Chapter Twenty-two
Decisions, decisions?
The crumpled List of Gloom, as Aideen now called it, was smothered with scribbles, crosses and the very occasional tick.
She felt for Alex, she really did, understanding his rationale and concern, but he may as well lock her out of harm’s way in the bedchamber forever. And even then, she may injure herself, thumping her head on the dressing table at her husband’s need for control.
So should she do away with the list now? Burn it? Take a stance at being dictated to?
But that seemed so cruel when Alex had suffered such loss. Despite his frigid exterior, he was a man who cared profoundly, for her and others.
Still waters did indeed run deep, and she had a suspicion he was deeper than the River Suir at full flood in February.
Should she try and compromise? Maybe with time he would mellow as he recognised her capabilities?
Worrying her lip, she stared at the lively square from the drawing room window – in flagrant breach of rule number fifteen.
Did Alex see every man, woman and child as a potential threat? The lad crying out the news? The two girls from the east side of the square bustling along? Their footman scowling as he juggled four packages?
Of course her kidnap by that Frenchman last year hadn’t helped the situation. Alex doubtless viewed her as weak and defenceless, but she was wiser now. More vigilant.
Aideen sipped her tea and grimaced; it was cold.
Perhaps it might be worth visiting Meghan for marital advice with – she consulted the list – two footmen, the ducal carriage and appropriate footwear.
The appropriate footwear rule had a large tick. Intriguing. Would it involve boots with hidden blades?
“Your Grace?”
Turning, she found Rawlins staring down his haughty nose. He was a fixture of the house she quite liked, and she suspected, deep down, that he might like her too, but you’d have to dig deep…very deep.
“Yes, Rawlins?”
“A…lady has called. She seeks His Grace, but in lieu, she has requested your audience.”
What a lovely way to put it. Was there a butler school where they learned such terms? Her father’s man had always been a rather jovial fellow with no polish except on his shoes.
“Show her in, Rawlins.”
Belatedly, she recollected rule number one. But surely the list hadn’t been fully approved, agreed upon or signed in blood yet. It was at…consultation stage.
And besides, she had her green beribboned reticule strategically placed on the table.
A pretty, blond woman crossed the drawing room. Dressed simply but with quality cloth, she had no maid, which explained Rawlins’ hesitation.
Aideen noted a stubborn chin, much like her own, but the lady had a pleasant complexion and intelligent brown eyes, although a weariness could be detected in the shadows beneath.
“Your Grace.” The lady curtseyed, and Aideen motioned her sit, dismissing a wary Rawlins.
“Tea?” She omitted to mention it was cold.
“No, thank you.” The lady’s speech, although not of the upper classes, was nicely formed. “My name is Mrs Blue. I had hoped to catch His Grace before he left as I have some information.”
Aideen realised the woman was trying to admit as little as possible whilst still probing. “How essential is this information? Can it wait until tonight?”
“No, er…”
“I am aware of my husband’s…service.”
“In that case, I– I will be blunt. Although I do not usually involve myself, perhaps you can pass a message to relevant people.”
Aideen nodded. She had no idea where Lord Rainham spent his days, but it must be somewhere at Whitehall.
“My husband,” Mrs Blue began, fiddling with the stitching on her tan gloves, “overheard a conversation in French. He was badly hurt but recounted what he could to His Grace last night. However, this morning, he has remembered more and repeated some of the French words to me. I understood a little and… As I said, I would not normally involve myself but…”
Evidently, the lady was worried for herself and her husband’s safety. And who wouldn’t be? Napoleon’s escape had put everyone on tenterhooks.
“I will not reveal your presence to anyone, and as far as the servants are concerned, you are here from a charity requesting donations.”
“Thank you. Your husband, I believe, is searching a warehouse today in Southwark. He supposes vital information or even weaponry is being stored there, but…he needs warning. I’m sure His Grace will be careful, but the situation is more delicate than he realises.”
Confusion creased Aideen’s brow, but Mrs Blue swiftly continued, “It’s a child, you see, and your husband does not realise this. It is not gunpowder or weapons or documents; the men are holding a little girl. From what I can gather in blackmail.”
Aideen’s eyes closed. “May God help her.” She stood and paced, fists clenched. “And you think they may harm her if they’ve the slightest inkling someone is nosing around?”
The blonde’s shoulders eased. “Exactly so. As I said, I am sure His Grace will be vigilant, but my husband said no one is expecting a kidnap – especially of a child.”
Pacing more, Aideen’s mind cogitated, reasoned and considered but it still only came up with one idea. One which Rakecombe would detest, that would combust his list to ash and potentially ruin her marriage.
But this lady sitting before her had also unwillingly embroiled herself for the same reason: an innocent life was at stake. And weren’t they always the ones who ended up hurt? Like Gwen. Innocents caught in the brutality and machinations of mankind.
Aideen was all too aware these circumstances also resembled those of Gwen, but Aideen was neither heedless nor an artless young girl and she had more than an old walking stick. “My husband must be alerted. Do you know exactly where this warehouse is?”
“You there!”
The burly young man leaning against railings opposite the Rakecombe residence peered over his shoulder, but Aideen pointed again. “Yes, you. Come inside now.”
With a shrug, he sauntered across the street, narrowly avoiding a high-perch phaeton clipping quite a pace for a residential square.
Aideen turned back inside to Thorn, who stood ready with missives in hand for Whitehall, in case they could reach Southwark quicker. She knew Alex trusted his valet completely and Thorn had admitted his knowledge of where Lord Rainham could be found.
As per the rules, two of the brawniest footmen had been selected, and the carriage had also been loaded with the pistols normally reserved for evening rides. Not strictly a rule but a wise precaution, Aideen felt.
She hoped no weaponry would be needed, that her husband would be situated in some ale-house opposite, merely surveying, but luck wasn’t always so obliging.
The guard entered, his huge frame filling the doorway. “What yer want?” he asked nonchalantly.
“I know you work for my husband.”
He remained silent but shifted uneasily from foot to foot, eyes flitting anywhere but her.
“I am departing for a warehouse in Southwark where there is potential danger. I thought I’d tell you and then you can join me in the carriage rather than hailing some grubby hackney to follow. I presume you have weapons?”
The guard appeared somewhat dumbfounded, mouth open like a gasping fish. “He’ll throttle me. You tell me the problem, and I’ll go to Southwark. Ain’t no place for a lady.”
Aware she didn’t know this stranger from Adam and thus dare not entrust him with such information, she shook her head. “If you go, then I will be alone here, and then my husband will throttle you anyway. Which site of execution would you prefer?”
Alexander had obviously chosen brawn over brain when he’d selected this guard as the fellow took an inordinate amount of time thinking it over, but finally he jerked his head to the carriage.
“But don’t die,” he muttered. “I’ll lose my job.”
“I’ll try not to. Now wait here one moment.”
She dashed up the stairs, along the corridor to her bedchamber and headed to the smaller wardrobe at the back of her dressing room. An array of cloaks met her view, but she ignored them and instead kneeled to unlock the oblong box at the very bottom.
Now, the red or the blue?