And whathadhis wife meant by those last softly spoken words?
∞∞∞
“You are an arse, Rakeshame,” said Winterbourne, a needless red silk sling that smelled of jasmine adorning his person.
Rakecombe ignored him as they sat in Rainham’s office awaiting their leader’s return. He’d left for a brief meeting with his superiors but obviously got stuck. Another white lily adorned the table and he scowled. Had he ever bought Aideen flowers? Ever?
“I wager,” Winterbourne drawled, “that you haven’t even said thank you to your lady wife for saving your posterior.”
No, he hadn’t. “I…saw her last night.”
“Tupping is not the same,” the insolent rogue replied.
“I did not tup.”
“Well, that’s where you are going wrong. I can–”
“Gentlemen,” Rainham acknowledged as he strode through the door to Rakecombe’s eternal relief.
Their leader sat, spreading his palms over the desk. “Where were we?”
“Stafford and Aimée. How are they?” asked Winterbourne, being blunt for once. “Surely he will not be accused of treason as no one should have to choose between a daughter and their country? The poor chap was driven to it and he hadn’tactuallyhanded anything over.”
Not so blunt then.
Rainham steepled his fingers, never a good sign. “I have managed to convince the grumbletonions on high to leave him be…for now, although he is, of course, suspended and to be watched.”
Smoothing a thumb over the dog’s head finial of his cane, Rakecombe mulled.
Love, seemingly, had no respect for borders, as Stafford had fallen for his wife when working in Paris. Worried about retribution from either side, they’d married in utter secrecy but a mere ten months later, she’d died giving birth in a remote village in France, where Aimée had remained with her maternal grandmother, Stafford visiting whenever he was able.
But someone had found out and she’d been snatched, the information demanded for her return.
“And the butler act?” Winterbourne pressed. “I bought the deuced fellow two pints of porter.”
Their leader smiled. “Idochoose codenames with forethought, and in that disguise, he could remain unseen in London and still search for his daughter. Reminds me of someone with that dyed black hair, but no matter. Apparently, he has been following a certain…bloodhound.”
“I…” Rakecombe trailed off.
“Hmm. He knew of your reputation and hoped you would pick up a scent, leading him to Aimée.”
That explained the feeling of being watched, and the only consolation for not recognising the faux butler was that Stafford was – or used to be – one of Rainham’s finest.
Clearly, Stafford should have told them of the blackmail, but who could blame him? Mason had done that and it had ended in tragedy.
“It is obvious,” Rainham said, interrupting those grim thoughts, “someone is coordinating these kidnappings. Rakecombe, you shotLa Chauve-Sourislast year, but his body was never found. Could he still be alive, I wonder? Finding out is the priority.”
He nodded. “I’ll begin at once.”
“No, no.” Rainham waved a hand. “I think you should take some days off first.”
“I beg your pardon?” The suggestion startled him. “Napoleon is on the bloody loose and you want me to take a holiday? Where? Paris?” he snarled.
“Amusing, my friend, but you never even took your wife on honeymoon. Bit lax and you worked your wedding afternoon. Winterbourne can make a start.”
Rakecombe had never felt so disgruntled.
“I agree,” Winterbourne said, winking, “it might give the duchess time to penetrate that thick hide of yours and find the inner softness.”
