aideen had seen the mesmerised expression on Lady Gibbon’s face. He might have a disagreeable reputation, but when he chose to express some charm, they fell like delicate maidens faced with a thigh.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 2
