Chapter Eight
Only two friends are necessary.
Rakecombe poked at his dinner.
It didn’t resemble any rabbit he was aware of, and so sighing, he sprawled back and quaffed claret instead.
The dining room echoed to the clank of his crystal goblet on the polished surface, and a footman hastily refilled it before returning to his station at the wall.
Now the lone sound in the cavernous room was the ticking of the clock over the mantel. He gazed around the table that seated thirty-six and wondered why he hadn’t eaten in the study.
His mother had been called away to an unwell friend in Richmond a day after the Aideen debacle, and so far, he’d dined at his club every night.
Unfortunately, he’d promised not to dis-employ the French chef while Mother was away and so tonight he was stuck. He could go out, but his wedding was on the morrow and he would require a clear head where Miss Quinlan was concerned.
Drumming fingers on the mahogany, he considered the investigation. His informant had discovered that before Stafford’s evaporation into nothingness, he’d been seen conversing with an unknown Frenchwoman. It didn’t mean much, as many émigrés dotted London, but it was interesting.
But as to the chap’s vanishing…
Well, nothing had been seen or heard of him, and Rakecombe had covered a lot of ground in the past few days: busy coffee houses, crowded taverns, grim backstreets and squalid lodgings. There were only so many places to hide in London. He could be dead, of course, in the Thames or on a surgeon’s dissecting table, but Rakecombe just had a feeling.
Stafford’s code name was Chameleon and considering their leader’s propensity for choosing apt aliases, he guessed the chap was veiled from sight and living on air.
Indeed, Stafford had spent two years in France posing as a wealthy French investor, and one year in England posing as an anti-monarchist, so he was obviously excellent at what he did. Both guises had seen the disruption of several plots against the Crown.
So why? Why betray after such sterling work? The chap had no family and earned enough for a comfortable house and the odd servant.
A footman commenced lighting more candles as the room darkened but Rakecombe waved him away. It was so bloody quiet. He may as well retire abed to read.
“I know he’s here,” bellowed a voice from the hallway.
“His Grace has requested he not be disturbed,” declared Rawlins the butler, with a tone as arrogant as Rakecombe’s own.
After an “oomph”, the dining room door was thrown open, an outline of black silhouetted against the light.
“There you are, sitting in the dark on your lonesome. Come along, we are going out to celebrate…or commiserate. You can tell me all about it. I’m all agog to hear how you acted the rake for once.”
“Winterbourne, did you damage my butler? And what did you discover in Manchester?”
Throwing himself into one of the delicate hand-carved chairs, the marquess winked. A parrot-green waistcoat clung to his person. Mayhap coquelicot was not so bad.
“I scarcely trod on his foot. And Manchester was bloody awful. Like the girl said – couldn’t understand a word. No grass for supper though and the women are luscious. Penbury’s sister has an arse like a peac–”
“Was Penbury there?”
“Hmm, he’s there. Looks terrible – sweating and casting up his accounts right, left and centre. Enough to make you want to give up the grog,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass of claret. “We had a long chat, when he was able, but he’s not our traitor, I’m afraid. So, where next?”
“Someone must have seen Stafford. We will talk to that butler again tomorrow.”
Winterbourne stared aghast, glass held aloft. “Goddammit, you’re getting married tomorrow!”
“It will only take the morning, if that.”
He knew the impression he was giving, but to maintain his distance it had to commence now. At the very beginning.
Since the loss of Gwen, aloofness was a persona he was familiar with, an old friend, and besides, he’d no choice if a similar fate was not to befall his future duchess.
“Cold-hearted fellow you are, but I have no doubt the delicious Miss Quinlan will warm you through like a pan of pea soup. Now come on. We are off on a spree.”
Aideen didn’t warm: she seared him, and the pan of soup would be boiling over the stove, causing a bloody great mess if he lost his control.
“I thought to stay in,” he grumbled.
“And do what? Eat…” The marquess peered closely at Rakecombe’s full plate. “I say, what is that?”
“Fricassée de lapin forestière accompanied by l’ail à la Bordelaise.”
“Hmm. Let’s head to the Cyder Cellars in Maiden Lane for some victuals.”
“No, I–”
“They do a devilishly good hashed goose with beans. Not to mention the rich red cherry tartlets.”
Rakecombe gave a repressed glare but couldn’t deny the hunger worm.
The Cyder Cellars was heaving with gentlemen and non-gentlemen alike.
Nobles, actors, singers and poets ate cheek by jowl, the wine flowed in abundance, and the goose was damn good.
Broad tables filled the room and waiters weaved their way amongst the jug-bitten clientele. Occasionally a fellow sang a ditty or enacted a sonnet or fell over – it didn’t matter as all were vastly entertaining.
Much as Rakecombe hated to admit it, Winterbourne had been right. He’d spent far too much time brooding in the dark of late. He loved the theatre and song, and yet he’d immersed himself in work, even missing the masterful actor Kean’s appearances.
A chap across the room broke into song. Una’s Lock, he believed it was entitled.
“You better listen in,” the marquess yelled above the hubbub. “Might give you some ideas for your wedding night.”
Grunting a reply, he sank his teeth into the cherry tartlet.
Winterbourne leaned forward, vile green waistcoat now unencumbered by jacket. “Sooo, Alex…”
Rakecombe tensed. He should have given the blasted marquess a false name as the chap now used it with impunity. No one called him Alex, except his mother and that was only in private. How would it sound from Aideen’s lips in that Irish lilt – his full name – slow and lyrical.
He waited for Jack’s interrogation.
“How did you and the delectable Miss Quinlan end up wrapped around each other like eels? Dashed unprofessional to get caught. I have a rule about that. Number three – Better to die with no clothes on than to be ensnared in a wedding coat.”
“We were merely kissing,” he answered coldly.
“Twaddle! Miss Parker is spreading an entirely different story. She squealed there was no gap between you.”
No, there hadn’t been. He’d felt every inch of Aideen’s fulsome body. And he’d wanted her closer still. He wiped his brow: it was damnable hot in the Cyder Cellars.
“It matters not. We are to marry. She will produce an heir, live in the country, and we will stay far from each other’s lives.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “And you think Miss Q will stand for that?”
“She’ll have to. I am not giving up my work and ’tis dangerous to have her close.”
“Well, best of luck, but I don’t think you have a chance in hell. I also think you underestimate her gravely. She’s a plucky lass with a bright mind. Remember that Frenchman last year?”
No, he didn’t want to remember. Her bruised face. Her torn dress. The blood under her fingernails.
Did Winterbourne not see that was exactly why they would live their lives apart?
Disregarding the question, he was about to dig into another cherry tartlet when a slap on his back interrupted him.
He turned.
Oh yes, his other friend.
Bram Walcott, the Earl of Kelmarsh, former comrade and now happily married rusticator stood before him, beaming with bloody good health and a brown glow to his skin. He looked like a peasant.
“Bram?” he said, standing, “what are you doing here?”
Shaking hands, he noticed the change in his old friend – no shadows encircled his eyes and his lips fell to an easy smile. Was that retiring? Or marriage?
Last year, Bram had dis-attached himself from Crown work, but it hadn’t been without its problems, and during the course of his troubled courtship, Rakecombe himself had met Aideen.
In fact, when you came to look upon it, his upcoming marriage was all Kelmarsh’s fault.
“You didn’t think we’d miss the wedding, did you? And Sophie is Aideen’s cousin. I worried you’d be drinking claret in some shadowy corner of that mausoleum of yours and reading dreary poetry, but the butler told me you were here with this rogue.”
“I was more worried,” the rogue drawled, filling Bram a glass, “that Rakeprude might need some instruction before his wedding night. We could provide him with pictorial explanation.”
Rakecombe couldn’t prevent his lips from vaguely twitching. Winterbourne did amuse from time to time.
Another patron clambered onto the adjoining table and took a deep breath.
“Poets praise Chloe’s shape, her complexion, her air,
Coral lips, pearly teeth, and fine eyes;
A fig for them all, they can never compare
To my charmer’s elastic white thighs.”
“Chap’s bawdy song reminds me of that widow at Oxford. Remember Mrs Chloe Russell?” Bram lolled in his chair, looking content after four jugs of claret, three glasses of port, two brandies and a cheroot. He also looked stewed to the gills, thought Rakecombe, speculating on his own external status.
“Lud,” replied Jack. “Fine figure of a woman and the instigator of many a cub’s dreams.”
“Was it you?” Bram pointed a finger at the rogue. “I always believed you won that bet.”
Rakecombe sprawled back, frowning. He knew the bet they talked of. Mrs Russell had been the widow of a former professor. Pretty and vivacious, there had been a wager as to who could bed her first with the claimant having to describe her garters as proof. Sometime later, the absurd wager had been collected, but neither description nor name of the victor had been made public.
“Nope, too young.” Jack held his palms up. “You forget I’m a fresh pup compared to you two, and I was just finding my feet in those days. Wish I had though; she had bosoms like–”
“Winterbourne,” snapped Rakecombe, “Mrs Russell is a respectable lady.”
“Alex, my fine fellow, you have to loosen up. ’Tis only in jest. I advise some brandy before tomorrow night….and tomorrow morning.”
“I can only hope,” Bram slurred, elbows now on table, “my mother-in-law hasn’t had time to speak to your betrothed about the wedding night.”
“Why?” asked Rakecombe, intrigued and worried in equal measure.
“’Cos she fed Sophie some cock and bull story about stamens, stigmas and pollination.”
Silence met this pronouncement.
“Gads,” muttered Jack, “no wonder debutantes look so petrified. Still, I’m sure you have a vague idea of what to do, Alex, and you can always send for me if you have trouble. I can call instructions from behind a screen. Or you could blindfold me. Millie has a–”
“Enough.” Rakecombe rose, listing slightly, glad Jack had dragged him out but now wanting to thrash the bugger. “I am for bed as one is getting married on the morrow,” he pronounced.
After unsteadily gathering cane and jacket, he veered past the strewn tables, toppled bodies and scattered empty chairs, before glancing over his shoulder. “And by the way, Mrs Russell’s garters were Pomona green with white lace trim.”
Winterbourne and Kelmarsh could be forgiven for their stupefaction, as he wasn’t the rake of his name in any literal sense, but in his youth, before his world had ended, he’d dallied on occasion.
The ladies had liked his discretion, but he doubted Mrs Russell cared any longer. He’d seen her on the street once, married again with five children and another on the way.
He staggered up the stairs and out the door, nearly falling in a puddle – damn claret – when an arm slipped under his right shoulder.
“Rakecombe, you old dog,” said Bram, chuckling.
Another arm slipped beneath his left. “An unmitigated cur, I’d say,” Jack added, eyes moist with mirth.
With his friends supporting him, or each other he wasn’t sure, they lumbered along whilst Bram and Jack quibbled over the parallels between botany and sexual congress. He winced and hoped to God that someone with more modern notions than Mrs Beckford had spoken to Aideen tonight.
They meandered through Covent Garden, circumventing its various ladies of the night, and gradually quietened in their own thoughts.
He could guess Bram’s – thinking of Sophie, no doubt, but peering at the marquess, he noted a slightly glum expression now the night was nearly over. Perhaps he’d invite him home for a nightcap. Winterbourne hid emotions not many saw.
But then so did he.
When he’d spoken of his impending marriage, he’d thought panic would be the main emotion flooding him, but instead a deep satisfaction had threaded its way down his spine.
Thrilling, rousing but dangerous nevertheless.
No more arguments from those sweet cherry lips. No more provoking insults or baiting words.
The hoyden would obey him and be his forever.
∞∞∞
Aideen hoped the duke didn’t expect her to obey his every word once they were married.
Some men, she had noted, became most dictatorial once in the parson’s mousetrap, and indeed Mrs McNally from Ballyduff had her pin money deducted if she queried her husband in public.
With thoughts akin to a lump of wet turf, Aideen lay like a corpse on the bed.
Earlier, Mr and Mrs Beckford, Cordelia and herself had enjoyed a genial dinner to celebrate her marriage on the morrow, and although she had hoped Cordelia might join her for a late-night prittle-prattle, Mrs Beckford had sent them off to bed with a severe warning about wedding day wrinkles caused by lack of sleep.
But sleep was not forthcoming; instead, a hundred different notions assailed her and now she’d be a crinkled sultana for the ceremony.
Saints in their halos, tomorrow she’d become a duchess. Married to the pompous Duke of Rakecombe. His mother hadn’t even been to call, citing an unwell friend, but Aideen knew what that meant – she disapproved.
Not only that but there was the wedding night. She hardly knew the man and yet…
She would be naked.
He would be naked.
They would be naked.
Together.
Then again, she had heard some odd specifics about the English aristocracy and their nocturnal arrangements, so maybe not.
A soft knock on the door halted her musings, and she prayed it wasn’t Mrs Beckford with more botanical advice for tomorrow night. She pretended to sleep.
“Aideen?”
Recognising the voice, she flung herself from the bed and threw open the door. “Sophie!”
Hugs and tears were exchanged as she greeted her cousin with abandon. Cordelia stood behind, wielding a bottle of champagne in each hand.
Aideen dumped the last vestiges into her glass as her friends lounged about the bed in various states of inebriation.
“Has Mrs Beckford advised you about the wedding night?” asked Cordelia, scrunching her nose and chewing a ribbon. “I asked Mother, but she told me I shouldn’t worry about little things like that.”
Sophie snorted, spilling precious champagne.
“She did try,” replied Aideen, “but I told her I’d seen the kitchen maid and the footman in the stables when I was sixteen.”
“You told my mother that?” Sophie screeched, hands held to her cheeks.
“I had to. I couldn’t bear it. She had illustrations from Sowerby’s botany book.”
“I didn’t get any illustrations,” Sophie groused whilst Cordelia’s head twisted from side to side in tandem with the conversation, huge innocent blue eyes avid with curiosity.
“After your debacle, she probably felt it necessary.”
Sophie sighed. “I do hope the duke will treat you gently. I like him tremendously, but he can be more than a little…”
Aideen’s head nodded but her thoughts disagreed. She didn’t want the duke gentle. She wanted his hard, demanding body and searching rough hands, his raw knuckles skimmi–
“Erm,” interrupted Cordelia, “if I could just ask, but…would anyone care to enlighten me?”
Aideen and Sophie stared at one another, then down at their champagne glasses.
“Does it have anything to do with nightcaps?” prompted Cordelia desperately. “I’ve noticed my father wears a nightcap if he wishes to join my mother in her bedchamber.”
Opening her mouth, Sophie then closed it again.
“Or curtain tie-backs? I know all about those,” Cordelia tried again, face frantic. “My aunt told me that matching curtain colours to their tie-backs is a pleasant subject to dwell upon when a husband visits you.”
Opening her mouth, Aideen instead glugged champagne.
Sophie stepped bravely into the breach. “I don’t believe I can imagine your Lord Oakdean in a nightcap. And that’s a good thing,” she reassured Cordelia, patting her hand. “You’ll just have to trust him and not listen to anything your mother or aunt says. At all. In any way. Ever.”
“But…but…”
“Have you not seen animals?” asked Aideen. “In the fields?” Surely her friend had noticed some strange behaviour in spring.
Cordelia’s brow furrowed. “Playing?”
Saint Ninnidh help her.
“More…jumping on each other.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened to their limits but then lowered, shoulders easing. “You’re always teasing, Aideen. Honestly, a sip of champagne and you come out with the most ridiculous ideas.”
Aideen smiled. She loved Cordelia immensely, but her friend’s mother had instilled a strange incorruptibility about her.
“Well,” said Sophie, raising the remnants of her champagne. “I say we toast Aideen’s marriage. May it forever endure without nightcaps or curtain ties.”