Romancing the Rogue (52 page)

~~~~

Montgomery Burton discarded
his cravat and paced the polished marble floor of his study. He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand and read it aloud one more time.

The Striker docked today. Frink and his men have been taken into custody. The Octavia’s crew — what remains of it — has been escorted to headquarters. I have it on good authority an Englishwoman with blonde hair disembarked the very same ship. Since Lady Constance has been missing as long as the Octavia set out to sea, it is my belief that she is the lady in question and that should you wish it, a call to her residence would produce the woman forthwith.

Your servant,

Josiah Cane

Burton threw the missive into the hearth and hit his hand on the mantle, drawing forth an exasperated gasp. That the twit had run from their impending engagement was an outrage. That she did so on the Octavia, the ship Whistler had informed them carried valuable cargo, was another. If she was on the ship when it had been captured, what had she learned? Seen? Heard?

He watched the burning communiqué disintegrate and pictured his life doing the same. He’d grown accustomed to the finery he’d procured since first venturing into the smuggling business. Siphoning his funds through various accounts and businesses, he’d been successful enough to prove himself proficient. Prove himself skilled enough to work his way into influencing the House of Lords, the seat he’d been deprived for nearly a quarter century.

It would take more than finances and notoriety to aid his cause. Lady Constance held the key to his desires. With her at his side, he was bound to ascend in social status. But one word from her could nullify his endeavors. Once Constance and her family were aligned with his, he’d have everything he ever wanted, a wife to spoil or abuse at his whim, control of Throckmorton’s holdings, a more positive role in government, and power beyond his wildest imaginings.

A lopsided smile parted his lips. What was left of the note smoldered like an ancient blood pact, fueling his will. Pouring himself a heavy libation, he sat down in his leather desk chair and leaned back, curling his finger in the chain of his pocket watch, content as a sated parlor cat.

He would get what he wanted, and he’d use anyone in his path to help him do so, even if it meant spilling innocent blood. Yes, a jolly good plan.

“You nearly drowned
when the Octavia was attacked,” her father croaked, “and were kept prisoner in a pirate’s cabin?”

“Yes, Papa. But I’m here with you today because that pirate captain saved my life.”

Her father’s face reddened with rage. “And did this
pirate
have his way with you for his trouble?”

She felt a shudder of humiliation. Not at the love she shared with Thomas, but by how her father would view her ruination. And yet, it was the means to keep him from uniting her with Lord Burton. Tears rimmed her eyes, and she fought back a deep sense of shame as she looked away guiltily, unable to give her father the assurance he craved.

He reached out his hand and turned her face toward him. “Answer me, Constance. I lost your mother years ago and nearly lost you at the same time. I couldn’t bear to lose you now, no matter what has happened.” He paused, swallowed, and then began again. “You’re all I have left.”

“Papa.” She sighed, hating herself for the disappointment she brought him.

“Let me finish,” he said, nodding and squeezing her hand. “I abhor pirates, but I wish your rescuer no ill will unless he did something we shall all regret.”

“My regret is that I didn’t make it to Aunt Lydia to rectify your financial problems.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. The time she’d spent in Thomas’ arms had felt natural and right. But now, safely comforted by her father’s touch, the intimacy she’d shared with the rogue seemed a vulgar slight against everything she’d been taught to hold dear. What if she’d met him under different circumstances? Perhaps then, armed with what her father needed to remedy his plight, her descent into madness would not have come at so great a cost.

“Did he touch you, my dear? No matter how distasteful, I urge you to tell me the truth. It is certain you had no choice in the matter.”

But she had chosen. What would her father think of her if he knew the truth? She could never admit, least of all to him, that she’d fallen in love with a pirate.

“I’m no longer marriageable, Papa. Is that what you want to know?”

Her father’s spine uncoiled. His brows furrowed. She felt suddenly vulnerable and alone as his eyes narrowed and he scowled.

“Is there any chance you could be with child?” he asked, eying her sharply, the pallor leaving his face.

Constance paled. Other than what she’d been told by Mrs. Mortimer, she’d had little counseling in such matters. “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded weak and far away. A heated flush crept up her neck.

Father’s eyes burned raw and volatile. “Do you mean to tell me that I now have to find you a husband who’ll also be duped into thinking any resulting child will be his?”

Constance reached for him but he broke away. “Surely we can find another way to rectify our debts than forcing me to marry, Papa. I am quite sure my beloved aunt would be more than willing to help, if we would but ask.”

“Lydia,” he snapped, “has never forgiven me for not being on board that damned ship. I suppose she would have rather seen me die defending Olivia’s honor.” His voice broke. “Which is what I would have gladly done, if given the chance. It was only by the hand of God that you didn’t follow your mother to her grave!”

Keenly aware of his distress, Constance gazed into her father’s eyes. She understood his agony. She’d watched him grieve for eleven years.

“No matter what the future unfolds, know that I do what is in your best interest, Constance.”

“Or do you mean the best interest of Throckmorton?”

“
You
are my family.
Your
heirs stand to inherit all that I own.” He embraced her, as if that one act could make up for what he had in store for her.

Constance tore her hands away from his eager embrace to prove a point. “You mean my husband will inherit.” His lack of sensitivity struck deep. The rules of succession were firm. “What do you suggest?”

Rising, her father left the settee and strode over to a crimson decanter sitting on an embossed side-table imported from Spain, ironically a wedding gift from Aunt Lydia.

“As I see it, you have one option. You must marry Burton as planned.”

She gasped. “You can’t be serious? He’s the reason I sought out the Octavia in order to procure Aunt Lydia’s help. I’ll marry anyone but him… anyone! Papa, Burton’s not an amiable man.”

“I know very well what kind of man he is, and it makes me unhappy to deal with him, but what do you suggest? Who will accept you now? This scandal, your sojourn with ruffians, will surely be the talk of London before long. Look at your appearance. Surely you’ve been seen. How will our family survive it?”

Survive? Constance felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. She had survived! But he had a point. She was home now, and if she’d been seen leaving the Striker, if Thomas’ men ever spoke of her presence aboard, rumors would spread in quick fashion. It was the natural order of things along the docks.

“Perhaps we can lead Burton astray while seeking a more receptive proposal,” she suggested hopefully.

“Indeed?” His brow rose sardonically as if her suggestion bore no merit. “How do you propose to accomplish that without his knowledge?”

“I don’t know,” she cried. “But until something can be arranged, we can try to contact Aunt Lydia. It’s worth a try, Papa.”

“Do not put all your hope in Lydia’s hands, Constance. History has proven her an unwilling, hardened soul.”

~~~~

Captain Frink fastened
his greedy lips on her mouth. His weathered claws snatched at her clothing, tore at her sensitive flesh. She was falling, falling into darkness. Water rushed in, bathing her in icy blackness. Above her head, fire blazed, men cried a cacophony of blood-curdling screams. She couldn’t breathe. She was choking on seawater. A hand. Bracing, sure, it pulled her out of the depths, gently stroking away her tears.

“Thomas!”

Constance bolted upright in her bed and clutched her sheets to her chin, praying she hadn’t screamed Thomas’ name aloud. Her father’s lack of confidence in the marriage mart, his determination to wed her to Burton, and memories of a rogue who’d saved her life and won her heart, educating her body, claiming her soul, had haunted her dreams from the moment she’d returned home. Against her will, against all that she’d been raised to believe, she yearned for the man who’d willingly risked his life to save hers. Thomas. The one man who’d managed to ease her nightly panic, reassure her with soft promises that she wouldn’t drown—

But she was drowning. Drowning in sorrow.

Her flesh still craved to be branded with his kisses. She desired his assurances that all would be well. Ached for his hands on her, to feel the rugged set of his jaw as he nuzzled her neck. But she was alone, achingly alone. Her days with Captain Sexton were gone.

Constance rolled over in the bed and hugged her pillow close. Her experience with Thomas enabled her to see Burton’s beastly attempts to seduce her for what they were. Burton was incapable of love. He was the true horror in her life, not pirates. Father’s most vehement enemy — the sea — was nothing compared to his truest enemy nested closer to home. Why couldn’t he see that?

Alone more than ever, Constance rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets up to her neck.
Damnation!
She’d fallen in love with a rogue and it had cost her everything.

~~~~

The long drive
back to Hereford Street from the dock only proved to deepen Percy’s frustrations. His preliminary meeting with Simon had not gone well. He’d expected his commander’s anger about his mutiny resulting in the loss of Collins. He’d expected congratulations on the capture of Frink and his men, but he hadn’t anticipated Simon’s exhausting inquiry about his niece. Shouldn’t he have been more grateful she was alive, that he’d been able to deliver her to London in one piece?

Unfortunately, conditions with the Throckmorton fortune had not improved, making Simon’s frustration all the more telling. And so he’d omitted certain details about Constance. Simon didn’t need to know
everything
. Especially when Percy didn’t want to be called out to Green Park and forced to kill her uncle in self-defense.

Percy gazed out the muted pane of his carriage, blinking back the dismal sights of misery on the streets of the East end. Children’s hollow eyes stared as his conveyance passed, envy and hunger prevalent in their expressions, making it extremely hard to ignore the distant stare of a particular young girl.

He tapped on the ceiling, alerting the driver to come to a stop. He reached into his frock coat and pulled out Constance’s money purse, shook it, weighing it in his hand, just as he’d done in Constance’s cabin. He’d intended to return the money to her someday, but the thought of another young girl selling herself on the docks gutted him.

He stepped down from the carriage, paying curious passersby no mind. “Don’t be afraid,” he told the young thing. “Do you live around here?”

She nodded, her eyes as big and black as the buttons on his greatcoat when he produced the purse and held it out to her. “Take this. Use it to get you and your family off these streets.”

The child hesitated to grab the bag, but her lips curled upward into a smile. She grabbed the purse, curtsied, and then she was gone. He didn’t stay long enough to know whether she turned back to look at him or not. He stepped inside his carriage and tapped on the ceiling to alert his driver to resume the journey home.

Preparations for his arrival had been put into place. Jacko and Ollie had outfitted him with the pompous garments he now wore, which had been stowed away for his return. Papers in his satchel provided the proof he needed to convince the
ton
he’d been to India, Turkey, and Greece on sabbatical. Gifts from his travels were stacked near his feet. Living as the heir to the Duke of Blendingham was a privilege, behaving as a rogue, his choice. From the time of his birth, he’d been a fortunate man. Unlike those he passed along the way to his townhouse, located in fashionable Hereford and Corazon Streets, he didn’t have to worry where his next meal came from.

Indeed, the game he played was deceitful, dangerous, and preposterous. To conceal his passion, his love of the sea, his duty to country, and maintain his focus on vengeance, he lived a life of pretense and charade. If it became known he slummed along the docks, he would surely be shunned. The embarrassment his father would be subjected to if word of his activities became known was unfathomable. For this reason, and this reason alone, he understood what Constance faced now that she had departed his vessel. Both of them would be forced to wear masks.

His mood spoiled, the slowing carriage alerted him he neared his goal. The horses clip-clopped down Hereford Street to Number Seven and then stopped. Jacko, attired in footman’s garb, opened the door and extended his hand.

“My lord,” he said, bowing reverently.

“Mind the mockery, my good friend, when no one’s about, won’t you?” Percy asked as he exited the vehicle.

“Do you have any instructions for the crew, Cap’n?”

“Be prepared at a moment’s notice. I intend to set out again as soon as I receive word on Josiah Cane’s whereabouts.”

Jacko winked. “Aye. Aye, sir.”

“Shhh. Mind your tongue, Jacko. We’re in high society now and best apt play the game or find our heads in a noose of our own making.”

Jacko beamed. “Yes, my lord.”

The front double doors, grand polished oak complete with brass knockers, opened. Jeffers and his staff descended the steps, lining up to receive him.

“Welcome home, my lord!” Jeffers proudly announced, lifting a quizzical brow at the man who stood beside him. The grey-headed, stiff-backed butler Jeffers ran a rigid household. He was also keenly aware of Percy’s alternate activities and of his involvement with Jacko.

Percy turned to his smiling staff standing at attention along the threshold and put on the expected airs a man of his caliber exhibited. “Jeffers, my good man. E-gad!” he said, raising his quizzing glass. “What a magnificent welcome! I assume the household is in order?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jeffers beamed. “We’ve taken every precaution to prepare for your return.”

“I pray I’ve caused no trouble arriving so quickly,” he confided with a good-humored wink. “Heaven knows how intolerable my old abode has become in my absence.”

“No trouble at all, my lord,” his loyal servant replied. “Everything is in readiness.”

Jeffers held out his hand, suggesting Percy step inside. Curiosity reflected in the many gazes that fell on him, but being trained to mind their own business, his staff simply bowed and stared at their feet.

Percy took a deep breath and thanked each man and woman for their dutiful service then entered his bachelor’s quarters, which, in the past, had been filled with gaiety and music. The world had been a more desirable place then. Celeste’s death had dispirited the halls and ruined the pleasant architecture Percy once coveted. Now what he beheld was a prison. Housed within the walls of his confinement, memories did their worst, often rousing him from fitful sleep.

No longer did he regale moments of frivolousness and joviality, a Percival Avery predisposition, which was in and of itself a terrible problem. It was unseemly for a man of his station to mourn beyond the pale. Instead, he was expected to clamor about fashion, exalt ladies in their splendor, and chat up the men with nonsense.

Slapping his gloves across his hand, Percy gazed around the foyer. Like a tomb, the wooden corridor shone to glistening polish as he stepped onto the Italian marble. A scant noise echoed from the landing, raising hackles on his neck.
Celeste’s voice!
His gaze hesitated to survey the high vaulted ceiling, sculpted moldings, and papered walls. He scrutinized the room until he saw her, standing on the landing, as if she had awaited his return. Auburn tresses adorned with cascading flowers, her gown flowing about her soft-slippered feet. Winsome smile and adoring eyes gleamed with delight as she heralded.
“Welcome home, brother!”
She giggled and then disappeared.

He felt the all-too-familiar heartache as if he’d just suffered her loss, standing oblivious to the rattling of carriages bounding down the busy street outdoors. He didn’t hear the front door close or see his staff carry his belongings up the staircase.

Jeffers cleared his throat.

Percy removed his hat, handing the cumbersome accessory, along with his gloves, to Jeffers before discarding his greatcoat.

“Is everything to your liking, my lord?” Jeffers asked.

Percy shook his head to clear it, eager to assure his dutiful servant all was well. He turned and smiled. “Everything looks simply divine, Jeffers. I’ve been absorbing the sights and smells and basking in the glow of home. In fact,” he added, “I’d forgotten how much the old abode meant to me.”

“Indeed.” Jeffers nodded, his left eyebrow raising a fraction.

Percy knew Jeffers understood. He was not alone in his grief, though the house seemed to take pleasure in ridiculing him. The walls of Number Seven taunted his failings. As Celeste’s older brother, it had fallen on him to protect her as their father busied himself with Parliamentary business. Yet he’d been too absorbed in the nonsensical gaieties of life, building up a reputation for whoring women, gambling, theatre, and drink, a perfect cover for his activities with Nelson’s Tea. He’d not seen the signs warning him her life was at risk until it had been too late.

Gazing longingly at the cut glass doors of his study, he felt an urge to disappear, to drink himself into oblivion as he’d done so often whenever he resided in town. But before he could reach the door handles, he caught his reflection in the beveled glass. Curious, he lifted his quizzing glass and pivoted in front of the door, only to be taken aback by his mirrored image. Gone was the pirate disguise, beard, mustache, and eye patch. He was clean shaven, powdered hair tied back in a neat cue, face powdered. Dressed immaculately in a fine grey suit, silver vest, and opalescent cravat tied to restricting perfection, complete with a sapphire pin, one would never know he’d spent nearly eight months on the sea. Lace dangled from the ends of his sleeves and his boots shone without blemish. The debacle sickened him. He resembled a spooney and felt more and more like the fool people accused him of being. Encumbered by his high collar, he reached for the study door’s brass handles.

“My travels have taken me far, Jeffers, and I’ve developed quite a thirst. I’ll take libation in my office.”

“I’ll have tea sent to you immediately, my lord.”

Percy shivered uncontrollably. “No need to put yourself out, my good man. I’ve got more potent refreshment in mind.”

Jeffers’ dark brows arched. “What could more potent than tea, my lord?”

“Be a good man and humor me.”

“Yes, my lord. Would brandy suffice?” Jeffers egged.

“Interminably so,” he said, wincing as the man continued his blasted formalities.

“You’ll find all that you need on the side table in your study.”

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “You remembered.” Jeffers was a marvel, worth every penny he’d paid to pluck him out of the mud. A might puzzling at times, but just as proficient at his job as Jacko on any given day. Squeezing his fingers around the double door handles, Percy turned the knobs and pushed the doors open, inhaling a deep breath. A fire burned in the hearth. Leather and sandalwood assailed his senses. He stepped into the study, turning his back on the man who had his whole life under control.

“Jeffers?”

“Yes, my lord?”

He grimaced, and Jeffers’ eyes glistened mischievously. “See to it that I am not disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I send in dinner?” his man cued with a quizzical brow.

Percy strode purposefully over to the side table nestled in the corner of an expansive mahogany bookcase filling fifty percent of the curtained, dark paneled room. Opening a crystal decanter containing sparkling honey brown liquid, he poured himself a healthy portion of brandy and downed the contents in one swallow. The contents seared his throat as he poured himself another two fingers worth.

Jeffers’ eyebrows rose and his throat bobbed. He gazed down his aquiline nose as if to speak, but kept his lips tight-rimmed. Percy was impressed by the man’s control. Though Jeffers disapproved, no more loyal servant could be found.

“Shall I send for more brandy?” he quipped, gazing at the near empty container.

He took a deep breath and reproached Jeffers’ disapproving frown. “No need to go into any trouble on my account, Jeffers. I intend to join friends for dinner.”

“Friends?”

“I should think many anxiously await my return,” Percy submitted. “Though,” he said, grimacing with the effort, “I suspect I may have to remind a few of my worth.”

“Lady friends, my lord?”

Percy pivoted on his heel. “Is there any other kind, my good man?”