Within a few minutes, the bulky forms of two men in greatcoats emerged from the shadows and rising mist. Craven and his second. As they drew closer, Rafe noted the other man was Lord Bolton, the nobleman he’d seen with Craven in Gentleman Jackson’s two days ago. A third man—plainly dressed, but clearly a manservant of some kind—trailed behind.
Phillip approached Bolton, and whilst the two went about the usual business of discussing terms, inspecting and loading the dueling pistols, and marking out the ground, Rafe took the opportunity to observe Craven; there was now sufficient light to see that other man’s complexion was pallid beneath his arrogant manner. He might pretend indifference but he was clearly nervous; his hands shook ever so slightly when he removed his gloves and his movements were clumsy as he shrugged off his coat and handed it to the manservant.
Unshaven and clothed in the same stained and rumpled garments he had worn last night, he was a pathetic mess. Rafe strongly suspected that he was still a little bit drunk.
A better man would have called a halt to the duel for that reason alone, but Rafe wasn’t that man. In fact, he had to turn away in order to hide his smile.
Phillip’s voice carried clearly across the field. “In the absence of any apology being issued by either party, Bolton and I have settled the terms. The duel will conclude when one of you can no longer stand. Are you in agreeance, gentlemen?”
Craven’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “So be it.”
Rafe inclined his head. “Agreed.”
Cowan proffered the polished walnut dueling box and Craven and Rafe approached to select their weapons. Light and perfectly balanced, fashioned from steel and walnut, the highly prized brace of Manton pistols were in fact, Rafe’s. Neither Craven nor Bolton had brought a set. It wouldn’t have surprised Rafe in the least if Craven had needed to pawn his at some stage.
Their choices made, Craven and Rafe stepped away with pistols in hand and crossed the frozen ground to their appointed positions.
Rafe couldn’t suppress another predatory smile as he turned to salute his gray-faced opponent. With only fourteen yards separating them, felling Craven would be like child’s play.
Georgie clutched at the leather strap above her head, trying to maintain her balance as their carriage clattered at breakneck speed over the rickety wooden boards of the Battersea Bridge. Peering out the window, she could barely make out the dull, pewter surface of the Thames through the drifting shroud of mist. Dawn wasn’t far off. A brooding bank of low clouds along the eastern horizon would obscure the moment the sun actually rose, but the bruised-purple sky above was already growing lighter by the second.
Just as Georgie’s panic was rising by the second. Her heart raced faster than the matched team of bays pulling their carriage.
“How much farther?” she asked Jonathon once they’d cleared the bridge. “If we don’t reach Rafe in time...” She bit her lip hard, unable to continue. She wouldn’t cry. There was no time for tears. Of course, she couldn’t care less about Lord Craven, but if Rafe was wounded or worse... No, she refused to contemplate her worst fear, that Rafe might actually be killed. The thought of living without him was, quite simply, unbearable.
Jonathon leaned forward and patted her knee. “Try not to lose heart, Georgie-bean. I estimate we’ll be there in five minutes at this rate. Just in time. We should be passing the village very soon, and a mile on is an inn, The Red House. The duel will take place in a field not far from there.”
Georgie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She dare not ask Jonathon how he knew the precise location of the relatively remote dueling site. There were some things she’d rather not know about her brother. She pushed her tumbledown curls out of her eyes—she’d dressed without Constance’s assistance and hadn’t bothered to do all that much with her hair other than shove it beneath a velvet cap—before returning her gaze to the landscape outside. Sure enough, up ahead was the village of Battersea. It passed by in a flash and then they were hurtling along a frozen, rutted causeway with the Thames on one side and a haphazard network of ditches, marshy fields and reed-beds on the other.
If Georgie wasn’t so frightened for Rafe, she might have been frightened for herself and Jonathon.
“There’s the inn.” Jonathon rapped on the wall of the carriage with his silver topped cane and Benson, their driver, immediately slowed the horses. They entered an overgrown field and followed a rough, muddy path before finally drawing to a halt beside an unkept hawthorn hedge. Four other carriages—all unmarked—were also lined up at various intervals bedside the path. As Jonathon alighted, Georgie gathered up the woolen skirts of her cobalt blue carriage gown and then jumped down after him. She didn’t have time to wait for the stairs.
Heart in her mouth, she raced after Jonathon toward a wooden stile in the hedgerow. He helped her to clamber over, and then they dashed headlong across another short expanse of mist-shrouded grass into a dense copse of golden leaved plane trees.
Panting, her blood thundering in her ears, Georgie stumbled to a halt when Jonathon bade her to.
He put a finger to his lips and pointed through the trees to the field beyond. “Best not to startle anyone,” he whispered against her ear.
Georgie nodded and desperately tried to calm her breathing. A breeze stirred the yellowing leaves in the branches above them and carried snatches of conversation to her. Male voices.
Her heart drummed a wild tattoo inside her chest as she began to edge her way forward. Thankfully, the damp carpet of leaves beneath her booted feet deadened the sound of her footfalls.
“In the absence of any apology being issued by either party, Bolton and I have settled the terms. The duel will conclude when one of you can no longer stand. Are you in agreeance, gentlemen?”
Phillip. She recognized his voice immediately. Then she heard another man—it had to be Craven—and then Rafe, respond.
“So be it.”
“Agreed.”
Thank God they are not going to fight to the death. But what, in Heaven’s name, could she say or do to stay both their hands completely?
“We’re not too late,” Georgie whispered over her shoulder to Jonathon. When he didn’t respond, she turned around... and discovered he was lying face down in the leaves a few feet away.
What on earth? Fear spiked through her as she sucked in a breath. “Jo—”
An arm—a man’s arm—snaked around her throat and her head was pushed roughly forward. His grip as unrelenting as a hangman’s noose, the man choked her. Cut off all her air. Her vision blurred and her head swam.
Dashkov? Oh, please no. No.
White-hot anger and terror burst to life inside Georgie, lending her momentary strength. She tried to scream. Clawed and kicked and thrashed with all her might, but it was to no avail.
As dark oblivion engulfed her, her last thought was of Rafe.
“Gentlemen. Take up your positions,” instructed Phillip from the edge of the copse. “When the handkerchief falls,” he indicated Cowan, “you may fire your first shot.”
Rafe angled his body in a side-on stance and raised his pistol. His pulse remained steady, his breathing even as he cocked his weapon and adjusted his aim a fraction.
There was no doubt in his heart or mind that what he did was just, in every sense of the word.
This was for Georgie.
Even though Rafe focused on Craven, he kept Cowan and the white kerchief within the corner of his vision. Craven also stood side-on; his eyes were narrowed in concentration, his arm shook ever so slightly.
Phillip, Bolton and the manservant retreated to a safe distance with Mr. Emerson. As expected, the surgeon turned his back.
The handkerchief fell.
Rafe fired and straightaway, Craven dropped to the ground, screaming and clutching his thigh.
Bolton rushed over. Emerson followed, the manservant at his heels.
Ignoring the commotion surrounding Craven, Phillip crossed the field toward him. “Nicely done,” he
murmured when he reached Rafe’s side. He glanced at his pocket watch. “His two minutes will be up soon enough. It doesn’t look like he will be taking his shot after all.”
Rafe shrugged. “That was the plan. I don’t think I’ve hit anything of vital importance. Although it will still hurt like the very devil.”
Phillip’s mouth kicked into a smile. “Good.”
“Yes.” Glancing back over to Craven, who still groaned and writhed in agony, Rafe felt not one iota of remorse. But there was definitely satisfaction. “My work here is done.”
He tucked his pistol into an inner pocket of his black, woolen redingote and turned to leave the field, heading for the copse and his carriage.
Then Cowan shouted, “Milords! Look out!”
Instinct and experience triggered an immediate response. As Rafe dove into the grass, dragging Phillip down with him, there was a crack beside his right ear.
Bloody fucking hell. He couldn’t believe it! Did Craven actually just attempt to shoot him when his back was turned?
A blistering wave of anger surged and he shot to his feet. Of all the low, cowardly, dishonorable acts he had ever encountered, this had to be one of the worst.
Rafe charged toward Craven. Bolton, put up his hands to ward him off, but Rafe simply thrust him aside.
“You utter, sniveling, bastard,” he growled, yanking the smoking pistol out of Craven’s grasp.
Emerson raised his blood-covered hands in a gesture of appeal. “Please my lord, I must protest!”
“In a minute. I desire a word with Lord Craven.”
Craven closed his eyes, and rolled his head away. “I’m down for Christ’s sake,” he rasped. His breathing was erratic, his face ashen with pain. “You can’t do this.”
“I think you and I both know that we’re well past playing by the rules, Craven.”
Craven spat into the grass at Rafe’s feet. “Fuck off. Leave... me be.”
“Not a chance.” Rafe gripped the earl by the hair and forced his head around to face him. “I should have shot you dead. Do you know why?”
Craven’s pale, bloodless lips twisted into a rictus of a smile. “Why... the fuck... would I care?”
Rafe tightened his grip a little more. “What you want or care about doesn’t matter to me. At all. But I do want you to know this. This—all of this—this duel, your failure at the gaming table last night, and your ultimate ruin—it is retribution, pure and simple. Retribution I’m exacting on behalf of another for a crime you committed a decade ago.”
Craven’s chest shook as if he was attempting to laugh, but he couldn’t harness enough breath to produce any sound. “Which one?” he eventually gasped. “And to whom?”
Georgie’s name hovered on Rafe’s lips, but as he stared into Craven’s pain-glazed eyes, he decided he did not want to say it.
Craven didn’t deserve to know.
But most of all, he didn’t want the worthless swine thinking about the woman he loved.
Rafe released his hold and stepped away. “As you were, Mr. Emerson,” he said quietly, his iron-hard control back in place.
He turned on his heel and strode away.
It was time to go back to Georgie.
He smiled to himself, wondering if she was still abed, and if she was, how he would go about pleasuring her. And how her smile would reach her beautiful blue eyes when he told her he loved her.
However, all thoughts of making love to Georgie fled the moment Rafe entered the copse. Cowan called out to him again, his tone urgent. “Milord. Over ‘ere.”
Rafe located him in the gloom a few yards away, kneeling beside Jonathon, who sat with his back against the trunk of a plane tree, his head between his legs.
“What the hell are you doing here? What’s happened?” Rafe demanded. Something was wrong, very wrong.
Cowan ran a hand down his face, and the cold foreboding in the pit of Rafe’s stomach increased ten-fold. “Looks like someone’s given Sir Jonathon a nasty whack on the skull with that,” he said, nodding toward a sizeable rock lying in a nearby pile of leaves. It was streaked with red. “He’s only just come to.”
Sure enough, Rafe could see a bloody gash on the back of Jonathon’s head. His gut told him this wasn’t the work of common footpads. He dropped to his knees and squeezed Jonathon’s shoulder. “Winterbourne. What’s going on? Who did this?”
Jonathon winced as he lifted his head. He was as pale as the linen of his cravat. “I don’t know... I didn’t see. Where’s Georgie?”
Panic seared through Rafe’s chest. “Georgie’s here?”
Cowan spoke, “I ‘aven’t seen ‘er Grace, milord.”
Jonathon swallowed, his face a sickly shade of green. “She came with me... She found out about the duel and insisted we follow you... to stop you.” He grabbed Rafe’s sleeve. “Are you saying she’s not here? Oh, sweet Jesus... Don’t tell me Dashkov’s taken her.”
“I pray to God he hasn’t.” Tamping down the urge to rail at Jonathon for both his loose tongue and rampant stupidity, Rafe sprang to his feet. “Cowan. Call Lord Maxwell. Start looking for any signs of the duchess and Dashkov.” He addressed Jonathon again even though it looked like he was about to lose the contents of his stomach. “When did you get here? Were you followed?”
“God,” Jonathon clutched his head. “I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I’m having trouble recalling—” He leaned sideways and vomited into the leaves.
Leaving him to it—he obviously wasn’t going to be much use in his present state—Rafe ran his eyes over the surrounding ground carpeted in damp, browning leaves. Several yards away, something blue caught his eye.
He sprinted over and scooped it up. A blue velvet cap. Georgie’s. It had to be.
His blood froze when he saw a white card tucked inside. Herr Maximilian Scherzfrage’s card.
Something was scrawled on the back in red ink. A taunt.
A threat.
Have you pieced the puzzle together yet?
Must dash,
D
P.S. I am afraid your ‘piece’ will soon be in pieces too.
Fuck. This was Rafe’s worst nightmare, coming to life. But he didn’t have time for fear. Or guilt. Not when Georgie’s life hung in the balance. Rafe closed his eyes for a moment and let black, murderous rage take over. It pounded through his veins, washing away all traces of terror, clearing his mind, hardening his resolve.
Dashkov would die for this.
But first, he had to find Georgie.
Before it was too late.
Chapter 19
Somewhere in London...
Her head throbbed. Pounded.
Her jaw ached and it hurt to swallow. There was something—a rag—jammed in her mouth and she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe...
Oh, God!
Georgie jerked, her head bobbing like a puppet’s when the strings were cut. Fear burned through her veins and acrid nausea swelled as full consciousness returned and her memory came flooding back.
Dashkov has me.
She prized her heavy eyelids open, and the room swam before her eyes. She recognized this hideous feeling. Knew it well. She’d been drugged.
But worse than that, she’d been kidnapped. Gagged, bound and tied to a chair in a strange, shabby room that could be anywhere.
Panic flared again. The pace of her breathing increased, grew frantic as she tried to suck in enough air through her nose. The gag tasted foul and another wave of nausea hit. Oh, dear Lord. She was going to be sick. But she would choke. No, no, no.
Georgie closed her eyes and focused on trying to control her breathing, to swallow down her terror and to concentrate on thoughts that would help. Rafe will find me. I will be all right. I am strong. If I keep calm and I use my wits, I can survive this.
As her breathing slowed, and her nausea abated a little, she opened her eyes again and tried to make her foggy brain work, to take in her surroundings, to assess where she might be, and what, if any
thing, she could do to escape. Straining against her painfully tight bonds of coarse rope proved futile. Bound at the wrists, ankles and around her torso to a heavy oak, Jacobean style chair, she could barely move anything except her head.
She was alone as far as she could tell; positioned in the middle of the room, she couldn’t see behind her. Disconcerting to think someone might be watching her... She couldn’t hear anyone else, only her own shallow breathing, but still...
She shivered and directed her attention elsewhere.
Her first impression that the room was shabby had been correct. It appeared to be a small parlor of some kind that had clearly seen better days. She faced an empty, filthy fireplace; a horsehair sofa with torn upholstery; and a scratched and chipped occasional table. Moth-eaten, rust colored curtains hung drunkenly from a window to her left. Only partly drawn, weak, gray light filtered through the grimy panes onto the bare, dusty floorboards. The only view afforded to her was a grubby, brown brick wall. She sensed the room was a few stories up and adjacent to an alley. Noises—voices calling and the insistent clatter of hooves and cartwheels—reached her easily. A London alley?
Dear, God, Georgie hoped so.
It was difficult to tell how much time had passed between when Dashkov had taken her and now, but she guessed it had only been a few hours. Beneath her nausea, her stomach grumbled and she was conscious of the call of nature, but the feeling wasn’t too strong. Yet.
Georgie grimaced. It wouldn’t do to dwell on that.
A hazy recollection of waking up in an unfamiliar carriage, trussed up like a Christmas goose, suddenly surfaced in her mind. She’d tried to scream but the baron—if that’s who it was—had forced her to drink a bitter tasting concoction of laudanum and heaven knew what else. She also vaguely recalled they’d clattered over the Battersea Bridge before she’d passed out again. So perhaps they were in London. Which meant Rafe and Jonathon would find her.
Then she remembered. Jonathon lying face down in a pile of leaves. Her breath caught. Please God, let him be all right. If Jonathon were dead... Tears scalded her eyes and she snuffled awkwardly around the gag. Even crying was impossibly difficult.
The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 Page 29
