Romancing the Rogue (54 page)

~~~~

Constance descended the
staircase prepared to greet her visitor. She’d successfully avoided Burton for a fortnight, but now he waited in the parlor, unwilling to be eschewed. She’d been instructed by her father to accept Burton’s hand in marriage, if a proposal was given. To accept meant their financial needs would be assured. To decline meant her father’s humiliation. But after having experienced the ecstasy found in coupling with the right man, how could she settle for a pompous derelict like Burton? How could she hand over her fate to a man who took joy in her discomfort?

Pausing by the tall master clock, Constance peered at her reflection in the glass. She was dressed in a white muslin gown, lilacs embroidered around the hem and bodice, a tasteful addition that emphasized her bosom. A lilac ribbon cinched her empire waistline and, though she found her image satisfactory, she wished the extra time taken with her toilette had not gone to waste. Her father, however misguided, would view her efforts to please as submission. Burton enjoyed finer things. While her looks weren’t entirely uncommon, she knew he cherished the credibility of her public presence more. That had never disturbed her before. But now, she wondered why a knot tightened in her stomach. Was he the type of man who took pleasure in collecting and harming beautiful things? If so, would she be doomed to suffer his abuse intimately? The bruise fading on her breast attested the man’s character.

She stared at her expressionless face a moment longer, knowing she was a pawn, like so many other young women of her generation. But nothing could be done for it. Not yet. Resignedly, she lifted her chin and, with determined steps, rounded the stairs, entering the parlor with an eloquent flourish.

“Good evening,” she said, giving a polite curtsy to Burton’s bow. She moved to the sofa and sat on the edge directly across from the wretched man, a maneuver that also allowed for hasty departure, should one be warranted.

“Good evening, Lady Constance. I hope you enjoy chocolate,” he said, pushing a box towards her. “These are Debauve Gallais chocolates from
A la Renommee des chocolats de France
. A finer chocolate you will not see or taste.”

Constance eyed the confections and forced an appreciative smile. Burton had given her many gifts, all of which she’d refused. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to impress her as a French proficient. But how had he managed to procure the chocolate?

“No doubt a lavish gift,” she commented, her voice edged with cynicism.

“I know you do not accept gifts from suitors, but let this be the first. I want to make amends for my behavior,” he said thickly. They both knew what he meant. “And by accepting this peace offering, it is my dire hope that you are ready to be seen with me in public.” His eyes popped out of his face and his throat bloated like a bullfrog. He licked his lips as if he meant to croak or catch a fly. Constance was not willing to be that fly.

She suppressed a shudder of revulsion and dropped her gaze to her lap. “I fear I will never forgive your indulgence.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” he added, leaning forward. “But I do hope you will forgive an old fool simply for being overly zealous with the woman he seeks to marry.”

Her head snapped up. Her heart skipped a beat. Was he going to actually say the words?
Dear God in heaven! I have to escape.

“Yes. We are to be married. Your father has agreed to announce our engagement the night of the ball he’s giving in your honor.”

She lowered her brows and clenched her fists tightly underneath the folds of her gown. Somehow, hearing Burton say the words made her predicament infinitely more horrendous.

“I’m not ready for marriage,” she said, her voice a broken whisper.

“I understand your sensibilities.”

Did he?

“You have nothing to fear, I assure you.”

He was wrong, she had everything to fear.

The image of Thomas battling Captain Frink to prevent her ravishment flashed before her eyes. Thomas’ bronzed skin, his shirtless, muscular chest, and the feel of his body against hers made her suddenly ache for his reassurance.
“Trust me
,
”
he’d insisted. Though a rogue through and through, despised and feared, she’d given him her trust against her better judgment. She’d given him
everything
. And she wasn’t sorry.

Her gaze settled on Burton. She owed him nothing. He sickened her. His portly exterior exuded weakness. His vacant stare sucked her into a fathomless void. She didn’t want any part of
his
world and knew if she married him, she would ultimately be devoured by it.

“Must I assure you again, Lady Constance? You have nothing to fear.”

He moved closer like a spider crawling out onto its web. “You are mistaken, my lord.” She had every reason to be afraid of him.

“Mistaken? How so?”

“You know how,” she accused, her voice firm.

“A lady in your predicament cannot afford—”

“My predicament?” The man had simply gone too far.

He cleared his throat rather forcefully. “Think of your father. Would you have him reduced to squalor because of your pride?”

She jumped to her feet. “You go too far, my lord!” She skirted by him and made a hasty retreat toward the doorway. He followed suit, grabbing her forearm, his fingernails sinking through the thin fabric of her sleeve, making her realize just how sinister he was, how poorly he compared to Thomas and even Guffald.

“You have not given me your answer,” he spat.

“Haven’t I? Perhaps a physician should check your hearing.”

He took a menacing step closer, his eyes narrowed into slits. “You will regret—”

“Regret what, Burton?” her father asked, coming to her side.

“Not taking advantage of this glorious day,” he slyly finished, snatching back his hand. “I was seeking to tempt Lady Constance with a carriage ride.”

“Oh, you must go for a ride in Hyde Park,” her father insisted, leaning toward her. “Fresh air would do you some good.”

Her father’s eyes flashed a firm but gentle warning. Sensing her father’s tactic, Constance was bound and determined not to comply. “Sadly, I feel slightly under the weather and must decline.” Which wasn’t completely a lie.

Her father’s gray eyes narrowed as they bore down on her. Then he dismissed her and turned his good humor on Burton. “How have you and my daughter been getting on?”

Did her father sense something amiss?

Burton straightened and stepped toward her father with an outstretched hand. “Famously,” he said. “You have a wonderful daughter, Your Grace. But, of course, you are already aware of my affections.”

Constance willed her father to tread softly.

“Indeed, I am,” he said, strolling past them to the fireplace. “My daughter’s welfare is utmost in my thoughts.”

“And a fine woman she has become. You are to be commended, Your Grace.”

The banter between her father and Burton nauseated her.
Don’t believe him!
She scrutinized her father’s face as he turned toward the hearth, frightened he would buy into the bastard’s compliments. His shoulders appeared rigidly set. He was tense, apparently not as much at ease as he would have Burton believe. Did she dare hope?

“Then we are of the same mind,” her father agreed.

Oh no! Couldn’t he see through Burton’s theatrical veil?

“Constance, are you unwell?” Her father’s voice sounded far away. The world spun. She lost her bearings. “Quickly, Burton! Fetch my daughter a drink.”

A drink was forced into her hand. She sipped mindlessly, revived by the soothing liquid as it slid down her throat and burned a path into her stomach. Her father stood before her, Burton smirking at his side, a glint of merriment twinkling in his eyes. Had he found her swoon amusing, or was the light playing tricks on her? Unsettled, she made her excuses and begged their leave. Her head ached, perhaps from worry. Her hands shook, possibly because she hadn’t eaten much in the past few days. With as much dignity as she could muster, she left the parlor only to be stopped in her tracks outside the door by three ominous words.

“Remember our deal.”

The bite in Burton’s voice cut her in two. Her heart pounded. What had her father done?

“I’ve not forgotten. Rest assured that on the night of the ball, your engagement to Constance will be announced as planned.”

She breathed in quick, shallow gasps, and a cold knot twisted in her stomach. Burton was a violent man. Her father knew he was untrustworthy. Was her father’s fear of ruin stronger than finding her a more suitable husband? She’d nearly died trying to find a way to resolve his problems.

“Constance may prove difficult,” Burton slurred.

“I will handle Constance. Do not forget she is my daughter. Danburys do as they’re told.”

“See to it she does. I’d hate to see your family sink into squalor.”

Footsteps approached, cutting off her ability to eavesdrop. Placing her hand on her stomach, she swallowed the queasy lump rising in her throat and quickly made her way up the stairs. It was up to her to do something, anything, and fast. The ball was but a week away.

At the top of the staircase, she walked across the landing and entered her room. Quietly shutting the door once she was inside, she rushed over to her necessary and picked up a feathered quill to begin scripting a missive to her uncle. He was her one and only hope.

Uncle,

I have just heard father plans to announce my engagement to Burton. While I cannot express how sensitive this matter is to me, or heal the rift this situation has caused between you and my father, I implore you to help me resolve this matter. I cannot, and will not, be forced to marry such a man. Should I not find another alternative, I fear you shall never see me again.

Your beloved niece,

Constance

Uncle Simon had connections, and he loved her as if she were his own child. Surely, as he had before, he would set things to rights. If not, she was determined to run away again. Except this time, she’d tell no one where she was bound.

Something was amiss.
The stomach turning experience during Burton’s visit had not lessoned. Day by day, Constance felt more fatigued and unsettled, which she attributed to nerves as the deadline of the ball approached. Unless her uncle could produce a miracle, her life would be forever attached to a man she reviled and, more importantly, feared.

Mrs. Mortimer, having returned from a brief visit with family, had taken an added interest in her frequent bouts of nausea and fatigue, stating that they’d know more as time passed. If Morty’s fears were well-substantiated, Constance
was
carrying Thomas’ child. And if that were true, it would be even more important to shield the child from Burton’s wrath. She wrung her hands. How would she do that? Run away? Shirk her duty to her father, leaving with nothing more than the child she carried?

Constance laid her hand on her stomach. Thomas. She’d felt oddly safe in his presence, but since he’d walked out of her life and she’d returned to Throckmorton, her nightmares had conveniently and persistently returned. Burton was partly responsible for making her feel like she was drowning — again. Part of her fantasized Thomas would swoop in like an avenging angel and rescue her. At least with Thomas, she knew what she was getting; a rogue with a gentleman’s touch, a man who’d fought to protect her, one who would strike when attacked. With Burton, she couldn’t be sure — and that’s what scared her the most.

Leaning back in her chair, Constance sighed. If she was pregnant, the truth of her circumstances would soon become apparent. In the meantime, she hoped her father would find the strength to ignore whatever hold Burton had on him and attempt to solicit a suitable husband or, at best, direct his aim at someone other than the demon lord. With her father’s financial situation still unresolved, however, it was doubtful he would desert his scheme to connect their family to the gentleman. In fact, it would serve to fill him with fervent purpose to see the deed done. God in heaven! If it was absolutely necessary for her to marry for money and to keep a scandalous pregnancy concealed, who would be her likely pawn? And with an agreeable suitor already at hand, would her father look elsewhere?

Heart thudding, Constance directed her attention to the embroidery on her lap and the rose petal she’d worked into the delicately designed piece of linen. She’d been thrown into quite a fix. This wasn’t how she’d imagined starting a family; raising a child without his or her father.

A knock on the door interrupted her musings. She jumped, dumping the embroidered linen on the floor. “Come in.”

Cooper opened the door. “Lady Constance, you have a visitor.”

She furrowed her brows. “Who?”

“Lord Danbury.”

“Uncle Simon, here?” She jumped up.

“Yes, my lady. He’s waiting for you in the parlor.” She was so happy to see Cooper, she wanted to hug him, but knew he wouldn’t allow the breach in etiquette.

“Tell him I’ll be right down.”

Eager to see her uncle, she glanced at her appearance in the mirror and squeezed her cheeks to give them a little more color, hoping to conceal the uncommon pallor nausea had given her of late. She’d chosen a demure dress of celestial blue stripes adorned with lace above the rounded collar to conceal her swelling bosom. Her hair had been arranged in braids that wrapped around a bun with several ringlets framing her face. No matter the color or style of her dress, or her coiffure, for that matter, she couldn’t hide the fact that she looked a little thinner than normal.

Straightening her shoulders, she gave herself a nod and then left the room and descended the stairs. As she made her way to the parlor, the former Throckmorton dukes whose portraits lined the wall seemed to stare at her accusingly. Truth be told, she’d always been slightly afraid of the scrutiny in those eyes, feeling as if they followed her every move. Consumed with guilt, she still entered the parlor with expectant hope fluttering in her heart. She had only one ally. Her uncle.

He stood near the window gazing out at the street below.

“Uncle, I’m so glad you’ve come!”

He turned. “What has happened to
you
, my dear? You seem rather… well, for lack of a better word… thin.”

“Uncle, I cannot begin to explain. So much has happened since I saw you last. I’m at a loss as to where to begin.”
How did she explain that she was in love with a pirate? Where did she begin to list her faults; that she’d committed the ultimate sin, shaming her family’s good name by soaring to the heights of passion with a rogue?

He moved closer, taking her hands in his, and led her to the sofa. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything, from the moment you stepped on board the Octavia, until you returned to London. Lord knows your father has been as silent as the grave.”

She sighed wistfully. “I fear nothing anyone can do will make Papa see reason. He barely speaks to me.” She bit her lip, swallowing a lump in her throat.

“Your father has much on his mind and blames me for his financial dilemma. He’s driven by different demons than I am. You and I cannot possibly understand the lengths to which he will go in order to repair the damage he thinks I’ve done to our family.”

“Uncle Simon, I know that you would never do anything to malign the family. You love Papa and me. That is plain, and,” she choked back a sob, suddenly overcome with emotion, “I appeal to that love now.”

His eyes softened as he listened to her. He leaned forward and lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. “You have my love and you always shall. What is it, child? What has happened to dampen your spirits? You are home. You are safe now. There is nothing to fear.”

“I am home,” she said. “Whether I am safe remains to be seen.”

“Be that as it may,” he said, coughing uncomfortably into his hand, “I was livid after reading your letter.”

She squeezed his hands. “Papa has made a deal with Lord Burton.”

“A deal? Are you certain?”

“I heard them discussing it.” She bit her lip, hating to admit that she’d been eavesdropping. “I don’t understand. Even though I loathe the man, risked my life to sail to Spain and escape him, Papa still plans to force me to marry him.”

Simon tilted her chin toward him again. “You are certain of your aversion? You aren’t holding a grudge against Lord Burton simply because you don’t want to marry an
older
man?”

Good God no! She shook her head insistently. “I’m not being silly. His intentions are not honorable. I know this because—”

“You know this? Do you have evidence to substantiate such a claim?” he asked, his eyes flickering lethal anger.

Good heavens, she was in over her head. How could she possibly explain her intimate knowledge of Burton’s brutality? Her cheeks heated. It was beyond her to explain the intimate details. “You must take my word for it.”

“Then we must find a way to convince your father otherwise.”

“There’s more, Uncle,” she whispered, unable to control her shame. “I fear
—
what I mean to say is
—
”

“You can tell me anything. Don’t be afraid to speak your heart, Constance.”

“I may be with child.”

Simon’s eyes grew larger than the cannon balls she’d seen on the Octavia’s deck and then, just as deadly, narrowed with an intensity she’d never seen before. It unnerved her, frightened her.

“I understand if you want nothing more to do with me,” she confided, sensing she’d lost his respect and adoration. Her heart clenched with renewed humiliation. “I’m a disgrace. No one knows that more than I.”

He reached for her shoulders and embraced her close. “You misunderstand, Constance.”

“No. I understand perfectly,” she said. “I’ve brought more than enough scandal to our door.”

“Nonsense. Nonsense,” he cooed, soothing her. After a long silence, he asked, his voice strained, “Who’s the child’s father?”

“You must already know.”

“Sexton.”

A flicker of apprehension passed through her. Her entire body stiffened in alarm. She had never mentioned Thomas. “How do you know that name?”

“That is none of your concern,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“None of my concern? Oh, but it is,” she said, her heart thudding erratically. She’d promised Mr. Clemmons that she wouldn’t tell a soul who her abductor had been. But Simon knew Thomas’ name. How? And if he told the authorities and Thomas was found, taken into custody, and charged with her abduction, what would happen to him? Had Mrs. Mortimer told Simon? “No one can know the truth.” In the few short days they’d spent together, she’d felt safe with Thomas, safe enough to love, to live. “I fear this news will force Papa’s hand where Burton is concerned. Truth be told, I believe it will persuade him to see a marriage between us come to speedy fruition.”

Simon took her hands in his. “No question.”

“My behavior has been shameful,” she admitted, taking back her hand to wipe away an errant tear. “I have little choice but to run away before I disgrace the family further.”

“No,” he said abruptly. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “Where would you go? What would you do to support yourself and the child? No. No,” he repeated. “I cannot allow it.”

“What do you suggest? That I sacrifice my life? Willingly marry a man who would more than likely kill my child?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” His face reddened. Then, after a moment’s pause, rage faded from his eyes and sanity took hold. He took a few deep breaths. “There is another way.”

“No,” she said. “The die has been cast.” She could no longer fight her sobs. Tears of humiliation cascaded down her cheeks. Simon had already sacrificed his relationship with her father for her scheme to reach Lydia. She couldn’t bear to watch him suffer more on her behalf.

He welcomed her into his comforting embrace. “I can convince someone to take Burton’s place, Constance. It will take some doing, but it can be done. First,” he said, tilting her head to look into her eyes, “you must promise not to run away.”

“I cannot.” She blinked, unable to make that kind of vow. “What can you possibly do? The ball is in just under a week, and Papa plans to announce my engagement then.”

“I’ve got an idea. One I’m sure will please him immensely.” He hugged her close, released her, then stood up and set about straightening his cuffs.

“What idea?” she asked, dabbing her eyes, barely capable of hope.

“If I can find another suitable man to ask for your hand, would you accept?”

The question startled her. Who would want her now? She was spoiled goods. Would she be forced to marry an old curmudgeon? Was it even possible to find someone who would be willing to supply her father’s financial demands? She had no dowry, nothing to separate her from the crowd of tempting young misses. Placing her hand over her abdomen, Constance wondered who would marry a woman already carrying another man’s child. Her baby needed a protector. If she didn’t marry, he would be without one. If she did, how long would her child survive?

“Would you accept a man of my choice?” he asked, gazing down impatiently.

“If I approve of the gentleman — yes, a thousand times yes.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her close. “Are sure you are with child? Perhaps your fears aren’t warranted.”

“Morty says we shall know soon enough.” She choked on a sob. “In either case, my reputation has suffered and I’m destined to be married whether I like it or not. I’m desperate, Uncle.”

“Then we shall activate a plan to outwit your father and Burton, at once. If we succeed, I guarantee you a better life than you ever imagined possible.”

“How can you assure me so?” Constance hugged him close, never wanting to be parted. Cold despair gripped her. Her heart raced with conflicting emotions: anticipation, hope, dread. Simon had always come to her rescue. She needed him now more than ever.

“Thank you! Thank you, Uncle!” A peace she hadn’t felt in weeks settled over her.

“Do not thank me until the deed is done.”

“But where will you find such a man?” she asked, doubtful one could be found. “Do you already have someone in mind? Will you have to go far to find him?”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek tenderly. “A name and the perfect fit, my dear. Never doubt it. You’ve placed your confidence in me, and I will not trifle it away. But I urge you to be patient.”

“Make haste then, Uncle. I’ve not much time to lose.”

~~~~

Percy was at
the third establishment on his list, the Cat’s Hole. Tired and losing patience, he swallowed another cup of ale and scanned the unruly crowd, searching for familiar faces among the tars, street merchants, tavern wenches, and mealy-mouthed cutthroats loitering in the room. Jacko had sent word that Josiah Cane frequented taverns like this one near the warehouses along the Thames. In his wake, Cane had left precisely primed rumors of a certain lady’s demoralizing stay on board a pirate ship recently confiscated by the war office. As a result, Constance’s name was being passed willy-nilly along London’s inner city streets. Inwardly, Percy blamed himself for Constance’s precarious reputation. He was the reason she’d been ruined. And it was only a matter of time before the
ton
got wind of it.

Angry at himself, at Cane, at fate’s prickly interference, he set his mind on avenging Constance, as well as his sister. His disguise took more care now that he was clean shaven, but, thanks to Ollie, it wasn’t an impossible feat to pull off. Primed for action, he worked the unruly crowd systematically before resuming his place at the bar and chugging down the last drop of his ale in one gulp.

“What’s your pleasure, gov’na?” a red-headed bar maid crooned, winking.

Here was his chance. He grabbed her by the neck and planted a hearty kiss on her lips. “Aye,” he said appreciatively. “You’ve a pair of lips to tempt a starving man. My cup is empty, wench. What say you?”

Brushing her ample bosom against his chest, she posed what he assumed was her most attractive enticement and licked her lips. “What’ll you have?”

Revenge
. His eyes scanned the room over the top of the tart’s head as a man stood, clamoring to leave against an assailment of protests. Percy hugged the bar maid close, feigning interest, all the while measuring up the man as he chortled to his friends.

“I’ve a mind to accept what you’re offering, lass. But who’s making such a ruckus?”

Eager for attention, the wench laughingly stroked his chest, turning in his arms to locate the man in question. “That gent be no stranger here. Name’s Cane. At least that’s the name he uses. One can never be sure with these ruffians.”

“Josiah Cane?” he probed, the name slipping easily off his tongue.

“One and the same.” She winked. “Do you know the gent?”

Know him? He wanted to pulverize the man.

“Shall we go up to my room for a tup?” she asked, grinding against him.

Percy took a coin out of his pocket and smiled devilishly as her eyes lit up. Depositing the gold piece between her breasts, he tapped the tip of her nose. She laughed suggestively, shaking her bosom to ensure the money was secure.

He grinned and peeled her arms from his neck. “That’s a lovely offer, but, unfortunately, I have business to attend and must see it fully serviced.”

She shook her curls, whipping them about her face, and licked her lips. “Come, love, can you not spare an hour for your own servicing? You’re such a strong buck,” she said, stroking his arms. “Built like a stone wall, you are. I’d do anything for a man like you.”

“Anything?” he asked.

“Yes,” she panted, her pouting lips poised for another kiss.

He bent near her ear and whispered his most heartfelt desire. Her eyes rounded then narrowed with understanding. She nodded and moved toward the inner room, swaying her hips seductively, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure he watched her performance. One or two men slapped her buttocks along the way. Apparently the affront didn’t affect her, because she laughed and continued toward her target, checking as she did so to make sure the gold piece didn’t loosen from its hiding place.

Josiah Cane stood in the midst of a crowd, his drunken revelry absorbing quite a bit of attention. Patrons laughed riotously when the bar maid neared him and grabbed him by the groin. The redhead draped herself along Cane’s side, sliding her hands over his manhood to his chest and back again. Patrons egged her on, cajoling her to grope them when she was finished with Cane.

“Get away from me!” the spindly man roared.

Laughter echoed off the rafters. The tavern wench flinched as Cane tried to swat her away like an insect. Unperturbed, the woman made a comment about his inability to rouse to her ministrations. The crowd erupted with laughter. Percy watched as Cane shoved past the brilliant actress and then pressed his way through the unruly group until he reached the door and broke through it at a breakneck pace. The bar maid turned back toward Percy, smiling like a feline intent on cleaning her fur. Percy nodded his thanks and meandered toward the door. Exiting the building, he sighted Cane walking briskly in the distance. Ducking here and there, Percy followed him down Thames Street and into Black Raven Alley, keeping to the shadows.

Fog descended on the street, casually slipping over Cane as he stepped into the opaque haze. Percy quickened his pace. Wafts of moisture clung to his skin, bringing with it a chill that seeped into his bones. Thoughts of Celeste and Constance were his constant companions, challenging him not to lose Cane as he monitored the man’s advancement past warehouses toward the wharf.

Every now and again, he was forced to duck out of sight. When Percy was sure he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped back out onto the street and resumed his chase, darting in and out of alleyways and climbing a stone partition until he stopped at a deserted warehouse. Hiding within the entrance of a white-washed facade adjacent to Cane, Percy watched the man knock once on the ramshackle masonry then three consecutive times. The door grated open slowly. Percy slinked closer, repositioning himself to better glimpse the man who appeared on the threshold. After an awkward silence, a hand bearing a white scroll stretched out. Cane retrieved the parchment and nodded before glancing up and down the foggy alleyway. After a moment, Cane stepped away from the building and stashed the missive in the lapel of his coat and turned back toward Thames Street.

Percy scrutinized the warehouse and waited to see if anyone else might appear. He wasn’t to be disappointed. The door opened again, scraping loudly across the sill. A dark clad figure stepped out. Sweeping his gaze left then right, the spectral form moved into the fog. Percy struck up the chase. Light-footed, he used the enveloping shroud to his advantage, occasionally stooping or hiding when the figure stopped and turned as if sensing his presence. Percy eluded detection time and again, until the silhouette disappeared into the mist and Thames Street swallowed the retreating figure whole.

Approaching the intersection signifying Black Raven Alley lay behind him, he heard footsteps echo nearby. Before he could react, his body jerked. Stunned, Percy twirled around, prepared to defend himself. Oozing warmth dripped down his ears, neck, and back. He swayed. Within seconds, he connected with the ground beneath his feet.