His mother had been called away to an unwell friend in Richmond a day after the Aideen debacle, and so far, he’d dined at his club every night.
Unfortunately, he’d promised not to dis-employ the French chef while Mother was away and so tonight he was stuck. He could go out, but his wedding was on the morrow and he would require a clear head where Miss Quinlan was concerned.
Drumming fingers on the mahogany, he considered the investigation. His informant had discovered that before Stafford’s evaporation into nothingness, he’d been seen conversing with an unknown Frenchwoman. It didn’t mean much, as many émigrés dotted London, but it was interesting.
But as to the chap’s vanishing…
Well, nothing had been seen or heard of him, and Rakecombe had covered a lot of ground in the past few days: busy coffee houses, crowded taverns, grim backstreets and squalid lodgings. There were only so many places to hide in London. He could be dead, of course, in the Thames or on a surgeon’s dissecting table, but Rakecombe just had a feeling.
Stafford’s code name was Chameleon and considering their leader’s propensity for choosing apt aliases, he guessed the chap was veiled from sight and living on air.
Indeed, Stafford had spent two years in France posing as a wealthy French investor, and one year in England posing as an anti-monarchist, so he was obviously excellent at what he did. Both guises had seen the disruption of several plots against the Crown.
So why? Why betray after such sterling work? The chap had no family and earned enough for a comfortable house and the odd servant.
A footman commenced lighting more candles as the room darkened but Rakecombe waved him away. It was so bloody quiet. He may as well retire abed to read.
“I know he’s here,” bellowed a voice from the hallway.
“His Grace has requested he not be disturbed,” declared Rawlins the butler, with a tone as arrogant as Rakecombe’s own.
After an “oomph”, the dining room door was thrown open, an outline of black silhouetted against the light.
“There you are, sitting in the dark on your lonesome. Come along, we are going out to celebrate…or commiserate. You can tell me all about it. I’m all agog to hear how you acted therakefor once.”
“Winterbourne, did you damage my butler? And what did you discover in Manchester?”
Throwing himself into one of the delicate hand-carved chairs, the marquess winked. A parrot-green waistcoat clung to his person. Mayhap coquelicot was not so bad.
“I scarcely trod on his foot. And Manchester was bloody awful. Like the girl said – couldn’t understand a word. No grass for supper though and the women are luscious. Penbury’s sister has an arse like a peac–”
“Was Penbury there?”
“Hmm, he’s there. Looks terrible – sweating and casting up his accounts right, left and centre. Enough to make you want to give up the grog,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass of claret. “We had a long chat, when he was able, but he’s not our traitor, I’m afraid. So, where next?”
“Someone must have seen Stafford. We will talk to that butler again tomorrow.”
Winterbourne stared aghast, glass held aloft. “Goddammit, you’re getting married tomorrow!”
“It will only take the morning, if that.”
He knew the impression he was giving, but to maintain his distance it had to commence now. At the very beginning.
Since the loss of Gwen, aloofness was a persona he was familiar with, an old friend, and besides, he’d no choice if a similar fate was not to befall his future duchess.
“Cold-hearted fellow you are, but I have no doubt the delicious Miss Quinlan will warm you through like a pan of pea soup. Now come on. We are off on a spree.”
Aideen didn’t warm: she seared him, and the pan of soup would be boiling over the stove, causing a bloody great mess if he lost his control.
“I thought to stay in,” he grumbled.
“And do what? Eat…” The marquess peered closely at Rakecombe’s full plate. “I say, what is that?”
“Fricassée de lapin forestièreaccompanied byl’ail à la Bordelaise.”
“Hmm. Let’s head to the Cyder Cellars in Maiden Lane for some victuals.”
“No, I–”
