Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  Smoothing a thumb over the dog’s head finial of his cane, Rakecombe mulled.

  Love, seemingly, had no respect for borders, as Stafford had fallen for his wife when working in Paris. Worried about retribution from either side, they’d married in utter secrecy but a mere ten months later, she’d died giving birth in a remote village in France, where Aimée had remained with her maternal grandmother, Stafford visiting whenever he was able.

  But someone had found out and she’d been snatched, the information demanded for her return.

  “And the butler act?” Winterbourne pressed. “I bought the deuced fellow two pints of porter.”

  Their leader smiled. “I do choose codenames with forethought, and in that disguise, he could remain unseen in London and still search for his daughter. Reminds me of someone with that dyed black hair, but no matter. Apparently, he has been following a certain…bloodhound.”

  “I…” Rakecombe trailed off.

  “Hmm. He knew of your reputation and hoped you would pick up a scent, leading him to Aimée.”

  That explained the feeling of being watched, and the only consolation for not recognising the faux butler was that Stafford was – or used to be – one of Rainham’s finest.

  Clearly, Stafford should have told them of the blackmail, but who could blame him? Mason had done that and it had ended in tragedy.

  “It is obvious,” Rainham said, interrupting those grim thoughts, “someone is coordinating these kidnappings. Rakecombe, you shot La Chauve-Souris last year, but his body was never found. Could he still be alive, I wonder? Finding out is the priority.”

  He nodded. “I’ll begin at once.”

  “No, no.” Rainham waved a hand. “I think you should take some days off first.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The suggestion startled him. “Napoleon is on the bloody loose and you want me to take a holiday? Where? Paris?” he snarled.

  “Amusing, my friend, but you never even took your wife on honeymoon. Bit lax and you worked your wedding afternoon. Winterbourne can make a start.”

  Rakecombe had never felt so disgruntled.

  “I agree,” Winterbourne said, winking, “it might give the duchess time to penetrate that thick hide of yours and find the inner softness.”

  “If only that bullet had grazed your mouth and given us all a rest,” he grumped.

  “Quite so,” murmured the marquess, “a weak arm is very debilitating for a celebrated rogue. There are certain tasks I can only accomplish with my rig–”

  “If a woman says she understands you, what does it mean?” Rakecombe barked abruptly. He’d rather kiss a snake than ask these two for advice, but it was driving him insane.

  “Bloody hell, your wife said that?” demanded Winterbourne, frowning. “Why didn’t you say? It means get home quick and don’t spare the horses.” He looked Rakecombe straight in the eye. “Rule eight. It means trouble.”

  ∞∞∞

  The Duke of Rakecombe slumped in his study, a bitter coldness seeping through his body as he re-read Aideen’s stark note once more.

  Already the house felt her absence. No books were strewn over the drawing room table and a scent of polish had doused the violets. Deep silence had fallen.

  She’d left him to visit Ireland.

  Except the note didn’t say visit. It said stay.

  A peculiar sensation had caught in him when he’d first read her words, his heart skipping an odd pattern, his head woolly. Disbelief and anger. He’d stalked to her room, but the lady’s maid had been packing trunks to follow on, and he’d been informed that Her Grace had left three hours ago in the enclosed coach with two footmen, the guard and a maid.

  Then the anger had swiftly departed, and not since Gwen’s death had he felt such…desolation.

  Bitter coldness stealing into his limbs and snatching his breath.

  She’d left him.

  And the note merely said she would return after a while.

  What did that mean? A week? A month? A goddamn year?

  Why had he been such a clumpish lout this morning?

  Why hadn’t he thanked her for saving his miserable skin?

  Why hadn’t he got down on his bloody knees and told her he loved her, because the fear of losing her to Ireland forever was now more pertinent and real than losing her to death.

  Death, as Bluey had suggested, could snatch a beloved at any time – unseen and unpreventable – but it was he who had driven Aideen to Ireland.

  Him and his cursed fears.

  Rawlins knocked and entered with a decanter.

  “Leave it on the desk,” he snarled. “And I don’t want to see anyone.”

  He tugged off his cravat and flung it across the study, but it caught on the statue of Orpheus. How bloody apt. Ireland may as well be the underworld.

  After glugging a stiff measure in one, he stood and paced, squinting at the note.

  Of course, he knew what Winterbourne would say. Go after her. Get off that stuffy arse and pursue her.

  But the last line of her note precluded that. Do not follow me. I do not need you.

  An ache, so painful he had to hold his chest, twisted inside him whenever he spied those brutal words.

  Finally, he’d done what he had always meant to – frightened Aideen away with his cruel remarks and scowling glances, caused her to flee his distant nature and sullen countenance.

  He hurled the empty brandy glass into the bare fireplace, the glass splintering and shattering like his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Dyfal donc a dyr y garreg.

  Persistent blows shatter the stone. (Welsh proverb)

  Coquettish giggles shrieked through the Duke of Rakecombe’s skull and he whimpered at the sharp stab of pain.

  Where the deuce was he?

  His eyes refused to open, his face was stuck, and his mouth felt like a pit of ash.

  God, he hadn’t drunk like this since…Gwen.

  At a boomed male chuckle, Rakecombe attempted to lift his head. A tearing noise made him realise his face was flat on his study desk and that he’d drooled on his blotting paper, gluing it to his cheek.

  “Oh, you naughty scoundrel… And a dog called Roger? Then the highwayman?” a female squealed from somewhere across the hall, causing everything to thump alarmingly. “You couldn’t make it up…” More sniggers.

  A pistol sat on the desk and Rakecombe frowned, eyes slitted.

  Ah yes. Winterbourne had attempted to extract him from his study, and so he’d warned the fellow off with his trusty Ketland brass-barrelled unenamelled flintlock. No one had believed his threat until he’d cocked it and blasted the bust of Orpheus to smithereens.

  Damn, how utterly unconstrained, and what must the neighbours have thought?

  Not that any of that mattered. They could bugger off. He was a duke.

  Vaguely, he recollected gathering two more decanters of brandy, some bread, requisitioning the only spare key from Rawlins and then locking himself away to read the most depressing Blake poetry he could find.

  His head swam and his stomach wanted to cast up its meagre contents at the thought of not hearing that Irish lilt this morning or smelling violets or reacting to curses, for however long Aideen wished to stay in Ireland.

  Another male burble interrupted his thoughts. “You must call me Jack,” the rogue purred to much vapid tittering.

  Was Winterbourne really seducing some lackwit maid in his drawing room?

  “Oh…Jack, if you insist, and you must call me Meghan.”

  Rakecombe’s head shot up, hand held to said appendage to avert it from tumbling off.

  Mother?

  “Such an enchanting name,” Winterbourne’s deepest tone replied. “And I would be honoured to whisk you to the pyramids, Meghan. We could explore all those…forbidden delights together.”

  Rakecombe scowled. He knew what they were doing even in his current state. Well, it wouldn’t work. He would never open that door.

  “I
’m a little old for you, Jack.” His mother giggled again.

  “Au contraire, my delightful flower. You are a rose of late summer, the most fragrant and lush of them all.”

  Rakecombe ground his jaw. He visualised those flashing ivories and molesting fingers.

  “Oh! You handsome flatterer, but Lord Fotherington has finally offered to take me, and he is more of my age.”

  Hah, take that, Witterbore. A Rakecombe woman doesn’t fall so easily for glib tongues.

  “But,” the rogue rasped, “Lord Fotherington wouldn’t have the…stamina to squire you around all of those pyramids. Whereas I can persevere the entire day if necessary, fy nghariad bach.”

  Toadying, dissolute buck fitch. That wouldn’t work on Mother, the pronunciation was appalling, like a honking goose.

  “My, such exquisite Welsh,” she squealed girlishly. “So flawless, the very rumble makes me all–”

  “Get your rancid mittens off my mother,” Rakecombe yelled from his desk, using both hands to hold his head still.

  Giggling of the male and female variety answered.

  Why couldn’t they leave him alone? His beautiful wife had left him, and he wanted to wallow in his own pit of shame, self-hatred and, he realised, stench.

  Murmurs now seeped through his door and scowling, he struggled to stand. He looked to be clothed in only breeches and shirt, and his feet were bloody freezing but there was no sign of stockings nor jacket.

  With a shrug, he stumbled into the sharp corner of the desk, relishing the pain, and with shuffling steps, crossed to the study door.

  Whispers. Another giggle. What were they doing? A voice louder.

  “If only Aideen had married you, Jack.” His mother sighed low. “Perhaps you ought to follow her to Ireland. She enjoys your company after all, and I’ve heard–”

  Rakecombe flung open the door. “And keep your licentious paws off my wife,” he bellowed.

  Expecting them to cower from his words or cast admonishments, he frowned as they instead stared aghast from the drawing room.

  He peered down at himself.

  Bare feet, well he knew that. Creased breeches with a suspect stain, but he had a feeling – or hoped – it was spilled brandy, and a shirt that looked and felt somewhat putrid. There might even be…stubble upon his visage.

  How very un-ducal.

  “You have bits of paper and sand stuck to your cheek,” observed Winterbourne, expression appalled.

  Rakecombe slammed the door on their stunned faces and fell on the chaise, head in hands.

  A timid turning of the handle and his heart plummeted. If Winterbourne prattled rules, he’d… Death wouldn’t be punishment enough – it would have to involve coquelicot waistcoats and slashing blades.

  An orange blossom scent pervaded the room and then the chaise lightly depressed at his side. He waited for the condemnation, but instead a soft hand stroked his hair and he wanted nothing more than to turn to Mother like a schoolboy on his first day at Eton and bawl his eyes out.

  He didn’t, obviously.

  “I was going to berate you, Alex dear, but seeing the state of you – a state I have never seen before, I hasten to add – it seems you are loathing yourself quite adequately.”

  “I chased her away, Mother.” He rubbed his face with rough hands. “With my rules and control and surliness. She detests me and I deserve it.”

  “Aideen does not detest you. She…”

  “Despises me?” he suggested, raising his head.

  “No, dear,” she answered, picking paper from his cheek. “She loves you, I believe, but even the most fervid love needs sustenance and you have given her nothing.”

  “I know, but Gwen–”

  She held his cheeks in her small palms, eyes so direct they stung. “Alexander. I loved Gwen deeply – we all did – but she was a resolute girl who never should have followed you that night. I know you blame yourself, but…” Tears came to his mother’s eyes and his own closed to them. “I could just as easily say it was my fault – for indulging her, sheltering her too much from the dangerous world, and your father equally never denied her anything, be it the enormous harp she insisted upon at seven years of age or that dashed great horse she had at thirteen.”

  “’Tis natural, Mother.”

  “Maybe, but my point is we can blame ourselves or each other or the man who did the deed or God – it makes no difference. It happened, and all we can do is accept and live the life that Gwen would have wanted. And being Gwen, she would have wanted laughter, love and joy for us all. Passion for life…and the living.”

  “But I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Aideen.”

  “Silly man.” She smiled and shook him…rather hard, tears retreating. “We cannot live in such fear. I married your father knowing his lungs were weak, knowing they could kill him at any moment and yet we had twenty-three glorious years together. I would not swap them for anything – the memories, the joy and the sadness. We were together. And if you are in love, well, nothing else matters. Do you love Aideen?”

  He wanted his wife to be the first to hear those words from him, but she was clattering along the road somewhere towards the port of Milford Haven. “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Then all will be well. Aideen is audacious, yes, but she is not senseless, and I believe she would make an excellent wife for you – strong and caring, capable and ardent.”

  Rakecombe nodded. When soberness had intervened, he’d thought on all these matters and come to the same conclusion. He could trust Aideen implicitly. With his life. And her own. But then he’d drowned it all in brandy.

  “I realise that now.”

  “Then why haven’t you followed her, you great numbskull?”

  Rising and feeling his stomach shift, he bumbled to the desk and grasped her note. “Read this.”

  His mother scanned the brief words before raising incredulous eyes. “This says do not follow.”

  “I have obeyed. It is the least I could do for her…”

  “You bird-witted, jug-bitten, bacon-brained pigwidgeon! This says heave your stately posterior onto your fastest horse and go after her. Oh, good grief! I always thought you took after me, but now I begin to doubt it.” She huffed. “I had to suggest Gretna to your father in the end. Honestly. Men!”

  “But it says…”

  “If you tell Aideen not to do something, dear, what does she do?”

  “The exact opposite, but–”

  “Lord Winterbourne is with Thorn, sorting out food, a bag of clothing and your favourite gelding, and if the weather is good, you may make the coast before Aideen leaves our shores. After all, she is in that rickety carriage of yours rather than our spanking trim gig. Go, go,” she said, bussing his cheek and shooing him from the door.

  With head still thundering, he plodded up the stairs whilst trying to decode the hidden meaning in a note that said do not follow.

  Thorn greeted him at the bedchamber door with another dismayed expression – was he that bad?

  Winterbourne stood perusing his wardrobe contents – God forbid.

  “I’m not wearing parrot green, coquelicot or lilac,” he groused.

  “I agree,” stated Winterbourne, “love doesn’t bring about miracles, and Aideen likes you in black for inexplicable reasons, but where’s that off-black waistcoat with the charcoal thread?”

  “At the back, I suspect.”

  “Hmm. Now I don’t usually advocate running after women or grovelling – it breaks two of my foremost rules – but in your case, I make an exception. Abject grovelling might be advisable.”

  Accepting a foul-looking brew from Thorn, he looked up puzzled. “Why would one write Do not follow. I do not need you if one desired the opposite.”

  “Hah, rule eighteen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he argued, his stomach gurgling the arrival of Thorn’s restorative.

  “Yes, but plainly love can be ridiculous. How h
ave you not realised this? I mean, look at you? The staid, priggish, impeccable duke turned slovenly shagbag in a matter of…” He sighed, shaking his head.

  Rakecombe peeled his shirt off and Thorn apprehended it, fingers at the very edge as though it crawled with fleas, and he’d a feeling it was set for the fire.

  What a fool he’d been. He should have set out the moment he’d read that note – her words be damned.

  But he’d been spineless. Afraid of losing her regard for good, afraid to see her eyes glitter with hatred, or even worse, no feeling at all. But no more.

  There was one other matter to address. A matter of some importance.

  “I shall say the following only once, Jack, and if you tell anyone, I’ll render you ineffectual for any widow’s pleasure ever again.”

  “Hmm?” The marquess glanced up from the off-black waistcoat he’d found, eyebrow raised.

  “Thank you. Thank you, my friend…for everything.”

  A pause.

  “All my pleasure, Alex.” He gave a roguish wink. “Now you do indeed smell like an old dog, so off to that contraption of yours.”

  Rakecombe let himself be herded to his bathing device, not caring the water was cold as sleet.

  Now he would revert to type.

  He would be ruthless in declaring undying love for his wife. Pitiless in claiming her. Merciless with his touch. All control focused on winning her back. Aideen wouldn’t stand a chance in the well of ashes seven miles below hell.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “He who kisses joy as it flies by will live in eternity’s sunrise.”

  William Blake

  For two days, sideways slashes of rain had pounded the Welsh harbour town of Milford Haven and even when it had taken leave for a moment, a heavy fog had descended in its absence. All-pervading and dense.

  But that wasn’t why Aideen wished she was in London.

  During the endless hours in the carriage, which she now realised needed to be re-sprung as a matter of urgency, she had passed an inordinate amount of time reflecting on her short, married life. There had been little else to do, as attempting to read in the swaying box had become unbearable, nausea looming every time the words bounced around the page like scuttling ants.