Rake with a Frozen Heart Page 4

  Henrietta scrabbled to her feet. He was quite plainly bored by the whole matter. And by her. She should not be surprised. She should certainly not feel hurt. She was, after all, just a lowly governess with a preposterous story; he was an earl with an important life and no doubt a string of beautiful women with whom to carry on his dalliances. Women who didn’t wear brown dresses and who most certainly didn’t lie around waiting to be pulled out of ditches. ‘I must thank you again for rescuing me,’ she said in what she hoped was a curt voice, though she suspected it sounded rather huffy. ‘Please forgive me for taking up quite so much of your time.’

  ‘It was a pleasure, Miss Markham, but a word of warning before you go.’ Rafe tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger. Her eyes were liquid bronze. Really, quite her most beautiful feature. He met her gaze coolly, though he didn’t feel quite as cool as he should. He wasn’t used to having his equilibrium disturbed. ‘Don’t expect to be lauded as a heroine,’ he said softly. ‘Helen Ipswich is neither a very credulous nor a particularly kind person.’ He took her hand, just brushing the back of it with his lips. ‘Good luck, Henrietta Markham, and goodbye. If you return to your room, I’ll send Mrs Peters up with your dress. She will also see you out.’

  He could not resist pressing his lips to her hand. She tasted delightful. The scent of her and the feel of her skin on his mouth shot a dart of pleasure to his groin. He dropped her hand abruptly, turned on his heels and left without a backward glance.

  Just the faintest touch of his mouth on her skin, but she could feel it there still. Henrietta lifted her hand to her cheek and held it there until the tingling faded. It took a long time before it finally did.

  * * *

  Molly Peters, Rafe’s long-suffering housekeeper, was an apple-shaped woman with rosy cheeks. Her husband, Albert, who alone was permitted to call her his little pippin, was head groom. Molly had started service in the previous earl’s day as a scullery maid, ascending by way of back parlourmaid, chambermaid and front parlourmaid, before eventually serving, briefly and unhappily, as lady’s maid to the last countess. Upon her ladyship’s untimely death, Master Rafe had appointed Molly to the heady heights of housekeeper, with her own set of keys and her own parlour.

  Running the household was a task Molly Peters undertook with pride and carried out extremely competently. Indeed, she would have executed it with gusto had she been given the opportunity, but even when the last countess had been alive, Woodfield Manor had seldom been used as a residence. As a result, Mrs Peters had little to do and was frankly a little bored. Henrietta’s unorthodox arrival provided some welcome excitement and consequently induced an unaccustomed garrulousness in the usually reserved housekeeper.

  ‘I’ve known Master Rafe all his life, since he was a babe,’ she said in answer to Henrietta’s question. ‘A bonny babe he was, too, and so clever.’

  ‘He has certainly retained his looks,’ Henrietta ventured, struggling into her newly brushed, but none the less indisputably brown dress.

  Mrs Peters pursed her lips. ‘Certainly, he has no shortage of admirers,’ she said primly. ‘A man like Lord Pentland, with those looks and the Pentland title behind him, to say nothing of the fact that he’s as rich as Croesus, will always attract the ladies, but the master is—well, miss, the truth is…’ She looked over her shoulder, as if Rafe would suddenly appear in the bedchamber. ‘Truth is, he’s the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, as my Albert puts it, though I say there’s little loving and a darn sight more leaving. I don’t know why I’m telling you this except you seem such a nice young lady and it wouldn’t do to— But then, he’s not a libertine, if you know what I mean.’

  Henrietta tried to look knowledgeable, though in truth she wasn’t exactly sure she understood the distinction between rake and libertine. Certainly Mama had never made one. She was attempting to formulate a question that would persuade Mrs Peters to enlighten her without revealing her own ignorance when the housekeeper heaved a huge sigh and clucked her teeth. ‘He wasn’t always like that, mind. I blame that wife of his.’

  ‘He’s married!’ Henrietta’s jaw dropped with shock. ‘I didn’t know.’ But why should she? Contrary to what his lordship thought, Henrietta was not a great one for gossip. Generally speaking, she closed her ears to it, which is why Rafe St Alban’s accusations had hurt. In fact, she had only become aware of his reputation recently, a chance remark of her employer’s having alerted her. But if he was married, it made his behaviour so much worse. Somewhat irrationally, Henrietta felt a little betrayed, as if he had lied to her, even though it was actually none of her business. ‘I hadn’t heard mention of a wife,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because she’s dead,’ Mrs Peters replied quietly. ‘Five years ago now.’

  ‘So he’s a widower!’ He looked even less like one of those. ‘What happened? How did she die? When did they marry? Was he—did they—was it a love match? Was he devastated?’ The questions tripped one after another off her tongue. Only the astonished look on Mrs Peters’s face made her stop. ‘I am just curious,’ Henrietta said lamely.

  Mrs Peters eyed her warily. ‘Her name was Lady Julia. I’ve said more than enough already, the master doesn’t like her to be talked about. But if you’re ready to go, I can show you a likeness of her on the way out, if you want.’

  The portrait hung in the main vestibule. The subject was depicted gazing meditatively into the distance, her willowy figure seated gracefully on a rustic swing bedecked with roses. ‘Painted the year she died, that was,’ Mrs Peters said.

  ‘She is—was—very beautiful,’ Henrietta said wistfully.

  ‘Oh, she was lovely, no doubt about that,’ Mrs Peters said, ‘though handsome is as handsome does.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mrs Peters looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘How long were they married?’

  ‘Six years. Master Rafe was only a boy, not even twenty, when they were wed. She was a few years older than him. It makes a difference at that age,’ Mrs Peters said.

  ‘How so?’

  Mrs Peters shook her head. ‘Don’t matter now. As Albert says, what’s done is done. The carriage will be waiting for you, miss.’

  Henrietta took a final look at the perfect features of the elegant woman depicted in the portrait. There could be no denying the Countess of Pentland’s beauty, but there was a calculating hardness in the eyes she could not like, a glittering perfection to her appearance that made Henrietta think of polished granite. For some ridiculous reason, she did not like to imagine Rafe St Alban in love with this woman.

  Taking leave of the housekeeper, she made her way down the front steps to the waiting coach, unable to stop herself looking back just in case the earl had changed his mind and deigned to say farewell to her himself. But there was no sign of him.

  A large fountain dominated the courtyard, consisting of four dolphins supporting a statue of Neptune. Modelled on Bernini’s Triton fountain in Rome, Henrietta’s inner governess noted. Beyond the fountain, reached by a broad sweep of steps, pristine flower beds and immaculate lawns stretched into the distance. Like the house she had just left, the grounds spoke eloquently of elegance, taste and wealth.

  The contrast with her own childhood home could not be more stark. The ramshackle house in which she had been raised was damp, draughty and neglected. A lack of funds, and other, more pressing priorities saw to that. Any spare money her parents had went to good causes. An unaccustomed gust of homesickness assailed Henrietta. Hopelessly inept her parents might be, but they always meant well. They always put others first, even if the others weren’t at all grateful. Even if it meant their only child coming last. Still, she never doubted that they loved her. She missed them.

  But she had never been one to repine her lot. Henrietta straightened her shoulders and climbed into the waiting coach with its crest emblazoned on the door, already preparing herself for the forthcoming, almost certainly difficult, interview wi
th her employer.

  * * *

  Rafe watched her departure from his bedroom window. Poor Henrietta Markham, it was unlikely in the extreme that Helen Ipswich would thank her for attempting to intervene—if that is what she really had done. He felt oddly uncomfortable at having allowed her to return on her own like a lamb to the slaughter. But he was not a shepherd and rescuing innocent creatures from Helen Ipswich’s clutches was not his responsibility.

  As the carriage pulled off down the driveway, Rafe left the window, stripped off his boots and coat, and donned his dressing gown. Sitting by the fireside, a glass of brandy in hand, he caught Henrietta’s elusive scent still clinging to the silk. A long chestnut hair lay on the sleeve.

  She had been a pleasant distraction. Unexpectedly desirable, too. That mouth. Those delectable curves.

  But she was gone now. And later today, so too would he be. Back to London. Rafe took a sip of brandy. Two weeks ago he had turned thirty. Just over twelve years now since he had inherited the title, and almost five years to the day since he had become a widower. More than enough time to take up the reins of his life again, his grandmother, the Dowager Countess, chided him on a tediously regular basis. In a sense she was right, but in another she had no idea how impossible was her demand. The emotional scars he bore ran too deep for that. He had no desire at all to risk inflicting any further damage to his already battered psyche.

  He took another, necessary, sip of brandy. The time had come. His grandmother would have to be made to relinquish once and for all any notion of a direct heir, though how he was going to convince her without revealing the unpalatable truth behind his reluctance, the terrible guilty secret that would haunt him to the grave, was quite another matter.

  * * *

  By the time the coach drew up at her employer’s front door, Henrietta’s natural optimism had reasserted itself. Whatever Rafe St Alban thought, she had tried to prevent a theft; even if she hadn’t actually succeeded, she could describe the housebreaker and that was surely something of an achievement. Entering the household, she was greeted by an air of suppressed excitement. The normally hangdog footman goggled at her. ‘Where have you been?’ he whispered. ‘They’ve been saying—’

  ‘My lady wishes to see you immediately,’ the butler interrupted.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve changed my clothes, if you please.’

  ‘Immediately,’ the butler repeated firmly.

  Henrietta ascended the stairs, her heart fluttering nervously. Rafe St Alban had a point—her story did seem extremely unlikely. Reminding herself of one of Papa’s maxims, that she had nothing to fear in telling the truth, she straightened her back and held her head up proudly, but as she tapped on the door she was horribly aware of the difference between speaking the truth and actually being able to prove it.

  * * *

  Lady Helen Ipswich, who admitted to twenty-nine of her forty years, was in her boudoir. She had been extremely beautiful in her heyday and took immense pains to preserve the fragile illusion of youthful loveliness. In the flattering glow of candlelight, she almost succeeded. Born plain Nell Brown, she had progressed through various incarnations, from actress, to high flyer, to wife and mother—in point of fact, her first taste of motherhood had preceded her marriage by some fifteen years. This interesting piece of information was known only to herself, the child’s adoptive parents and the very expensive accoucheur who attended the birth of her official ‘first-born’, Lord Ipswich’s heir.

  After seven years of marriage, Lady Ipswich had settled contentedly into early widowhood. Her past would always bar her from the more hallowed precincts of the haut ton. She had wisely never attempted to obtain vouchers for Almack’s. Her neighbour, the Earl of Pentland, would never extend her more than the commonest of courtesies and the curtest of bows. But as the relic of a peer of the realm, and with two legitimate children to boot, she had assumed a cloak of respectability effective enough to fool most unacquainted with her past—her governess included.

  As to the persistent rumours that she had, having drained his purse, drained the life-blood from her husband, well, they were just that—rumours. The ageing Lord Ipswich had succumbed to an apoplexy. That it had occurred in the midst of a particularly energetic session in the marital bedchamber simply proved that Lady Ipswich had taken her hymeneal duties seriously. Her devotion to the wifely cause had, quite literally, taken his lordship’s breath away. Murder? Certainly not! Indeed, how could it be when at least five men of her intimate acquaintance had begged her—two on bended knee—to perform the same service for them. To date, she had refused.

  The widow was at her toilette when Henrietta entered, seated in front of a mirror in the full glare of the unforgiving morning sun. The dressing table was a litter of glass jars and vials containing such patented aids to beauty as Olympian Dew and Denmark Lotion, a selection of perfumes from Messrs Price and Gosnell, various pots of rouge, eyelash tints and lip salves, a tangle of lace and ribbons, hair brushes, a half-empty vial of laudanum, several tortoiseshell combs, a pair of tweezers and numerous cards of invitation.

  As Henrietta entered the room, Lady Ipswich was peering anxiously into her looking glass, having just discovered what looked alarmingly like a new wrinkle on her brow. At her age, and with her penchant for younger men, she could not be too careful. Only the other day, one of her lovers had commented that the unsightly mark left by the ribbon that tied her stockings had not faded by the time she rose to dress. Her skin no longer had the elastic quality of youth. He had paid for his bluntness, but still!

  Finally satisfied with her reflection and her coiffure, she turned to face Henrietta. ‘So, you have deigned to return,’ she said coldly. ‘Do you care to explain yourself and your absence?’

  ‘If you remember, ma’am, I went looking for Princess. I see she found her way back unaided.’

  The pug, hearing her name, looked up from her pink-velvet cushion by the fireside and growled. Lady Ipswich hastened to pick the animal up. ‘No thanks to you, Miss Markham.’ She tickled the dog under the chin. ‘You’re a clever little Princess, aren’t you? Yes, you are,’ she said, before fixing Henrietta with a baleful stare. ‘You should know that while you were off failing to find my precious Princess, the house was broken into. My emeralds have been stolen.’

  ‘The Ipswich emeralds!’ Henrietta knew them well. They were family heirlooms and extremely distinctive. Lady Ipswich was inordinately fond of them and Henrietta had much admired them herself.

  ‘Gone. The safe was broken into and they were taken.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Henrietta clutched the back of a flimsy filigree chair. The man who had abducted her was clearly no common housebreaker, but a most daring and outrageous thief indeed. And she had encountered him. More, could identify him. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said faintly. ‘He did not look at all like the sort of man who would attempt such a shocking crime. In actual fact, he looked as if he would be more at home picking pockets in the street.’

  Now it was Lady Ipswich’s turn to pale. ‘You saw him?’

  Henrietta nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed, my lady. That explains why he hit me. If he were to be caught, he would surely hang for his crime.’ As the implications began to dawn on her, Henrietta’s knees gave way. He really had left her for dead. If Rafe St Alban had not found her… Muttering an apology, she sank down on to the chair.

  ‘What did he look like? Describe him to me,’ Lady Ipswich demanded.

  Henrietta furrowed her brow. ‘He was quite short, not much taller than me. He had an eyepatch. And an accent. From the north somewhere. Liverpool, perhaps? Quite distinctive.’

  ‘You would know him again if you saw him?’

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt about that. Most certainly.’

  Lady Ipswich began to pace the room, clasping and unclasping her hands. ‘I have already spoken to the magistrate,’ she said. ‘He has sent for a Bow Street Runner.’

  ‘They will wish to intervi
ew me. I may even be instrumental in having him brought to justice. Goodness!’ Henrietta put a trembling hand to her forehead in an effort to stop the feeling of light-headedness threatening to engulf her.

  With a snort of disdain, Lady Ipswich thrust a silver vial of sal volatile at her, then continued with her pacing, muttering all the while to herself. Henrietta took a cautious sniff of the smelling salts before hastily replacing the stopper. Her head had begun to ache again and she felt sick. It was one thing to play a trivial part in a minor break-in, quite another to have a starring role in sending a man to the gallows. Oh God, she didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘You said he hit you?’ Lady Ipswich said abruptly, fixing her with a piercing gaze.

  Henrietta’s hand instinctively went to the tender lump on her head. ‘He knocked me out and carried me off. I have been lying unconscious in a ditch.’

  ‘No one else saw him, or you, for that matter?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘In fact,’ Lady Ipswich said, turning on Henrietta with an enigmatic smile, ‘I have only your word for what happened.’

  ‘Well, yes, but the emeralds are missing, and the safe was broken into, and so—’

  ‘So the solution is obvious,’ Lady Ipswich declared triumphantly.

  Henrietta stared at her blankly. ‘Solution?’

  ‘You, Miss Markham, are quite patently in league with the thief!’

  Henrietta’s jaw dropped. Were she not already sitting down, she would have collapsed. ‘I?’

  ‘It was you who told him the whereabouts of the safe. You who let him into my house and later broke the glass on the window downstairs to fake a break-in. You who smuggled my poor Princess out into the night in order to prevent her from raising the alarm.’