The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (21 page)

* * *

N
early three hours later
, Rafe returned to Rivergate, soaking wet, in a temper as foul as the weather, and essentially none the wiser. Except for one thing. The stranger had given his name to the innkeeper, a name that must be false—Herr Scherzfrage; its literal translation was Mr. Riddle. And of course, there was no guarantee that his stalker was actually Prussian, German, Austrian or even Swiss for that matter.

There was no doubt in Rafe’s mind that he’d been sent a message—
I’m watching you but you don’t know who I am
. Scherzfrage or Riddle was clearly toying with him. And his gut told him this was for personal reasons. A
vendetta
as the Italian’s would say.
But why?

One thing was clear to Rafe, this was only an early move in this man’s sinister game. And he didn’t like it, not one little bit.

The White Swan’s staff had also revealed that ‘Riddle’ hadn’t taken a room; he’d dined on simple fare in the main taproom before swapping his hired mount with another from the inn’s stables. He was reported to be well-dressed, polite, moderately attractive (according to one of the innkeeper’s daughters at any rate) with eyes of an unremarkable color, perhaps light gray or blue—which meant Rafe still hadn’t a clue who he might be. Sadly, his mental list of foreign men, dark-haired or otherwise, who might wish to exact revenge upon him was almost too long to contemplate. But then, Riddle could always be an Englishman who’d adopted a foreign guise. And it was easy enough to use paste in one’s hair to mask the color. The fellow could easily be a blond Swede or a red-headed Scotsman for all he knew.

In the murky world of espionage, nothing was too far-fetched to contemplate.

The ostler hadn’t noted which way Riddle had gone and the imposter hadn’t mentioned his destination either. Once Rafe had established that much, he’d then spent the next hour kicking himself as he conducted surveillance of the road leading to Rivergate and the perimeter of his property. What a fool he’d been not to have brought some of his own men from London to undertake this sort of activity. Instead of being ensconced before the fire with Georgie in his arms, he was soaked through, half-frozen and taut as a
garotte
rope.

When it was evident his scouting exercise was all but useless—he hadn’t even spied a single squirrel in the woodland behind Rivergate—Rafe headed for the house. Entering the vestibule, he summoned his butler, Spencer, and issued instructions to the effect that a pair of footmen must be stationed at each of Rivergate’s entrances—three in total—at all times, and that no one fitting Herr Scherzfrage’s description was to be admitted.

Even though Rafe had regretted having a surfeit of servants earlier in the day, he definitely wasn’t regretting the fact now. As an added precaution, he also ordered that the front gate was to be secured, and all visitors had to be vetted by an armed male staff member stationed within the gatehouse. And if Scherzfrage, did make an appearance, he was to be alerted immediately, no matter the time of day or night.

Satisfied that he’d done all he could feasibly do to keep Riddle at bay for the moment, Rafe at long last mounted the stairs and headed straight for his rooms. A change into dry clothes and a brandy-laced coffee were definitely in order before he sought out Georgie. And once he found her, he would not leave her side. His instincts still told him Riddle wasn’t only stalking him.

“Markham. I mean, Rafe. Is everything all right?"

Georgie.

The duchess rose from the window seat that was directly opposite the door to his suite. Her forehead pleated into a deep frown as her gaze traveled over his sorry appearance. He dared not think that she’d actually missed him or had been concerned for his safety.

“You’ve been gone for hours,” she continued when he didn’t immediately respond. “Your butler—Spencer, isn’t it?—mentioned you had some sudden business to attend to.”

Rafe swiped a rivulet of water from his nose before summoning a grin. “It seems there is no rest for the wicked.”

Georgie approached him and grasped his arm. “You jest, but I sense there is something wrong.”

Jonathon clearly hadn’t told his sister about crossing paths with Riddle. “Mr. Chapel from Lowood House sent word that perhaps the river had broken its banks toward Twickenham,” he lied. “Given we are not far away, I wanted to see for myself. But do not be concerned. Everything is well.”

“I see...” Her narrow-eyed expression told him she was not convinced. “Well...” She stepped away, suddenly looking uncertain, as if she’d only just noticed they were both standing by the door to his room and he’d been dripping all over her skirts. “I’d best leave so you can change your attire.”

“Care to help?”

A deep rosy blush spread over Georgie’s cheeks but nevertheless, she smiled. “If my brother and the rest of your guests hadn’t arrived, I would be very tempted to oblige. But perhaps there is something else I can do for you? Send up tea?”

Rafe took a step toward her and reached for her hand, drawing her close again. “I don’t need tea. I need this.” He bent his head and kissed her, his lips and tongue caressing her mouth with such slow, gentle thoroughness it made his own head spin; it was a tender yet calculated kiss bestowed with one sole intention: to make her breathless with a yearning that matched his own.

When he drew back, her eyes fluttered open and he was pleased to see she looked a little dazed. “We have not had an opportunity to talk privately since your brother and the other guests arrived,” he murmured, brushing her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers. “Please say you will let me come to your room tonight.”

“I would like that,” Georgie replied in such a delightfully husky voice, it made him want to make love to her all the more. “I will dismiss my maid again.”

He smiled. “Good.” He feathered a light kiss over knuckles before reluctantly releasing her hand. “I will meet you in the drawing room in half an hour.”

“Yes.” She turned to go, but after taking only a few steps away from him, swung back. “Rafe, you
would
tell me if something were wrong, wouldn’t you?”

He held her worried gaze and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes, of course.”

She gave a tight smile in return before heading toward the stairs.

Hell. She doesn’t believe me.

With a heavy sigh, he entered his suite and rang for his valet. If Jonathon told her about Riddle before he did, she would be as angry as a cat caught in the rain. Even worse than that, her faith in him would be shattered.

Christ, I need a drink
. As he poured himself a brandy—there was always a full decanter in his sitting room—he tried to convince himself that it would be unfair to burden Georgie with insubstantial information about an indistinct threat. Which meant he would continue to lie to her unless and until her brother forced him to reveal what little he did know.

Needs must when the devil drives, eh, Markham?
He tossed back a sizeable swig of the brandy and his mouth twisted into a wry grimace.

Sadly, that expression should probably be his epitaph.

* * *

“
M
arkham
, I thought I’d find you here.”

Rafe turned in his seat before the library fire and met Jonathon Winterbourne’s hard, blue gaze. He raised his whisky glass. “Care for a dram before bed? It’s courtesy of Rothsburgh. From his illicit stash.” Dinner was long since over and it seemed that everyone bar himself and Jonathon had retired for the night. Rafe had simply been filling in time until he could pay an unobserved visit to Georgie’s suite. However, it now appeared he and Jonathon were about to have ‘their talk’.

“No.” Jonathon flicked out the tails of his evening jacket as he took a seat in the opposite wingback chair. “Care to explain this?” He tossed a calling card onto the mahogany table beside Rafe.

Frowning, Rafe, put down his glass and picked up the card. Ice-cold fear gripped his chest as he took in the print.
Herr Maximilian Scherzfrage
appeared in embossed black letters upon the ivory card. But it was the message scrawled on the back in blood-red ink that chilled him the most.

Fuck.
His instincts had been correct. This was a very personal cat and mouse game. The problem was, he still hadn’t the slightest idea who his opponent was, or his endgame. And Georgie was in danger.

“Well? Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Rafe met Jonathon’s blistering glare. “How did you come by this?”

“My valet found it when he was laundering the greatcoat I wore this morning. That bloody foreign bastard must have slipped it into my pocket when I was settling the account.”

Rafe nodded. “Winterbourne...” There was no way around it; he didn’t like it but he was going to have to make a confession about his past occupation. “Not many know this—actually only Phillip and a few others in Lord Castlereagh’s office—but up until a year ago, I worked for the Crown. But not as a diplomat.”

Jonathon smirked. “So a bloody spy then. I thought as much.”

“I know Georgie has her suspicions as well, but I have refrained from disclosing any information to her about my past. As you can well understand, the fewer people who know about my former activities, the better.”

“That’s all well and good, but it looks like your past,” Jonathon glanced meaningfully at the calling card that Rafe still held, “is not dead and buried. And somehow my sister has been dragged into the whole murky business. Who is this devil, Scherzfrage, and what does he want?”

Rafe tossed the card onto the table before running a hand down his face. Frustration clawed at his gut. “Believe me, I wish I knew.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rafe sighed. “I know.”

Jonathon leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward his chest. “I don’t believe you. You strike me as a fellow who has a formidable memory for names and faces.”

“He’s using a false name,” explained Rafe. “Its literal translation is ‘greatest riddle’. The bastard is playing some sick game. He probably isn’t even German.”

“Christ.” Jonathon sat back in his chair. His face had grown as pale as the card on the table between them. “I think I
will
have a drink. Whisky as well. A large one.”

Rafe fulfilled Jonathon’s request then resumed his seat. “Are you sure you don’t recall any other distinguishing features or mannerisms about the man? Any detail, however small, may help me work out who he is.”

Jonathon rubbed his temple and his gaze became unfocused as he appeared to sift through his memories. “His hair was brown and styled in the current fashion—cropped short at the back but messy and overly long in the front. I think that’s why I didn’t really notice his eyes. He didn’t strike me as handsome, but neither was he unattractive. His coat was well-cut; travel-stained but not worn or cheap looking. He was tall and seemed relatively well-made beneath his clothes. For instance he didn’t stoop. He was neither too thin nor fat. Neither old nor young. Perhaps he was your age, or a little older. Apart from his manner of speaking, he was in fact, rather ordinary.”

Except he isn’t.
Rafe sipped at his whisky, mulling over what to say next. “This cloak and dagger act, it strikes me as unusual. Riddle—that’s what I have dubbed him in my mind—is taunting me. It seems very personal. Like an act of revenge. Unfortunately, the list of men who might wish me ill is a long one.”

“Why do you think he has involved Georgie in all of this then? She’s not a part of your past.”

Yes, but she’s the woman I care about. The woman I now realize I want to share a future with.
Rafe straightened in his seat as a blinding realization struck him.
Maybe... Why haven’t I thought of him until now?

Jonathon’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”

“I think I might have an idea who it is after all.”

“Who?”

“A Russian baron and general by the name of Dashkov. Four years ago, when I was in St. Petersburg, I had an affair with his wife.”

“Bloody hell, Markham. That’s playing it a bit fast and loose, isn’t it?”

Rafe shrugged.
You have barely scratched the surface.
“One does what one has to in the line of duty.”

“What, you mean to say you used the wife of this, Baron Dashkov, to gather information for the Crown?”

“Yes.”

“By Jove, that’s a tad ruthless. But I’m confused. Why would he exact revenge for that now? Four years have passed.”

“I suppose some scars never heal, Winterbourne.”

“I suppose you are right.” Jonathon sipped his whisky, his expression pensive. “Well, if this fellow is your Dashkov, we shouldn’t have too much to worry about then. I mean, it’s not as if Georgie is going to respond to this devil’s clumsy attempts to ensnare her. Especially when she finds out he is married. And not when she is so smitten by you.”

Rafe wanted to smile at Jonathon’s last observation, but found himself grimacing instead. “You misunderstand. My explanation of the situation has been inadequate.”