The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (32 page)

So who had taken the fourth carriage to Battersea-fields?

It must have been Dashkov.

Benson had also reported that after Georgie and Jonathon had disappeared behind the hedgerow, he’d left Perkins, the footman, to mind the carriage whilst he’d walked back to The Red House Inn to purchase a pint of small beer and a crumpet. When he’d returned, the fourth mystery carriage had gone. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Not until the alarm was raised that Sir Jonathon had been attacked and the duchess had been kidnapped.

Perkins, at one point during Benson’s absence, had gone into the bushes to relieve himself and had not noticed anything untoward either.

The other coach drivers had been as equally unhelpful. Lord Bolton’s man had fallen asleep in his seat, and Mr. Emerson’s man had been attending to the traces and back straps on one of the horses when the other coach had driven off. The only other attendant footman was Lord Bolton’s, and he had been assisting his master on the dueling field.

As expected, Jonathon didn’t recall a single damn thing.

Which meant Georgie could be anywhere in, or outside of London. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Rafe was just reloading his dueling pistol and another barreled flintlock—it paid to be prepared for any circumstance—when there came another knock at the door.

At his bidding, Cowan entered and his expression was so grave, Rafe was immediately filled with a sense of foreboding all over again. Especially when he noticed that Cowan was holding a parcel.

“It’s addressed to you and Sir Jonathon, milord.” He placed the package very carefully on the oak desk then stepped back. “An urchin delivered it to Perkins, not one minute ago. Lumsden is questionin’ the lad, but I don’t think he’ll get much out of ‘im.”

Rafe took a deep breath and stepped forward. As he’d expected, red ink had been used. The handwriting was undoubtedly Dashkov’s.

He found a letter opener and sliced through the wrappings. Beneath the brown paper and string was a plain wooden box. A plain sheet of folded parchment lay on top.

Rafe snatched it up.

His heart hammering, he lifted the lid and didn’t know whether to sigh with relief, or curse the heavens.

A large cluster of long, soft brown curls lay inside. Georgie’s hair.

Sweet Jesus
. Dashkov was clearly insane.

Cowan cleared his throat. “What is it, milord, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

Rafe pushed the box toward him and Cowan paled.

“We need to act quickly,” Rafe said; somehow his voice held steady. “If we don’t, there will be more parcels.”

Cowan nodded. “Yes, milord. I’ll make sure the men—”

Another knock sounded and Lumsden entered without waiting for a summons. “My lord, a word if you would.” His expression was sober but Rafe detected a decided glint of excitement in the young man’s eyes.

“Go on,” he prompted, not daring to hope that this might be the missing piece.

Lumsden closed the door and took a few steps closer. “Her Grace’s lady’s maid, Miss Constance Lovedale, might be able to shed some light on the situation at hand. At two o’clock this morning, the night footman witnessed Miss Lovedale leaving via the servants’ entrance, and she didn’t return home until an hour and a half later. I’ve attempted to question her, but she became very agitated and teary. She says she won’t speak to anyone but you, my lord.”

Whatever Miss Lovedale had to say, Rafe would listen. “Bring her in.”

The young woman was indeed tearful and trembling like a leaf when she entered the room and took a seat at Rafe’s direction. He was familiar with her; had passed her in the hallways of Dudley House many times.

Georgie had always spoken highly of her.

He leaned his hip against Jonathon’s desk and folded his arms. “I believe you wanted to speak with me, Miss Lovedale,” he said as gently as he could. “That you may have some information regarding Her Grace’s kidnapping.”

The maid dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with a wrinkled kerchief. “Yes... Yes, I might have.” She bit her lip then took a shuddering breath. “It’s all my fault, my lord. And I’ve been so, so frightened. For... for weeks if truth be told.” She twisted the kerchief in her hands and her words began to tumble out so quickly, Rafe could barely keep up. “I... I had no idea that what I was doing would lead to this. I knew it was wrong, but I kept telling myself it couldn’t do any harm, not really. But then, what else could I do?” She looked at him beseechingly, her large hazel eyes glazed with tears and her bottom lip wobbling.

Rafe tried not to lose his patience. A gentle, sympathetic approach was clearly required. “Miss Lovedale, I am grateful you feel you can confide in me, but I’m afraid you are going to have to speak more plainly.”

“I’m sorry.” A tear dripped onto the girl’s cheek and she sniffed. “I hardly know where to begin...”

Rafe prompted her. “You said this all began some weeks ago. That you’ve been frightened. What happened?”

“A man. A foreign man. I don’t know his name. He... he accosted me in the street one day when I was completing some errands for the duchess.”

Dashkov. Rafe should have guessed the man would go to any lengths to carry out his warped plan of revenge. Anticipation thrumming through his veins, he asked, “What did he say to you?”

“He told me I must give him an account of the duchess’s daily schedule, every single day—her appointments, social engagements, excursions, anticipated visitors. Everything. Of course, I said no. I would never, ever do such a thing, give a complete stranger that sort of private information about my employer. The duchess is the loveliest woman... Oh—” Constance pushed her kerchief against her mouth and screwed up her eyes as if attempting to stem another flood of tears.

Rafe gave the girl a few moments to compose herself. This
was
the missing piece. It explained how Dashkov had been able to keep track of Georgie’s movements without being detected. But he needed more details. “If you didn’t want to give this man the information he asked for, why did you, Miss Lovedale? Did he threaten you?”

The maid’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she breathed. “How... how did you know?”

“I know who the man is and his nature. He is Russian. A baron by the name of Dashkov.” Rafe softened his tone. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did he threaten you?”

“It wasn’t me that he threatened so much; it was my family,” she said, her voice quivering. “My sister, Faith—she’s widowed with a young son—and my younger brother, Thomas who lives with them. Faith owns a milliner’s shop in Grafton Street, just off Bond Street. Her Grace purchases most of her hats from there.”

Rafe frowned. He knew the shop. Had been there with Georgie. “What did he say he would do?”

Constance bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears again. “Well, he had already done something. Something terrible. The day before he spoke to me in the street, my sister found her cat...” She sucked in shaky breath. “Her cat had been slaughtered, cut open. Gutted like a fish and left on the doorstep at the back of the shop. My sister lives upstairs so if one of the boys had seen it...” Constance shuddered and her face grew as pale as her white linen kerchief. “The man—Dashkov you say?—he said that if I didn’t do as he instructed, then my sister and the boys would end up just like the cat. And... and I believed him. I’m so, so sorry, my lord.”

The maid began crying in earnest again, but Rafe didn’t have time for her tears right now. Not when he was so close to finding out something truly useful. “Miss Lovedale, I can see this is difficult for you. And believe me, I understand that you felt you had no other option than to comply with this man’s demands. However, I need to know more.”

Rafe offered Constance his own handkerchief as hers was clearly sodden. She accepted it with thanks, and after she’d blown her nose and swiped at her eyes, he continued with his questioning. “You mentioned you give Dashkov an account of the duchess’s schedule, every day. How do you do this? Do you meet with him somewhere? Does he send someone to collect it?”

She shook her head. “No. My brother, Tom—he’s twelve—he’s been coming to Dudley House very early, well before sunrise, and I give the schedule to him at the servants’ door.”

Rafe tried to keep the sharp note of impatience out of his voice. He was getting so close to the information he needed to find Georgie, he could feel it. “And how does Tom get it to Dashkov?”

“He delivers it to an address in Marylebone. Pushes it under the door. It’s only about a mile from here and Tom is fast, being a link boy and all. But if something happens, a change in Her Grace’s schedule, I have to send a message straightaway. Or... or there are consequences. For instance, the last time I failed to provide the correct schedule, a brick was thrown through my sister’s shop window. And another time, just last week, my nephew found a beheaded rat by the door. Last night, I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on Her Grace, but I could tell something was afoot. When I heard she was going to Battersea-fields at first light, I knew I had to get word to Dashkov, or something bad would happen again. Perhaps something even worse than dead cats and rats and broken windows. So I delivered the note myself. And I knocked very hard on the door to make sure the man, Dashkov, knew it was there. Please forgive me, my lord. I know I should have come to you, or Sir Jonathon, or gone to the Bow Street Runners, but I was too terrified, and—”

The maid was rambling and close to tears again, so Rafe cut in. “Miss Lovedale, you just said you’ve been to this man’s residence. Do you know the exact address in Marylebone?”

“Why yes. It’s number 14 Gloucester Place Mews.”

Hallelujah!
Rafe strode to the door and called Cowan and Lumsden. Could it really be that easy? Could Dashkov really have taken Georgie to an address that was so close to Hanover Square?

God, he prayed with everything he had within him that it was so.

G
eorgie would have dozed
all day if she could have possibly managed it. Then she wouldn’t have to face the waking nightmare she was presently in. But the unrelenting pain radiating through her body was reaching a pitch that could only be described as intolerable—a state not conducive to sleep at all. Her back and shoulders and
derriere
ached, her throat was as dry as a desert, and her forehead pounded every time she moved her head. She hadn’t noticed it earlier when she’d first awoken, but the room was bitterly cold. Her fingers were frozen, her feet like blocks of ice. She couldn’t stop shivering. How ironic that her soubriquet, the Ice Duchess, seemed very apt at the present moment.

Her only consolation was that Dashkov hadn’t returned.

Every time her thoughts strayed in that direction, she quaked even harder, her stomach churning with sheer terror. Focusing on what she could do to save herself seemed to be the only way to keep herself sane.

She’d rubbed her wrists raw trying to loosen the ropes, but they hadn’t budged in the slightest. If she could dislodge her gag and call out, someone might hear her. Dashkov was clearly concerned about that. The intermittent sounds of human activity in the alley below were both comforting and frustrating.

Yes, if she could just get the blasted gag off, she would scream and scream and scream.

Someone would definitely hear her.

Help would arrive.

Oh, please, God, send help
.

Send Rafe.

A vision of him, handsome and strong, capable and fearless—a man like no other—sprang into her mind. Since Rafe had entered her life, she had so much to hope for. To live for. A future filled with love and laughter and untold joy.

She had faith in him. He had come through the duel unscathed and he was searching for her at this very moment. This couldn’t be the end.

For Rafe and herself, she wouldn’t give up.

Her gaze darted to the window. Perhaps if she were closer, she could attract someone’s attention across the street. There was a window opposite this one, she was sure of it. She began to rock and wiggle in the chair and it moved a little on the wooden floor.
Yes.
She applied herself to the task with vigor, jostling and jiggling as hard as she could, until she was sweating and panting with exertion. But after a few minutes, she realized it was a futile exercise. The chair was too heavy and her bonds too tight. All she’d managed to do was shuffle around in a half circle so that now she was facing toward the door with the window behind her.

Tears of frustration welled, burning her eyes and blurring her vision. Hope faded and cold, dark fear returned to keep her company once more.

Please find me, Rafe.

The heavy clomp of footsteps on the stairs and then in the hallway outside made Georgie start so violently, her chair moved again. Her gaze riveted on the door, she held her breath.

Not Dashkov. Please, God, not Dashkov.

The key grated in the lock and Georgie clamped her eyes shut. She was too terrified to look.

“Ah,
moya dorogaya,
I see you have been busy in my absence.” She heard Dashkov cross the room. He stroked her cheek with his finger. If she could have bitten it off, she would have. “You are just like my Anna,” he crooned. “Very brave. I like that about you.”

Georgie forced herself to open her eyes. To give Dashkov an imploring look. She made a noise around the gag. If he removed it, even for a second...

Dashkov smiled down at her, his pale gray eyes as cold as arctic ice. “No, no, my pet. I cannot remove it. I cannot risk you making a single sound.”

And that’s when she saw it. The knife. The wicked-looking steel blade caught the light filtering through the window, and it was like a living thing. Winking at her.

Mocking her.

Dashkov bent forward and whispered, “Your Lord Markham ruined my beautiful Anna’s face, and so I will ruin yours.”

Bile rose in Georgie’s throat.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look...

Dashkov’s fingers touched her ear. Pinched hard.

Oh, God save me.

* * *

H
old on
, Georgie. I’m coming, my love.

Pistol in hand, Rafe eyed the door of number 14 Gloucester Place Mews. The dull green paint was peeling and the hinges and doorknob were rusted. It would be child’s play breaking in.

He nodded at Cowan. “Pick the lock if you would.”

While he was all for kicking down doors—and he had so much rage pounding through his veins right at this moment he would like nothing more than to do it—he didn’t want to startle Dashkov into taking rash action.

As expected, the lock tumbled quickly and Cowan stepped back. “I’ll keep a watch, milord whilst you and Lumsden check inside.”

Rafe gave him a curt nod. Taking a fortifying breath, he pushed on the door.

It creaked open on its rusty hinges, revealing a dim, filthy hallway. A narrow set of stairs. A door to the right and left. He nodded at Lumsden who’d already drawn his own pistol. Together they entered and quickly checked each downstairs room, taking care not to make a sound.

The tiny room to the left was bare of furniture but the next showed definite signs of occupation. Dirty glasses, plates and food scraps littered a scratched deal table. A misshapen tallow candle and a cracked spill jar of tapers sat on the roughly hewn mantel beside a dented teapot. A pile of potatoes sat by the hearth where the remnants of a fire smoldered, and a black greatcoat hung lopsidedly off the back of a rickety wooden chair.

Rafe caught Lumsden’s eye and gestured with his head.
Upstairs.

But for the occasional creak of a floorboard, the shabby townhouse was silent as the grave as Rafe led the way to the next floor.

That did not bode well.

Like downstairs, one room was deserted whilst the other contained signs of habitation. A pallet bed, roughly made up with threadbare sheets and a scratchy woolen blanket stood against one water-stained wall. More men’s clothes were piled over the back of a worn leather armchair or spilled out of a battered traveling trunk onto the bare wooden floorboards.

“Milord,” murmured Lumsden. He held out a sheaf of papers. Ivory parchment. Good quality and covered in neat, feminine handwriting.

Rafe’s heart leapt.

Georgie’s schedule
.

This was definitely Dashkov’s bolt-hole.

But where the hell were Dashkov and Georgie?

Shit.
Rafe blew out a breath in frustration. He was so close to finding his duchess. Of course, he could lie in wait for Dashkov, but how long would that take? The monster was probably with Georgie right now, doing God knows what to her. He crossed to the window and rested his forearm against the splintered frame, gazing out the grime-crusted pane to the alley below and the building opposite.

What next?

A movement in the window directly across from him caught his eye.

A figure. A man.

Tall and dark-haired. Broad-shouldered.

It couldn’t be...

Rafe sure as hell wasn’t going to wait a moment longer to find out.

He bolted down the stairs and sprinted across the mews, his pistol drawn, Lumsden close on his heels. The dull green door gave way with a single kick and then he was taking the stairs, two at a time to the floor above.

The door on the right.

Another explosive kick to the lock and the door splintered. Swung open.

And there was Georgie—his beautiful Georgie—gagged and tied to a chair, her blue eyes as wide as saucers while Dashkov stood behind her, a maniacal grin contorting his face as he pressed a knife to her throat.

Blood welled over the blade.

Fuck the bastard.

Rafe fired and the shot hit Dashkov right between the eyes. The knife clattered to the floor and the Russian toppled backwards, his head hitting the windowsill before he slumped to the floor.

It was over.

Thank, God, it was over.

* * *

R
afe is here
. He’s alive and so am I.

Georgie had never felt such sweet, blessed relief until the moment Rafe burst into the room like a furious god of vengeance. Now, as he knelt before her, murmuring she was safe and that he loved her, checking the cut on her neck and using his own neck cloth to bandage it, she could barely see his adored face through the tears falling thick and fast onto her cheeks.

He removed the gag and she tried to speak. Croaked, then tried again. “Thank you,” she rasped, her voice starchy from misuse and from a lack of anything to drink.

“No. Don’t thank me, Georgie. Not when I brought this evil to your door.”

“But—”

Rafe leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “We will talk of this later. Let me take you home. Your wounds need attending.”

Georgie wasn’t about to disagree with him on that score.

Once her bonds were cut, Rafe helped her to stand, but her legs buckled. Rafe immediately swept her into his arms and bore her from that most hellish of rooms, down the stairs and into a waiting carriage that had appeared, as if by magic, outside the door.

“How is Jonathon?” she asked as soon as the carriage door closed. Rafe hadn’t relinquished his hold on her; draped across his lap, she had to draw back to see his face.

His mouth twitched into a wry smile. “He has an impressive lump on the back of his head, and a devilish megrim. Aside from being worried sick about you, he is all right.”

Georgie nodded and relaxed into Rafe’s strong arms again, her head on his shoulder. The cut on her neck stung, her wrists burned, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against Rafe’s black coat, breathing in his familiar scent—musk and leather, and the bergamot cologne he favored. The scent of home and heaven.

Rafe’s hand gently kneaded the back of her head. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him—about the duel, how he’d found her in time—but her mind began to wander. She was so, so tired.

Lulled by the steady beat of Rafe’s heart and the rise and fall of his chest, she drifted to sleep.

* * *

G
eorgie was barely awake
when Rafe carried her into her bedroom in Dudley House.

Exhaustion and the lingering effects of the laudanum made her so drowsy, she could barely keep her eyes open. She had a vague impression that Rafe kissed her forehead before he left her in the care of Dudley House’s housekeeper and a chamber maid; it seemed that Constance was still indisposed. Georgie’s wounds were cleaned and dressed, she was offered barley-water to ease her thirst, and then, after being helped to don a loose cotton nightrail, she was tucked up in her bed.

Alone.

As Georgie slipped into sleep again, she wondered why Rafe hadn’t stayed with her.
He must have business to attend to...

She wasn’t sure how long she slumbered, but when she awoke it was with a start. Momentarily disorientated, her heart pounding, she blinked at the festoons of pale blue silk forming a canopy above her head.