Romancing the Rogue (53 page)

Jeffers’ snickering could
be heard all the way down the hallway. Satisfied that he’d managed to draw a smile out of the man, Percy approached his personal desk near the bow window and sat down. He ran his fingers along the edges of the large wing-backed chair, lingering over nicks on the well-worn surface. His gaze penetrated the dimly lit room, settling on a vase of fresh flowers with colors as vivid as a spring morning against the improbable backdrop of glowing embers in the hearth, reminding him of Constance — beauty and passion combined.

He inhaled smoke and spice, content that he’d been able to spend time with such a woman. But, he reasoned, straightening his shoulders, that respite was past. They had no future together. Now he must transform himself into a man playing a fool at playing himself.

Shaking off his melancholy, Percy turned his attention to the stacks of post awaiting his perusal. He gazed at the bothersome correspondence, narrowing his eyes, knowing he would be better served to acquaint himself with what was before him than what might have been. Resignedly, he gulped down another dram of brandy and then picked up a letter opener. Past due requests for parties and balls. Reports on property appraisals and maturing investments accompanied a note from his father’s doctor petitioning his presence. The latter gave ill-fated evidence that this had also been too long overlooked.

The duke’s vitality is gone. I have done all I can. You, dear sir, are his only request. Come soon. Come home before it is too late.

Yours respectfully,

John Turbin

Percy dropped the missive to the floor. The news he’d dreaded for four months had come. All hope was lost. The doctors had no other recourses left, and his beloved father didn’t have long to live. He quickly retrieved the letter to note the date.
March twenty-third, eighteen hundred and four.
Two weeks ago. Was his father still alive? Had he arrived home too late?

A commotion rose in the foyer, jarring the throttling rhythm in his chest. Percy’s hawkish gaze darted to the double-paned doors.
What now?
He craned his neck to listen and couldn’t help but overhear Jeffers arguing with a man who was quite insistent to see him.

“I will not be ignored!”

Footsteps scuffed the marble flooring and the glass doors barreled open, slamming inward. Simon Danbury burst into the room.

It begins.

“Deny it, if you will,” Simon ordered, his voice booming like cannon shot.

“My apologies, my lord. He would not wait to be announced,” Jeffers interjected.

Nodding to Jeffers, Percy encouraged his loyal servant to ignore their intruder’s impudence. “Forgive him, Jeffers. Simon needs no introduction, but it appears since I’ve been gone the gentleman has forgotten his manners.”

Jeffers slowly backtracked out of the room.

Relaxing, Percy reclined in his chair. “Deny what?”

“You know very well of what I speak!”

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “That is untrue. I know that you’ve openly broken one of your stringent rules of conduct by entering my home.”

“And with just cause!”

“What has happened?”

Simon’s chest heaved as he perched his white-knuckled fists on Percy’s desk and leaned forward to debate his case. Percy likened the look in Simon’s eyes to violent gale force winds on a perilous sea. He imagined himself the doomed sail and prepared for the brunt of the weather’s assault, to be torn to shreds in Danbury’s wake.

“You have scandalized my niece! It is only a matter of time before the
ton
hears of it.”

“I assure you that neither I nor my crew has maligned Lady Constance.”

Simon stepped back and paced in front of the barrier between them, wearing a path in the oriental carpet. He wrung his hands in frustration. Percy had never seen him that disturbed. Something else was amiss.

“What’s really bothering you?” he asked, frowning.

“My brother will not wait!” Simon began rattling off his concerns. “He believes I’ve misled him, abused our relationship and his funds, an offense which, he’s decided, has led to Throckmorton’s ruination. I cannot convince him otherwise.”

“I begged you not to invest your family inheritance on this mission, but you insisted the funds spent would not be missed. You particularly advised me not to use my own money so that nothing we did could be traced back to me.”

“Indeed, I did. But something else has gone wrong, and Byron blames me for it. Now, because of me, my niece must sell herself like a common doxy.” He shook his index finger at Percy. “Let it be known she does so under protest.” He began to pace again, shaking his fist, rousing Percy’s alarm. “Byron will not hear me out. He will not see reason. Stoutly resisting any suggestion I make, he insists Constance marry the Baron of Burton, a man nearly twice her age.”

A man nearly twice her age? Constance was young, vibrant, desirable, surely Throckmorton could do better. Percy drew his hands together, tenting them under his nose. He’d heard of Burton’s ruthless business dealings but had yet to gain an introduction. Was Burton the man she’d been running away from?

“What are your niece’s feelings on this matter?” he asked, a war of emotions raging within him.

“My feelings are not under consideration. My brother ordered me out of his home.”

Percy’s mind whirled. He scowled, knowing that he’d ruined Constance, damaged her chances of finding a love match. A reality that was hard to stomach. Were he a better man, he would take responsibility for his actions by asking for her hand. But he wasn’t the man Constance knew and harsh times required harsher measures. Percy frowned.

Simon laughed bitterly, directing Percy’s eyes to the angry slant of his mouth. “The extra rib, Percy, is Constance doesn’t want to marry Burton. She has this crazy idea that he will hurt her. In fact, my darling niece accuses the man of already having done so.”

Shock quickly yielded to fury. Percy searched his memory for any snippet of conversation Constance might have spoken that would help him understand why she’d accuse the gentleman of such an affront. He recalled their first meeting, entering her cabin, seeing her standing like a valiant angel, bedwarmer in hand, prepared to flummox him. He smiled. She’d shown the kind of courage and conviction he’d never dreamt a woman capable of, at a moment when other women would have gotten the vapors or begged unceasingly for mercy.

Recalling Frink’s attack on her, his rage increased. He relived their escape from the Octavia’s hold, gazed with abandon on the sight of her naked in his bed. Fisting his hands, he let his eyes feast on the memory of her womanly curves until his gaze finally settled on her breast. He’d asked her where she’d gotten the unsightly bruise. Desperate to lash out at him, she’d practically accused him of putting it there. Did that bruise hold the key to her accusations against Burton?

“Have you heard a word I’ve said, Percy?”

“Have I missed something?”

“What has taken hold of you?” Simon fumed.

“Nothing,” he lied. The truth had a name. Constance.

“I’ve known you long enough to know that there has never been a time
nothing
has been on your mind.”

Percy grinned. Simon knew him well. He’d be a fool to believe he could hide anything from the man, but hide particulars he must. “I just remembered something.”

“Involving Constance?” Simon asked, fully alert.

Percy nodded. “Your niece has been horribly misused, that is true.”
In more ways than one,
he thought guiltily and contentedly.

Simon stepped back, his face reddening with rage. “How so?”

Percy held up his hands. “I am not the fiend involved. Frink attacked her. The bruising could have come from him.”

“Bruising?”

“But,” he said, raising his finger, laboring over the memory, “the mark wasn’t fresh. I saw it shortly after bringing her aboard the Striker.”

Simon’s brow rose disapprovingly. “Did she tell you where she got it?”

“No. She evaded answering,” he admitted. “But at the time, and in spite of the circumstances in which I found her, I thought no more on it.”

Now more than ever the puzzle pieces began to fit. She’d been running from an arranged marriage to a man she despised, an event that scared her enough to make her risk a journey on open water to a volatile country when she was afraid of drowning.

“It makes sense,” he conceded, the images flashing across his mind’s eye. “I take it Throckmorton has attached her to this man romantically?”

Simon guffawed. His voice was cold and exact. “That’s beyond the pale.”

“What impression then, if at all, does a woman make of a man if she has never been exposed to him? What would make Constance think Burton unsuitable?”

Simon responded quickly, “His age, for one.”

“Marriage to an older man is the rage. No, I do not think that just cause for inducing fear in a woman, and Lady Constance doesn’t seem the type.”

“He’s a portly, odd fellow,” Simon admitted with a sneer.

“Still not worth risking your life at sea.”

Simon nodded, agreeing. “You’re right, of course. She did attend a ball at his home, but I imagine she would not have found any time to be alone with him. No matter,” he said, shaking his head as if it was no use. “My brother intends to have her marry Burton unless someone of more prosperous means offers for her.”

“That should not be a problem for a woman as clever and amiable as Lady Constance.”

“You forget that she returned to London on a pirate ship. It’s only a matter of time before gossip mills get wind of it and the
ton
thinks her virtue has been compromised.” A probing query illuminated Danbury’s eyes. “Should she have need to fear the rumors?”

Percy swallowed. “Has she given anyone reason to believe such a thing?”

Simon narrowed his eyes “Should she?”

Percy’s clean shaven jaw twitched, and he steepled his fingers below his nose to conceal his thoughts. He wasn’t at liberty to divulge the passion that had flared between them. No matter what he’d done in the name of England, no matter what else could be said of him, he was a gentleman. Yet, instinct warned trouble lurked at Throckmorton’s door. Though his blood boiled with a need to staunch it, he wanted none of it. He only had one more chance to avenge Celeste. Until the day he brought Celeste’s killer to justice, his life was forfeit. He’d gone to astonishing ends to fashion a duel existence, rogue by night, gentleman by day. Absolutely nothing, nothing could divert him from his goal. Not even the beautiful and tempting Constance Danbury.

His gaze darted to the stacked maps on his desk, the Striker’s maps, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips. A day of reckoning beckoned. A taste for vengeance dewed on his Brandy-laced tongue. He had a name — Josiah Cane. That was more than enough.

“No one is questioning your loyalty, Percy.”

Simon’s voice invaded his thoughts.

“You’ve proven yourself quite mercenary to our cause.” Pausing, Simon added with indisputable passion, “
I
put Constance on the Octavia.
I
bear the guilt of her circumstances.” Crossing his arms, he exhaled an agonizing breath. “I’ve fulfilled my obligation to Constance as her uncle, coming to her aid when Byron would not.”

“What would you have me do?” Percy asked, glaring at the man.

“Prevent her from marrying Burton.”

“In order to do that, I would have to care.” The lie nipped Percy’s tongue, and no sooner had it left his mouth, he regretted it.

“If you will not do it for me, do it for Constance, the woman you have blemished.” When Percy didn’t respond, he added, “I expect this matter to be satisfactorily resolved in due course.”

“I will not be detoured.” Simon was not only giving him an ultimatum but an order. “If that is your goal, you had better find another one.”

“No one can force you to do anything.”

Percy leaned over his desk, a stab of guilt buried in his chest. “I’m no good for her. I’m Percival Avery. I’m a man who’s built a reputation of callousness, boredom, and frivolity.”

“You do yourself no credit, Percy. You’re greatly admired and respected amongst your peers.”

“That is of no consequence. Constance would no sooner wed a
popinjay
than she would a man like Burton.” The words were raw as they ripped out of Percy’s throat.

“Do not underestimate my niece,” Simon warned.

“That I could never do,” he answered without hesitation. “I may play the fop, but I’m no fool.”

The clock on the mantel sounded eight bells. Silence descended between them. Simon scowled. He stepped forward, opened his mouth to speak, and then altering his course, retreated to the door. His hand paused on the knob.

“Satisfy my curiosity,” he said. “How well did you come to know my niece when you were aboard the Striker?”

What did the man want? Lies? Half-truths? “Well enough,” he supplied.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Apparently not well-enough.”