by Heather Boyd
“Bravo, Virginia, you routed the toadies in no more than twenty-five words. Very impressive,” Hallam enthused.
Virginia rounded on him, leaving Constance to face the marquess alone.
He didn’t say a word, but he did take the paper. Desperate for something other than debt to think about, she peered past him and got a closer look at the tunnel.
“Where does this go?” she asked, curiosity spurring her on. Then she thought better of her question. Jack might not want her to know anything more about it.
“Back toward my study and to other parts of the house.”
Constance bit her lip. She wanted to ask if she could go in, if he would show it to her, but she did not want to risk rejection.
“Do you want to see?” Jack was watching her with an understanding smile.
“You would show me?” she asked him. Really, she should not be surprised. He knew of her love of strange and new experiences. Secret passages would be high on anyone’s list of adventures.
“Anything. Always remember that.”
Constance blushed. He wasn’t cruel, and an open doorway was an invitation, of sorts.
Jack showed her the location of the opening catch in the drawing room and on the inside of the tunnel. He held out his hand and led her into the gloomy passage, closing the door behind them. Constance could not see much at first and was a little wary of the musty smell.
“Don’t be afraid, Pixie. I’m here.” Jack pulled her to his side and she breathed deep, calming instantly.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“The tunnel contains several flights of stairs. We go down, then up to my study. Another flight of steps goes upstairs to the family rooms, and then further on up to the top floor.”
Constance nervously clenched Jack’s hand tighter as he led her away from the pinpricks of light seeping around the now closed doorway. The passage walls were very close, and she was more than grateful for Jack’s presence.
When they stopped, Jack raised her hand to let her feel the latch, pulling her tight against his side and just in front of him. Constance’s face heated as her body brushed his. It was confusing how many times she blushed around Jack when she never had before.
“Only family knows about these passages, so be sure to check the spy holes carefully before opening. We try to keep them secret, but I think Parkes knows, and my valet might too. Make as little noise as you can, or you’ll sound like mice in the walls. We both know Cook goes into a tizzy about them.”
“I remember she ordered a search of Hazelmere that took three days.”
“Perhaps you won’t drop mice in my hat this visit.” Jack’s lips brushed her ear as he spoke.
She squirmed at the tickle of his breath. “I thought you might have liked to see them.” She turned her head an inch and his lips touched her cheek.
“A mouse is very nice, but why did you leave so many in my room?” he asked, still whispering against her skin.
“I can’t recall.”
The way his breath struck her skin sent her pulse racing greater than any fear ever had. They remained locked like that until Jack slid his hand to the side of her face. He cupped it and then directed her head to a peephole. She could see Jack’s study, and the room was empty.
She savored the feel of his warm hand on her face before depressing the latch. The door latch clicked open, and she stumbled out. She had not realized they had been plastered so tight together. Constance struggled to her feet without assistance, seeking to compose herself.
Jack stepped around her and locked his study door, granting them privacy. The bright room spread light into the tunnel, illuminating the beginnings of steps beyond the doorway.
“Where do they go?”
Jack’s face shone with perspiration. He swallowed before answering. “They lead to my chambers.”
“May I see?” Constance clamped her hand over her mouth in shock. She had just asked to go see a gentleman’s bedchamber. Any minute now she was going to die of mortification. He was sure to have heard Miss Scaling’s ugly insinuations earlier. She looked anywhere but at Jack.
“Some other time, perhaps? When you’re ready and don’t have young men expected.” His voice sounded aggrieved. “Let us see what this is,” Jack muttered, pulling the thick papers from his pocket to spread them across his desk.
With his back to her, she let her eyes linger on his silhouette. He might be all muscle beneath that coat. He certainly didn’t pad the shoulders. Her fingers tingled with the desire to touch. Flushing at the memory of his breath against her skin, she was reminded of another puzzle. If Jack didn’t hate her, then why did he argue with her so much?
Dismissing the moodiness of the man, she stepped up beside him and glanced down at three neat pages with a precise column of numbers marching beside each description.
“He’s gone and bought up your mother’s remaining debts,” Jack muttered angrily. “Now why the devil did he do that?”
Constance didn’t care for the why. She only cared about how much it would cost her. “Please tell me how much I owe now? I cannot bear not knowing.”
Jack surprised her by slinging an arm around her shoulders. “The total now stands closer to thirty thousand pounds.”
If not for the tight grip he had on her shoulders, Constance would have landed on the floor. This was beyond bad. It was hopeless. She fought the instinct to cry and allowed him to lead her to the lounge.
Once she sat down, he pulled her head tight to his shoulder. “This debt crosses more names off the list, Pixie. There would only be three gentlemen who could repay the debts without creating more financial difficulties for themselves.”
It took Constance a couple of tries to speak. “I understand. Who are they?”
“Blamey, Bridges, and Abernathy.”
“Do you know them?”
“Not well. They are a good deal younger than I, and obtained their fortunes through trade.”
Constance nodded, her cheek rubbing against the soft wool of his coat. Was it wrong to want to stay here, hidden from the world? She very much wanted to. Constance could stand to inhale the calming cinnamon of the Marquess of Ettington for the rest of her life.
A large hand settled on her hair and reminded her she was being inconsiderate. She had taken up enough of Jack’s time. “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate everything you have done for me.” She stood, not daring to glance at his face.
She jumped as Jack settled his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t do that. I will still help you.”
Shaking her head, she didn’t bother looking at him. It was better not to voice the doubts she had. There were only three men who could afford to pay her debts. That meant she had only three chances to stay out of debtor’s prison.
If none of them liked her enough to marry her, she was doomed. “I should return to Virginia.”
“Of course.”
Despair ebbed as the darkness swallowed her and Jack inside the tunnel. When Jack shut the door, he reached for her hand and pulled her toward the drawing room. Constance resisted. Panic over her situation gripped her.
He pulled her into a loose embrace. When she clutched at his coat, he tightened his arms about her. “Shh, Pixie. Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
It was nice of him to be so optimistic, but Constance couldn’t believe him. His arms loosened and when he caught her hand again, she allowed him to lead her back to Virginia.
She stepped down the passage carefully, conscious of her hand in Jack’s, the strength of his grip never faltering. His thumb brushed across the back of her hand, and she blushed in the dark. When Jack stopped, she bumped into him. His hot breath struck her face and neck, forcing another blush to race over her skin. She fought it.
At the portal, she looked through the peek holes carefully, checking for new guests before releasing the catch and stepping through the gap behind the painting. Virginia and Hallam were speaking by a rear window in low tones, so she turned and shut the
doorway, trapping Jack in the room with them. She studied his bent head as he checked her long skirts for cobwebs and hard to explain dust on the dark material. Again, the irrational urge to lay her hands upon him surfaced. Blushing, she turned away.
“Do you ever wonder what it might be like?” Jack asked, standing directly behind her. She jumped as his fingers brushed across the back of her neck.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If only.” He backed away. “Forgive me.”
A knock sounded on the doors and she turned to face the next set of guests.
After exploring the secrets of Ettington house, the afternoon grew tedious. The strain of appearing cheerful in the face of ruin was very hard to do.
Today, Constance had seven gentlemen callers, each sure she would be pleased to drive in the park, attend the theatre, or some other thing. Her answer depended on the shake of Jack’s head. Most often, it was negative. Unfortunately, not one of the callers was one the three she needed to meet.
Jack stayed with them for the afternoon but later excused himself to attend to a caller of his own. She was half-glad to have him leave. Her callers invariably brought their sisters, who gazed at Jack in a manner that made her feel ill. Did all of London view him as a walking pastry? They flattered, they simpered, and on more than one occasion Jack caught her eye in an accusing manner, as if saying, ‘Look at what you are putting me through.’
It puzzled her that no one else appeared to realize he was betrothed. It was not a new event. He had been betrothed for an age. And what had he meant by ‘if only.’ If only what?
Lord Carrington called, bringing his sister, Miss Ryall, with him. At least she hadn’t stared at Jack. She was an intelligent, witty girl, and Constance quite liked her. The Earl of Louth arrived as they were leaving, and the tension in Miss Ryall’s manner during their conversation intrigued her. Constance knew almost nothing about Louth, but she wondered how he could be so blind to the girl’s agitation. Louth spoke earnestly to Carrington about a horse before they departed, but he did watch them leave. Perhaps Louth was not blind after all.
Lord Wade brought his aunt, a stern faced matron, who inspected them and the room through a lorgnette before grunting in what Constance assumed was disapproval. Lord Wade, a narrow fellow a little older than Constance, seemed a pleasant enough visitor at first.
“Can’t imagine why Ettington allows Louth near his sister, given his reputation,” Wade sniggered next to her, low enough for his voice not to carry.
“Why should Lord Ettington not receive him?” Constance asked, puzzled.
“Well, since you are not long in Town, I daresay you’ve not heard his nickname. Believe me, when you hear it. I can promise you it most certainly is true. Oh, but then again, a country lass like yourself is probably more earthy than most. Let us say, in the farming of beef, it is important to have one to continue the herd.”
Lord Wade’s sly smile revolted her and Constance wished Jack would return. “I don’t understand.”
“A bull, my dear. That is what he is. Every inch, a bull.”
Constance’s skin heated in horror. She stood to move away from Wade but his low laugh at her expense rumbled behind her back. She took a turn about the room, conscious of speculative gazes following her, but didn’t glance around. She feared Lord Wade or Lord Louth would be watching.
When Wade and his aunt took their leave, Constance sat with a sigh, hoping no more visitors would appear to take their place. But the door to the drawing room opened once more, and Constance braced herself for more empty pleasantries. However, her glance revealed Jack’s return. She breathed easy again.
CHAPTER TEN
CONSTANCE SLID HER legs over the side of the bed and sat with her feet dangling high above the floor. No matter how hard she tried, she could not seem to fall asleep tonight. With a sigh, she lowered her feet to the floor and stood still beside the high bed.
Perhaps a glass of water would help. She stumbled across to the bureau as the moonlight disappeared and poured a glass of water once the thin light returned. The water was cold and quenched her thirst. But thirst did not seem to be the reason she could not sleep.
Outside, the moonlight flickered between the clouds above, painting the veranda in patchy light. She pressed her head to the glass pane and twisted her head from side to side, restless but unsure of what to do.
In her own house, she would wander the halls and find a book or activity that needed her attention. But she had no work to do. Her letters were finished, her reading done. She could take a trip down to the library and fetch a book, but she was hesitant about roaming this house at night. Lord Hallam practically lived in the library and Constance had no desire to converse with him alone. He would probably produce a lecture about her choice of book.
Turning, she padded over to the balcony doors, placed her hand on the latch, and pushed it open with the slightest of groans. That needed fixing. She would have it seen to tomorrow. But then again, it was not her house.
The night air was cool on Constance’s face and, although she should go back for her wrapper and slippers, she left them behind. She crossed the cold, gritty tiles barefoot, breathing deeply of the night air, and sighed at this little bit of freedom. London was so very dirty, and the abrasion under her toes made her miss the country more.
She leaned against the balcony’s railing to look over the night-shrouded gardens. Even without the clarity of day, they were very pretty. She would love to go down, to walk on the paths and grass, to lie upon a blanket to gaze up at the stars. However, when she looked up at the sky, she saw no stars. The clouds had thickened until almost no moonlight shone through. The romantic in her whispered that it was a night to share with someone you loved.
“Having trouble sleeping?” a deep voice asked.
Constance spun to face the house. Jack sat in a low chair just outside his apartment door. “Oh, you startled me.” Her voice came out as a squeak and she scowled—mostly at her own panicked reaction.
“My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you,” he whispered.
“How long have you been out here?” Constance asked in a steadier tone, pitched not to carry far.
“A while,” he answered.
The deep, rumbled response only increased her tension. As he reached down, picked up a glass, and took a long sip from it, her heart thudded. Blast. She turned and faced the garden. “It’s pretty out here, Jack.”
“Yes, it is now, certainly.”
She struggled not to grin at the compliment.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asked. “Were you dwelling on your flock of suitors today? It was an impressive turnout. I believe any young woman would be pleased.”
While the words themselves were commonplace, irritation laced Jack’s tone. Although unsure of what had upset him, Constance was a little pleased. She liked good conversation. Admittedly, Lord Wade was neither her version of good company nor conversation, but the other visitors were not all dull.
She turned to face him again, leaning back against the wall. “You make them sound like sheep,” she admonished. “Yes, I did enjoy the visitors today. Miss Ryall is a sweet girl, and I greatly enjoyed meeting her.”
“You handled Miss Scaling very well.”
The respect in his voice caused a rush of heat to sweep her cheeks, and she preened just a little. “Yes, well, when you have had to deal with my mama’s twisting tongue as long as I, you learn a trick or two.”
“Yes. Your mother is unique,” he agreed, then stood and crossed to her side. “What did Lord Wade say to you?”
His direct question surprised her. She had hoped to forget the vulgar incident altogether.
“It was nothing of any great importance,” she assured him. “I would rather not repeat it.”
Jack placed his hand on her shoulder and held her still. “Did he insult you?”
The cinnamon-sweet scent of Jack and brandy filled her senses. How much had he consumed to sound so aggrieved? “No,
he said nothing about me, or Virginia, for that matter. He’s just a nasty man, best forgotten.”
“Pixie, allow me to decide if I need to box the man’s ears or not.” His grip on her shoulder tightened. “You’re a guest in my home. I will not have you insulted in it. I would prefer to know now what he said before I am forced to look at the pasty-faced weasel again.”
She glanced up in alarm, then laid her hand on his chest. His habit of beating someone for no good reason, as he had with Cullen, concerned her. “It was really nothing, Jack. Please don’t do anything rash.”
“Pixie, what did he say?”
Constance looked into the stubborn-set face above her and gave in. “He just told me a person’s nickname.”
There. That left a lot out of the conversation, but told him what he might most want to hear. Hopefully, he would be satisfied.
“Louth’s?”
Or perhaps not. “I believe that’s who he meant, yes.”
“No lady should have to listen to that. I apologize for allowing the man into the house. I had thought him harmless. Louth thought something unpleasant had occurred. He’s very used to seeing the signs, poor bastard.” Jack’s head twisted away, but his hand remained on her shoulder, a warm, comfortable weight against her skin.
“I take it it’s true?” she asked carefully, only mildly curious about Jack’s friend.
“Why? Are you interested in Louth?” Jack attempted to back away, but Constance curled her fingers into his dark waistcoat to keep him still.
“Good gracious, no. What a ridiculous idea.”
“It’s not so ridiculous. He is a good man,” he assured her.
Jack’s waistcoat slipped from her grip, but Constance caught it and held firm. “His name is not on the list. You said I shouldn’t waste time.”
Jack swayed forward. “So, you’re keeping strictly to the list?”
