The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (5 page)

Well, at least she could lie to herself until she fell asleep.

A
fter the duchess’s
carriage pulled away, Rafe sighed then pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against the insistent, pattering rain.

The Duchess of Darby was royally mad with him. You didn’t need to be an agent of the Crown or even a keen observer of people in general to notice that obvious fact. She’d been fairly sparking with anger and if he’d continued his pursuit this evening, he was positive the Ice Duchess would have flared up like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes night.

And he only had himself to blame. He’d kept his promise and had behaved with the utmost gentlemanly decorum throughout their second game. Even though she was undoubtedly a brilliant player, he’d read her as easily as the cards. Winning at piquet—whilst not quite child’s play—had been a relatively straightforward exercise. But in the process, perhaps he’d lost his chance to win the duchess, even for a night.

He could be such a fool sometimes.

A sense of heavy disappointment settled over him as he made his way down the narrow laneway leading to the mews behind Latimer House. He could kick himself over his arrogant stupidity later when he got home. But right now, he needed to make sure that he really had seen nothing of concern in the garden.

Save for the weak glow of an oil lamp hanging at the very end of the lane, it was as dark as Hades. Rafe stepped with care—the cobblestones were slick and no doubt riddled with patches of mud and sodden horse dung. Whilst another lamp would have helped in his investigation, he also didn’t want to draw attention to himself. After a good decade of skulking about in the shadows, staying hidden was still second-nature to him.

The low rumble of male voices—most likely grooms and carriage drivers—along with the general bustle and clatter of a busy stable, echoed off the surrounding walls. The mews would be packed with the horses and equipages of the Latimers’ guests. In fact, Rafe was surprised that there wasn’t more activity in the lane given the crowd attending the ball.

He ran his hand along the rough, brick wall as he progressed, and about halfway along, he located what he’d been looking for—the garden gate, tucked away in an alcove. It was constructed of sturdy wood panels and reinforced with iron brackets and hinges—but it was unlatched. Even more concerning was the fact that the lock was broken—it was bent and hung at an odd angle.

Rafe frowned deeply, his skin prickling with unease. That was odd, decidedly odd. He was sure the Latimers’ gardener wouldn’t leave the gate in such disrepair. It was an invitation to trouble. The gate had clearly been forced open. But why and by whom? Common footpads?

Perhaps. Or has someone been watching me? And the duchess…

Muscles tightening, eyes and ears straining for even the slightest hint of another’s presence, Rafe pushed at the gate and it swung silently inwards—the hinges were well-oiled at least. He stepped through into the shadows beneath the dripping, horse chestnut canopy and studied the darkness. But there was no one. Whoever had been lurking here had gone.

He glanced toward the house. From the lights spilling from the French doors and nearly every window, he could clearly see the terrace was still deserted. The sound of chatting and bright laughter overlaid the dulcet tones of the orchestra—the ball was nowhere near to drawing to a close yet.

Rafe sighed and ran a hand across his face, wiping the chill rain from his eyes. Whilst part of him hoped he was simply being paranoid about the broken latch and what he thought he may have seen earlier in the garden, he couldn’t let it rest. Accustomed to a life of subterfuge, being suspicious and trusting his gut instincts were integral parts of his nature.

He’d hoped that somehow he could leave the dark shadows of his past behind him. But maybe he couldn’t. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t let his desire to lead the life of an ordinary English nobleman compromise the safety of those he cared about. There was no excuse for naivety or stupidity. He needed to go back inside and speak with Phillip.

* * *

T
he mahogany longcase
clock in the corner of Latimer House’s library heralded the hour of one as Rafe took a seat in the leather wingback chair before the fire. The last guests had departed but an hour ago and he really should have been on his way too. But Phillip had insisted he stay for a drink. A tumbler of cognac in one hand, Rafe looked over to his friend. “So all is secure now?”

Phillip nodded. “Yes. My head groom has put a temporary padlock in place and one of the burlier stable-hands has been posted to keep watch until morning. At first light I’ll send for a Bow Street Runner to investigate.” He took a long sip of his own cognac before catching Rafe’s eye again. “But I really wouldn’t worry too much. I’m sure it’s just the doings of a local thief. You should sit back and enjoy your retirement from His Majesty’s service. Old Boney’s safely locked away and his cronies—if they weren’t killed or captured at Waterloo—have been driven to the four corners of the earth.”

As long as one of the corners wasn’t Mayfair.
“Hmm. I’m trying, believe me.” Even though Phillip worked for the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, and was one of the few men who actually knew of his spying activities, Rafe thought his friend was being more than a little naïve. He sipped at his cognac, focusing on the searing heat at the back of his throat and the subsequent loosening of tension in his shoulders and limbs. “Old habits do tend to die slowly though,” he added.
Like old enemies.
And Rafe would be a fool indeed not to realize he had a fair number of those.

Phillip’s forehead creased into a deep frown. “I have no idea what you’ve really been up to for the last decade—I’ve only seen a few of your reports that have come through Castlereagh’s office—but I imagine it would be difficult to put it all behind you.”

You have no idea.
Rafe raised his glass and studied the deep amber glow of the liquid against the firelight as memories he could never quite bury surged to the forefront of his mind—dark, shocking images of deeds enacted for king and country. The sharp stab of guilt for the unforgivable hurt that had befallen others because of him. Things he would never forget no matter how hard he tried. But like always, he easily feigned a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Certain things, yes.” He shrugged and smiled at his friend. “But you learn to live with it. After all,” he took another sizeable sip of his drink before continuing, “it was all for a good cause.”

Phillip seemed to take him at his word. “Yes indeed. You are a true hero, Markham, yet only a few know it.”

Rafe snorted. “Hardly. It’s not like I fought in the Peninsular Wars or under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo like our friend Rothsburgh. And all the rest he’s had to endure. Now that’s heroism for you.”

Phillip nodded. “Agreed. He’s lucky to have found a woman like Beth. He certainly deserves some happiness.” He put down his cognac and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze intent. “Speaking of good women, tell me, what do you make of the Duchess of Darby? You did seem rather taken with her, don’t deny it.”

Rafe smiled. At last, the chance to discuss something—the someone—who truly interested him. Someone who could perhaps help take his mind off the past, at least for a little while. “She is… intriguing.”

“Ha!” Phillip slapped his knee in triumph. “Helena was right. She said you’d be smitten by her.”

“Did I hear my name?” Helena, her tall slender figure wrapped in a rich silk shawl, crossed the Turkish rug toward them. Rafe stood, but she gestured for him to be seated again as she took a seat on the sofa beside her husband. She laid her hand over Phillip’s and smiled at him. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting.”

“Of course not, my dearest. I’m surprised you’re still up. Can I get you anything? A sherry perhaps?”

Helena shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve been up in the nursery with Phillipa, and at long last she has settled. But I’m too wound up to retire yet, so I thought I’d see what you were up to.”

Phillip shrugged. “Just discussing this and that.” He hadn’t told Helena about the possible break in. He obviously didn’t want to worry his wife when it could be nothing at all, especially when she was already anxious about their sick daughter. Rafe could understand that.

Helena smiled and her dark eyes twinkled as she shifted her attention Rafe’s way. “Hmm. This and that.” She looked back at her husband and gave him a mock frown. “That’s not a very polite way to speak about Georgiana though.”

Georgiana.
Georgie
. Rafe wondered if the duchess would ever permit him to use her name, let alone touch her again. “I was just telling Phillip how much I enjoyed the duchess’s company this evening.”

Helena tilted her head, studying him. “I’m glad. You two would be good for each other, I think.”

Rafe raised his eyebrows whilst Phillip gave a nervous laugh.

“Now, now, Helena,” her husband chided. “Georgie and Markham have only just met. Though if it were up to you, you’d have them married off by Christmas, wouldn’t you?”

“Whatever are you thinking, Phillip? A Yuletide wedding? Perish the thought.” She threw Rafe an arch smile. “Everyone knows a
ton
bride must wed in the spring.”

Rafe nearly choked on his cognac. Lady Maxwell was clearly not timid about making her opinion known. “Good Lord,” he said at last when his voice had recovered sufficiently. “The duchess and I barely know each other. Besides, I’m not all that certain she reciprocates any interest.”

Helena smiled, clearly amused by his discomfiture. “Of course she does. She just doesn’t want to acknowledge it. And as for not knowing anything about her, I’m sure Phillip and I can remedy that. So ask us anything. Anything at all. All we ask in return is that you keep your newfound knowledge a secret. Georgiana is very dear to us and... well, we just want to see that she is happy.”

What a veritable hornet’s nest of a statement. Rafe was sure he could make the duchess very happy if he could persuade her into his bed. But as for anything else… He simply smiled and inclined his head. “Of course. I definitely know how to keep confidences, Helena.” He took another long sip of cognac, thinking on what he already knew and what he’d like to know about the duchess.

Everything
if he were honest with himself. She truly was the most fascinating woman he’d encountered in a long time.

He’d studied her as she’d chatted with Helena and her other friends before he’d swept her off for a waltz. She may have been frosty toward him, but she was clearly amiable with others and well-liked in return. When she smiled—really smiled—and laughed at quips her friends or her brother made, her eyes, indeed her whole lovely face lit up like the brightest of summer’s days. He suddenly realized that he wanted her to smile at him like that.

But she obviously loathed rakehells. And for some unfathomable reason, he suspected she saw her fearsome reputation at cards as a way to keep men like him—interested men—at bay.

And he wanted to know why.

“The duchess’s late husband. Tell me about him and their relationship,” he said at length. Had she been married to a scoundrel who’d failed to give up his wild ways? He’d been away from England too long—he could scarcely recall a single thing that he knew about the former Duke of Darby.

Helena and her husband exchanged a speaking look before Phillip replied. “I don’t know if you remember, but Darby was formerly known as Teddy Dudley, the Marquess of Harrow, when we were at Cambridge. He was a few years below us and, ahem... shall we say, shared a close acquaintanceship with Jonathon Winterbourne, Georgie’s brother.”

“A
close
acquaintanceship. That’s an interesting choice of words.” Rafe frowned. Although he couldn’t be sure, Sir Jonathon struck him as a man who was attracted to members of his own sex. He hid it well, but Rafe was sure he’d seen a keen light in Jonathon’s eyes when he’d interacted with the young and very pretty Lord Farley in the ballroom, and then later when they’d played cards together.

Christ Almighty. What was Phillip suggesting?

Rafe fought to keep his tone even as the maddest of scenarios took shape in his mind. “Helena, please forgive me for bringing up such a delicate subject, but now that I think on it...” He turned to Phillip. He suddenly had more than an inkling that Georgiana’s former husband hadn’t been a rake at all. “When we were at Cambridge in our final year, wasn’t there a rumor going around that Lord Harrow was partial to the company of other men? And I sense that Jonathon is that way inclined as well.”

Helena laughed. “You don’t need to beat around the bush on my account, my dear Rafe. Are you asking if Jonathon and Teddy formed an attachment?”

Rafe raised his eyebrows, more than a little surprised at Helena’s directness. “Yes. I am.”

Phillip cleared his throat. “They hid it remarkably well. But yes. You’ve come to the right conclusion. Teddy and Jonathon Winterbourne were—shall we say for the sake of propriety?—involved in a relationship. And not just at Cambridge. Afterwards as well.”

Bloody hell.
Was Phillip implying that the Duke of Darby and Georgie’s brother were lovers throughout the duchess’s marriage? Rafe’s mind reeled with the implications of such a revelation. He ran a hand down his face, then shook his head, struggling to take the astounding news on board. “I don’t understand. Why on earth did the young Lord Harrow marry Georgie? I mean, nothing surprises me much anymore, but...” He set his cognac down on a side table. “Are you seriously telling me that the duke and Georgiana Winterbourne’s marriage was one of convenience only?”