Chapter Twenty-four
If you think something’s wrong, it’s because it is.
The newspaper twitched.
And then rustled. But it didn’t lower.
So Aideen fell silent.
She glared at the portrait of her scowling duke, the only likeness she was liable to view over breakfast as the real one hid behind The Times.
After the carriage ride from Southwark yesterday, he’d escorted her into the house without once catching her eye and then gone out for the remainder of the day.
That was until a half before midnight.
Not feeling like reading, she had simply lain in the darkness, not regretting her actions, as ultimately she had saved her husband’s life, but saddened they couldn’t seem to find a middle ground, a…compromise.
Then the door had whispered open. A light tread. The covers had been drawn back. A cold body had joined her.
She’d opened her mouth to speak but words had been taken by a gentle kiss and he’d clasped her close, sighed and then slept, warm breath disturbing her hair. The whole night through she’d been lost to his tight embrace, holding her as if it was the last time he would ever do so.
But even though she’d awoken a mere smidgeon after dawn, the bed had been bereft of warmth. He’d left.
As a consequence, Aideen now felt befuddled, annoyed and generally quite out of sorts, as it seemed the duke of glowering rigidness had returned.
Maybe that tattoo stood for Dogmatic or Despotic or Downright pig-headed.
She’d dressed hideously early in order to catch her husband at breakfast, and even Rawlins had cracked a surprised expression, but the duke had merely greeted her courteously and then disappeared behind that dratted newspaper.
Indeed, the sole reason to suppose there was anyone there at all was the vanishing of two slices of toast, one sausage, three pieces of bacon and three cups of chocolate.
“I don’t suppose,” she tried, “that anyone fancies kippers this morning?”
A vague grunt came from behind The Times, but it didn’t lower, and no stern glances edged over the top.
Tea, Cordelia had forever declared, was the cure for all woes, but Aideen craved something stronger – like Uncle Seamus’s home-distilled whisky. It didn’t cure woes, but you did forget about them for a week.
Aideen opened her mouth to tell Alex about it, but he must have heard her intake of breath as the newspaper shook and rose higher.
Instead of the usual fury churning within, however, weariness now pained her heart and utter exhaustion beset her limbs.
She closed her lips.
Another slice of toast disappeared behind a front page article about an escaped bear mauling the crowds at Winchester fair, and she nibbled her own breakfast. The chef now baked her favourite Waterford buns every morning and she bit into the soft white dough, relishing the taste of Ireland.
She missed home.
When she’d thought Alex felt something for her, living in this marble mausoleum had been worthwhile, and of course, she had made fine friends here – Meghan, Cordelia, the Beckfords, Jack and Lily.
But she missed the open green fields, and Uncle Seamus’s slathering hounds, booming laugh and enthusiastic hugs. Even her da’s sarcastic rebukes kept her on her toes. She missed the wild River Suir and the slate drizzle that dripped into your soul like love.
She considered staying with Meghan or the Beckfords for a while, who she knew would welcome her with open arms, but the duke would no doubt call and command her home.
A change of scenery was what she required. To breathe deeply without choking on grimy city fog. To regather her strength and thoughts. To feel the wet grass of Ireland beneath her feet and the blustery wind in her hair.
She would visit Waterford. Just for a short time.
“Alex, I think I may–”
“Not now.” The newspaper lowered and, after an unwarranted amount of folding, was placed carefully on the table. Then her husband stood. “I have an early meeting with Rainham. I apologise, but you understand?” he said, not appearing in the least apologetic.
And she did. She really did. Because all of a sudden, comprehension besieged her. Caressing his stern handsome face with her eyes, she finally understood.
Last night, Aideen had received another letter from Cordelia marked Somewhere in Nottingham. She’d written of Oakdean’s teasing nature and caring ways; she’d written of love and laughter and everything which Aideen’s marriage lacked. She’d signed off with:
Trust your heart,
Love, Cordy.
But she didn’t trust her heart any longer. It thumped for a man that didn’t need her.
Always, she had thought themselves well matched. Their tempers may flare and clash, but a more delicate woman would have shrivelled beneath Alex’s fierceness. Equally he didn’t back down from her pert words and brashness.
But none of that mattered. Because ultimately, the duke did not need her.
He had his vocation, his two friends – if you counted Jack – and his title. But he didn’t need her, didn’t need a wife. He’d tried to explain this once before, at the Bucklands’ soirée, but she’d thought him dissembling.
Previous to their marriage, his life may have been lonely, but he’d been comfortable and content with only himself to worry about. He may “enjoy” her company and be “attracted” to her body, but it only added complication and strain to his life.
She disobeyed his rules and caused him to fear and ultimately…
He didn’t need her.
He didn’t love her.
“Yes, Alexander. I do understand you,” she said softly.
∞∞∞
As the carriage clattered to Whitehall, so Aideen’s last words clattered in Rakecombe’s skull.
For God’s sake, he knew hidden meaning when he heard it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t decipher what she meant.
This morning he’d acted a beetle-headed arse, he knew that.
He gritted his teeth and exhaled heavily as London flew by the carriage window, his thoughts as dull as the weather – no rain, just the dreary grey that England seemed to specialise in.
Yesterday, after the Southwark jaunt and the patching up of Winterbourne, he’d headed to Bluey’s house to impart his thanks but ended up staying for supper, aware he might have been… He hesitated to say hiding.
Whenever he beheld his wife, a savage desperation arose to ask Madame Chevrolet, the extortionately expensive modiste, to permanently double-stitch Aideen to his side, finishing with a quadruple knot.
But all that kept tumbling over him every moment of the night and day when not with her was the fear and numbness he’d felt on hearing that scream and thinking her dead. Then, swift on its heels came the fact she’d saved his life, with a bloody lady’s muff pistol…in poppy-red enamel.
Last night, he hadn’t meant to visit her bedchamber, but he’d needed to touch her, to see she was safe. He laughed, a mocking tribute.
But then he’d been unable to get close enough, unable to hold her enough, unable to love her enough.
Dawn had broken, and she’d looked exhausted, so he’d left the warm bed, but over breakfast his thoughts had still been a hotchpotch jumble of turmoil, and he’d barely managed a grunt in response to her words, hardly tasted the food he’d shovelled into his mouth and hadn’t read a word of the newspaper.
She’d disobeyed every rule on his list…except for the carriage and footmen.
She’d put her life in danger.
She’d potentially saved a child’s life.
She had saved his bloody life.
She could shoot better than he could.
The very characteristics he loved about her, he had sought to supress with that futile list – her caring, her boldness, her strength. But to have Aideen and all those attributes close also meant living with the possibility of losing her. Or likewise, the possibility of his duchess losing him…
All of which had kept him silent over breakfast.
Part shame. Part Gwen. Part confusion.
What an arse he was.
And what had his wife meant by those last softly spoken words?
∞∞∞
“You are an arse, Rakeshame,” said Winterbourne, a needless red silk sling that smelled of jasmine adorning his person.
Rakecombe ignored him as they sat in Rainham’s office awaiting their leader’s return. He’d left for a brief meeting with his superiors but obviously got stuck. Another white lily adorned the table and he scowled. Had he ever bought Aideen flowers? Ever?
“I wager,” Winterbourne drawled, “that you haven’t even said thank you to your lady wife for saving your posterior.”
No, he hadn’t. “I…saw her last night.”
“Tupping is not the same,” the insolent rogue replied.
“I did not tup.”
“Well, that’s where you are going wrong. I can–”
“Gentlemen,” Rainham acknowledged as he strode through the door to Rakecombe’s eternal relief.
Their leader sat, spreading his palms over the desk. “Where were we?”
“Stafford and Aimée. How are they?” asked Winterbourne, being blunt for once. “Surely he will not be accused of treason as no one should have to choose between a daughter and their country? The poor chap was driven to it and he hadn’t actually handed anything over.”
Not so blunt then.
Rainham steepled his fingers, never a good sign. “I have managed to convince the grumbletonions on high to leave him be…for now, although he is, of course, suspended and to be watched.”
Smoothing a thumb over the dog’s head finial of his cane, Rakecombe mulled.
Love, seemingly, had no respect for borders, as Stafford had fallen for his wife when working in Paris. Worried about retribution from either side, they’d married in utter secrecy but a mere ten months later, she’d died giving birth in a remote village in France, where Aimée had remained with her maternal grandmother, Stafford visiting whenever he was able.
But someone had found out and she’d been snatched, the information demanded for her return.
“And the butler act?” Winterbourne pressed. “I bought the deuced fellow two pints of porter.”
Their leader smiled. “I do choose codenames with forethought, and in that disguise, he could remain unseen in London and still search for his daughter. Reminds me of someone with that dyed black hair, but no matter. Apparently, he has been following a certain…bloodhound.”
“I…” Rakecombe trailed off.
“Hmm. He knew of your reputation and hoped you would pick up a scent, leading him to Aimée.”
That explained the feeling of being watched, and the only consolation for not recognising the faux butler was that Stafford was – or used to be – one of Rainham’s finest.
Clearly, Stafford should have told them of the blackmail, but who could blame him? Mason had done that and it had ended in tragedy.
“It is obvious,” Rainham said, interrupting those grim thoughts, “someone is coordinating these kidnappings. Rakecombe, you shot La Chauve-Souris last year, but his body was never found. Could he still be alive, I wonder? Finding out is the priority.”
He nodded. “I’ll begin at once.”
“No, no.” Rainham waved a hand. “I think you should take some days off first.”
“I beg your pardon?” The suggestion startled him. “Napoleon is on the bloody loose and you want me to take a holiday? Where? Paris?” he snarled.
“Amusing, my friend, but you never even took your wife on honeymoon. Bit lax and you worked your wedding afternoon. Winterbourne can make a start.”
Rakecombe had never felt so disgruntled.
“I agree,” Winterbourne said, winking, “it might give the duchess time to penetrate that thick hide of yours and find the inner softness.”
“If only that bullet had grazed your mouth and given us all a rest,” he grumped.
“Quite so,” murmured the marquess, “a weak arm is very debilitating for a celebrated rogue. There are certain tasks I can only accomplish with my rig–”
“If a woman says she understands you, what does it mean?” Rakecombe barked abruptly. He’d rather kiss a snake than ask these two for advice, but it was driving him insane.
“Bloody hell, your wife said that?” demanded Winterbourne, frowning. “Why didn’t you say? It means get home quick and don’t spare the horses.” He looked Rakecombe straight in the eye. “Rule eight. It means trouble.”
∞∞∞
The Duke of Rakecombe slumped in his study, a bitter coldness seeping through his body as he re-read Aideen’s stark note once more.
Already the house felt her absence. No books were strewn over the drawing room table and a scent of polish had doused the violets. Deep silence had fallen.
She’d left him to visit Ireland.
Except the note didn’t say visit. It said stay.
A peculiar sensation had caught in him when he’d first read her words, his heart skipping an odd pattern, his head woolly. Disbelief and anger. He’d stalked to her room, but the lady’s maid had been packing trunks to follow on, and he’d been informed that Her Grace had left three hours ago in the enclosed coach with two footmen, the guard and a maid.
Then the anger had swiftly departed, and not since Gwen’s death had he felt such…desolation.
Bitter coldness stealing into his limbs and snatching his breath.
She’d left him.
And the note merely said she would return after a while.
What did that mean? A week? A month? A goddamn year?
Why had he been such a clumpish lout this morning?
Why hadn’t he thanked her for saving his miserable skin?
Why hadn’t he got down on his bloody knees and told her he loved her, because the fear of losing her to Ireland forever was now more pertinent and real than losing her to death.
Death, as Bluey had suggested, could snatch a beloved at any time – unseen and unpreventable – but it was he who had driven Aideen to Ireland.
Him and his cursed fears.
Rawlins knocked and entered with a decanter.
“Leave it on the desk,” he snarled. “And I don’t want to see anyone.”
He tugged off his cravat and flung it across the study, but it caught on the statue of Orpheus. How bloody apt. Ireland may as well be the underworld.
After glugging a stiff measure in one, he stood and paced, squinting at the note.
Of course, he knew what Winterbourne would say. Go after her. Get off that stuffy arse and pursue her.
But the last line of her note precluded that. Do not follow me. I do not need you.
An ache, so painful he had to hold his chest, twisted inside him whenever he spied those brutal words.
Finally, he’d done what he had always meant to – frightened Aideen away with his cruel remarks and scowling glances, caused her to flee his distant nature and sullen countenance.
He hurled the empty brandy glass into the bare fireplace, the glass splintering and shattering like his heart.