Chapter Twenty-three
A mighty hogo…
“Me deft ole conk detects some’in fishy, Alex, me ole duck.”
The riverside location of the warehouse suspected of being a centre for nefarious dealings did indeed whiff, but his companion’s attempt at the local flash lingo was truly appalling. If Winterbourne favoured him with the appellation “duck” one more time, he’d stuff that grubby neckcloth down the man’s gullet until he quacked.
Bluey had mentioned the area was employed in fish storing and gutting, and assuredly, the rank smell was enough to daunt even the most hardened of spies. Thankfully, after stomaching the previous chef’s creations, Rakecombe felt himself wholly hardened.
Currently, the two of them were ensconced across the street, leaning against a loaded cart, the fruit seller amenable to their leanings once she’d been handed – as his companion called it – “hush blunt”.
For two hours they’d loitered without anyone coming or going, until finally three men had entered the building. They had yet to leave and hadn’t been wearing the garb of fishermen. In point of fact, one had a suspiciously familiar pug nose.
Rakecombe scratched his neck, feeling…watched again.
Glancing around, he spied no one, but the hairs at his nape stood to attention. Was it friend or foe? “Let’s wander around the back and see what we can find.”
“Plummy idea, me ole–”
Accompanied by a curl of the lip, he cast his coldest glare, and Winterbourne silenced his trap. Thank the devil that glare still worked; he’d been worried as his ruthless scowls didn’t seem to affect Aideen in the slightest.
Strangely, she…liked them.
As they idly strolled the side of the large brick-built warehouse, circumventing numerous stray cats, he pondered on that realisation.
Most women wanted to change a man such as himself. They’d berate him for his taciturn manner, but Aideen appeared to like him, more or less, as he was. Yes, he softened in her presence, but he didn’t have to think on his words or attempt to cajole her with false flattery.
Was it worth losing that because she wouldn’t adhere to his guidance? Perchance he could negotiate a little.
Stacks of empty barrels squatted around the back, but hidden amongst them was a small door in the warehouse wall. They sauntered over, and he was about to rummage in his pockets for his lock-picker when Winterbourne wafted a suitable device under his nose.
It was better crafted than his own, in silver and superb in every detail. It even looked to have a sprung knife within. “Where did you get that?” he asked grumpily.
“Yer bit o’ lawful blanket,” Winterbourne replied with a wink. “Thought we might be out on the dub.”
He had to think on that a while as his comrade fiddled with the lock. “Aideen lent you it?” Should he be more irritated that she owned such a magnificent picker or that she’d lent it to the marquess?
“’Aven’t you jabbered with yer rum rib ’bout her Uncle Seamus – clever cull by all accounts.”
No, he hadn’t. This is what he’d missed when he’d been too intent on ignoring her, and he called himself all types of fool, although this did explain how his “rum rib” had invaded his locked chambers to pin a note to his bathing device – the little minx.
Despite Winterbourne making a bodge of it, the lock clicked, and they gingerly poked their heads in.
The place stank to high heaven and all he could make out were barrels stacked to the rafters.
A faint light shone in through high up dirty windows casting a murky grey, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see the warehouse was divided into two sections with a separating wall preventing him from seeing beyond.
They skulked in and paused behind the first stack of barrels, taking in the layout of the warehouse. With some trepidation, he rubbed his finger over an oozing stave and brought it to his nose: no gunpowder, only fish.
A sudden creak and Rakecombe spun but saw no one. Dust danced in the faint gloom, mocking his racing heart.
Both he and Winterbourne glanced at each other, frowning, and he signalled they split up. Rakecombe took the left side, quietly approaching an opening in the division, but as he trod softly, a voice rent the air.
“Non, je ne le ferai pas.”
Rakecombe wondered what exactly the man wouldn’t do.
Fierce rattling echoed around the warehouse followed by a vague unidentifiable cry of distress from the other side, and he was tempted to storm in.
“Non, je ne peux pas.” That same voice repeated its non-compliance.
Rakecombe slipped his pistol free and stepped closer behind a cluster of crates. Winterbourne crouched on the opposite side, but as he nodded, his comrade’s gaze promptly shifted to the fishy barrels behind them, eyes rounding in horror.
That feeling, that feeling of being followed and he quickly twisted.
A hand knocked his pistol muzzle to one side and a knife immediately dug into his lower regions. He stopped dead.
His wife stood before him, hair bundled beneath a cap. She wore an open black redingote, from which a slender arm protruded holding one of the wickedest blades he had ever seen. It had a bloody curve to it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed. “Get back to the house.”
She leaned close; the blade dug a fraction deeper. “Listen, you dolt,” she whispered, “I’m purely here to warn you that a child might be in there, held for blackmail. I’m bringing you information from Mrs Blue.”
“What child? Damn it,” he rasped in her ear. He’d take umbrage with “dolt” later.
“She said Mr Blue didn’t catch a name. It’s a girl. And you should also know a dark-haired man with a red scarf has been following you. He’s behind that barrel stack to the left.”
The knife shifted away – a mite too slow for his liking – and she stepped back.
Not that now was the time for noting fashion, but she seemed to be wearing an overwide skirt in plain wool, akin to a riding habit, also in black, and he briefly, very briefly, wondered if she’d followed his instructions and stowed that knife in her garter…and if said garter was black.
Quick as a wink after that disquieting thought came downright anger. Her arrival must have violated every single rule on his list. And they were rules. They had to be rules, for her sake.
“Aideen, you–”
“At home,” she spat.
His retort was forestalled by another rattling and muffled cry, but the terrified whimpering now took on new meaning – a child. It didn’t matter who she belonged to, French or English. The red-scarfed stranger would also have to wait his turn.
“Je ne la ferai pas de mal,” a voice yelled.
“Je la ferai alors.”
“What was that?” whispered Aideen, leaning over his shoulder.
“One man said he won’t hurt someone and the other said he’ll do it himself. We have to go in. Stay here, Aideen.” He waggled his finger at her mutinous eyes. “Do. Not. Move.”
Waiting until she bobbed her head, he and Winterbourne then snuck from behind the crates and edged to the opening in the partition wall.
Glancing through, he saw a large storage expanse, empty save for a makeshift sleeping area to one side. A grubby stove and an overturned crate as table were shoved against the brick wall and in the corner sat a small bed.
Three men blocked his view of the occupant, but the frame rattled as the person upon it drummed their heels.
Bloody hell.
A shrill child’s whimpering raised the hairs on his arm, and he braced to burst in, when a sudden pounding footfall from behind grew louder. The French startled, and before he could act, a huge man with a red scarf brushed past him, storming through the door, pistol aloft, and Rakecombe was left cursing the loss of their element of surprise.
“You bastards, get off my girl,” the man roared.
Pandemonium ensued, the three villains spinning, one with a knife, another with a pistol, as he and Winterbourne charged in.
Raising his own pistol, Rakecombe aimed but not before a shot rang out.
With no time to look around, he fired and the rat flew back, falling to the floor in a cloud of dust, arm outstretched with a bloody hole to his guts.
The knifeman he recognised as the pug-nosed bastard who’d slashed Bluey, and throwing his spent pistol to the ground, Rakecombe came forward with his own blade, determined to finish the job this time.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the red-scarfed man in a crazed struggle with the other Frenchman, and the part of his brain that wasn’t watching pug nose realised it was the grizzled butler from Stafford’s house.
“I kill you this time, English dog,” sneered pug nose, “then I finish the girl. I cut ’er fingers, toes, one by one.”
Ignoring the taunts designed to rile, Rakecombe circled the whoreson. Maybe he would go for the same trick as before, but pug nose remained wary – not lurching too soon.
Rakecombe swiped, a horizontal arc of sharp blade slicing the air, the merest slither between it and the man’s stomach. The rank smell of sweat and fear even overwhelmed the fish. He did it again, but pug nose slashed out with his own knife, sending Rakecombe’s blade airborne.
The Frenchman grinned, and without mercy flew at him, dagger held aloft, curving it down for the killing blow, but Rakecombe yanked for the cane affixed to his side, sticking a thumb in the jade eye. A deadly stiletto sprung from the silver head, and he didn’t even have to slide it forward, the man’s own momentum sending him soaring onto the slither of blade.
The dagger meant for Rakecombe’s own heart clattered to the floor, surprise etched on pug nose’s face. He crumpled without a whimper, blood seeping from his lips.
Panting, Rakecombe’s eyes focused on the bed, to see the grizzled butler pulling a small girl into his arms, both their eyes streaming. “Papa,” the little one screamed.
“Aimée, my precious Aimée.”
Rakecombe twisted but another pistol shot tore the air, the crack echoing and sending pigeons scattering once more in the roof. His skin grew cold and ice threaded his veins at the female scream of “No” which had accompanied that cannonade of sound.
He couldn’t bear to turn. Couldn’t bear to look. His closed eyes saw it all.
Blood. Aideen. Hushed forever.
His world black.
Numb once more.
A cursing Frenchman…cursing an English whore, ripped through his numbness and Rakecombe dared to turn, eyes snapping open.
Amid the smoke and dust, a stocky blond fellow lay on the ground clutching a bloodied knee, screaming in agony and blaspheming until Winterbourne kicked him in the mouth with a stout hessian.
In the opening stood Aideen – scratching her nose and damn well smiling.
Too raw, too angry and too relieved, he did what he always did in these circumstances and ignored her, when all he really wanted to do was crush his wife to his body and feel her breath.
“I’m indebted, Jack,” he merely groused.
“Wasn’t me, old chap. In case you hadn’t noticed, I got shot and before I could reach for my other pistol, your talented wife saved your hide.”
“Wh-what?” he stuttered, and Winterbourne, he now noticed, held a hand to his upper arm, blood seeping through his fingers, jacket torn.
He turned to Aideen, whose expression was smug. She held out her hand in which lay…
“My four-inch lady’s pistol with poppy-red enamel and inlaid pearl handle. Light, trim and well-balanced. Deadly, of course, but I only aimed to injure…although if he calls me English again…” She glared at the Frenchman. “He had a gun pointed at your back, and however bothersome you can be, I didn’t want you in the seven dirges of hell…quite yet.”
“You should see her reticule, Alex,” interrupted Winterbourne. “I made the mistake of surprising her in the street the other day and she very nearly removed my noggin.”
“Uncle’s finest,” she said, swinging a beribboned item of female frippery from her wrist. “My favourite Saxon-green reticule contains a four-pound iron weight sewn into the bottom – I never go shopping without it. Now, shall we all go home? As instructed, I brought the ducal carriage. It’s waiting with the footmen and that guard you have following me. To be fair, I did follow your rules, Alex… Most of them.”
Rakecombe yearned to simultaneously kiss, crush, scold, spank and swive Aideen until she couldn’t stand…and he didn’t care in which order.
“Thank you all,” a deep voice rumbled. “I am in your debt.”
Rakecombe swivelled to find the bloody butler, a bundle of quivering, dirty white in his embrace, thin arms encircling his neck.
“Stafford, I presume?” Rakecombe queried, brow raised. “A chameleon indeed.”
The man nodded, and Winterbourne came forward, stroking the little girl’s hair with a bloodied hand. “And who are you, little one?” She was young, six if that, but even she gave his handsome face a hesitant smile.
“I am Aimée Stafford,” she whispered in a French lisping accent, hugging her papa close.
Rakecombe pinched his forehead.
What an utter bloody mess.
The warehouse door flew open, rattling on its hinges, and they turned as one, pistols and daggers raised, to encounter Rainham striding in followed by five men with necks as thick as tree trunks.
“Rakecombe, Winterbourne,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Duchess.” He bowed, seemingly with no surprise. “And…Stafford,” he said with a sigh. Their leader took in the situation, eyes lingering on the child. “Is everyone unharmed?” At Rakecombe’s nod, he got to the heart of the matter. “And where are those cursed documents?”
Stafford hung his head. “They’re in my coat,” he replied softly. “I… I held off as long as I could, sir…”
Their leader approached and placed a hand to Stafford’s shoulder. “I know you did, Gabriel, but I’m afraid we need a long talk back at Whitehall.”
With remorse obvious, Stafford nodded as the tiny Aimée patted his cheek.
“Rakecombe, take your remarkable duchess home, and Winterbourne, get that scratch seen to.”
“At last, someone acknowledges my pain,” Winterbourne grumbled. “But do not disturb yourselves as I’m sure I can find a willing widow to patch me up and soothe my fevered brow…if they’re willing to ignore the fishy stench.”
But Rakecombe wasn’t really listening as they stepped into the light, leaving Rainham to sort out the mess inside.
Instead he studied his wife, stood biting her lip and rubbing a smudge on her nose but only spreading it further. The black clothing suited her, and he noticed that the odd skirt gave her more freedom of movement in the legs. She carried an air of downright menace.
He didn’t quite know what to say as they walked up a narrow lane to the carriage:
Thank you for saving my life but never do it again?
When I believed you dead, my heart ceased beating and I didn’t wish it to restart?
I adore you, but the thought of you in danger tears me asunder.
Slowly, he opened his mouth, but all those thoughts refused to voice themselves, so he clambered into the carriage.
Aideen sat opposite, skirts brushing his legs, and he longed to touch her delicate cheek, peel off those black clothes, hold her skin to skin.
Her warmth, her passion. Her vitality.
Yet as his eyes skittered in her direction and the carriage moved off, he heard that scream in the warehouse, he heard Gwen’s terrified cry, and fear squeezed his lungs until he could barely breathe.
But for a quirk of fate, a slip of someone’s hand, he might have been holding Aideen’s cold motionless body in his arms at this moment…or she his.
He shifted his gaze away.