“Maybe that is–”
“Alex, I will take every precaution, but I would drown under such rules. Can we at least talk about–”
Abruptly, he rose, and she didn’t like the way his eyes deadened, the green ivy frosting with the encroaching cold.
“Perhaps we will have to revert to our previous marital arrangement then. Separate.”
The blackmailing dullard.
She also stood, leaning forward, hands on the table. “And to be sure, that was so successful.” Desperately she tried to recall Mrs Beckford’s advice on patience but never was it mentioned how one acted if one’s husband was a controlling, obstinate mule. “Can I amend the list and we’ll discuss it tonight?”
“No,” he thundered. “The list is–”
That was it. Patience be damned. She’d tried, she really had, but enough was enough. “Listen to me, husband,” she said, hands now on hips. “If you wanted a milksop wife then you should have married one, but I believe you like my fiery nature. Am I right?”
No answer. He just glared that glare he typically cast upon pallid debutantes, causing them to quake and quiver.
“Am I right?” she repeated, only quivering with sheer temper. “Or heaven help me I will curse you to hell and mean it.”
Finally, a nod.
Stalking over to him, she grabbed hold of his immaculate cravat and yanked him close, fisting the material. “Then don’t smother it, Alexander. For it will go out.”
She released her grip and stomped from the room with the dratted list clutched in her fingers.
Rakecombe scowled into the large mirror above the mantel.
Creases. Goddamn creases.
Did she not understand how long it took Thorn to fold the bloody neckcloth, despite his preference for this simplest form? Not only that but there was now a small splodge of bacon grease on it from his wife’s grubby fingers.
He raised his eyes to his own in the mirror and hated the angry hard look in them compared to when he’d woken.
As Aideen had quoted some of his guidance, it had sounded a dash extreme, but surely one had to begin strict in order to then loosen. He didn’t want to quench Aideen’s fire, but she must see his point of view.
Yes, avoiding windows might seem marginally outlandish, but when he’d written the list, he’d thought of all the ways that fellow spies had met their untimely end over the years.
Harris had been shot whilst standing at a brothel casement window.
Middleton had been drowned in his bath tub.
Gilmore had been stabbed at the tailors with a pair of cutting scissors.
So, it wasn’t as if he’d invented them.
Chapter Twenty-two
Decisions, decisions?
The crumpled List of Gloom, as Aideen now called it, was smothered with scribbles, crosses and the very occasional tick.
She felt for Alex, she really did, understanding his rationale and concern, but he may as well lock her out of harm’s way in the bedchamber forever. And even then, she may injure herself, thumping her head on the dressing table at her husband’s need for control.
So should she do away with the list now? Burn it? Take a stance at being dictated to?
But that seemed so cruel when Alex had suffered such loss. Despite his frigid exterior, he was a man who cared profoundly, for her and others.
Still waters did indeed run deep, and she had a suspicion he was deeper than the River Suir at full flood in February.
Should she try and compromise? Maybe with time he would mellow as he recognised her capabilities?
Worrying her lip, she stared at the lively square from the drawing room window – in flagrant breach of rule number fifteen.
Did Alex see every man, woman and child as a potential threat? The lad crying out the news? The two girls from the east side of the square bustling along? Their footman scowling as he juggled four packages?
Of course her kidnap by that Frenchman last year hadn’t helped the situation. Alex doubtless viewed her as weak and defenceless, but she was wiser now. More vigilant.
Aideen sipped her tea and grimaced; it was cold.
Perhaps it might be worth visiting Meghan for marital advice with – she consulted the list – two footmen, the ducal carriage and appropriate footwear.
The appropriate footwear rule had a large tick. Intriguing. Would it involve boots with hidden blades?
“Your Grace?”
Turning, she found Rawlins staring down his haughty nose. He was a fixture of the house she quite liked, and she suspected, deep down, that he might like her too, but you’d have to dig deep…very deep.
“Yes, Rawlins?”
“A…lady has called. She seeks His Grace, but in lieu, she has requested your audience.”
What a lovely way to put it. Was there a butler school where they learned such terms? Her father’s man had always been a rather jovial fellow with no polish except on his shoes.
“Show her in, Rawlins.”
Belatedly, she recollected rule number one. But surely the list hadn’t been fully approved, agreed upon or signed in blood yet. It was at…consultation stage.
And besides, she had her green beribboned reticule strategically placed on the table.
A pretty, blond woman crossed the drawing room. Dressed simply but with quality cloth, she had no maid, which explained Rawlins’ hesitation.
Aideen noted a stubborn chin, much like her own, but the lady had a pleasant complexion and intelligent brown eyes, although a weariness could be detected in the shadows beneath.
“Your Grace.” The lady curtseyed, and Aideen motioned her sit, dismissing a wary Rawlins.
“Tea?” She omitted to mention it was cold.
“No, thank you.” The lady’s speech, although not of the upper classes, was nicely formed. “My name is Mrs Blue. I had hoped to catch His Grace before he left as I have some information.”
Aideen realised the woman was trying to admit as little as possible whilst still probing. “How essential is this information? Can it wait until tonight?”
“No, er…”
“I am aware of my husband’s…service.”
“In that case, I– I will be blunt. Although I do not usually involve myself, perhaps you can pass a message to relevant people.”
Aideen nodded. She had no idea where Lord Rainham spent his days, but it must be somewhere at Whitehall.
“My husband,” Mrs Blue began, fiddling with the stitching on her tan gloves, “overheard a conversation in French. He was badly hurt but recounted what he could to His Grace last night. However, this morning, he has remembered more and repeated some of the French words to me. I understood a little and… As I said, I would not normally involve myself but…”
Evidently, the lady was worried for herself and her husband’s safety. And who wouldn’t be? Napoleon’s escape had put everyone on tenterhooks.
“I will not reveal your presence to anyone, and as far as the servants are concerned, you are here from a charity requesting donations.”
“Thank you. Your husband, I believe, is searching a warehouse today in Southwark. He supposes vital information or even weaponry is being stored there, but…he needs warning. I’m sure His Grace will be careful, but the situation is more delicate than he realises.”
Confusion creased Aideen’s brow, but Mrs Blue swiftly continued, “It’s a child, you see, and your husband does not realise this. It is not gunpowder or weapons or documents; the men are holding a little girl. From what I can gather in blackmail.”
Aideen’s eyes closed. “May God help her.” She stood and paced, fists clenched. “And you think they may harm her if they’ve the slightest inkling someone is nosing around?”
The blonde’s shoulders eased. “Exactly so. As I said, I am sure His Grace will be vigilant, but my husband said no one is expecting a kidnap – especially of a child.”
Pacing more, Aideen’s mind cogitated, reasoned and considered but it still only came up with o
ne idea. One which Rakecombe would detest, that would combust his list to ash and potentially ruin her marriage.
But this lady sitting before her had also unwillingly embroiled herself for the same reason: an innocent life was at stake. And weren’t they always the ones who ended up hurt? Like Gwen. Innocents caught in the brutality and machinations of mankind.
Aideen was all too aware these circumstances also resembled those of Gwen, but Aideen was neither heedless nor an artless young girl and she had more than an old walking stick. “My husband must be alerted. Do you know exactly where this warehouse is?”
“You there!”
The burly young man leaning against railings opposite the Rakecombe residence peered over his shoulder, but Aideen pointed again. “Yes, you. Come inside now.”
With a shrug, he sauntered across the street, narrowly avoiding a high-perch phaeton clipping quite a pace for a residential square.
Aideen turned back inside to Thorn, who stood ready with missives in hand for Whitehall, in case they could reach Southwark quicker. She knew Alex trusted his valet completely and Thorn had admitted his knowledge of where Lord Rainham could be found.
As per the rules, two of the brawniest footmen had been selected, and the carriage had also been loaded with the pistols normally reserved for evening rides. Not strictly a rule but a wise precaution, Aideen felt.
She hoped no weaponry would be needed, that her husband would be situated in some ale-house opposite, merely surveying, but luck wasn’t always so obliging.
The guard entered, his huge frame filling the doorway. “What yer want?” he asked nonchalantly.
“I know you work for my husband.”
He remained silent but shifted uneasily from foot to foot, eyes flitting anywhere but her.
“I am departing for a warehouse in Southwark where there is potential danger. I thought I’d tell you and then you can join me in the carriage rather than hailing some grubby hackney to follow. I presume you have weapons?”
The guard appeared somewhat dumbfounded, mouth open like a gasping fish. “He’ll throttle me. You tell me the problem, and I’ll go to Southwark. Ain’t no place for a lady.”
Aware she didn’t know this stranger from Adam and thus dare not entrust him with such information, she shook her head. “If you go, then I will be alone here, and then my husband will throttle you anyway. Which site of execution would you prefer?”
Alexander had obviously chosen brawn over brain when he’d selected this guard as the fellow took an inordinate amount of time thinking it over, but finally he jerked his head to the carriage.
“But don’t die,” he muttered. “I’ll lose my job.”
“I’ll try not to. Now wait here one moment.”
She dashed up the stairs, along the corridor to her bedchamber and headed to the smaller wardrobe at the back of her dressing room. An array of cloaks met her view, but she ignored them and instead kneeled to unlock the oblong box at the very bottom.
Now, the red or the blue?
Chapter Twenty-three
A mighty hogo…
“Me deft ole conk detects some’in fishy, Alex, me ole duck.”
The riverside location of the warehouse suspected of being a centre for nefarious dealings did indeed whiff, but his companion’s attempt at the local flash lingo was truly appalling. If Winterbourne favoured him with the appellation “duck” one more time, he’d stuff that grubby neckcloth down the man’s gullet until he quacked.
Bluey had mentioned the area was employed in fish storing and gutting, and assuredly, the rank smell was enough to daunt even the most hardened of spies. Thankfully, after stomaching the previous chef’s creations, Rakecombe felt himself wholly hardened.
Currently, the two of them were ensconced across the street, leaning against a loaded cart, the fruit seller amenable to their leanings once she’d been handed – as his companion called it – “hush blunt”.
For two hours they’d loitered without anyone coming or going, until finally three men had entered the building. They had yet to leave and hadn’t been wearing the garb of fishermen. In point of fact, one had a suspiciously familiar pug nose.
Rakecombe scratched his neck, feeling…watched again.
Glancing around, he spied no one, but the hairs at his nape stood to attention. Was it friend or foe? “Let’s wander around the back and see what we can find.”
“Plummy idea, me ole–”
Accompanied by a curl of the lip, he cast his coldest glare, and Winterbourne silenced his trap. Thank the devil that glare still worked; he’d been worried as his ruthless scowls didn’t seem to affect Aideen in the slightest.
Strangely, she…liked them.
As they idly strolled the side of the large brick-built warehouse, circumventing numerous stray cats, he pondered on that realisation.
Most women wanted to change a man such as himself. They’d berate him for his taciturn manner, but Aideen appeared to like him, more or less, as he was. Yes, he softened in her presence, but he didn’t have to think on his words or attempt to cajole her with false flattery.
Was it worth losing that because she wouldn’t adhere to his guidance? Perchance he could negotiate a little.
Stacks of empty barrels squatted around the back, but hidden amongst them was a small door in the warehouse wall. They sauntered over, and he was about to rummage in his pockets for his lock-picker when Winterbourne wafted a suitable device under his nose.
It was better crafted than his own, in silver and superb in every detail. It even looked to have a sprung knife within. “Where did you get that?” he asked grumpily.
“Yer bit o’ lawful blanket,” Winterbourne replied with a wink. “Thought we might be out on the dub.”
He had to think on that a while as his comrade fiddled with the lock. “Aideen lent you it?” Should he be more irritated that she owned such a magnificent picker or that she’d lent it to the marquess?
“’Aven’t you jabbered with yer rum rib ’bout her Uncle Seamus – clever cull by all accounts.”
No, he hadn’t. This is what he’d missed when he’d been too intent on ignoring her, and he called himself all types of fool, although this did explain how his “rum rib” had invaded his locked chambers to pin a note to his bathing device – the little minx.
Despite Winterbourne making a bodge of it, the lock clicked, and they gingerly poked their heads in.
The place stank to high heaven and all he could make out were barrels stacked to the rafters.
A faint light shone in through high up dirty windows casting a murky grey, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see the warehouse was divided into two sections with a separating wall preventing him from seeing beyond.
They skulked in and paused behind the first stack of barrels, taking in the layout of the warehouse. With some trepidation, he rubbed his finger over an oozing stave and brought it to his nose: no gunpowder, only fish.
A sudden creak and Rakecombe spun but saw no one. Dust danced in the faint gloom, mocking his racing heart.
Both he and Winterbourne glanced at each other, frowning, and he signalled they split up. Rakecombe took the left side, quietly approaching an opening in the division, but as he trod softly, a voice rent the air.
“Non, je ne le ferai pas.”
Rakecombe wondered what exactly the man wouldn’t do.
Fierce rattling echoed around the warehouse followed by a vague unidentifiable cry of distress from the other side, and he was tempted to storm in.
“Non, je ne peux pas.” That same voice repeated its non-compliance.
Rakecombe slipped his pistol free and stepped closer behind a cluster of crates. Winterbourne crouched on the opposite side, but as he nodded, his comrade’s gaze promptly shifted to the fishy barrels behind them, eyes rounding in horror.
That feeling, that feeling of being followed and he quickly twisted.
A hand knocked his pistol muzzle to one side and a knife immediately dug into his lower re
gions. He stopped dead.
His wife stood before him, hair bundled beneath a cap. She wore an open black redingote, from which a slender arm protruded holding one of the wickedest blades he had ever seen. It had a bloody curve to it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed. “Get back to the house.”
She leaned close; the blade dug a fraction deeper. “Listen, you dolt,” she whispered, “I’m purely here to warn you that a child might be in there, held for blackmail. I’m bringing you information from Mrs Blue.”
“What child? Damn it,” he rasped in her ear. He’d take umbrage with “dolt” later.
“She said Mr Blue didn’t catch a name. It’s a girl. And you should also know a dark-haired man with a red scarf has been following you. He’s behind that barrel stack to the left.”
The knife shifted away – a mite too slow for his liking – and she stepped back.
Not that now was the time for noting fashion, but she seemed to be wearing an overwide skirt in plain wool, akin to a riding habit, also in black, and he briefly, very briefly, wondered if she’d followed his instructions and stowed that knife in her garter…and if said garter was black.
Quick as a wink after that disquieting thought came downright anger. Her arrival must have violated every single rule on his list. And they were rules. They had to be rules, for her sake.
“Aideen, you–”
“At home,” she spat.
His retort was forestalled by another rattling and muffled cry, but the terrified whimpering now took on new meaning – a child. It didn’t matter who she belonged to, French or English. The red-scarfed stranger would also have to wait his turn.
“Je ne la ferai pas de mal,” a voice yelled.
“Je la ferai alors.”
“What was that?” whispered Aideen, leaning over his shoulder.
“One man said he won’t hurt someone and the other said he’ll do it himself. We have to go in. Stay here, Aideen.” He waggled his finger at her mutinous eyes. “Do. Not. Move.”
Waiting until she bobbed her head, he and Winterbourne then snuck from behind the crates and edged to the opening in the partition wall.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 19
