Chapter Seventeen
Mirror, mirror on the wall…
Queen Street was no place to hasten in daylight hours, let alone the dead of night.
A few swaggering bucks wandered the streets, looking for trouble, but he ignored their drunken hoots, aware he was late for his assignation with Bluey.
The night had grown cold, even keeping the fog at bay, yet a damp still choked the lungs if one breathed too deeply.
Rakecombe buttoned his old greatcoat before plunging one gloved hand into the large pocket, the other maintaining a tight hold on his cane.
Anger still crawled in his belly and yet if someone had asked him why, he was aware he had no answer.
It felt as though he’d been angry forever but had sought to quash it, only keeping it hidden under a mien of self-control: a kindling of flames that had never really been doused, solely awaiting favourable conditions. A gust of soft Irish wind from the west and now the conflagration had grown beyond its confines.
Anger at Lord White for steering him to espionage whilst at Oxford.
Anger at Gwen for being so bold and thoughtless.
Anger at himself for being so bloody green as a youth.
Anger at the monster who’d spilt his family’s blood…
The only person he didn’t feel anger for was Aideen.
She’d known it was him at the Miltons’ masquerade. Of course she’d damn well known. No one would ever fool his wife; it was one of the reasons he adored her so.
Scowling, he picked up speed as a bitter gust chilled his skin.
Perhaps he should visit her bed again. Unsated lust still burned within and her toying with him at the Miltons’ and the kiss tonight had simply made it worse. The fact his desires weren’t uniquely for her body, but also her tender voice and caring eyes, he refused to consider; those desires would take what he could give and be content.
The corner of Queen Street came into view and he narrowed his eyes.
His wife also needed to learn he wasn’t some callow stripling to be taunted. Playing with a raging inferno got you bur–
A harsh cry from the street ahead and he broke into a run.
The night was murky and shadowed but a few doorways held dim lanterns, and in the distance a man lay on the ground, surrounded by another two kicking him in the guts.
Harrowing grunts echoed around the narrow dwellings, but no faces peered from the windows or called for the night watch.
“Hey,” he shouted, rushing on.
In an instant, he’d yanked the pistol from his greatcoat and aimed as one of the men drew a knife, arm hauling back for the throw, but the wielder fell with the slam of his bullet, the sound ricocheting, smoke curling, and the rat clutched at his bloodied shoulder, scrabbling desperately in the gutter for his fallen weapon.
Dropping the pistol and shoving his cane to the loop on his greatcoat, Rakecombe drew his own blade hidden beneath his many layers.
The other lowlife had a dagger and flipped it from hand to hand as villains were wont to do in a display of pitiful bravado.
Black hair flopped over the pug-nosed man’s forehead, and Rakecombe noted that although his clothes were down at heel, they were not the common blackguard variety either.
Groaning came from the filthy cobbles, but he concentrated on the dagger in front of him which flashed then hid as a lantern shuddered in the breeze, casting dark shade and flickering light.
He waited.
The villain struck, impatient as they always were, and Rakecombe veered, slicing out before swirling around, readied in a curved stance.
“Fils de pute,” pug nose spat, and dread snaked in his stomach. It could be no coincidence that a Frenchman stalked this same street on this night.
Now it was Rakecombe who’d little patience, and diving forward, he deftly grabbed the man’s thin wrist whilst striking him fully in the face with the hilt of his dagger. He needed this Frenchman alive.
A tinge of pain grazed his own arm but ignoring it, he slammed in another clout and twisted pug nose’s wrist until he shrieked, knife clattering to the ground, and Rakecombe was forced to release him.
“Morceau de merde,” the whoreson cried defiantly, kicking out before scuttling away, tugging his accomplice with him.
Another chilling groan prevented Rakecombe from giving chase, the agonised voice recognisable, and he kneeled in the grime to tend to the fallen man.
“Bluey?” With desperation, he grabbed his collar. “Can you hear me? Where are you hurt?”
“Stomach… Can’t…”
Rakecombe cursed, not able to see the wound in this dimly lit street, but well able to feel the warm liquid seeping over his fingers. Depending on where the knife had entered, a gut wound could be fatal, and he unwound his cravat, stuffing it in wherever he could feel and then binding it tight around his midriff.
“Take me to…” Bluey reached out a bloodied hand and pulled Rakecombe’s head near, whispering, “Charles Street… Drury Lane. Six…find Harry–”
Nothing could be done here, so he hauled him over his shoulder as gently as he could, Bluey grunting in pain nevertheless before falling as a dead-weight – probably for the best as Drury Lane was a fair distance over someone’s shoulder with a wound to the gizzards.
He strode briskly, feeling wary eyes upon him from cramped doorways and squalid windows. Some scraggy harlot shot out of his way, her dull gaze having seen it all before.
A night long past invaded his thoughts, when the body in his arms hadn’t been a wounded man but his lifeless sister.
He shook his head. A whimper from Bluey.
Dwelling on long-ago errors did little except bring forth more anger, more sorrow. He set his mind to work, questions burning.
How had they found out about the assignation? What information did Bluey have? Was this Stafford’s doing?
Finally, he turned down Charles Street and number six emerged. Not a hovel but a clean-looking place with large shutters and a solid entrance.
The abode was so tightly bolted that no light glimmered around the edges of its wooden protection, and he hammered on the door for what seemed an eternity until a slat drew back. Candlelight momentarily blinded him before an eye peered out.
“What d’yer want?” a harsh voice snapped.
“Bluey’s hurt. He asked for this house.” The eye didn’t blink or move. “We’re looking for Harry?”
With that, the slat thumped shut and then came the sound of a dozen or so bolts being pulled. He was dragged into the house and the door slammed behind him.
In front stood…
A pretty woman, slender, with a long blond plait falling over one shoulder, clothed in a white gown and wrap, the lantern light causing an angelic glow. Distress and terror lit her eyes before she straightened her shoulders and bustled them into another room.
He laid Bluey on the ample couch whilst the woman dashed to a cupboard and collected a bunch of white linens.
Blood drenched Bluey’s jacket and Rakecombe threw off his own coat, pulling his knife out. The woman halted in her step but rushed once more as he began divesting Bluey of his clothes, slitting the material in one swoop.
Pushing aside the shirt, he closed his eyes to thank the heavens. Lengthy but not deep, the wound missed, as far as he could tell, any vital organs.
The woman’s shuddering relief echoed his own, and he glanced around to moist eyes. “I can look after him now,” she said, shaking her head. “You can leave. If no infection sets in, he’ll be fine.”
“Have you money for a doctor?”
“Aye, but I’ve nursed before, so I know what I’m doing. I’ll stitch him better than most of those drunken leeches,” she muttered.
Rakecombe stared as the competent woman uncorked a brandy bottle with her teeth and sloshed liquor around the wound before packing a wodge of clean cloth against it.
Unsure of her status and how much to tell her, he shifted on his heels. He wanted to be kept aware of Bluey’s condition, but should he confide in this unknown woman?
“And you are, miss?” He raised an eyebrow, to which she raised hers. Higher than his own, in truth.
“I’m Harriet, Bluey’s wife…Your Grace.”
Two blows in one sentence.
“Ah. I wasn’t aware he was married.”
“We keep it quiet. Don’t want his work brought home every night.”
No, indeed. No one would.
“You know where to find me then? I will return tomorrow to check on him.”
“Very well but come around the back and don’t bring your carriage.” Her face focused on her husband, stroking his cheek with tender care.
He nodded and was about to leave when fierce fingers gripped his wrist. Spinning, he beheld Bluey’s eyes, narrow but parted. “A warehouse… Those French…”
But a foul cough caught him, the grip loosened, and pain took Bluey under once again.
“I’ll let you know if he says anything more,” Harriet declared, before waving him out, the door thumping shut behind him and the abundant bolts thundering their protection.
The bitter wind had grown in hostility whilst he’d been inside. It tore through the streets and into his blood-soaked coat to batter his soul.
With mood foul, Rakecombe sliced through it, eager for home, a cold drenching and a stiff drink.
∞∞∞
The lock signalled its submission with a soft click, and Aideen unhurriedly opened the adjoining door into the ducal bedchamber.
Once Alex had left the Bucklands’ soirée, it had held little interest, and so she’d ordered the carriage for home, but sleep had been elusive and what with all that noise…
Nigh on an hour ago, she’d heard a chamber door slam, quite a bit of rustling and then that strange sloshing sound again. After a short while, it had then appeared Alex had more pressing business than sleep as he’d stomped back down the stairs.
She’d lain there for possibly a quarter hour more, twitching and considering, before curiosity had got the better of her, and so using her uncle’s handy lock-picking device, she had decided to explore. After all, it was impossible during the day due to that meticulous valet’s never-ending vigilance of the master chamber – it was more closely guarded than an Irish girl’s virtue.
The bed looked to be normal, with heavy dark-green drapes. A chest of drawers sat to one side and a desk on the other. Quite a dull room, all told, with few ornaments or pictures to brighten – very Rakecombe. She meandered toward the chest to peruse his nightly reading, but a miniature of a pretty, blond girl caught her eye.
She huffed and tiptoed to a narrower door on the left, finding his dressing room; shirts and cravats folded so perfectly, she felt scared to breathe.
Pondering, she backed out. The larger door obviously led to the corridor, so she headed for the only other door in the room.
Aha, success.
In front, looming high, was a curious-looking contraption. A normal copper bath tub lay at the bottom, but four tubes, around ten feet tall, rose at each corner and seemed to collect in another smaller basin at the top. A rope was attached, and Aideen could only wonder that the nightly sloshing sound was water being sluiced from the upper basin – how unusual.
And how cold.
She placed her candle on the dresser and was about to inspect anew when a low groan from the corridor startled her. Quickly, she gathered her candle once more and crept to the main bedchamber door. It opened without a creak, and she gazed into the murkiness.
Nothing stirred but she’d heard something for certain, and so with a silent tread, she stepped out, glad she still had her lock-picking device to hand because it also contained a sprung knife. Uncle Seamus said you could never be sure what you’d find when breaking and entering – how true.
Her candle barely managed to light a few feet ahead, and Aideen shivered. The dark didn’t generally worry her unless it was a stormy night in Ireland with Uncle telling tales of the dreaded Dobhar-chú.
With heart pounding like a herd of angry cows, she placed the candle on the side table and palmed her lock-picker ready to spring its blade. She peered down the staircase, but suddenly her body was hauled around and propelled against the wall.
All she could see was black, all she could feel was a heaviness press against her chest, all she could smell was…
“Alex?”
“Wife.”
The suffocating black pulled back a little, but he didn’t let go, and she realised the heaviness was his cane. It kept her prisoner against the wall, a band above her breast, jailing her upper arms.
Candlelight played shadows on his face, revealing a rigid expression and damp hair, that sleek curl seeking freedom in the nocturnal hours.
An ebony silk banyan swathed his torso, but he also wore loose breeches and she could feel the silk pressing against her night-rail-covered legs.
“Why are you wandering this night, Aideen?”
“Er.” Honesty, she’d learned, was not always the best policy. “A glass of water?”
He shook his head, face grim.
“A book?” she squeaked, feeling that cane meander downwards.
Thankfully, she wasn’t wearing her wedding night-rail although this one didn’t have much more to it. Low at the front, it was fashioned of emerald silk, with satin ribbons edging the bodice.
He leaned close. “You have half the library by your bedside, my little liar.”
Unable to deny such a scurrilous but true accusation, she did what she always did when unsure, intimidated and backed into a corner…or up against a wall.
“Why are you coming home so late, Alexander?” she attacked. “Spying on people? Or holed up in some brothel as all you men are wont to do?”
That sounded remarkably like jealousy and she bit her lip.
Damn.
Alex’s gaze wandered her body and her heart thudded. He didn’t reply but slowly, so slowly, he began to drag the cane lower. The pierced silver decoration entangled with the ribbons at her bodice and the night-rail stretched. Aideen’s breath froze as he revealed the slope of her pale breasts to the candlelight, felt the tautness of the gauzy fabric against her skin.
A muscle flickered in his jaw, but he didn’t cease, eyes transfixed. She moaned as the material grazed her nipples, couldn’t halt the sound. And then, so leisurely she wanted to scream, he lowered his head and licked at the tender flesh revealed.
Imprisoned, all she could do was gasp her pleasure and push her hips forward, arms bent at the elbow, fingers dropping her lock-picker, grasping forth, merely to find slippery silk.
The cane clattered to the floorboards.
Rough hands now yanked at the material, wrenching it down to his demanding mouth as he lavished kisses and bites to her skin.
Aideen hauled him near, grabbing hold of his arm, but a pained gasp escaped his lips and he surged away, panting.
“Go, Aideen,” he bit out. “My mood is foul. Go.”
“And if I don’t wish to?” she questioned. He didn’t frighten her – quite the opposite. She craved his forceful passion, knowing he would never hurt her.
Alex straightened. “Run,” he snarled. “You will only have the one chance.”
If only he knew. She’d never been able to run from the Duke of Rakecombe. He bound her to him in ways she couldn’t comprehend, and seeing his taut jaw and heaving chest, she knew she had a similar effect.
“I’ve never run from you, Alex,” she whispered. “In fact, it has been yourself who runs–”
She was wrenched into his arms and vehement lips covered hers, smothering all retorts. He’d been right – his mood was foul and his touch unrefined, but then she was equally enraged: at being disregarded, at being tested, at his deuced control.
Scratching at his shoulders, she hauled his banyan down, revealing his damp chest and that strange tattoo covering a nasty scar. She kissed it and he grunted with torment.
Against the opposite wall hid a delicate rosewood table and she was unceremoniously swirled and sat upon it, a porcelain angel crashing to the floor as hands rummaged at her rail, yanking the material high, shoving, parting her legs.
Deft fingers found her core, caressed and pushed, and Aideen moaned, scrabbling at the fall of his breeches.
It seemed an age since they’d been entwined, and impatience tore at her. Aideen was sure she’d be alarmed if she cared to look down – at the size and ferocity of his need – but she didn’t, instead lifting her chin and jerking his mouth to hers, kissing with fierceness and pent-up frustration.
Alex responded, cursing, his lips moving to her neck and grazing the skin whilst he pushed her fumbling hands away and ripped at his breeches. Hauling her forward on the polished wood, she circled her legs around his slender hips. Felt his arousal press.
A thrust. One determined thrust and he was deep inside.
Having only experienced the wedding night, she felt so stretched, so filled, and she groaned, legs thrashing for leverage. Strong hands grabbed her thighs, held her whilst his body bucked with frenzy, the table shuddering under the force.
Sinking, surging so quickly, the pleasure. The days of taunts and silences alike had stripped her emotions bare and all sensation collided: the cloth of his breeches abrading her thigh, his chest against her breast and those bucking hips.
His face buried itself in her neck and she opened her eyes over his shoulder.
What she saw tipped her over the precipice of pleasure.
She cried out as the ecstasy ripped through her, curling her toes and causing her nails to scratch into his nape.
Alex’s thrusts became frantic, one hand removing itself to the wall for more power, until he too growled his release to the empty corridor, hand fisting on the flock paper.
His body jolted, face dropping deeper into her neck, breath rasping as he ran fingers through her hair.
Despite the abused table now listing somewhat, and her legs aching with cramp, she didn’t want to stir, didn’t want to move a muscle. If they moved, all the problems of the day would return.
But gradually he did, and she now noticed his right forearm had a cloth tied around it, blood spotting the pristine white. “You’re hurt?” she whispered, legs lowering to the ground. “I can get som–”
“It’s nothing. A scratch.”
It didn’t look to be a scratch, but she knew that tone – manly pride and all that balderdash.
Instead, she raised a gentle hand and stroked his ruddy cheek.
For a while, he accepted her caress, even shifted further toward her touch, but then he opened his eyes, glanced down, and a kind of horror shone in those green orbs as he took in her dishevelled state.
He backed away.
“I used you ill, Aideen,” he murmured, buttoning his breeches with an unsteady hand yet sounding as though he’d just stepped on her dress.
She remained silent, feeling anything but ill-used, but he closed his eyes, seemingly fighting some inner torment, jaw clenched, until turning his face from her sight.
“Leave me be,” he whispered harshly into the dark. “I do not want you.” And he walked down the hallway without so much as a backwards glance, softly closing his bedchamber door behind him.
Such callous words and Aideen knew she should be fuming. Hurt beyond measure. Hate him for his curt denial of their passion when moments ago, he’d made such desperate love to his wife.
But she felt none of those emotions, none of that hate, because the very sight that had crested her pleasure had been the same that now prevented her from despising her husband.
The giltwood mirror opposite with its carved panels portraying dance and music had reflected all.
His smooth back, his tight buttocks, but after their ardent clash, the sheer look of desolation and distress as he’d uttered those cold words. That look had betrayed him – it had hurt Alex to say those words as much as it had hurt Aideen to hear them.
Such agony and wretchedness had been displayed in those eyes, such self-loathing.
She didn’t need to despise Alexander; he was doing that more than enough for them both.
The mirror continued its silent scrutiny as she allowed the night-rail to fall down about her legs and pulled the sleeves back up, the friction delicious on her sensitive, love-touched skin.
Straightening the table as best she could, she placed the damaged angel upon it, gathered her lock pick from the floor and meandered along the hallway to her own bedchamber, humming.
Humming and scheming.
Rakecombe dropped wearily onto the edge of his bed and slugged a full brandy to wash away the bitter taste of lies.
“I had to say it, Gwen,” he whispered to the miniature by his bedside, “to keep Aideen safe.”
His sister’s green eyes glared back, disapproving.
But he had done the right thing…had he not?