The Rogue (18 page)

“And Mr.
Sterling
?”

“Maude,
now
!” Lady Easterberry's demand came shrilly from the base of the stairs.

The steps creaked. Then, from farther away, came a flurry of whispers and exclamations. They faded quickly.

Constance flattened her palms to the wall behind her, biting her softened lips and tasting him there. He ran a hand over his face and around to the back of his neck, and took in a heavy breath.

“So . . .
not
secret,” she said unsteadily. “It seems you have your wish.”

Confusion then anger flashed through his eyes. “Do you think that I—”

She reached out and pulled herself against him.

“No,” she whispered, twisting her fingers into his waistcoat and feeling him beneath it. One last moment of him. “Thank you.” Releasing him, she went swiftly down the stairs.

Lady Justice

Brittle & Sons, Printers

Dearest Lady,

You claim that a husband's marriage vows promise less than a wife's. And yet here is his vow: “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.” That is, he gives her everything he has. He worships her like a goddess.

What more, kind lady, can you expect a man to give?

In long-suffering affection,

Peregrine

Secretary, The Falcon Club

To Peregrine, at large:

No doubt it has escaped your notice from your height of privilege that—despite the sacred words that you quote—when a woman weds, the Law of this Kingdom places her income, belongings, indeed her entire person in the possession of her husband. She has no power or authority over her money, her property, her children, even her own body. She can do nothing without his consent, including leave him if he treats her with cruelty.

Marriage does not bestow upon a woman a devotee. It shackles her to a prison guard.

—Lady Justice

“
I
t wasn't to be hoped they would keep it to themselves. Lady Easterberry is a sorry gossip and Maude is a peahen.” Eliza picked threads from her embroidery one stitch at a time. “Her sister, Patience Westin, has a good head. If she had been the one to discover you, she might have been able to convince her flibbertigibbet mother to keep it mum.”

“It isn't even noon yet.” Constance stood at the window of the parlor, looking out onto the street. Rain pounded a steady beat on the windowpanes beyond which carriages and carts splashed puddles hither and thither. And yet her maid had already heard the news from a neighbor's maid. “Lady Easterberry and Miss Anderson must have gone calling at a shockingly early hour.”

“Would you have remained at home until a more reasonable hour if you were brimming over with
that
news?”

“I do not spread gossip, Eliza. I collect it.”

“Now you create it,” Eliza said, and poked the needle through the linen.

Constance turned to her companion, putting her back to
the last place she had seen Saint, riding out before breakfast. She did not blame him for escaping. She had said nothing to him the night before in the carriage, and nothing again when they entered the house. There was nothing that could be said in the presence of others. But what would she have said even in private? That he was the first man to touch her like that? That she was hot and panicked merely recalling it? And that if she could turn the clock back, she would do it exactly the same again?

Still, she had not expected him to be gone all day.

“I must tell Father before he hears it from others.”

Two riders halted before the house.

“Oh, good heavens,” Eliza said, peering out the window. “But I suppose we should have anticipated this. He is unconventional, isn't he? Both of them, I daresay.”

Alongside Saint on his magnificent horse, the Duke of Loch Irvine was dismounting before the house. A groom rushed out and took their mounts' reins, and the men ascended the front steps.

The footman who opened the parlor door announced only one man.

“His Grace, the Duke of Loch Irvine,” he said, and admitted Gabriel Hume.

He had not removed his wet coat, and he swept his hat off brusquely in a shower of raindrops. The footman closed the door but the duke remained where he stood.

Constance curtsied. “Good day.”

“Not much good about it now, in truth.” He looked at Eliza. “Ma'am, would you be giving me a moment o' your lady's time alone?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “Whatever you have come to say, you must say it in my presence.”

“Eliza,” Constance said. “Please go.”

With a narrow eye, Eliza snatched up her embroidery and went out.

“Sterling's told me that I'm certain to hear news o' you that I willna like. News o' the two o' you. Is it true?”

“It is.”

His brow lowered. “We're not betrothed, and I'm not in luve with you. You've no cause to fret that I'll be throwing a mighty tirr.”

“Thank you. I am sorry.”

“I'm disappointed, though. You're intelligent, and I've need o' such a woman.”

He had
need
of an intelligent woman?

“And your money,” he added with an absent gesture of his hat. “But I canna allow my wife to carry on with another man, even one who's man enough to tell me the truth o' it himself. You understand.”

“Of course.” She sounded chastened because she felt it, in equal parts guilt and frustration. She had not wanted to hurt or shame him. But also, this would end their meetings. She would lose access to his house.

“I've no cause to tell your father the reason I'm withdrawing my suit.”

“As you wish.”

With an abrupt bow, he went to the door, then looked over his shoulder.

“The lass wished to see the collection in my house. My father's collection.” For the first time since entering the room he sounded uncomfortable. “I will arrange it.”

“That is generous of you.”

“Well, she didna betray me, did she?”

He departed and Constance went to her father's study.

A portrait of the first Duke of Read dominated the room: a sixteenth-century kilted laird of advanced years and thick beard but the same strikingly hard blue eyes as her father. The present duke sat beneath it at his desk. Except for the dogs dozing about the floor, his study was pristine. Nothing but a pen, inkpot, blotter, and lamp adorned his desk, as well as a neat folio of papers upon which his attention was focused.

“Close the door, Constance.”

“Father, I—”

“I have just heard the news.” His voice was cold. “Dr. Shaw had it from a patient not an hour ago. It seems you are now a celebrity of the most deplorable sort. How long, I wonder, before Loch Irvine hears of it?”

“He called just now. He has withdrawn his suit.”

Finally, he lifted his eyes to her. “Are you telling me that you were not able to convince him that you were not at fault?”

“I was at fault.”

He stood, a tower of iron disapproval. “That hardly matters. How you choose to squander your modesty is not at issue here.”

“It h-hardly
matters
?” Her words stumbled. “Does it mean nothing to you whether I acted voluntarily last night or involuntarily?”

“Of course you acted voluntarily. I did not raise a daughter foolish enough to make herself a victim. What is at issue now is the success of this union.”

A victim
.

Once upon a time, his steely anger had made her cower and run for her horse and the hills, the woods, anywhere she could breathe and forget that her mother was gone and he was all she had. Now, as a horrible chill invaded her, laughter welled up in her throat.

“You are a study in contradictions, Father. You insist that I wed before my birthday so that I can retain possession of my mother's fortune, and with it some autonomy in marriage. Yet you insist upon the man I marry. Is the latter to protect your consequence? Must your daughter be a duchess? If so, there are at least three other unmarried dukes in Britain, and more abroad. I'm certain we can scare up an aging widower for me in the next few weeks.”

“This is not about your mother's dowry. It never was.”

Her brittle amusement dissolved. “I—”

“After all of these years, do you understand so little of how I have cultivated you to succeed?”

The air seemed to go entirely still around her in the
manner of wild things that silenced in the moment before the break of a storm.

“Cultivated?”

“You were to be the best. I assured it. Your character from the earliest years showed too much eagerness to defy restrictions. But I knew that could be honed into an asset rather than a weakness, and I made it so. I ensured that you became self-reliant instead of rebellious. I gave you everything you required to excel, to become an extraordinary woman. For the most part you have done precisely what I wished. Until now. This was careless. I am exceedingly disappointed in you.” His fingertips pressed against the surface of his desk. Constance stared at them. Here was a father she had not known, who by his own account had intentionally guided her rather than ignored her.

She could not believe it.

“Perhaps I have disappointed you, Father,” she said slowly. “But the disappointment is mutual. I never intended to wed the Duke of Loch Irvine. I have allowed his courtship in order to get close to him. In doing so, I have learned that he stays quite alone and often makes short journeys away from home. I have not yet confirmed whether he is the Devil's Duke that rumor claims. But I am close to clues that will help me solve the mystery of the abductions of two girls over the past several months here in Edinburgh, and the murder of the girl found just the other night. So, you see, I have used your lessons in self-reliance to make something of myself. I only wonder that you are so ignorant of everything that goes on around you to have missed entirely that society believes the man you chose to be my husband is a monster.”

His lips were a white line. “And now you have destroyed the single most promising opportunity of learning his secrets.”

She could not have heard him correctly. “I have—?”

“As his wife you would have had the necessary access to him and his properties to discover the truth of his
involvement in this business. Indeed, I depended upon him inviting you to participate.”

“To
participate
?”

“Now that avenue is closed, unless you can convince him to reconcile.”

“You
know
what people say of him? You suspect him of it yet you intended me to marry him anyway?”

“I am not interested in rumors circulated by idiots. Loch Irvine is not what he is believed to be. I have been watching him for some time and in January learned news of him that must be investigated. I have not idly allowed you to remain unwed, Constance. I knew there would come a time when it would be to our advantage. This was that time, but your actions last night ruined that.”

“
Our?
Of whom else do you speak? For surely it is not I.”

“You must marry now. That is without question. Your reputation has proven resilient in the past, but it cannot withstand this scandal. You will choose between Michaels or Gray. Michaels is a lackwit, but entirely benign and more importantly convenient at present. You will be able to control him. It is likely that he will never have any idea of your work unless you tell him. Gray will not be led by you, of course, but he will do as I wish in this. It is not my preference to diminish the Club's reach by binding agents together in marriage. But it could eventually prove useful.”

“
What
?” she whispered.

“You have gone too far this time, Constance. Your friendship with Ben Doreé served its purpose in allowing you to remain unwed. But you cannot continue the work I intend for you if you are no longer received universally, which you will be if your name is unfavorably associated with a man of no rank. You will mend this now. Unless you believe you can convince Loch Irvine of your contrition, choose which you will have—Michaels or Gray—and prepare for your wedding.”

“Lord Gray?” There was a twisting sickness in her chest. “Father . . .” She stared at his face. “Are you the director of the Falcon Club?”

“He is,” Eliza said behind her. “And he has done a piss-poor job of arranging matters this time.”

“That is enough, Elizabeth. I hold you equally accountable as my daughter for this travesty.”

She turned her bony shoulder to him. “I never agreed with his plan to wed you to Loch Irvine. I attempted to dissuade him from it more than once.”

“You knew? All this time?” Memories tangled, crisscrossing and confused. Eliza had known about Saint years ago. “But—”

“I never approved of the introduction of Mr. Sterling into this household,” Eliza said swiftly.

“You wanted me to learn how to use a blade so I would be able to defend myself against the duke if it became necessary,” she said to her father. “Didn't you?”

“Your cousin assured me that you had become proficient with a pistol. But if Loch Irvine threatened you, it was necessary that you be able to retaliate swiftly.”

“Retaliate? You imagined I might attack my own husband if he threatened me?”

“I did not prefer that scenario, of course.”

“And yet you planned for its possibility. Without telling me.” Cold and heat flushed over her in quick waves.

“There are a score of aging fencing masters you could have chosen to teach her self-defense, Angus,” Eliza said. “You needn't have invited a handsome young man to do so. I am sorry now to have the opportunity to say that I told you so.” She cast Constance a glance that said more: she had not told him about that fortnight at Fellsbourne years ago.

“Why did you choose him, Father?”

“His brother partnered with Loch Irvine in several business ventures. I hoped he knew details of those, but I have been disappointed in that. And I chose him because he is the best. In the finest
salles
in London, his skill is spoken of with awe, despite his refusal to teach in any of them. I have always provided you with the wherewithal to succeed. The Club is not the end game, Constance. It has been your
training ground only. There is more at stake here than three girls. Someday you will understand that.”

The world was turned upside down.

“My cousin,” she said. “Leam. Did he know it was you all along? Did he agree with this plan?”

“No,” her father replied. “He must be told now, of course.”

“It's about time,” Eliza clipped.

“And Lord Gray? He has communicated with you directly these past five years. Has he always known?”

“Yes.”

Her friend, Colin.

And Eliza, her confidant, the only person she had trusted with her secrets after her mother died.

“What of Ben?”

“No. His interests often coincide with mine. But it never became necessary to inform him.”

As he recited this litany of secrets, her grief transformed into anger. And then understanding.

“And Mr. Sterling?” she said. “Once he learned that I was to be his student, he did not wish to remain. He intended to leave. What did you say to him to make him stay?”

“He tried to bribe him,” Eliza said, “and when the young man was immoveable in that manner, your father threatened him.”

“You
threatened
him?”

“I suggested to him that I was more valuable as a friend than an enemy,” her father said.

“Does he know? About any of the rest?”

“Of course not.”

Bribery. Threats. He had stayed because her father had forced him to. It was too much to bear. She had no one now, nothing but herself, just as years ago when her mother disappeared.