“Thank you all,” a deep voice rumbled. “I am in your debt.”
Rakecombe swivelled to find the bloody butler, a bundle of quivering, dirty white in his embrace, thin arms encircling his neck.
“Stafford, I presume?” Rakecombe queried, brow raised. “A chameleon indeed.”
The man nodded, and Winterbourne came forward, stroking the little girl’s hair with a bloodied hand. “And who are you, little one?” She was young, six if that, but even she gave his handsome face a hesitant smile.
“I am Aimée Stafford,” she whispered in a French lisping accent, hugging her papa close.
Rakecombe pinched his forehead.
What an utter bloody mess.
The warehouse door flew open, rattling on its hinges, and they turned as one, pistols and daggers raised, to encounter Rainham striding in followed by five men with necks as thick as tree trunks.
“Rakecombe, Winterbourne,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Duchess.” He bowed, seemingly with no surprise. “And…Stafford,” he said with a sigh. Their leader took in the situation, eyes lingering on the child. “Is everyone unharmed?” At Rakecombe’s nod, he got to the heart of the matter. “And where are those cursed documents?”
Stafford hung his head. “They’re in my coat,” he replied softly. “I… I held off as long as I could, sir…”
Their leader approached and placed a hand to Stafford’s shoulder. “I know you did, Gabriel, but I’m afraid we need a long talk back at Whitehall.”
With remorse obvious, Stafford nodded as the tiny Aimée patted his cheek.
“Rakecombe, take your remarkable duchess home, and Winterbourne, get that scratch seen to.”
“At last, someone acknowledges my pain,” Winterbourne grumbled. “But do not disturb yourselves as I’m sure I can find a willing widow to patch me up and soothe my fevered brow…if they’re willing to ignore the fishy stench.”
But Rakecombe wasn’t really listening as they stepped into the light, leaving Rainham to sort out the mess inside.
Instead he studied his wife, stood biting her lip and rubbing a smudge on her nose but only spreading it further. The black clothing suited her, and he noticed that the odd skirt gave her more freedom of movement in the legs. She carried an air of downright menace.
He didn’t quite know what to say as they walked up a narrow lane to the carriage:
Thank you for saving my life but never do it again?
When I believed you dead, my heart ceased beating and I didn’t wish it to restart?
I adore you, but the thought of you in danger tears me asunder.
Slowly, he opened his mouth, but all those thoughts refused to voice themselves, so he clambered into the carriage.
Aideen sat opposite, skirts brushing his legs, and he longed to touch her delicate cheek, peel off those black clothes, hold her skin to skin.
Her warmth, her passion. Her vitality.
Yet as his eyes skittered in her direction and the carriage moved off, he heard that scream in the warehouse, he heard Gwen’s terrified cry, and fear squeezed his lungs until he could barely breathe.
But for a quirk of fate, a slip of someone’s hand, he might have been holding Aideen’s cold motionless body in his arms at this moment…or she his.
He shifted his gaze away.
Chapter Twenty-four
If you think something’s wrong, it’s because it is.
The newspaper twitched.
And then rustled. But it didn’t lower.
