Wandering onto South Audley Street, he decided to take the long-cut and head for Berkeley Square.
If he wished to be an utterly ruthless bastard, there were still a number of ways he could get out of this mess a bachelor.
Essentially there were only three witnesses, all bribable in differing ways – they could be made to forget that he’d ever uttered the word “wife”, although that debutante had most likely blathered to all and sundry.
He’d since learned from Mother that she’d been angling for the vacant position of duchess. He didn’t enjoy being cold-hearted – well, actually that was a falsehood – but God forbid, she chewed her hair.
So…to his current problem.
Obviously, he could bundle Aideen off to Ireland with a quantity of money, enough for a cosy house and servants. Or, as a duke, find a cash-strapped lesser noble to leg shackle the girl to. He could, in fact, do nothing and leave the wench ruined, deny he ever mentioned marrying. Everyone would understand – she was so far beneath his station in life they never should have even met.
It might yet enhance his callous reputation.
But beneath the rational, down below the wise logic, he felt a stirring animal growl its rage.
How revoltingly primitive.
Rakecombe coughed as he realised he’d strolled twice around Berkeley Gardens and so exited the next corner, which unfortunately meant he was further away from Conduit Street than when he’d first entered the blasted square.
He really didn’t have time for this.
Or, of course, he could marry…
Last night, faced with that threesome of witnesses, all he’d wanted to do was protect Aideen’s reputation, and his mouth had spoken without consulting anyone.
But could he marry?
He’d vowed he never would or at least wait until he was too old to continue in his work, his reflexes too slow. But he reckoned he had at least another ten years within him.
Could he marry and yet continue with his work for the Crown?
As he wandered onto Hay Hill – was this the quickest route? – he thought of his sister Gwen. They’d been so close, shared everything, and that had been the cause of her death. So maybe if he did marry but kept his wife…at a distance, all would be well.
Indeed, if he was never seen with his wife, and surely that was how half thehaut tonexisted anyway, there would never be any trouble. He could hire guards as he did for his mother – dear Mama had never once noticed the man who’d consistently trailed her for ten years.
A faint tremor slunk down his spine, raising the issue that Aideen could never be kept at a distance, but he was a duke, and a miserable malcontented one at that. She would fall into line.
“Excuse me, good sir, do you know the way to Old Bond Street?”
Rakecombe glared at the bacon-fed fellow who’d dared to intrude.
Did the lackwit not see the hurry he held? “I no live ’ere,” he scorned in his best Parisian accent, and without waiting for the fellow’s fatuous answer, he ambled on.
Now which was quicker? Grafton Street or cut across South Bruton Mews? He’d try both.
Briefly,very briefly, he wished Winterbourne was around as he was always overflowing with hopeless advice, but then again, it would cost him his pride, so perhaps it was best the man was still up north.
Looking up, he realised this was Clifford Street, and so he hummed and hawed.
How did one get to Conduit from here? Could he take a detour and cut across another mews? He didn’t have time to piddle around the streets of London.
Deliberating, his legs set off down Saville Street, so he followed, wielding his cane every so often on a stray song sheet littering the ground, and adding up all the reasons to marry.
He did need an heir. The current beneficiary was cousin Matthew, who had unfortunately inherited the calamitous family trait of gambling.
Sapskull Matthew was kept on a thrifty stipend and Rakecombe had made sure that even if he did inherit, the estate and monies were bound up tighter than a strumpet’s corset.
Grandfather Thomas, another with the ill-fated gambling habit, had nearly bankrupted the Rakecombe name with his reckless wagering on ducks in a wild goose race.
