Romancing the Rogue (65 page)

Nearly a week
had gone by since the fiasco in the park. Constance had tried not to dwell on Percy’s abnormal behavior. It was, she had to admit, for lack of a better word, not that unusual. However, since meeting Guffald, her husband had rarely made an appearance in the townhouse. An alarming distance mounted between them. Had her behavior toward Guffald angered him? Had Burton made good on his threats? It was, after all, only a matter of time before Burton made good on his vow to destroy everything and anyone she’d ever loved or dared to love. Disturbing quakes of fear shot through her at the thought.

Constance had never felt her position as Percy’s wife more tenuous than it was now. Nothing seemed to ease her fractured nerves. Until that morning, after dealing with Sumpton Hall’s estate and several correspondences having to do with his ducal duties, Percy appeared at the dining table boldly announcing that tonight would be a night she would never forget. He conversed over luncheon as if Hyde Park and his previous indifference had been nothing of consequence.

And so, there she was, sitting before a vanity mirror, preparing for the anticipated hour they’d depart for Convent Garden. Why was her husband so insistent tonight would be a night she would never forget? And in what way? Her heart pounded with expectation as one possibility after another raced across her mind. Was she to be humiliated in front of the
ton
by their quick entry back into society? Would Burton arrive to air his accusations publicly and permanently tarnish the Avery and Danbury names?

Mrs. Mortimer tugged on her hair to adjust a wayward strand, curling then pinning it to her coiffure. Constance gazed in the mirror and tilted her head to better view the woman’s skillful work. Morty had arranged her blonde tresses with seed pearls and massed them into a formal coif, leaving curls to frame her face.

“Should I wear the rubies, Morty?” she asked, her lips parting into a stiff smile.

Her companion tsked. “They were a gift from your husband, Constance. Of a certainty, you should wear them.”

Constance held the open jewelry box up to the candlelight. The dangling red spheres reminded her of the first time she saw Thomas aboard the Octavia — red handkerchief tied about his head, giving him demonic flair — the sight of him stealing her breath. She put the gems down and reached back to unclasp her locket — except it wasn’t there. How could she have forgotten? Good God! How she missed the comforting closeness of her mother, the feel of the ever-present silver against her skin. She frowned at her reflection and sunk once more into despair.

“Shall I put them on for you?” Morty asked, unrelenting.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, as much to ward off her nagging concern over the locket’s whereabouts as to answer. “I worry about their expense.”

“You’ve no need to worry, child.” One by one, Mrs. Mortimer put the baubles on. “See? You look beautiful.”

Constance stared at her reflection. The woman sitting before her was unrecognizable, far different than the child who’d survived watching her mother die before her eyes, the woman who’d run away from a monster, fallen in love with a pirate, and married a duke with rakish charm.

Excitement raced through her as the woman she’d become stared back with determined, dignified eyes. The ear bobs were a stunning addition to her almond silk gown and matched her coloring to perfection. Percy had impeccable taste. But would he think her beautiful? Did she fit the mold of duchess? Not one to put stock in the reaction of the demi-monde, trepidation ruled her heart as to what the night might disclose. Their sudden marriage, procuring a special license, meant breaching etiquette in the
ton’s
eyes. By being seen in public before the statute of marital protocol had ended, they would be committing another travesty of epic proportions. Percy didn’t seem to care. And though part of her reveled in her husband’s flippant attitude, another part of her feared society’s strict moral code and any backlash they might receive for being so bold.

Morty continued Constance’s toilette, passing her lavender perfume. “To please your husband,” she suggested. “It will do the man good to realize what he’s neglected these past few days.”

“We have no idea why Percy has been preoccupied,” Constance suggested, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Trusting the man who’d abandoned his penchant for bachelorhood was the least she could do. Wasn’t it? With a worried frown, she slipped a curl about her finger, angling it just so near her ear.

“Don’t worry, Constance,” Morty said, resting her hands on her shoulders. “You are dressed to perfection. When His Grace observes the scandalous dip of your bodice, I suspect he will carry you right back upstairs, abandoning all thought of the theatre and the repercussions of the
ton
. I promise you, no man in his right mind could resist such a vision, especially the duke.”

Was Mrs. Mortimer right? Though Percy had been distant during the day, he’d made a concerted effort to appear in her bed during the middle of the night, where he’d made love to her until she’d fallen asleep, only to wake and find him gone again. What did his absences mean? Was he spending his time with a mistress? Once again, a foreboding chill shot through her, and she worried if Burton was the cause.

“Appearances are everything, Constance
.
”
Percy’s words reminded her that she’d married a dandy, willingly placed herself in his care. She owed him her life, the life of her child. But she had much to learn about playing his enthusiastic accomplice.

Constance stared at her reflection a moment longer. The mirror convicted her of multiple sins, surviving disaster when her mother had not, running away from her father, taking up with a pirate, pregnancy, deceiving her enemy, Burton, and selling herself to the highest bidder, Percy, a man she respected and grew to love more and more each day. She’d lost her mother. She’d cost her father immeasurable disappointment. She’d lost Thomas. She held her breath, an even more dreadful fear washing over her. What if Percy’s adoration was stolen from her too?

“Why so glum, child?” Mrs. Mortimer asked. “You miss your mother, don’t you? It’s fitting for a mother-to-be to miss the woman who could ease her anxieties of childbirth. I never had my own child, but had I been blessed, I would have wished for a daughter like you, my sweetling.”

Constance reached up and squeezed the hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “You’ve been a wonderful example to me, Morty. Mother and friend, by all accounts.”

Mrs. Mortimer tsked. “Naught more than you deserve.” Then just as quickly, Morty’s expression grew serious.

A tremulous wave shot through her. “What is it? I know you well enough to know when something’s amiss.”

Chewing her lower lip, Morty glanced toward the door. “Have you thought more about your locket? Where it might be?”

Constance stroked a place on her neck where her hair spiked. “Yes, endlessly. I cannot believe it’s simply vanished without a trace.”

“What do you suppose happened to it?” she whispered now, close, as if afraid of being overheard.

“I don’t know. I remember having it on before the wedding. With so much to do, so little time to think, I hardly realized it was gone until it was too late.”

“Have you considered whether someone might have taken it?”

Constance gasped. The servants at Throckmorton had been in her father’s employ for years. “Who would do such a thing? No, I fear that while trying to prepare for the wedding, I misplaced it. It, most probably, is still at Throckmorton Manor.”

Mrs. Mortimer went to the door, opened it, peered down the hall, and then closed it again, securing it behind her before returning to her side. She picked up an ivory brush to rearrange an errant curl around Constance’s face. The same curl she’d just redone.

“How peculiar is it that you managed to keep the locket safe all these years only to have it disappear the night before your wedding? You don’t find that a bit odd?”

Seeds of doubt planted, Constance considered Morty’s words. Few strangers had been in the house. Burton’s visits had ended when her engagement to Percy was announced. And what would anyone want with it in the first place?

“What are you suggesting?” she asked, dreading Morty’s logic.

“Think, Constance. Visualize the last time you saw the locket.”

She sorted through her memories. She could see herself laying the locket on her night board, then nothing. “Good God! It must have been someone in the household, one of the servants perhaps.”

But who would steal the most valuable thing she had left of her mother? The household staff knew how much the locket meant to her. Constance’s head reeled, and a part of her yearned to believe that no one at Throckmorton could possibly have betrayed her in such a way.

Constance latched onto Mrs. Mortimer’s hand. “It can’t be true,” she said with a tremulous whisper. “My mother’s locket means everything to me. Why would anyone steal it, especially before my wedding?”

A sympathetic smile brightened the woman’s features. “You’re such an innocent, my dear.”

A knock sounded once, then twice. Within moments, Constance found herself alone as Morty was summoned away. She gazed about her bedroom dejectedly. Mrs. Mortimer was wrong. She wasn’t innocent. She’d given her body and soul to a pirate. She didn’t belong in Percy’s townhouse. She didn’t deserve to be a duchess. And the loss of her mother’s locket revealed she wasn’t responsible enough to wear the rubies Percy had given her. The babe in her belly proved she was a wanton who masked her deceit by selling herself for respectability and protection. Her attempts to play the dutiful wife while mourning for the father of her child, confirmed she didn’t deserve Percy’s love, though he’d never proclaimed it. No. Percy deserved better. She owed him her loyalty, her life, her trust — the truth. Perhaps it was time to explain that Burton’s accusations were sound, that she carried a bastard’s child.

Constance walked to the door of her room, determined to make things right. The time for lies had come to an end. She was spoiled goods. She couldn’t possibly hope for her husband’s forgiveness. Being honest brought her no joy. But she had to purge her soul. Now. Before the love she felt blossoming in her heart overwhelmed her. No man should be forced to raise another man’s child.

Sneaking out of her bed chamber, careful not to draw attention, she stepped back over the threshold and hid in the shadows when she spied Jeffers exiting Percy’s room. Light in the hallway faded as he descended the stairs. She waited until Jeffers’ footsteps faded. Then, with a swish of her skirts, she headed through the darkened mahogany-lined hallway toward Percy’s bed chamber. The staircase provided ample light. Voices below indicated Mrs. Mortimer conversed with the butler. She had little time to do what she knew she must do — catch her husband alone. What she had to say was not for servants’ ears.

Her heart thudded wildly behind her ribs as she knocked on the door to Percy’s room.

Silence.

She lifted her hand and knocked again, eyes alert for a wayward servant, Mrs. Mortimer’s, or Jeffers’ return.

“Percy,” she whispered.

Her mind revolted and her nerves entreated her to withdraw. But her conscience wouldn’t allow it. If she was to expel her sins, she couldn’t back down now. Eager to reveal the truth about herself and the baby before she changed her mind, she whispered his name again, then tested the doorknob and, finding the door unlocked, slipped inside.

“Percy?”

To her left stood a large wooden bed, a tangled mass of fabric heaped on the surface. The room was sparsely decorated and smelled of sandalwood, Percy’s scent, and something else — the sea. Curiously, her gaze shifted about the room. By the hearth, a tepid tub indicated that her husband had recently bathed. Was she too late?

Momentarily shaken, her gaze scanned the disaster-struck room to the behemoth bed and a side table stacked with odds and ends. Nearby, a lit candelabrum fluttered on a desk near the open window. Shadows played across the bed chamber walls, teasing with telltale shapes. She stepped farther into the room, hesitant to explore, prepared to flee at a moment’s notice should she hear someone approach.

Constance didn’t belong in the overpowering room. She knew it instantly and decided she’d made a horrible mistake. Her senses came alive with awareness, making it impossible to control her erratic pulse. What if her husband found her snooping through his belongings? Her position in the household was tenuous enough. Add to that the revelation that she was carrying another man’s child and she would most assuredly find herself thrown out on the street.

A breeze whipped the drapes in the window, bringing them dangerously close to the flaming candlewicks. Constance reacted by instinct. She grabbed the silver base and then set the candlestick on the side table, breathing a sigh of relief. The threat of fire over, she closed the window, careful not to make a sound. Smoothing her hair and skimming her hands over her skirts, she turned to grab the candelabra and place it back on the desk, but her hand struck a book, dislodging a shiny silver object. The oval case gleamed as she brought the light closer to inspect it.

“No.” She gasped. “My locket?” She lifted the book, a sudden wave of nausea roiling inside her abdomen. “How?”

Assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness, she took hold of the chain and dangled the case from her fingers. Had Percy had her locket all this time? But how was it possible? Had she laid it out, handed it to him? Had he been present when the necklace had been off her neck? No. They hadn’t been lovers until after the wedding, and it had been noticeably absent during that event. How had it come into Percy’s possession? And why hadn’t he returned it to her?