Romancing the Rogue (66 page)

Constance fisted the locket in her hand. Dizziness enveloped her. She expected lies and dishonesty from Thomas, from Burton, but Percy? Never!

Her heartbeat drummed in her ears and despair gripped her as she clasped the locket around her neck and then guardedly flipped through various papers on Percy’s desk. It was unlike her to be meddlesome, but her trust had been violated — again. What else had her husband kept from her?

She dismissed the volumes dedicated to shipping lanes, investments, and law, which were nothing out of sorts for a man of position and wealth, and continued her search, locating another image of Lady Celeste. A different miniature of the woman sat on his bedside table. She held it up to the light, her thumb stroking the woman’s flowing hair, the resemblance uncanny. Her heart hitched. No, it was beyond the realm of possibilities.

Thomas.

Placing the striking resemblance back on the bedside table, Constance grasped her chest, unable to breathe. She leaned onto the coverlet for balance. The room was small, unsuitable for a man of Percy’s rank, and it closed in ever tighter.

Why had Percy deceived her? Why had he kept quiet about his father’s illness, his relationship with the woman in the picture? Sobs racked her body. Couldn’t she be trusted to keep his secrets, to share his burdens? Burton had threatened to discredit her father if she didn’t resort to investigating Percy’s involvement in her father’s accounts. But based on trust, she had not acted on that threat. Should she?

This is madness!

Constance gained control of her senses long enough to realize she needed to tamp the wick on the candle by Percy’s bedside. She had to leave before she was discovered. As she turned to do so, her slipper caught on something on the floor, nearly tripping her as she moved. Reaching down, she picked up a discarded piece of fabric entangling her feet and rolled the fabric between her fingers. Curious, she held it up to the candlelight. The tightly woven garment was black as pitch. Her fingers paled in comparison. Her heart beat out a tortuous rhythm as her hand slid through gashes cut along the forearm.

It couldn’t be!

Dropping to her knees, Constance sank into an abyss. What more? Hesitantly, she inspected the floor and then reached into the dark void beneath the mattress. There she found a pair of black boots, black breeches, and
—
Lord help her
—
a red bandana!

Paralyzed, she sat back on her heels and attempted to recover from the shock. How could she have been so blind? Percy
was
Thomas!
No. No. No.
The words wedged in her throat. It simply couldn’t be!

Astonished, barely able to control her anger, her head spun with the ramifications, replaying image after image of time she’d spent with Thomas, contrasting wildly with the impish Percy, whose gentlemanly portrayal had won her trust. And yet she’d been betrayed! Doubly so! Seduced by a pirate, she’d become pregnant and then, thanks to Burton, forced to partake in a sham of a marriage to a popinjay. Who was she married to — Percival Avery or Thomas Sexton? How had her life become so twisted, so beset upon by lies and deceptions? Oh God. If Thomas and Percy were one and the same, then Percy
was
the father of her child. He’d been aware of her pregnancy all along.

Within seconds, anger more destructive than any feeling she’d ever known took hold of her senses. Jumping to her feet, she walked dazedly to the door, the very threshold she’d crossed to humble herself before her swine of a husband and divulge her sins. Unaware of her actions, she put her hand on the knob and jerked the door open, uncaring who heard her exit the room.

Darkness in the hallway swallowed her whole. Constance paused, allowing her eyes to adjust, clinging to the shadows a moment longer to regain her wits. She started to hyperventilate and clutched the wall in order to take deep breaths to steady herself so she didn’t faint.

What had she done to deserve this? Her father had relinquished Burton’s proposal in favor of another advantageous one. Not out of sympathy but out of practical greed. What had Percy offered that would force her father’s hand? Was her uncle involved? Or had her father known all along the two men were one and the same? Was everything she knew or thought to be true a lie?

Never trust a pirate.

A sob tore from her throat. She’d married a pirate! Constance clutched her mouth to stifle her anguished sobs.

All at once she understood what her mother must have experienced in the perilous moments before her death. She’d been betrayed by men who’d schemed to use her for their benefit. Now it was her turn. She’d been taken advantage of by a rogue, made a laughing stock of the
ton
by a rake. How her husband must have enjoyed his disguise. How he must have laughed at her naivety.

The shock almost rendered her immobile. What was she to do now? Where was she to go?

Her mind sorted recent events, especially the carriage ride in Hyde Park.

“A ship cannot sail without a crew, Your Grace. You cannot claim ignorance of this.”
Was Guffald involved?

Her throat ached with defeat as an iron vise gripped her lungs. She’d been saved by Thomas’ narrow thread of decency aboard the Octavia, and when she’d arrived in London, Percy’s sense of decorum. Her legs threatened collapse. She palmed the wall. No matter how dismal her life appeared, both men had tried to protect her. In some twisted, sickening sense of duty they had stepped forward to save her. Thomas from Frink. Percy from Burton. One fact remained. Her child needed a father. He’d been given one, one she was legally honor bound to obey whether she wanted to or not.

The knowledge twisted and turned inside her. Dabbing her lashes to keep from being blinded by tears, she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The sound forced her into action. She quickly composed herself and met Jeffers at the top of the staircase. He bowed, dutifully, and then stared, unable to mask the surprise on his face as he studied her neck. His brows arched together with agonizing slowness.

“Your Grace—”

His expression told her everything she needed to know. Jeffers knew. She brushed past him and descended the stairs, not caring whether she was being impolite by cutting him off. The man was Percy’s butler. He’d been privy to the truth all along and had made no concerted effort to conceal his surprise at her discovery.

Jeffers raced down the steps and caught up with her. “His Grace sends his most humble apologies.”

She hated Jeffers’ maddening arrogance. “He does?”

“Yes, I fear he cannot accompany you to this evening’s entertainment at Convent Garden.”

“Oh?”

Percy’s butler continued, “He hopes you will forgive his pressing business and asks that you not scold him unmercifully.” Was Jeffers trying to minimize Percy’s deceit? If so, he was too late.

“It is a wife’s duty to scold her unruly husband.”

Jeffers’ face clouded with uneasiness. “To make amends, His Grace has made arrangements for you to attend
La Duenna
without him.”

“Without him? Surely he would not want me to do something scandalous.”

Again, Jeffers’ brows rose. “Captain Guffald will be arriving shortly to play your escort.” He stepped forward. “I believe the two of you are already acquainted.”

She sighed, clasped her fingers together and said, “We are.”

What dangerous game was her husband playing now?

Jeffers couldn’t possibly understand the riotous avenues of her thoughts, the scandalous expletives she wanted to rain on him. He served two masters, withholding information about Thomas and Percy. She wanted to scream, to lose control, to accuse the butler of deepening her despair. But she couldn’t fault the man, as much as she wanted to throttle him for his involvement. He, at least, had been counted on to keep her husband’s secrets.

That left her little choice. “When your master returns, inform him his concern for my happiness has been taken into account. I will accept Guffald’s assistance.”

A shadow of doubt crossed Jeffers’ face.

Her eager smile hid her true feelings. Guffald had been her only refuge when she’d tried to escape the Striker. She’d kept his secret, that he’d come to her aid when she and Mrs. Mortimer had tried to take the gig out into the storm. If not for him, she and Morty would have fallen from the ship to their deaths. Perhaps he could be prevailed upon to take her back to Throckmorton. Yes. It was a sound plan.

Jeffers attempted to speak. “You must—”

The outer bell rang.

“Answer the door, Jeffers,” she ordered, a slow smile curving her lips.

Jeffers reacted instinctively, answering the summons with an agility she expected. “Good evening, Captain,” he said, permitting the gentleman entrance. “Lady Blendingham is prepared to accept your escort.”

Guffald crossed the threshold, took off his hat, and bowed. He rose and then moved his gaze over her figure as she stood at the bottom of the stairs. His quick intake of breath proved she’d succeeded with her toilette, achieving the effect she’d hoped to solicit from her husband. The gown she’d chosen cut scandalously low, the bodice lined with thin lace accentuated her swelling bosom and drew attention to the locket she now wore temptingly between her breasts. Earlier this evening, she had hoped to sweeten Percy’s appetites, distract him from the truth about her baby, but now that she knew who and what he really was, she no longer cared. She had her mother’s locket, the one thing she couldn’t live without. The locket and what she had on were all she would take with her.

Constance smiled at the captain, knowing any small encouragement she offered went against decorum. She was a married woman. If she arrived at the Opera House without her husband, she would face disagreeable snippets from the
ton
, in all possibility, utter and complete ruination. But she’d made up her mind. She didn’t intend to see
La Duenna
. She meant to leave Percy. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive what Thomas or Percy had done. Toward that end, she armed herself with the strength it would take to continue the masquerade of a duke’s wife just a bit longer. Offering her best enchanting smile, she stepped forward and accepted the captain’s hand.

The gallant officer bent low, placing a chaste kiss on her hand, hesitating longer than tolerable. His gaze strayed from her gloved fingers, languidly moving up her arm, toward her breasts as he raised his head. Constance inhaled a nervous breath. Though Guffald’s interest was unrequited, she saw longing in his gaze, a look she’d seen him give her before. But this time, the intensity hadn’t diminished. Taking advantage of the desire she saw flickering in his blue eyes, she smiled. Here was a man who would do anything she asked. She needed someone like that now.

Jeffers coughed. Constance turned to accept her wrap so as not to give herself away.

“Allow me,” Guffald said, placing a black velvet cloak embroidered with silver thread on her shoulders.

Constance pulled the cloak closed and wrapped her fingers around her mother’s locket, holding tightly, closing her eyes, praying God gave her the strength to leave behind the two men she loved. Yes, she could admit it now. She loved two men, Thomas and Percy, both equally and yet differently. And what a fool she was for it.

Jeffers opened the front door and held it open for their departure. Constance thought of racing up the stairs to wait for Percy until she could confront him and make him explain why he’d deceived her. But as she released the locket and put her hand in Guffald’s, she cast that idea aside.

“Lady Blendingham,” Guffald said, her name slipping out of his mouth on a sweet caress. “May I escort you to the ends of the earth?”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, “but I only have need of reaching Convent Garden.”

He winked, exuding charm. Then the smile left his eyes as his gaze dropped to her bosom. “By the bye,” he said, “I see you have finally found your locket. Did you have difficulty locating it?”

“Yes,” she admitted, refusing to reveal more.

He smiled, his teeth flashing white. “I can see the object has brought you peace of mind.”

Peace of mind? That was not what she felt. “I have been at odds without it,” she admitted truthfully. Her gaze flitted to Jeffers’ face as the captain swept her toward the door. “Do thank my husband for finding my necklace.”

Jeffers stood as solid as one of the statues in the garden. Guffald’s next words, however, caused the man to blink. “Pass along my regards to Blendingham.”

Jeffers bowed. “I shall relate your message, Captain.”

Guffald patted Jeffers on the shoulder as he ushered her out the door. “That’s a good man.”

~~~~

Percy entered the
back door of his townhouse, soaked to his skin. A deluge had forced his retreat after hours of searching for signs of Burton’s participation in a deal with the Delrina Gray. The cargo aboard the ship practically proved Burton held the key to Celeste’s death. Word had previously come to him by way of Jacko and Ollie that one of Burton’s servants had been sighted at the landing on the west end of town, hawking items from the recent sinking of the Arboreal. When questioned about how he’d acquired the merchandise, the servant had fought desperately to evade them. Reacting on instinct, he and his men had chased the tyrant to a literal dead end, where the thief had taken a dagger to his gullet. Still breathing when they found him, the dying man had eagerly purged himself of his sins, giving an eyewitness account of Burton’s involvement with the two ships.

Baroness Chauncey had not led him astray. He owed a huge debt for her vigilant guard over Burton’s household affairs, his comings and goings.

Percy clenched his teeth and fought hard to control his rage. The news had been grave indeed. Throckmorton had unknowingly betrothed Constance to a man who took great pleasure in beating and raping his household staff. The power hungry despot had been willing to kill anyone in his way as he sought out the young with a perverse, insatiable appetite, making no aristocrat his match.

Frustration fueled Percy as he surveyed the empty foyer, desperate to ensure Nelson’s Tea put a stop to Burton forever. His greatcoat dripped water onto the marble surface. Tip-tap. Tap. Tap. His mind raced with newfound knowledge. Had Celeste fallen prey to Burton? Were the carriage accident, his father’s illness, and her death, a ploy to get back at him for convincing his father to speak out against Burton’s lobbying for control over the House of Lords? What of Constance’s near miss with the fiend? His face burned as he remembered the bruise on Constance’s breast. The mere thought of Burton harming his wife turned his anger white-hot.

He threw his gloves down on the floor and growled. Jeffers would want to cosh him, but he thought no more of his behavior as he beat the raindrops from his sleeves and removed his coat.

“Jeffers!” he bellowed. He listened for an answer, but the house was eerily quiet.
Highly unusual.
“Constance!”

Where was Cook, the servants? Jeffers, especially, seemed to always be around whenever he entered the house. “Jeffers!”

Footsteps thump, thumped on the second floor. He strode down the hallway and looked up. “Constance?” Knowing full well that Burton would continue to make good on threats against all those he loved, Percy bolted up the stairs, taking two steps at a time when no answer came.

Jeffers peaked his head over the banister. “Your Grace?”

“Where have you been?” Taking in the man’s unusual dishevel, he asked, “What has gotten you into such a state?”

Jeffers stared down with frantic, apologetic eyes. “Your… G-Grace,” he stuttered. “She found it.” Jeffers hair was in disarray and he ran his hand through it nervously.

“Who found what?”

“Your Grace,” he explained. “She found it.”

“Calm down, Jeffers,” he said, the words ripping out of him impatiently. “Where is my wife?”

“Gone, Your Grace.”

What had happened to addle Jeffers? “Gone where?”

“I received your missive and—”

Percy held up his hand. “Stop! What missive?”

“The note you sent confirming that Guffald was to accompany Lady Blendingham to the opera in your stead.”

“I sent no such note.” His mind worked at a frantic pace as he gazed around the foyer. The house suddenly took on an emptiness that didn’t need to be explained. Urgency filled every fiber of his being.

“When she left wearing the locket, I—”

“Locket?” he roared, desolation washing over him. How had she found the locket?

“Yes, Your Grace, I’ve been trying to tell you. She had the locket around her neck. I assumed you’d finally told her the truth and had given it to her but couldn’t question her in front of Guffald without giving you away.”

Percy leaned against the stair railing as if he’d been gut shot. “I wrote no such note. The trinket is evidence. I’ve kept it locked in my room ever since I found it. How could that confounded woman have possibly gotten to it?”

If Constance had the locket, she knew the truth. She knew who he was, what he was, and worse, what he’d done to conceal his identity. She would loathe him.

“I left the room unlocked,” Jeffers admitted, shaking. “She must have found everything.” The man’s shoulders slumped. “I have failed you.”

“Now is not the time for a litany of sins, Jeffers! God knows mine outweigh yours.”

Percy’s eyes rounded. He’d meant to destroy the damn locket, though it had pained him to do so. The necklace had been a gift from Constance’s mother. Even so, he could not forget finding it in Josiah Cane’s possession. After discovering Burton’s duplicity in the attack on the Octavia, in Celeste’s abduction, and his father’s accident, he’d put the locket out of his mind.

Damn it!
Why hadn’t he destroyed it?
Because it meant so much to her? Because she would never forgive me?

Whatever strides he’d made in persuading Constance to trust the Duke of Blendingham had been destroyed. She would never believe anything he said now. What more could he do?

The answer hit him squarely in the face. Whatever it took. He couldn’t lose her. He’d kept the locket because it had brought her immeasurable joy. Her presence in his life had given him meaning, something he hadn’t lived with for nearly a year and, like the locket, he wouldn’t be parted from her.

New anguish seared his heart. He loved Constance, and with that admission, he knew he couldn’t live without her.

“Where is she? Where have they gone?” he asked, panic rioting within him.

“Guffald said you had asked him to accompany Constance to
La Duenna
at Convent Garden.”

“I would never allow her to be seen without me and with another man. That would be completely scandalous!”

“If you’d told her Ladyship about your stint on the Striker as I have suggested many times, Your Grace, this would not have happened.”

“This is not the time to chastise me, Jeffers,” he said, feeling the weight of his deceit.

God help him, he’d not been given the time to break the news to her gently, though he’d been prepared to tell her the truth during their ride in Hyde Park. If Guffald hadn’t interrupted, perhaps then—

He shook his head. He was sick and tired of trying to fix the past. He wanted Constance. He needed her.

His thoughts turned inward. Hyde Park. Coincidentally meeting Guffald along Rotten Row. Guffald appearing to escort her away from the townhouse. Suddenly it all seemed clear.

“I expect the road ahead to be a challenge, but I’ve no doubt in my mind as to the outcome.”

“May success guide you
,
”
his wife had said.

“’
Tis what I pray for everyday, my lady.”

Guffald had made no effort to conceal his interest in Constance. He’d been aboard the Octavia. He’d been one of two senior officers to survive the Striker’s attack. And yet he and his men had saved him from being murdered. If he was involved, why would Frink want to have him killed? Had Frink double-crossed him? Was Guffald in league with Frink? Was he Whistler?

During their meeting in Hyde Park, Guffald had mentioned his recent command of the Stockton. And Percy had just found out that particular ship had been associated with Burton’s illegal activities aboard the Delrina Gray and the Arboreal. Was Guffald also working for Burton? If so, what kind of web had he drawn Constance in to? Burton’s man had said his master spoke of nothing but acquiring his wife’s prestige and wealth. If that was true, the man had been ciphering funds from Danbury’s accounts since he made designs on Constance nearly a year ago. Shortly after Percy had refused Burton’s access to Celeste. Perhaps longer.

Celeste. Had she been one of Burton’s victims? Whatever the case, he had no time to waste if he didn’t want Constance to suffer the same fate, no matter what she must think about him, especially pregnant with his child.

Percy raced up the stairs. “Send a messenger to Jacko. Tell him to get Ollie to round up the men. I can only hope I’m not too late.”