The Ice Duchess: Scandalous Regency Widows, Book 2 (31 page)

“In a minute. I desire a word with Lord Craven.”

Craven closed his eyes, and rolled his head away. “I’m down for Christ’s sake,” he rasped. His breathing was erratic, his face ashen with pain. “You can’t do this.”

“I think you and I both know that we’re well past playing by the rules, Craven.”

Craven spat into the grass at Rafe’s feet. “Fuck off. Leave... me be.”

“Not a chance.” Rafe gripped the earl by the hair and forced his head around to face him. “I should have shot you dead. Do you know why?”

Craven’s pale, bloodless lips twisted into a rictus of a smile. “Why... the fuck... would I care?”

Rafe tightened his grip a little more. “What you want or care about doesn’t matter to me. At all. But I
do
want you to know this. This—all of this—this duel, your failure at the gaming table last night, and your ultimate ruin—it is retribution, pure and simple. Retribution I’m exacting on behalf of another for a crime you committed a decade ago.”

Craven’s chest shook as if he was attempting to laugh, but he couldn’t harness enough breath to produce any sound. “Which one?” he eventually gasped. “And to whom?”

Georgie’s name hovered on Rafe’s lips, but as he stared into Craven’s pain-glazed eyes, he decided he did not want to say it.

Craven didn’t deserve to know.

But most of all, he didn’t want the worthless swine thinking about the woman he loved.

Rafe released his hold and stepped away. “As you were, Mr. Emerson,” he said quietly, his iron-hard control back in place.

He turned on his heel and strode away.

It was time to go back to Georgie.

He smiled to himself, wondering if she was still abed, and if she was, how he would go about pleasuring her. And how her smile would reach her beautiful blue eyes when he told her he loved her.

However, all thoughts of making love to Georgie fled the moment Rafe entered the copse. Cowan called out to him again, his tone urgent. “Milord. Over ‘ere.”

Rafe located him in the gloom a few yards away, kneeling beside Jonathon, who sat with his back against the trunk of a plane tree, his head between his legs.

“What the hell are you doing here? What’s happened?” Rafe demanded. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Cowan ran a hand down his face, and the cold foreboding in the pit of Rafe’s stomach increased ten-fold. “Looks like someone’s given Sir Jonathon a nasty whack on the skull with that,” he said, nodding toward a sizeable rock lying in a nearby pile of leaves. It was streaked with red. “He’s only just come to.”

Sure enough, Rafe could see a bloody gash on the back of Jonathon’s head. His gut told him this wasn’t the work of common footpads. He dropped to his knees and squeezed Jonathon’s shoulder. “Winterbourne. What’s going on? Who did this?”

Jonathon winced as he lifted his head. He was as pale as the linen of his cravat. “I don’t know... I didn’t see. Where’s Georgie?”

Panic seared through Rafe’s chest. “Georgie’s here?”

Cowan spoke, “I ‘aven’t seen ‘er Grace, milord.”

Jonathon swallowed, his face a sickly shade of green. “She came with me... She found out about the duel and insisted we follow you... to stop you.” He grabbed Rafe’s sleeve. “Are you saying she’s not here? Oh, sweet Jesus... Don’t tell me Dashkov’s taken her.”

“I pray to God he hasn’t.” Tamping down the urge to rail at Jonathon for both his loose tongue and rampant stupidity, Rafe sprang to his feet. “Cowan. Call Lord Maxwell. Start looking for any signs of the duchess and Dashkov.” He addressed Jonathon again even though it looked like he was about to lose the contents of his stomach. “When did you get here? Were you followed?”

“God,” Jonathon clutched his head. “I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I’m having trouble recalling—” He leaned sideways and vomited into the leaves.

Leaving him to it—he obviously wasn’t going to be much use in his present state—Rafe ran his eyes over the surrounding ground carpeted in damp, browning leaves. Several yards away, something blue caught his eye.

He sprinted over and scooped it up. A blue velvet cap.
Georgie’s.
It had to be.

His blood froze when he saw a white card tucked inside. Herr Maximilian Scherzfrage’s card.

Something was scrawled on the back in red ink. A taunt.

A threat.

Fuck.
This was Rafe’s worst nightmare, coming to life. But he didn’t have time for fear. Or guilt. Not when Georgie’s life hung in the balance. Rafe closed his eyes for a moment and let black, murderous rage take over. It pounded through his veins, washing away all traces of terror, clearing his mind, hardening his resolve.

Dashkov would die for this.

But first, he had to find Georgie.

Before it was too late.

S
omewhere in London
...

H
er head throbbed
. Pounded.

Her jaw ached and it hurt to swallow. There was something—a rag—jammed in her mouth and she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe...

Oh, God!

Georgie jerked, her head bobbing like a puppet’s when the strings were cut. Fear burned through her veins and acrid nausea swelled as full consciousness returned and her memory came flooding back.

Dashkov has me.

She prized her heavy eyelids open, and the room swam before her eyes. She recognized this hideous feeling. Knew it well. She’d been drugged.

But worse than that, she’d been kidnapped. Gagged, bound and tied to a chair in a strange, shabby room that could be anywhere.

Panic flared again. The pace of her breathing increased, grew frantic as she tried to suck in enough air through her nose. The gag tasted foul and another wave of nausea hit.
Oh, dear Lord.
She was going to be sick. But she would choke.
No, no, no.

Georgie closed her eyes and focused on trying to control her breathing, to swallow down her terror and to concentrate on thoughts that would help.
Rafe will find me. I will be all right. I am strong. If I keep calm and I use my wits, I can survive this.

As her breathing slowed, and her nausea abated a little, she opened her eyes again and tried to make her foggy brain work, to take in her surroundings, to assess where she might be, and what, if anything, she could do to escape. Straining against her painfully tight bonds of coarse rope proved futile. Bound at the wrists, ankles and around her torso to a heavy oak, Jacobean style chair, she could barely move anything except her head.

She was alone as far as she could tell; positioned in the middle of the room, she couldn’t see behind her. Disconcerting to think someone might be watching her... She couldn’t hear anyone else, only her own shallow breathing, but still...

She shivered and directed her attention elsewhere.

Her first impression that the room was shabby had been correct. It appeared to be a small parlor of some kind that had clearly seen better days. She faced an empty, filthy fireplace; a horsehair sofa with torn upholstery; and a scratched and chipped occasional table. Moth-eaten, rust colored curtains hung drunkenly from a window to her left. Only partly drawn, weak, gray light filtered through the grimy panes onto the bare, dusty floorboards. The only view afforded to her was a grubby, brown brick wall. She sensed the room was a few stories up and adjacent to an alley. Noises—voices calling and the insistent clatter of hooves and cartwheels—reached her easily.
A London alley?

Dear, God, Georgie hoped so.

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed between when Dashkov had taken her and now, but she guessed it had only been a few hours. Beneath her nausea, her stomach grumbled and she was conscious of the call of nature, but the feeling wasn’t too strong. Yet.

Georgie grimaced. It wouldn’t do to dwell on that.

A hazy recollection of waking up in an unfamiliar carriage, trussed up like a Christmas goose, suddenly surfaced in her mind. She’d tried to scream but the baron—if that’s who it was—had forced her to drink a bitter tasting concoction of laudanum and heaven knew what else. She also vaguely recalled they’d clattered over the Battersea Bridge before she’d passed out again. So perhaps they were in London. Which meant Rafe and Jonathon would find her.

Then she remembered. Jonathon lying face down in a pile of leaves. Her breath caught.
Please God, let him be all right. If Jonathon were dead...
Tears scalded her eyes and she snuffled awkwardly around the gag. Even crying was impossibly difficult.

And what of Rafe?

What if he’d been injured or killed as she had feared from the very start?

And if Rafe and Jonathon were both dead, who would come for her?

A muffled sob escaped Georgie as wave after wave of painful despair coursed through her heart. This couldn’t be the end. For her, or those dearest to her.

Offering up a silent prayer to heaven, she vowed she would do whatever it took to save herself.

Time dragged on and despite her distress and physical discomfort, she eventually succumbed to the lingering effects of the laudanum and slid into a fitful doze.

Then something roused her. A metallic rattle and scrape. A key turning in a lock.

Her heart crashing against her ribs, Georgie raised her head and turned toward the sound, ears straining. The door was somewhere behind her, out of her line of sight.

Who was on the other side?

And if it was the man she thought of as Baron Dashkov, what in God’s name did he want?

The door opened, clicked shut, and the key scraped in the lock again. Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden floor and her heart leapt into a full gallop.

Dashkov then.

Georgie tried but failed to stifle a whimper when her captor stroked a hand lightly down the back of her hair. Threading his fingers through the tangled locks at her nape, he then caressed the sensitive skin beneath, raising gooseflesh.

“Shhh,
moya dorogaya
,” he crooned beside her ear. She recognized the deep, guttural tones of the man who’d crashed into her outside Latimer House and had then tried to abduct her at knife point in Berkeley Square. The man who’d called her
whore
. “This part will not hurt.”

Terror snaked its way down Georgie’s spine, making her shiver uncontrollably.
What is he going to do to me?
She didn’t understand. She didn’t even know the man, had never done anything to deserve this cruel treatment.

He was clearly mad.

She closed her eyes and bit down on the gag to stop herself from making another sound. She wouldn’t give the monster the satisfaction of seeing her cry, whatever happened next.

The man suddenly gripped and twisted her hair, giving it such a vicious tug, her eyes watered. And then something cold and metallic touched the back of Georgie’s neck. A blade.

Oh, no. Please, God, no!

There was a snipping sound, the sound of scissors, and a lock of her hair fell onto her shoulder and then into her lap. He was cutting off her hair! All of the long curls that Rafe loved so much.

Despite Georgie’s resolution not to cry, a tear escaped. Whether she wept with relief or sorrow she really had no idea. Why? Why would Dashkov do such a horrible thing? An act meant to disfigure and debase her?

She’d been callously abused and humiliated a decade ago, and she really didn’t want to go through anything like that again.

But there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all.

Another tear slid down her check, then another.
It’s only your hair, Georgie
she told herself.
It will grow back.

But then Dashkov had said ‘
this
part will not hurt’, which begged the question, what about the other parts? What else was he going to do?

Georgie thrust the thought aside. She didn’t want to think about it. If she did,
she
might go mad.

The cutting ceased. Cold air drifted over the back of her neck. Her hair had been completely hacked off at the nape.

Then another whisper gusted over her ear. “Do you know who I am, Your Grace?” the man asked. His breath smelled sour—like stale cabbages and onions. Small beer. Georgie tried not to shudder. “Did your lover solve the puzzle?”

She hesitated, not sure how to respond until Dashkov squeezed the back of her neck in a vice-like grip. “Answer me,
blyad
. Do you know my name?”

Georgie nodded and the pressure on her neck eased. Became a caress again.

“Then you know why I do this. He told you about our history did he not? What he did to my poor Anna.”

It
was
Baron
Dashkov. Rafe had been right.

Georgie nodded again. The baron might be insane, but the motivation behind her kidnapping was as clear as crystal. Revenge. An eye for an eye. Just as Rafe had suspected.

But how far would Dashkov go?

Will he actually kill me to punish Rafe?

Dashkov suddenly stepped in front of her, and she jumped in her seat, her startled gasp muffled by the gag.

She’d never seen him properly before, up so close with his face fully exposed by the light of day. He might be tall and well-made beneath his brown woolen frock coat, but his cheeks were gaunt and his jaw was covered in dark stubble. His dark hair was unruly, in need of a cut. He appeared to be older than Rafe—perhaps about forty—and he would have been attractive but for his unkept appearance and the wild look in his pale gray eyes, the dark shadows beneath. And the sneering smile.

“I’ve made you cry,
moya dorogaya
,” he said softly, bending down and stroking her cheek. A mocking caress. “Do not worry. I will send this,” he held up her lopped off curls, “to your Lord Markham.”

If he is alive... No, don’t think that way, Georgiana Dudley.
She swallowed past her tight, aching throat. Then nodded.

Dashkov seemed to like that as his smile widened. “Very good. I will leave you now. But never fear, I shall be back before too long. For the next part.”

The next part? Did he mean to take something else away from her? Her clothing? Surely he couldn’t mean anything else. It didn’t bear thinking about.

The door shut, the key turned in the lock, and Georgie let the tears flow unheeded as she struggled to loosen her bonds again.

And she prayed.

* * *

D
udley House
, Hanover Square, Eleven o’clock in the morning...

R
afe knew
the news wasn’t what he wanted to hear as soon as Cowan entered the library at Dudley House.

“I’m sorry, milord,” he said, cap in hand, his tone as grave as an undertaker’s. “Your men and I ‘ave not been able to dredge up a single clue these last few ‘ours.”

“Any word from Lord Maxwell?” Phillip was working with John Townsend, the former head of the Bow Street Runners, helping him to coordinate the London based search. A peeress of the realm had been abducted and every effort would be expended, no expense spared.

Cowan shook his head. “No, milord. It seems there ain’t a trace to be found of Baron Dashkov or the duchess. But we will keep lookin’. No stone left unturned ‘an all tha’.”

Rafe ground his teeth together with frustration. Nevertheless he gave Cowan a curt nod of thanks. It wasn’t his fault that nothing helpful had come to light.

No, the blame for this entire nightmarish debacle lay squarely at his own feet. “Is Lumsden still questioning the servants?”

“Yes, milord. Reed is ‘elping out too. There ain’t many to go, so I might lend a ‘and, if that’s all right wif you. An’ you never know...”

“Yes, of course.” Rafe replied. “One must never give up hope.”

But as the door shut behind Cowan, he did indeed feel there was precious little hope.

He closed his eyes as insidious despair suddenly broke through his carefully constructed armor of icy composure.
Shit.
The thought of Georgie in pain... of being tortured... He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

Stop it, Markham. Buck up.
Keep calm and think.
Georgie’s fate wouldn’t be the same as Solange’s, not if he could help it.

Somehow he would find a way to save her. His duchess.

He crossed over to Jonathon’s desk and poured himself a cognac, his chosen remedy to keep his head clear. Jonathon was currently indisposed with an abominable headache and had quite rightly taken to his bed. Although it was fortunate indeed that he hadn’t actually been killed, now wasn’t the time to worry about Georgie’s brother.

Taking a large swig of his drink, Rafe began to sift through the scraps of information they
did
have, which at this stage, was nothing substantial at all.

Dashkov was proving to be far too clever—not new intelligence by any means; the man had been alternately taunting and evading Rafe and all of his men for weeks now. This morning he’d struck hard and fast like the true snake he was, before disappearing without a trace.

The most disconcerting part was, Rafe sensed Dashkov would only rear his ugly head again when he wanted to share what he had done to Georgie. To torment and to gloat. The message on his calling card was
very
clear in that regard. The sick bastard might be torturing Georgie right at this very moment and there was nothing on earth that he could do about it.

Rafe closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Think, man.
There was something he was missing, some link, a puzzle piece.

Dashkov had always been one step ahead. He always seemed to anticipate both his and Georgie’s movements.

This morning was a case in point. Barely anyone knew about the duel, and that it would be in a location as remote as Battersea-fields.

But by all accounts, Dashkov had been there, lying in wait for Georgie and Jonathon. Benson, Dudley House’s coachman, had reported that there were four other carriages in the field adjacent to the dueling ground when they arrived. Rafe had traveled with Phillip in his carriage; the surgeon, Mr. Emerson had arrived in his own conveyance; and Craven had traveled with Bolton.