Chapter Nineteen
God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.
Rakecombe speculated if his brain was decaying.
Last night, after dinner, Aideen had personally seen to the pouring of his brandy in the study, plumped his cushions and heaved off his boots. He felt as if a doctor had called and confided that her husband only had days to breathe before cocking his toes – except no one had thought to inform the incipient dead one.
There was no other reason why Aideen should still be treating him with such… He hesitated to say sweetness as that had connotations of charm and he had a horrible feeling it was anything but.
Currently, she was smothering a thick raspberry jam on his breakfast toast. Admittedly, it was excellent jam and divine bread but that was beside the point. He narrowed his eyes and scowled.
His wife was up to something.
A pale-pink day dress adorned her this morning and although it was utterly fetching, he didn’t think Aideen was a particularly pink person. Rose ribbons twisted within her hair and she chatted gaily about nothing in particular, ringlets bobbing.
Normally, he avoided breakfast – for the food and his wife – but after last night, he’d been intrigued as to whether the chef could repeat his success and if Aideen would continue to be so…sweet.
Yes, to both.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like this side of Aideen, it was…restful, but so far he’d been forced to bite his lip thrice to prevent himself from provoking, if only to see that rousing flash of temper.
Another downright incommodious sensation was that he felt wholly unsure of himself.
Always, he’d known the path he trod, the route he would take, but he was aware the path he’d thought to stomp down when he’d made Aideen his bride might have been…uncharted.
He couldn’t stay away. That was the truth. He never had.
Aideen twisted his insides, pureed his brains to syllabub and turned his controlled lust into a rabid beast. And if staying away from her had caused the debacle the other night, he’d have to consider a different course of action.
The problem was he couldn’t think of one. And that in itself was inexplicable.
“Would you like more chocolate, dearest Alex?” she simpered, and he ground his jaw.
If it was a ploy, all this niceness, he wondered who would break first? Aideen or himself? Neither of them had the temperaments for it.
Well, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.
“Thank you, my little leprechaun,” he purred with a malevolent grin. “I do believe I will. And with one more spoonful of sugar, I really cannot get enough, my cherished cherry.”
She smiled, but he detected a curl to the lip as she dumped three spoonfuls in his cup. “Oh, darling Alex,” she chirped, sliding it over, “you must also have a biscuit then. They are Irish and so sweet on the tongue.”
He nibbled the end. It was rather good. “Thank you, my innocent imp. I do so like an Irish tongue in my mouth. I do beg your pardon, I mean biscuit.”
Smiling again, Aideen sipped tea, but he noticed she’d purposely veiled her eyes with those dark lashes. He wondered what curses were rattling through that hasty noddle of hers – no doubt they involved sharp teeth, dogs and his tallywags.
“What are your plans for today, beloved spouse?” she enquired with a Cheshire cheese grin.
“Busy, my sweet sprite. I am at the House of Lords all morning and then with my steward for the afternoon. I also have to meet Winterbourne this evening, so I’m afraid I shall miss your melodiousness at dinner. And you, my flitting fairy?”
Was there a flash of disappointment in those eyes?
“I am shopping for new night-rails.” She beamed, twirling an ebony ringlet around her finger. “I seem to have…torn two of them. Rent beyond repair. Unusable. Have you any colour preference, my cherished husband and master?”
Hell. The winning shot.
His lust burned, and he grinned grudgingly in acknowledgement of a superior…master. “Considering I am being buried beneath your charm and benevolence, my effervescent elf, perhaps a reassuring black might be apt.”
Bottomless eyes flashed at last. “Just so, my beloved Alex darling.”
Aideen collapsed back in the breakfast chair, quite at sixes and sevens as Alex darling left the room.
Who would have thought being nice was so tiring?
∞∞∞
The day had been devilishly dull and Rakecombe wished he was now home, trading sweet nothings with his wife.
He still had no idea how to reconcile his Crown work with his marital status and keeping his duchess from harm, but something had to give – he was going mad.
“You’re very quiet tonight, Alex,” said Winterbourne, frowning. “Oh, I should ask, are we on given name terms? I would say so, if we are headed to Charles Street, and… Where was I before I interrupted myself? Oh yes, well, quieter than usual, which isn’t saying much.”
It appeared Jack had been taking wittering lessons from Aideen – or was it the reverse? There must be some rule fifteen about driving your companion to distraction with meaningless prattle.
They strode towards Bluey’s home, eschewing the carriage as instructed by the chap’s wife. Jack was even clothed in a dark ensemble for once, although he sported hessians – hardly a covert choice as the swinging gold tassels would be visible all the way from the Tower.
“Your boots are unsoiled. Gives you away,” Rakecombe grumbled, whacking his cane on his own grubby but eminently comfortable top boots.
“Brummel told me to clean them in the froth of champagne for shine, but I swear my Miggens drinks the bubbly stuff and spits on them instead. I’ll tell him to rub in some horse shi–”
“Do you ever feel as though Mother Nature is tossing you around?” he interrupted. Not that he wanted the rogue’s advice, but anything was better than inconsequential babble.
“Hardly,” Jack said with a grin, “but if you mean in terms of love, no. Ladies enjoy my company. I enjoy theirs. End of story. They never feel anything deeper and vice versa.”
Rakecombe wondered if that was because the marquess only showed the world his annoying bonhomie and rascal smile, rather than the warrior he’d seen that night in St Giles or the gentleman who’d pledged a fortune to a charity hospital. He considered saying so, but his own life was in too much of a mess to be spouting forth.
Once, he recalled stating he’d be ten feet under before taking Winterbourne’s advice. Well, metaphorically, he now was.
A scotch mist was falling and he wrapped his coat close, wishing he’d requested the carriage drop them nearer. It was not the weather for Shanks’s pony as the drizzle soaked into your very bones and there was only one way he could ever imagine warming up.
“If you want my advice, I’ve a pertinent rule,” Jack began, and all at once, Rakecombe regretted opening his mouth, as he now remembered the chap’s rules came in two varieties: useless and downright useless.
“Number twenty-four, in case you are noting them down for future use,” Jack continued, spreading his arms as though issuing an eleventh commandment. “If your leg is stuck in the jaws of a trap, you have two options: writhe around and cry out or lay still and conserve energy, but either way, you’ll lose the leg.”
Rakecombe halted his stride so hastily, he almost slipped on the damp cobbles, the cane saving his arse and pride. “That’s ludicrous and it’s not even a rule.”
Pursing his lips, Winterbourne shook his head wearily. “The rule is don’t get trapped in the first place, but once you are…you’re buggered. Accept it.”
Grumbling, Rakecombe wheeled left and made his way down the back of Charles Street.
His leg wasn’t stuck. No, his whole blasted body, head and soul were stuck and Aideen’s jaws were formed of iron.
Bluey’s skin had taken on a flush and his eyes glittered with fever, but he was vaguely compos mentis.
“I got word,” he rasped, “that a couple of foreign fellas ’ave been seen over the river at some Southwark warehouse, so I done a bit o’ inn-hopping there before I came to yer. It were in the Nag’s Head I overhead some fellas nattering French.” He shifted and winced. “I could only understand a bit o’ their parlezvous lingo, and me nous-box feels like it’s stuffed with wool, but I ’eard the name Stafford mentioned and” – he swiped a sweaty hand over his brow – “they got somethin’ important at that warehouse.”
“Documents? Or something more sinister? Gunpowder?” Rakecombe frowned: the plot thickened.
“Dunno. Sorry, guv. It were noisy and…”
“No, I’m indebted again, Bluey. You did well.”
“Not that well, I got bleedin’ stabbed. Must have heard about my nosing around and followed me. Ta for saving m’bacon, by the way.” A female giggled from the adjoining room. “Guv?” said Bluey, frowning. “Can that Jack the lad be trusted?”
“With your life, yes,” answered Rakecombe.
“But not with me wife, eh?” He chuckled but instantly regretted it, holding his stomach in pain. Indeed, Winterbourne had disappeared to help the pretty blonde prepare Bluey’s laudanum.
“When did you marry? I didn’t even know.”
“We keep it hush. For the best in our line o’ work. Been hitched seven years now.”
Over time, he’d chatted with Bluey about their lives, but never had he thought to ask about female companionship. “And have you never…worried about her, considering your employment?”
“She’s got a better aim than me with the pops, but I did nearly end our courting at one point.” He twisted onto his side, and those blue eyes of his nickname dulled. “Yer know I was born within screaming distance of St Giles’ Church, but I had no intention of dying there. Hard to get out the gutter, it sucks you down.” He grimaced. “But I’ve always been good at…hearing things. She were a touch above me, a teacher, and I told her, I told her I could get her hurt but yer know what she said?”
Rakecombe shook his head. At last some decent advice, even if it was from a dubious character with even more dubious morals. Although whether his were lower than Winterbourne’s was disputable.
“She told me her mother died when she were thirteen. Some coxcomb trampled her with his flash rattler and prads. Then her sister died when she were fifteen – the lung sickness. And her father drank himself to death before her sixteenth birthday.” He closed his eyes as though the candle lamp was too bright for them. “She said there was just as much chance of Mr Grim carrying you away whilst you lay content and unaware in a soft feather bed than of a blade to the heart. And I couldn’t really argue with that.”
He nodded. Those words concurred with Jack’s advice at the soirée the other night and he silently cursed, loathing it when other people were right.
“Yer have to be careful,” continued Bluey, “and we are, very. I’ve another gaff in the Rookery and I don’t introduce her to no one in my work. In fact, yer the first. But my life wouldn’t be worth living without Harriet. And I trust her to take care of herself.”
That shook Rakecombe to his core.
Did he trust Aideen? His worry was that she would do something perilous like Gwen, who’d been similarly headstrong and wilful.
“I treasure your confidence in me, Bluey. But what of the future?” he asked. “I know you have that farm in Kent but I thought it only for income.”
“It’s our retirement place. Peace and clean air. I was gonna work here for a couple more years but maybe we’ll start early, especially if I’m getting slow and need to lie snug for a while. Never saw ’em coming,” he muttered feverishly.
“None of us have eyes in the back of our heads, Bluey.” Aware his informant needed rest, he stood and lowered a hand to his shoulder. “I shall leave you to your adept wife, but if you need anything, let me know. Anything at all.”
“Will do, Guv. And how’s that luscious-arsed wife of yours?”
“She’s…” He thought of Aideen’s flashing eyes, her soft body, her taunts and syrup words. “…perfect.”
Walking the eerie streets with Winterbourne was becoming a habit but he had to say it was quite pleasant to have a companion for once.
Usually, he tramped home, letting the fog curl around him, and it felt as though he was utterly alone in the world.
A prickling at his nape slowed his stride, a sense of being watched, but as he glanced around, only a stray cat slunk from the shadows, eyes glinting with disdain in a lantern’s glow.
Early on the morrow, they would investigate this Southwark warehouse, but there was nothing to be done tonight. Only a fool – or Bluey – went to those areas of town after dark asking questions.
“Nice couple,” mused Jack.
Then again, being alone did have its advantages. He merely grunted.
“Very…close.”
Rakecombe halted in the murky street, stabbing his cane on the cobbles. “Spit it out. I can hear something jangling around in that empty brainbox of yours which you can’t wait to share with me.”
“Very well. Since you asked so nicely.” Jack rocked on the heels of his hessians, the bloody tassels swinging like a doxy’s arse. “I realise you are trying to keep Aideen at a distance because of the danger, but those two make it work. You just have to try.”
“There are reasons–”
“I may be the most genial rogue in town – Lady Sutherland’s description, not mine – but I am not senseless. I know something dreadful happened to your sister, something you obviously blame yourself for as Kelmarsh mentioned it. But you cannot live life on past regrets.”
Rakecombe hated tête-à-têtes. His mother had always wanted him to talk about it too.
“I held Gwen in my arms as she died.” He couldn’t hide the hoarseness in his voice, even after twelve years. “I can’t forget it. You don’t understand. What if–”
“What if it doesn’t?” Jack interrupted. “What if you lead a full life with all its normal trials and tribulations?” He glared. “You want to be melancholic? Then what if you get mauled by a bear next Tuesday afternoon whilst promenading Grosvenor Square? What an utter waste of all the time you’ve spent married. You could have been happy but instead you were a miserable old curmudgeon.”
Rakecombe stomped on in silence for a while, the streets gradually filling with more frequent pools of yellow glow from the Mayfair gas lights.
But there was one niggling detail he could not and would not let go of.
“There are no bears in England.”
“That is where you are mistaken, my dear Rake. Happened at a fair I attended last month. The bear escaped and ate three people. I managed to save the bearded lady, but the fortune teller never saw it coming. Last time I ever venture forth to Hampshire,” he grumbled with a wink.