The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (30 page)

Constance sprang to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “Please forgive me, Your Grace. I find... I find I have not been able to sleep a wink. And the more I try, the worse it is. You had offered me some of your special tea earlier, and when I saw the lamps were still lit, and I heard voices coming from Sir Jonathon’s chambers... Please believe me, I was not eavesdropping, Your Grace. I would never do that. But, I wondered if I might try some of your tea after all. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the liberty of bringing up the caddy from the kitchen.” Her fingers fluttered nervously in the direction of a nearby occasional table where the small, locked wooden box now sat.

Ordinarily, Georgie would have a rebuked a servant for such presumption, but she
had
offered Constance the tisane earlier. And she was genuinely concerned about the girl’s health. “It’s quite all right,” she said gently. She examined her maid’s face; her hazel eyes were glassy with exhaustion, the shadows beneath her lower lids darker still, and she was pale rather than flushed, so at least she didn’t have a fever.

Beckoning Constance to follow her, Georgie entered her sitting room and retrieved her keys from a drawer in her cherrywood writing desk. Constance placed the octagonal shaped box of mahogany, inlaid with satinwood roses, on the leather blotter. After unlocking the box, Georgie measured out a small amount of the fragrant dried herbs and flowers, and deposited them carefully in a clean, dry tumbler. “Infuse the mixture in hot water for a few minutes only,” she said, as Constance took the glass from her, “otherwise it will be bitter.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Her maid curtsied deeply, her head bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Think nothing of it, Constance,” replied Georgie. “And if there is anything else I can assist you with, anything at all, please let me know. As I mentioned earlier, I am quite happy to send for my physician.”

Constance curtsied again. “You are much too kind, ma’am. But I think the tisane will help immensely.”

Georgie inclined her head. “I’m sure it will too.”

Constance took her leave and Georgie retired to her bedchamber. Leaning against the doorframe, she eyed her bed without a single ounce of enthusiasm. Her head ached and her eyes felt gritty. She might be weary beyond measure, but she doubted she would be able to sleep at all between now and the pre-dawn hour. Not when her heart clenched and her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots every time she imagined Rafe and Craven on the dueling field, pistols aimed straight at each other’s chests.

She shuddered and retired to the fireside to try and find some solace in the pages of
Emma
until it was time to dress.

B
attersea-fields
, South Bank of the Thames, 16
^th
November 1816

“
D
o
you think he will put in an appearance?”

Rafe glanced at Phillip. In the weak, gray light of early morning he could scarcely make out his friend’s features. “I would say so,” he answered in a low voice, his breath a white cloud in the frigid air. “He was certainly baying for blood last night. And he doesn’t seem the type who would let go of an opportunity to exact revenge. Aside from that, he’s desperate to collect on what he thinks he’s owed. For a man with no coin and no honor, that is a powerful incentive indeed.”

“How good a shot do you suppose he is?”

Rafe shrugged as he threw his friend a wolfish grin. “We’ll soon find out. At any rate, I rather doubt I will require the services of your surgeon, Mr. Emerson.” He nodded toward the dour-faced man waiting with Cowan by a nearby copse of plane trees before adding, “I can’t say the same for Craven.”

His flippant response was at odds with how he truly felt. His muscles were tense, his senses were sharpened, his entire body was primed for action. He certainly wasn’t nervous. His resolve and control were as hard and cold as the frost-bitten ground beneath his feet. At long last, Craven would pay for what he had done to Georgie. When the moment came to fire his pistol, Rafe’s hand would be steady and his aim, true.

Phillip shook his head. “Your sang-froid always amazes me, my friend. Do you think Craven will be content to agree to your preferred terms?”

“Perhaps,” Rafe replied with another shrug. “Craven’s destruction at the hand of his creditors is imminent so whether we duel until first-blood, or until one of us can no longer stand, it matters little to me. And as terrible as it sounds, I must say, the idea of him being wounded appeals to me no end. The more pain he suffers, the better.”

They had discussed each of the options last night at Latimer House. Whilst Rafe would like nothing more than to put a bullet in the blackguard’s heart, he also wasn’t willing to forfeit his home in England when he’d only just returned. His dream of sharing a full, happy life with Georgie until they were both old and gray with a surfeit of children and grandchildren, was far too beguiling a prospect to abandon. Especially for a scum-dweller like Craven.

“If you’ve pushed him too far though...” Phillip’s tone was grim. “Now that I think on it, he might very well be suicidal—” He broke off at the sound of a carriage door slamming in the distance.

Within a few minutes, the bulky forms of two men in greatcoats emerged from the shadows and rising mist. Craven and his second. As they drew closer, Rafe noted the other man was Lord Bolton, the nobleman he’d seen with Craven in Gentleman Jackson’s two days ago. A third man—plainly dressed, but clearly a manservant of some kind—trailed behind.

Phillip approached Bolton, and whilst the two went about the usual business of discussing terms, inspecting and loading the dueling pistols, and marking out the ground, Rafe took the opportunity to observe Craven; there was now sufficient light to see that other man’s complexion was pallid beneath his arrogant manner. He might pretend indifference but he was clearly nervous; his hands shook ever so slightly when he removed his gloves and his movements were clumsy as he shrugged off his coat and handed it to the manservant.

Unshaven and clothed in the same stained and rumpled garments he had worn last night, he was a pathetic mess. Rafe strongly suspected that he was still a little bit drunk.

A better man would have called a halt to the duel for that reason alone, but Rafe wasn’t that man. In fact, he had to turn away in order to hide his smile.

Phillip’s voice carried clearly across the field. “In the absence of any apology being issued by either party, Bolton and I have settled the terms. The duel will conclude when one of you can no longer stand. Are you in agreeance, gentlemen?”

Craven’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “So be it.”

Rafe inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Cowan proffered the polished walnut dueling box and Craven and Rafe approached to select their weapons. Light and perfectly balanced, fashioned from steel and walnut, the highly prized brace of Manton pistols were in fact, Rafe’s. Neither Craven nor Bolton had brought a set. It wouldn’t have surprised Rafe in the least if Craven had needed to pawn his at some stage.

Their choices made, Craven and Rafe stepped away with pistols in hand and crossed the frozen ground to their appointed positions.

Rafe couldn’t suppress another predatory smile as he turned to salute his gray-faced opponent. With only fourteen yards separating them, felling Craven would be like child’s play.

* * *

G
eorgie clutched
at the leather strap above her head, trying to maintain her balance as their carriage clattered at breakneck speed over the rickety wooden boards of the Battersea Bridge. Peering out the window, she could barely make out the dull, pewter surface of the Thames through the drifting shroud of mist. Dawn wasn’t far off. A brooding bank of low clouds along the eastern horizon would obscure the moment the sun actually rose, but the bruised-purple sky above was already growing lighter by the second.

Just as Georgie’s panic was rising by the second. Her heart raced faster than the matched team of bays pulling their carriage.

“How much farther?” she asked Jonathon once they’d cleared the bridge. “If we don’t reach Rafe in time...” She bit her lip hard, unable to continue. She wouldn’t cry. There was no time for tears. Of course, she couldn’t care less about Lord Craven, but if Rafe was wounded or worse... No, she refused to contemplate her worst fear, that Rafe might actually be killed. The thought of living without him was, quite simply, unbearable.

Jonathon leaned forward and patted her knee. “Try not to lose heart, Georgie-bean. I estimate we’ll be there in five minutes at this rate. Just in time. We should be passing the village very soon, and a mile on is an inn, The Red House. The duel will take place in a field not far from there.”

Georgie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She dare not ask Jonathon how he knew the precise location of the relatively remote dueling site. There were some things she’d rather not know about her brother. She pushed her tumbledown curls out of her eyes—she’d dressed without Constance’s assistance and hadn’t bothered to do all that much with her hair other than shove it beneath a velvet cap—before returning her gaze to the landscape outside. Sure enough, up ahead was the village of Battersea. It passed by in a flash and then they were hurtling along a frozen, rutted causeway with the Thames on one side and a haphazard network of ditches, marshy fields and reed-beds on the other.

If Georgie wasn’t so frightened for Rafe, she might have been frightened for herself and Jonathon.

“There’s the inn.” Jonathon rapped on the wall of the carriage with his silver topped cane and Benson, their driver, immediately slowed the horses. They entered an overgrown field and followed a rough, muddy path before finally drawing to a halt beside an unkept hawthorn hedge. Four other carriages—all unmarked—were also lined up at various intervals bedside the path. As Jonathon alighted, Georgie gathered up the woolen skirts of her cobalt blue carriage gown and then jumped down after him. She didn’t have time to wait for the stairs.

Heart in her mouth, she raced after Jonathon toward a wooden stile in the hedgerow. He helped her to clamber over, and then they dashed headlong across another short expanse of mist-shrouded grass into a dense copse of golden leaved plane trees.

Panting, her blood thundering in her ears, Georgie stumbled to a halt when Jonathon bade her to.

He put a finger to his lips and pointed through the trees to the field beyond. “Best not to startle anyone,” he whispered against her ear.

Georgie nodded and desperately tried to calm her breathing. A breeze stirred the yellowing leaves in the branches above them and carried snatches of conversation to her. Male voices.

Her heart drummed a wild tattoo inside her chest as she began to edge her way forward. Thankfully, the damp carpet of leaves beneath her booted feet deadened the sound of her footfalls.

“In the absence of any apology being issued by either party, Bolton and I have settled the terms. The duel will conclude when one of you can no longer stand. Are you in agreeance, gentlemen?”

Phillip.
She recognized his voice immediately. Then she heard another man—it had to be Craven—and then Rafe, respond.

“So be it.”

“Agreed.”

Thank God they are not going to fight to the death.
But what, in Heaven’s name, could she say or do to stay both their hands completely?

“We’re not too late,” Georgie whispered over her shoulder to Jonathon. When he didn’t respond, she turned around... and discovered he was lying face down in the leaves a few feet away.

What on earth?
Fear spiked through her as she sucked in a breath. “Jo—”

An arm—a man’s arm—snaked around her throat and her head was pushed roughly forward. His grip as unrelenting as a hangman’s noose, the man choked her. Cut off all her air. Her vision blurred and her head swam.

Dashkov? Oh, please no. No.

White-hot anger and terror burst to life inside Georgie, lending her momentary strength. She tried to scream. Clawed and kicked and thrashed with all her might, but it was to no avail.

As dark oblivion engulfed her, her last thought was of Rafe.

* * *

“
G
entlemen
. Take up your positions,” instructed Phillip from the edge of the copse. “When the handkerchief falls,” he indicated Cowan, “you may fire your first shot.”

Rafe angled his body in a side-on stance and raised his pistol. His pulse remained steady, his breathing even as he cocked his weapon and adjusted his aim a fraction.

There was no doubt in his heart or mind that what he did was just, in every sense of the word.

This was for Georgie.

Even though Rafe focused on Craven, he kept Cowan and the white kerchief within the corner of his vision. Craven also stood side-on; his eyes were narrowed in concentration, his arm shook ever so slightly.

Phillip, Bolton and the manservant retreated to a safe distance with Mr. Emerson. As expected, the surgeon turned his back.

The handkerchief fell.

Rafe fired and straightaway, Craven dropped to the ground, screaming and clutching his thigh.

Bolton rushed over. Emerson followed, the manservant at his heels.

Ignoring the commotion surrounding Craven, Phillip crossed the field toward him. “Nicely done,” he murmured when he reached Rafe’s side. He glanced at his pocket watch. “His two minutes will be up soon enough. It doesn’t look like he will be taking his shot after all.”

Rafe shrugged. “That was the plan. I don’t think I’ve hit anything of vital importance. Although it will still hurt like the very devil.”

Phillip’s mouth kicked into a smile. “Good.”

“Yes.” Glancing back over to Craven, who still groaned and writhed in agony, Rafe felt not one iota of remorse. But there was definitely satisfaction. “My work here is done.”

He tucked his pistol into an inner pocket of his black, woolen redingote and turned to leave the field, heading for the copse and his carriage.

Then Cowan shouted, “Milords! Look out!”

Instinct and experience triggered an immediate response. As Rafe dove into the grass, dragging Phillip down with him, there was a crack beside his right ear.

Bloody fucking hell.
He couldn’t believe it! Did Craven actually just attempt to shoot him when his back was turned?

A blistering wave of anger surged and he shot to his feet. Of all the low, cowardly, dishonorable acts he had ever encountered, this had to be one of the worst.

Rafe charged toward Craven. Bolton, put up his hands to ward him off, but Rafe simply thrust him aside.

“You utter, sniveling, bastard,” he growled, yanking the smoking pistol out of Craven’s grasp.

Emerson raised his blood-covered hands in a gesture of appeal. “Please my lord, I must protest!”