The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Georgie had at once determined that she would stay awake until he returned, even if she had to wait until dawn. A wistful part of her more than half wished Rafe would surprise her with a visit, although he had been quite adamant his business would keep him busy until the following day. It had been the first night since the house party at Rivergate that Georgie had spent without him, and she missed him dreadfully. How quickly she had become entirely addicted to his company—his clever conversation, his teasing, his smiles, his kisses and of course, his lovemaking.

  After Jonathon had departed, she’d once again determinedly shrugged off the altogether silly and self-indulgent shroud of loneliness that had been threatening to overwhelm her all evening. But it wasn’t so easy to ignore the persistent gnaw of anxiety whenever she contemplated Rafe’s safety. He might have said he was on Crown business, but what did that really entail? Dashkov was still out there, somewhere, wishing them both harm. She shivered and crossed over to the fireplace to shift the logs and stir the coals. Sparks flew and the fire sprang back to life, but the bright flames failed to warm her. The thought of Rafe in danger—it made her blood run colder than the Thames this time of year.

  Best not to think about it.

  Georgie wrapped her arms about herself and sighed. Despite the late hour, the thought of ringing for tea suddenly had great appeal. What she wouldn’t do for a cup of her remarkably calming herbal tisane right now to help soothe her jangled nerves?

  She’d have to summon one of the chambermaids for hot water, a tea tray and her tea caddy as she was reluctant to disturb Constance. The young woman had looked so terribly fatigued tonight. Georgie had dismissed her shortly after Jonathon had departed. Indeed, as she’d helped Georgie change into her nightgown and robe, the dark circles under her eyes and her wan complexion were so noticeable, Georgie had been quite alarmed; not only had she urged Constance to have a cup of her own herbal tea, she’d also offered to send for a physician. But Constance had denied she needed more than a good night’s rest, and so in the end, Georgie had simply insisted the girl retire early.

  The clock struck a quarter past the hour and Georgie decided that even though tea would be welcome, the wiser course of action would be to go to bed. Yawning, she began to snuff out the candles on the mantel, but the sound of a footstep in the hallway right outside her sitting room gave her pause. Jonathon perhaps? She dare not think it was Rafe.

  She opened her door in time to catch a glimpse of her brother as he disappeared into his own suite of rooms. “Jonathon,” she called, throwing decorum to the wind and hurrying after him. She never usually quizzed him about his comings and goings, but she was too on edge with restless curiosity.

  “Georgie! Why in God’s name are you still awake?” Jonathon demanded as she shut the door behind her. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Of course I do.” Georgie crossed her arms and pinned her brother with a narrow-eyed look. “I’ve been waiting for you. Aside from the fact you are the most pernickety person I know when it comes to clothes, your valet would never have let you leave the house looking like that,” she gestured at his shoddy apparel, “unless you had a very good reason. Something very odd is going on, and I want to know exactly what it is.”

  Jonathon sighed heavily as he removed his misshapen top hat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “You’ve been spying on me, haven’t you? You watched me as I left.”

  Georgie lifted her chin. “I may have. But that matters little. You’ve been up to some sort of mischief, and considering there is a dangerous, vengeful man at large, I demand you give me a full account.”

  Jonathon’s expression softened a little. “You’re worried about Markham, aren’t you? He’ll be fine you know.” He clamped his jaw shut as if he’d said too much and turned away, shrugging off his coat.

  “What do you mean he will be fine?” Georgie took a step closer to her brother as icy dread suddenly began to tiptoe down her spine. Another altogether too horrible thought occurred to her. “Were you with him tonight? Have you been helping him look for Dashkov?”

  “No.” Jonathon avoided her gaze.

  Fear fueled Georgie’s temper. “Do not dissemble,” she demanded hotly. “Tell me. Do you mean no, you haven’t been with him, or no, you were not helping him to search?”

  “Georgie...” The note of warning in Jonathon’s voice was only half-hearted, but nevertheless, he still wouldn’t look at her. He crossed to the walnut cabinet on the other side of his sitting room and poured himself a brandy. “It’s late. As I said, Markham is well. That is all you need to know.”

  “No, that’s not good enough, Jonathon. I’ve been worrying for hours about you. And Rafe. If he has dragged you into some dangerous scheme...” Georgie’s voice cracked and tears clouded her vision. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to either of you.”

  “Oh, Georgie-bean.” Jonathon crossed the room and hugged her close. “I haven’t been taking any unnecessary risks. I would never do such a thing.”

  Georgie pulled away and prodded her brother in the chest. “I won’t be satisfied until you confess what is going on.”

  Jonathon closed his eyes and groaned. “Markham really will kill me this time if I tell you, you know. That’s the real danger.”

  “No, he won’t. Not when he has me to answer to.” She poked him again. “Now confess.”

  Jonathon’s shoulders heaved with a weary sigh. “I suppose you will hear all about it soon enough. And when all is said and done, you have every right to know, because in a way, this is all about you.”

  Perplexed, Georgie’s brows snapped into a deep frown. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Markham’s been playing the knight-errant again.” Jonathon held her gaze and his expression was so serious, another frisson of unease slid over Georgie’s skin. “He’s utterly ruined Craven. Aside from his entailed property, I suspect the dog has nothing more than a few farthings left to his name.”

  “What?” Georgie gripped her brother’s arm. Had she fallen asleep after all? Surely what Jonathon had just stated couldn’t be true. “How?”

  She didn’t need to ask why. She’d heard the steel in Rafe’s voice whenever they’d discussed Craven; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t suspected that he would want to avenge the wrong that had been done to her.

  But to actually hear Rafe had taken such deliberate action, it was more than a little terrifying. Whilst she felt not one whit of compassion for Lord Craven, surely she should be pleased that he was at last being made to pay for his past transgressions, but perversely, she wasn’t. Indeed, she felt strangely numb and not herself at all; it seemed like she was watching herself and Jonathon from the other side of the room.

  “Georgie, you’re shaking like a leaf. I’ve shocked you. Here,” Jonathon retrieved his discarded brandy and passed the tumbler to her, “sit down and take a sip or two.”

  She did as he asked, taking a seat in a wingback chair before the fire. Jonathon poured himself another brandy and took the seat opposite her.

  “You haven’t told me how Rafe accomplished any of this,” she said at length when her trembling had begun to ease.

  Jonathon grinned, his glee at Craven’s misfortune blatantly obvious. “Apparently Craven has had debt collectors dogging his heels for some time, and he’s been desperately trying to win back some of his fortune through gaming. Markham suspected it wouldn’t take much to push him into penury. He tracked Craven to a less than reputable gaming hell he’s been known to haunt of late, and trounced him at the card table. Piquet.” Her brother’s grinned widened. “Such a beautiful thing to witness.”

  “From what you’ve told me, it would seem Rafe has been gathering intelligence on Craven and his situation for a good while.” Had it been since she’d seen him outside the jewelry shop in Bond Street? Or longer? Jonathon had told Rafe about Craven even before the house party at Rivergate, before she barely knew him.

  Jonathon shrugged. “I would say so. The man is determined,
if nothing else.”

  Determined was an understatement. Ruthless seemed more apt. Georgie sipped at her brandy, unsure what to think, or how to feel. Last night, Rafe had promised her he wouldn’t do anything rash when it came to dealing with Craven. However, it was evident he’d been plotting the man’s demise for some time.

  She was only now beginning to fully understand that Rafe had his own interpretation of morality and what constituted just retribution.

  What lengths would he go to for someone he loved? Perhaps he had more in common with Dashkov than he realized. The thought chilled her to the very bone and she shivered.

  However, when she caught Jonathon’s next softly uttered words, her heart froze altogether. “I certainly wouldn’t like to be in Markham’s line of fire come morning.”

  Her gaze snapped to her brother. “What did you say?” she gasped.

  “I... er... I meant I would not like to be in Craven’s shoes when the creditors come looking for him on the morrow.”

  “No. No you did not mean that. You said you would not like to be in Markham’s firing line.” And then she knew and her heart started again, racing at such an unsteady gallop she could barely summon enough breath to speak. “Rafe has challenged Craven to a duel, hasn’t he? He means to kill him.”

  Jonathon squirmed in his seat. “No. That’s not what happened. Without a word of a lie, Rafe did not do that.”

  But Craven was a vindictive monster. Years might have passed, but Georgie doubted he would have changed. “So it was the other way round then. Craven threw down the gauntlet. Rafe pushed him too far and he bit back.”

  Her brother wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she knew she was correct even before he confirmed her suspicions with his next words. “Yes. All right,” he said with a deep sigh. “Craven challenged Markham. Not that it matters.” He shrugged. “The result will be the same. Craven will be erased from this earth. And good riddance to the bastard, I say.”

  “But... How can you be so sure of the outcome? I know Rafe is very much a man of action but Craven used to be quite the Corinthian as well.”

  Jonathon snorted. “That was years ago, dear sis, and does not signify in the least. You know who is the better man in every sense.”

  “On the other hand, if Rafe kills Craven...” Too agitated to sit still a moment longer, Georgie rose and began pacing back and forth across the hearthrug. Her mind reeled from all of the implications. Dueling was forbidden—illegal in fact—even amongst noblemen. Rafe could be arrested and held to account by a jury of his peers if Craven died by his hand. Unless he fled the country and lived in exile...

  She couldn’t let him risk so much for her. “I can’t let him do this. Craven is just not worth it.” She stopped in front of Jonathon. “When and where is this happening? We must stop Rafe.”

  “Now that, I will not tell you. I’m not that much of a nincompoop. Can you imagine Markham’s reaction if you try to meddle?” Jonathon rose and crossed to her. Grasping her shoulders, his gaze bore into hers. “You’ve got that stubborn look in your eye, Georgie. Do not fight me on this. I promised Markham I would take care of you. Do not make me lock you in your room.”

  “But Jonathon”—hot tears scalded Georgie’s eyes—“I love him. The thought of losing him... I’m sorry.” She bit her lip and turned away, blinking rapidly, willing herself not to cry. She was not one to weep and wail to get her own way, but right at this moment, she couldn’t seem to control the wild emotions careening around inside her.

  “Oh, God, Georgie, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” Jonathon pulled her in for a hug. “I understand. Trust me, I do.” He stroked her back and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “If there had been anything at all I could have done to save Teddy, I would have.”

  Georgie drew back and searched Jonathon’s face. “So you’ll help me?” she asked, barely able to believe he had capitulated so readily.

  He offered her his silk handkerchief with a sad, knowing smile. “How could I not? He makes you happy. I would risk anything to ensure you remain so. Even Markham’s wrath.”

  “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes and dragged in a steadying breath. “Now pour me another brandy. We have plans to make.”

  The clock was striking a quarter to one when Georgie at last bid her brother goodnight. To her surprise she found Constance sitting in a chair outside her suite, still wearing her maid’s attire, her posture as rigid as a poker and her face as pale as the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling above her head.

  “What is it, Constance?” Georgie asked more sharply than was usual, but she truly was alarmed. “Has something happened?”

  Constance sprang to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “Please forgive me, Your Grace. I find... I find I have not been able to sleep a wink. And the more I try, the worse it is. You had offered me some of your special tea earlier, and when I saw the lamps were still lit, and I heard voices coming from Sir Jonathon’s chambers... Please believe me, I was not eavesdropping, Your Grace. I would never do that. But, I wondered if I might try some of your tea after all. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the liberty of bringing up the caddy from the kitchen.” Her fingers fluttered nervously in the direction of a nearby occasional table where the small, locked wooden box now sat.

  Ordinarily, Georgie would have a rebuked a servant for such presumption, but she had offered Constance the tisane earlier. And she was genuinely concerned about the girl’s health. “It’s quite all right,” she said gently. She examined her maid’s face; her hazel eyes were glassy with exhaustion, the shadows beneath her lower lids darker still, and she was pale rather than flushed, so at least she didn’t have a fever.

  Beckoning Constance to follow her, Georgie entered her sitting room and retrieved her keys from a drawer in her cherrywood writing desk. Constance placed the octagonal shaped box of mahogany, inlaid with satinwood roses, on the leather blotter. After unlocking the box, Georgie measured out a small amount of the fragrant dried herbs and flowers, and deposited them carefully in a clean, dry tumbler. “Infuse the mixture in hot water for a few minutes only,” she said, as Constance took the glass from her, “otherwise it will be bitter.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Her maid curtsied deeply, her head bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Think nothing of it, Constance,” replied Georgie. “And if there is anything else I can assist you with, anything at all, please let me know. As I mentioned earlier, I am quite happy to send for my physician.”

  Constance curtsied again. “You are much too kind, ma’am. But I think the tisane will help immensely.”

  Georgie inclined her head. “I’m sure it will too.”

  Constance took her leave and Georgie retired to her bedchamber. Leaning against the doorframe, she eyed her bed without a single ounce of enthusiasm. Her head ached and her eyes felt gritty. She might be weary beyond measure, but she doubted she would be able to sleep at all between now and the pre-dawn hour. Not when her heart clenched and her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots every time she imagined Rafe and Craven on the dueling field, pistols aimed straight at each other’s chests.

  She shuddered and retired to the fireside to try and find some solace in the pages of Emma until it was time to dress.

  Chapter 18

  Battersea-fields, South Bank of the Thames, 16th November 1816

  “Do you think he will put in an appearance?”

  Rafe glanced at Phillip. In the weak, gray light of early morning he could scarcely make out his friend’s features. “I would say so,” he answered in a low voice, his breath a white cloud in the frigid air. “He was certainly baying for blood last night. And he doesn’t seem the type who would let go of an opportunity to exact revenge. Aside from that, he’s desperate to collect on what he thinks he’s owed. For a man with no coin and no honor, that is a powerful incentive indeed.”

  “How good a shot do you suppose he is?”

  Rafe shrugged as he threw his friend a wolfish grin. “We’ll soon find
out. At any rate, I rather doubt I will require the services of your surgeon, Mr. Emerson.” He nodded toward the dour-faced man waiting with Cowan by a nearby copse of plane trees before adding, “I can’t say the same for Craven.”

  His flippant response was at odds with how he truly felt. His muscles were tense, his senses were sharpened, his entire body was primed for action. He certainly wasn’t nervous. His resolve and control were as hard and cold as the frost-bitten ground beneath his feet. At long last, Craven would pay for what he had done to Georgie. When the moment came to fire his pistol, Rafe’s hand would be steady and his aim, true.

  Phillip shook his head. “Your sang-froid always amazes me, my friend. Do you think Craven will be content to agree to your preferred terms?”

  “Perhaps,” Rafe replied with another shrug. “Craven’s destruction at the hand of his creditors is imminent so whether we duel until first-blood, or until one of us can no longer stand, it matters little to me. And as terrible as it sounds, I must say, the idea of him being wounded appeals to me no end. The more pain he suffers, the better.”

  They had discussed each of the options last night at Latimer House. Whilst Rafe would like nothing more than to put a bullet in the blackguard’s heart, he also wasn’t willing to forfeit his home in England when he’d only just returned. His dream of sharing a full, happy life with Georgie until they were both old and gray with a surfeit of children and grandchildren, was far too beguiling a prospect to abandon. Especially for a scum-dweller like Craven.

  “If you’ve pushed him too far though...” Phillip’s tone was grim. “Now that I think on it, he might very well be suicidal—” He broke off at the sound of a carriage door slamming in the distance.