Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  Glancing through, he saw a large storage expanse, empty save for a makeshift sleeping area to one side. A grubby stove and an overturned crate as table were shoved against the brick wall and in the corner sat a small bed.

  Three men blocked his view of the occupant, but the frame rattled as the person upon it drummed their heels.

  Bloody hell.

  A shrill child’s whimpering raised the hairs on his arm, and he braced to burst in, when a sudden pounding footfall from behind grew louder. The French startled, and before he could act, a huge man with a red scarf brushed past him, storming through the door, pistol aloft, and Rakecombe was left cursing the loss of their element of surprise.

  “You bastards, get off my girl,” the man roared.

  Pandemonium ensued, the three villains spinning, one with a knife, another with a pistol, as he and Winterbourne charged in.

  Raising his own pistol, Rakecombe aimed but not before a shot rang out.

  With no time to look around, he fired and the rat flew back, falling to the floor in a cloud of dust, arm outstretched with a bloody hole to his guts.

  The knifeman he recognised as the pug-nosed bastard who’d slashed Bluey, and throwing his spent pistol to the ground, Rakecombe came forward with his own blade, determined to finish the job this time.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the red-scarfed man in a crazed struggle with the other Frenchman, and the part of his brain that wasn’t watching pug nose realised it was the grizzled butler from Stafford’s house.

  “I kill you this time, English dog,” sneered pug nose, “then I finish the girl. I cut ’er fingers, toes, one by one.”

  Ignoring the taunts designed to rile, Rakecombe circled the whoreson. Maybe he would go for the same trick as before, but pug nose remained wary – not lurching too soon.

  Rakecombe swiped, a horizontal arc of sharp blade slicing the air, the merest slither between it and the man’s stomach. The rank smell of sweat and fear even overwhelmed the fish. He did it again, but pug nose slashed out with his own knife, sending Rakecombe’s blade airborne.

  The Frenchman grinned, and without mercy flew at him, dagger held aloft, curving it down for the killing blow, but Rakecombe yanked for the cane affixed to his side, sticking a thumb in the jade eye. A deadly stiletto sprung from the silver head, and he didn’t even have to slide it forward, the man’s own momentum sending him soaring onto the slither of blade.

  The dagger meant for Rakecombe’s own heart clattered to the floor, surprise etched on pug nose’s face. He crumpled without a whimper, blood seeping from his lips.

  Panting, Rakecombe’s eyes focused on the bed, to see the grizzled butler pulling a small girl into his arms, both their eyes streaming. “Papa,” the little one screamed.

  “Aimée, my precious Aimée.”

  Rakecombe twisted but another pistol shot tore the air, the crack echoing and sending pigeons scattering once more in the roof. His skin grew cold and ice threaded his veins at the female scream of “No” which had accompanied that cannonade of sound.

  He couldn’t bear to turn. Couldn’t bear to look. His closed eyes saw it all.

  Blood. Aideen. Hushed forever.

  His world black.

  Numb once more.

  A cursing Frenchman…cursing an English whore, ripped through his numbness and Rakecombe dared to turn, eyes snapping open.

  Amid the smoke and dust, a stocky blond fellow lay on the ground clutching a bloodied knee, screaming in agony and blaspheming until Winterbourne kicked him in the mouth with a stout hessian.

  In the opening stood Aideen – scratching her nose and damn well smiling.

  Too raw, too angry and too relieved, he did what he always did in these circumstances and ignored her, when all he really wanted to do was crush his wife to his body and feel her breath.

  “I’m indebted, Jack,” he merely groused.

  “Wasn’t me, old chap. In case you hadn’t noticed, I got shot and before I could reach for my other pistol, your talented wife saved your hide.”

  “Wh-what?” he stuttered, and Winterbourne, he now noticed, held a hand to his upper arm, blood seeping through his fingers, jacket torn.

  He turned to Aideen, whose expression was smug. She held out her hand in which lay…

  “My four-inch lady’s pistol with poppy-red enamel and inlaid pearl handle. Light, trim and well-balanced. Deadly, of course, but I only aimed to injure…although if he calls me English again…” She glared at the Frenchman. “He had a gun pointed at your back, and however bothersome you can be, I didn’t want you in the seven dirges of hell…quite yet.”

  “You should see her reticule, Alex,” interrupted Winterbourne. “I made the mistake of surprising her in the street the other day and she very nearly removed my noggin.”

  “Uncle’s finest,” she said, swinging a beribboned item of female frippery from her wrist. “My favourite Saxon-green reticule contains a four-pound iron weight sewn into the bottom – I never go shopping without it. Now, shall we all go home? As instructed, I brought the ducal carriage. It’s waiting with the footmen and that guard you have following me. To be fair, I did follow your rules, Alex… Most of them.”

  Rakecombe yearned to simultaneously kiss, crush, scold, spank and swive Aideen until she couldn’t stand…and he didn’t care in which order.

  “Thank you all,” a deep voice rumbled. “I am in your debt.”

  Rakecombe swivelled to find the bloody butler, a bundle of quivering, dirty white in his embrace, thin arms encircling his neck.

  “Stafford, I presume?” Rakecombe queried, brow raised. “A chameleon indeed.”

  The man nodded, and Winterbourne came forward, stroking the little girl’s hair with a bloodied hand. “And who are you, little one?” She was young, six if that, but even she gave his handsome face a hesitant smile.

  “I am Aimée Stafford,” she whispered in a French lisping accent, hugging her papa close.

  Rakecombe pinched his forehead.

  What an utter bloody mess.

  The warehouse door flew open, rattling on its hinges, and they turned as one, pistols and daggers raised, to encounter Rainham striding in followed by five men with necks as thick as tree trunks.

  “Rakecombe, Winterbourne,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Duchess.” He bowed, seemingly with no surprise. “And…Stafford,” he said with a sigh. Their leader took in the situation, eyes lingering on the child. “Is everyone unharmed?” At Rakecombe’s nod, he got to the heart of the matter. “And where are those cursed documents?”

  Stafford hung his head. “They’re in my coat,” he replied softly. “I… I held off as long as I could, sir…”

  Their leader approached and placed a hand to Stafford’s shoulder. “I know you did, Gabriel, but I’m afraid we need a long talk back at Whitehall.”

  With remorse obvious, Stafford nodded as the tiny Aimée patted his cheek.

  “Rakecombe, take your remarkable duchess home, and Winterbourne, get that scratch seen to.”

  “At last, someone acknowledges my pain,” Winterbourne grumbled. “But do not disturb yourselves as I’m sure I can find a willing widow to patch me up and soothe my fevered brow…if they’re willing to ignore the fishy stench.”

  But Rakecombe wasn’t really listening as they stepped into the light, leaving Rainham to sort out the mess inside.

  Instead he studied his wife, stood biting her lip and rubbing a smudge on her nose but only spreading it further. The black clothing suited her, and he noticed that the odd skirt gave her more freedom of movement in the legs. She carried an air of downright menace.

  He didn’t quite know what to say as they walked up a narrow lane to the carriage:

  Thank you for saving my life but never do it again?

  When I believed you dead, my heart ceased beating and I didn’t wish it to restart?

  I adore you, but the thought of you in danger tears me asunder.

  Slowly, he opened his mouth, but all thos
e thoughts refused to voice themselves, so he clambered into the carriage.

  Aideen sat opposite, skirts brushing his legs, and he longed to touch her delicate cheek, peel off those black clothes, hold her skin to skin.

  Her warmth, her passion. Her vitality.

  Yet as his eyes skittered in her direction and the carriage moved off, he heard that scream in the warehouse, he heard Gwen’s terrified cry, and fear squeezed his lungs until he could barely breathe.

  But for a quirk of fate, a slip of someone’s hand, he might have been holding Aideen’s cold motionless body in his arms at this moment…or she his.

  He shifted his gaze away.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  If you think something’s wrong, it’s because it is.

  The newspaper twitched.

  And then rustled. But it didn’t lower.

  So Aideen fell silent.

  She glared at the portrait of her scowling duke, the only likeness she was liable to view over breakfast as the real one hid behind The Times.

  After the carriage ride from Southwark yesterday, he’d escorted her into the house without once catching her eye and then gone out for the remainder of the day.

  That was until a half before midnight.

  Not feeling like reading, she had simply lain in the darkness, not regretting her actions, as ultimately she had saved her husband’s life, but saddened they couldn’t seem to find a middle ground, a…compromise.

  Then the door had whispered open. A light tread. The covers had been drawn back. A cold body had joined her.

  She’d opened her mouth to speak but words had been taken by a gentle kiss and he’d clasped her close, sighed and then slept, warm breath disturbing her hair. The whole night through she’d been lost to his tight embrace, holding her as if it was the last time he would ever do so.

  But even though she’d awoken a mere smidgeon after dawn, the bed had been bereft of warmth. He’d left.

  As a consequence, Aideen now felt befuddled, annoyed and generally quite out of sorts, as it seemed the duke of glowering rigidness had returned.

  Maybe that tattoo stood for Dogmatic or Despotic or Downright pig-headed.

  She’d dressed hideously early in order to catch her husband at breakfast, and even Rawlins had cracked a surprised expression, but the duke had merely greeted her courteously and then disappeared behind that dratted newspaper.

  Indeed, the sole reason to suppose there was anyone there at all was the vanishing of two slices of toast, one sausage, three pieces of bacon and three cups of chocolate.

  “I don’t suppose,” she tried, “that anyone fancies kippers this morning?”

  A vague grunt came from behind The Times, but it didn’t lower, and no stern glances edged over the top.

  Tea, Cordelia had forever declared, was the cure for all woes, but Aideen craved something stronger – like Uncle Seamus’s home-distilled whisky. It didn’t cure woes, but you did forget about them for a week.

  Aideen opened her mouth to tell Alex about it, but he must have heard her intake of breath as the newspaper shook and rose higher.

  Instead of the usual fury churning within, however, weariness now pained her heart and utter exhaustion beset her limbs.

  She closed her lips.

  Another slice of toast disappeared behind a front page article about an escaped bear mauling the crowds at Winchester fair, and she nibbled her own breakfast. The chef now baked her favourite Waterford buns every morning and she bit into the soft white dough, relishing the taste of Ireland.

  She missed home.

  When she’d thought Alex felt something for her, living in this marble mausoleum had been worthwhile, and of course, she had made fine friends here – Meghan, Cordelia, the Beckfords, Jack and Lily.

  But she missed the open green fields, and Uncle Seamus’s slathering hounds, booming laugh and enthusiastic hugs. Even her da’s sarcastic rebukes kept her on her toes. She missed the wild River Suir and the slate drizzle that dripped into your soul like love.

  She considered staying with Meghan or the Beckfords for a while, who she knew would welcome her with open arms, but the duke would no doubt call and command her home.

  A change of scenery was what she required. To breathe deeply without choking on grimy city fog. To regather her strength and thoughts. To feel the wet grass of Ireland beneath her feet and the blustery wind in her hair.

  She would visit Waterford. Just for a short time.

  “Alex, I think I may–”

  “Not now.” The newspaper lowered and, after an unwarranted amount of folding, was placed carefully on the table. Then her husband stood. “I have an early meeting with Rainham. I apologise, but you understand?” he said, not appearing in the least apologetic.

  And she did. She really did. Because all of a sudden, comprehension besieged her. Caressing his stern handsome face with her eyes, she finally understood.

  Last night, Aideen had received another letter from Cordelia marked Somewhere in Nottingham. She’d written of Oakdean’s teasing nature and caring ways; she’d written of love and laughter and everything which Aideen’s marriage lacked. She’d signed off with:

  Trust your heart,

  Love, Cordy.

  But she didn’t trust her heart any longer. It thumped for a man that didn’t need her.

  Always, she had thought themselves well matched. Their tempers may flare and clash, but a more delicate woman would have shrivelled beneath Alex’s fierceness. Equally he didn’t back down from her pert words and brashness.

  But none of that mattered. Because ultimately, the duke did not need her.

  He had his vocation, his two friends – if you counted Jack – and his title. But he didn’t need her, didn’t need a wife. He’d tried to explain this once before, at the Bucklands’ soirée, but she’d thought him dissembling.

  Previous to their marriage, his life may have been lonely, but he’d been comfortable and content with only himself to worry about. He may “enjoy” her company and be “attracted” to her body, but it only added complication and strain to his life.

  She disobeyed his rules and caused him to fear and ultimately…

  He didn’t need her.

  He didn’t love her.

  “Yes, Alexander. I do understand you,” she said softly.

  ∞∞∞

  As the carriage clattered to Whitehall, so Aideen’s last words clattered in Rakecombe’s skull.

  For God’s sake, he knew hidden meaning when he heard it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t decipher what she meant.

  This morning he’d acted a beetle-headed arse, he knew that.

  He gritted his teeth and exhaled heavily as London flew by the carriage window, his thoughts as dull as the weather – no rain, just the dreary grey that England seemed to specialise in.

  Yesterday, after the Southwark jaunt and the patching up of Winterbourne, he’d headed to Bluey’s house to impart his thanks but ended up staying for supper, aware he might have been… He hesitated to say hiding.

  Whenever he beheld his wife, a savage desperation arose to ask Madame Chevrolet, the extortionately expensive modiste, to permanently double-stitch Aideen to his side, finishing with a quadruple knot.

  But all that kept tumbling over him every moment of the night and day when not with her was the fear and numbness he’d felt on hearing that scream and thinking her dead. Then, swift on its heels came the fact she’d saved his life, with a bloody lady’s muff pistol…in poppy-red enamel.

  Last night, he hadn’t meant to visit her bedchamber, but he’d needed to touch her, to see she was safe. He laughed, a mocking tribute.

  But then he’d been unable to get close enough, unable to hold her enough, unable to love her enough.

  Dawn had broken, and she’d looked exhausted, so he’d left the warm bed, but over breakfast his thoughts had still been a hotchpotch jumble of turmoil, and he’d barely managed a grunt in response to her words, hardly tasted the food he’d shovelled
into his mouth and hadn’t read a word of the newspaper.

  She’d disobeyed every rule on his list…except for the carriage and footmen.

  She’d put her life in danger.

  She’d potentially saved a child’s life.

  She had saved his bloody life.

  She could shoot better than he could.

  The very characteristics he loved about her, he had sought to supress with that futile list – her caring, her boldness, her strength. But to have Aideen and all those attributes close also meant living with the possibility of losing her. Or likewise, the possibility of his duchess losing him…

  All of which had kept him silent over breakfast.

  Part shame. Part Gwen. Part confusion.

  What an arse he was.

  And what had his wife meant by those last softly spoken words?

  ∞∞∞

  “You are an arse, Rakeshame,” said Winterbourne, a needless red silk sling that smelled of jasmine adorning his person.

  Rakecombe ignored him as they sat in Rainham’s office awaiting their leader’s return. He’d left for a brief meeting with his superiors but obviously got stuck. Another white lily adorned the table and he scowled. Had he ever bought Aideen flowers? Ever?

  “I wager,” Winterbourne drawled, “that you haven’t even said thank you to your lady wife for saving your posterior.”

  No, he hadn’t. “I…saw her last night.”

  “Tupping is not the same,” the insolent rogue replied.

  “I did not tup.”

  “Well, that’s where you are going wrong. I can–”

  “Gentlemen,” Rainham acknowledged as he strode through the door to Rakecombe’s eternal relief.

  Their leader sat, spreading his palms over the desk. “Where were we?”

  “Stafford and Aimée. How are they?” asked Winterbourne, being blunt for once. “Surely he will not be accused of treason as no one should have to choose between a daughter and their country? The poor chap was driven to it and he hadn’t actually handed anything over.”

  Not so blunt then.

  Rainham steepled his fingers, never a good sign. “I have managed to convince the grumbletonions on high to leave him be…for now, although he is, of course, suspended and to be watched.”