by Kim Bowman
Simon’s hands fisted at his sides. Percy noticed the lord’s anger and rose shakily from the chair just as Jeffers entered with his medicinal brew. Jeffers cast a guarded look in Simon’s direction then set the drink on the side table and produced it for Percy’s relief.
“For your revival, my lord,” Jeffers offered, ushering him back into his chair.
“Give us some privacy, Jeffers. Percy and I have much to discuss,” Simon interjected, dismissing him.
Jeffers raised a brow, but he did not move until Percy nodded. Bowing stiffly, he took both knobs in his hands and closed the double doors.
Simon immediately put Percy on guard. “You seem to be making a name for yourself, sir. I hear that you’ve been frequenting Baroness Chauncey’s soirees and escorting her to various public events.”
Percy raised his brow, though the effort made him wince. Was that what his visit was about? A previous paramour of his? A means to an end? “She’s vital. Of course I’m spending time with the Baroness and her motley crew of poets and theatrical novices. She loves men. You, of course, have first-hand experience,” he said, digging at an aged wound.
The barb hit its target. It was Simon’s turn to cringe. “What have you learned — if anything?” he asked, cocking a dubious brow.
“Only that she has intimate knowledge of one Baron Burton,” he said, gaining Simon’s undivided attention.
Simon urged him to continue, “And—”
Percy raised the medicinal brew to his lips and, taking a whiff, snarled. “She’s quite sure Burton is a toad, a multi-faceted man of dubious character. She’ll have nothing to do with him. However, I get the feeling there is more to it than she’s willing to divulge. I’ve been trying to ferret out the reason.”
After one distasteful sip, he threw the drink into the fire. The glass broke into the awkward silence. “Humph.”
“Is that for a hangover or what lies under those bandages?”
Percy gazed into the flames and tested the knot on his head. “Neither.” He turned around, suspicion lancing his thoughts. “This is the second time you’ve shown up at my door. Why are you here? Your visit must be exceptionally important if it’s worth risking your life and mine.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve come about Constance.”
“What has she done now?” He didn’t mean to sound flippant, but putting Constance out of his mind was the first order of the day — every day.
Anger flared in Simon’s eyes. “You dare to blame her for her miseries — or yours, for that matter?”
“Your visit is not about what I do or do not believe. Just say what you’ve come to say, Simon, and be done with it. The sooner you leave, the less suspicion will be placed at my door. And the sooner I can atone for this miserable headache.”
Simon inhaled a ragged breath, which was strange, as the man was hardly ever unnerved. “Constance is with child.”
“Balderdash!” Stunned, Percy sank back in his chair.
“That’s right, Percy. She’s pregnant.”
“Are you certain? This isn’t some girlish ploy or some plot of hers to bring Thomas Sexton to justice? She made that threat very clear the last time we sparred.”
Simon’s fist pounded his desk. “Damn it, you’re the father!”
“Are you certain she wasn’t championed by Guffald before I found her? She has a fondness for the name Henry,” he insisted. The memory of hearing another man’s name whispered from her lips filled every pore with jealousy.
“Guffald is not the father and you know it.” He paused to collect himself. “Of all my men, I’ve always been most fond of you, Percy. You’re more like me than I care to admit.”
Could this day get any worse? Percy’s head throbbed. He ran his hands over the bandages, unable to think. “What would you have me do?”
“I needn’t remind you that Constance requires a husband, now more than ever. You’ve ruined her chances of acquiring one.”
Damn Simon for reminding him it was his fault her name was being gossiped about near the docks. His mind raced. Constance would have been scandalized just by being captured by pirates. Add in sleeping in the captain’s cabin, making love to him because he’d been too weak to keep from sampling her charms, and she was good and thoroughly ruined. He’d done this. It was his fault. And now, because of Josiah Cane, the ton would hear of it, leaving her completely vulnerable to public derision. Never mind the rumors were true.
Simon sat down across from him. His face took on a more formidable frown. “Byron has formed a pact with Burton.”
“Pact? What the devil are you talking about?” Percy winced at his raised tone but focused on the implications of that agreement. The Baroness knew something that could discredit Burton. Maybe her information could sever that pact.
“It’s a binding agreement Burton won’t be easily swayed from.”
Percy tented his fingers beneath his lips. “Such an alliance would be good for your brother?” Surely not!
“Burton,” Simon said, “has made successful business advancements of late, further enriching his coffers. The man cannot be turned away even if Constance reviles him. Byron is desperate.”
“You’re positive she despises him?” The thought of Burton or anyone else touching Constance sickened him and a burning unlike any he’d ever known set his heart afire.
“She’s pledged to run away if nothing can be done.”
The little fool! So it had come down to that. Tapping his fingers on the bridge of his nose, Percy swallowed hard. Josiah Cane was within his grasp. He had no time to dabble in foolishness like marriage. And most certainly, he didn’t need a wife to slow him down, to make a mess of everything he’d strived so hard to achieve where his sister was concerned.
“Percy, only you have the means to counter offer for Constance’s hand.”
“I cannot give Constant what she needs,” he said, his voice dry, emotionless.
“I’m asking you to do what’s right. We both know you stand to inherit a hearty sum from the duke when he dies.”
Percy’s gaze pinned Simon and he lowered his brows with lethal aim.
Simon put up his hands in mock surrender. “Of which I am regrettably sorry. However, as the next Duke of Blendingham, you have the power and prestige to turn Byron’s head. With your position among the peerage and your reputation, no one would ever suspect you of thwarting Burton on purpose. You would simply be a man attracted to a young woman in need of protection. And Constance needs your protection, Percy.”
“I would only bring her heartache,” he admitted.
Simon stood up and paced the room and then turned to stare at Percy, his face a grim mask. “Frink has escaped.”
Percy’s entire body came to attention. He leaned forward. His eyes narrowed. “How?”
Simon paced for a moment and then resumed his place on the settee. “Apparently he had more connections than I was aware of. But now that he’s free, I fear my niece is in even greater danger.”
“If what you are telling me is correct, the safest place for Constance is a monastery.”
“I don’t trust her anywhere or with anyone else but you, Percy,” Simon said.
Old fears and uncertainties filled him. He’d been unable to keep his beautiful, adoring sister safe, his father safe. What assurances could he give Simon that he could keep Constance from harm? “I’ve made a public mockery of marriage. No one will believe that I want to marry Constance.”
“You’re heir to a dukedom. Every duke needs to produce an heir. Do not underestimate the ton. They will accept your proposal for what it is. Only you and I will know the truth.”
Percy stood, dizzying with the effort. Was it fair to ask Constance to live a lie? What kind of life would that be for a young bride? He wouldn’t stop his ruthless sprints into London’s underbelly until Frink and his benefactors were found and expunged. What if she found out who he really was? Was he capable of living with Constance’s hate when she discovered that
Thomas Sexton and Percival Avery were one and the same?
“I will not stop looking for Celeste’s killer.”
“You can do whatever you choose, but either way, you will help Constance. She was on her way to get help from her aunt when you attacked the Octavia and ruined her chances of making it to San Sebastian. You took advantage of her on your ship when you had the choice to bring her in unscathed. The child is yours,” he reiterated. “The opportunity to right a wrong, yours.”
Percy froze. The child. How quickly he’d forgotten its existence.
“Burton will become enraged when he learns he’s been duped.” If Burton had been the man who’d left the bruise on Constance’s breast, and if the tales he’d recently heard from Baroness Chauncey were true, Constance and his child would certainly be in grave danger when Burton found out she wasn’t a virgin. A gut-wrenching fear unlike any he’d ever known assailed him.
“Exactly! Where will that leave your child?”
He thought of his dying father and the vast inheritance that must be passed from father to son. He’d almost been killed the previous night. What would become of Throckmorton if anything ever happened to him? Many lives depended on that living. He touched his head, achingly aware he risked more in his complacence than his public reputation, Constance’s hate once she discovered he’d duped her on board the Striker, losing the chase for Celeste’s killers. His sister was gone. But he was not the only Avery left. No. He stood to gain a son.
“Tell me what I must do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Candelabras illumined the twilight. Light flickered down on the decadently clad crowd striding through the polished foyer of Throckmorton Manor. Patrons assembled to approach the receiving line then meandered into the western ballroom where a large table lining the wall enticed with effervescent lemonade, wine, opulent fruits, biscuits, tea, and chocolate. A piano sonata by Pleyel heightened the atmosphere as guests roamed throughout the rooms one by one. Later a quartet of pianoforte, cornet, violin, and cello were scheduled to play a minuet. Pink and white lilies, roses, and peonies scented the hall. To all who entered Throckmorton and viewed the décor, it was thought to have been masterfully done. Only one, however, remained unaffected.
Constance took her place beside her father, welcoming each guest who’d been announced by a footman, appearing modestly composed in a sea of white. Outwardly, she waxed content as she flashed one smile after another without any sort of joviality reaching her heart. Nothing in the room excited her. Nothing about the night intrigued. Her chest constricted like a cinched-too-tight corset. She could scarcely breathe. Was she doomed to a life of torturous consort? A shiver traveled up and down her spine as thoughts turned to the last dance, when her father would announce her engagement to Burton. Were it not for her unborn babe and her promise to Simon, she would never have played her part in this gala.
She stood woodenly beside her father, acknowledging one patron after another as they passed through the receiving line. Tête-à-tête between her father and members of the House of Lords soured. Women praised the décor and yet nothing, not the presence of dear friends or the sparkle of finery generated her enthusiasm. The conversation muted as she mentally took note of the ticking clock. Not even the pleasant return of Lieutenant Henry Guffald, who bowed stiffly and took her hand in his in an attempt to place a tender kiss on her finger, roused her to smile. His action, though sincere, was quickly interrupted by her father. Guffald’s blue eyes instantly hardened. He rose to his full height, militaristically handsome, his face a stone mask.
“Lieutenant,” she murmured, both thrilled to be reminded of one of the most adventurous, frightening times in her life and afraid someone would learn of it. She peered at their guests to see if anyone noticed their conversation.
“Lady Constance. It is a pleasure to see you — again,” he whispered. His eyes flashed unreservedly and this alarmed her. Would he divulge her secrets? It was an unnerving thought. Light flickered off the small scar slitting his brow, a reminder of his sacrifice aboard the Octavia, marring his too handsome face and providing him a new and foreboding dangerous aura. A small price, his eyes confided. One he’d been most willing to bear.
“Lieutenant Guffald,” her father cued, startling her.
Seemingly unaffected, the lieutenant nodded and moved on. Absentmindedly, Constance found herself searching for his tall form as he disappeared amongst the throng. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she then heard the oddest voice dance above the cacophony of guests crowding the doorway and her attention was diverted. Puzzled, she sought the owner of that voice until her gaze settled on the most preposterous looking man she’d ever seen. Impeccable in appearance, from his high-collared, gold-braid trimmed cream dress coat and embroidered waistcoat, to his brilliantly laced cravat, to his buff-toned breeches, complete with fob and watch, he posed in garish champagne pumps and lifted a handkerchief delicately to his nose. He soon stood before her father. Curiously, he peered over at her through a rectangular quizzing glass as if critiquing her choice of gowns and discovering her wanting.
Constance smiled politely and then curtsied. Every other man in the room wore black, which made him stick out like a skunk among rabbits. His face and hair was powdered and he sported a beauty mark on his cheek. She didn’t know how to react to the man and under his scrutiny felt instantly self-conscious of her own attire.
Her father cleared his throat.
“Welcome to Throckmorton Manor,” her father said to the marquess.
The flamboyant man dabbed his nose, eyes twinkling. “The pleasure, I assure you, is all mine, Your Grace.” With an artful dip of his head, he then turned his spellbinding gaze toward Constance, making her take a steadying breath.
“My daughter, Lady Constance Danbury,” her father stated matter-of-factly, inclining his head. “Daughter, I present Lord Percival Avery, the Marquess of Stanton, heir to the Duke of Blendingham.”
“Lord Stanton,” she repeated, dipping into a curtsy. “Welcome to Throckmorton.”
Stanton bowed, and then with a flourish she’d never dreamed possible, he rose, waving his quizzing glass about, making Constance follow his movements with fascinated curiosity.
A sultry woman clung to the marquess’ arm.
“Ah,” he said, “allow me to introduce Baroness Chauncey.”
“Baroness,” her father said, bending over the woman’s ringed gloved fingers.
“A pleasure, Your Grace,” she said with a superior smile. Dressed in shimmering gold, dark hair arranged high above a tall neck ruffle fanning upward from her décolleté, the woman’s keen eyes crinkled affectionately.
Constance curtsied as she regarded the woman, feeling unusually unsettled by her proximity to the marquess. But of course, that was an irrational sensation that didn’t make sense.
The marquess’ eyes danced with impish delight as he said, “Come, Baroness. Let us not take up too much of our host and hostess’ time.” Pleasantries noted, the odd, and notably mysterious, Marquess and Baroness disappeared into the throng, much sooner than she would have liked.
Heat flushed her cheeks and her heart beat a strange pitter-patter. What was it about the marquess that ignited her senses? She sensed something familiar, an odd desire to be in his presence she couldn’t quite place. But her thoughts fled as more people thronged past, and one particular gentleman stepped forward.
“Lady Constance,” Montgomery Burton, Baron of Burton, interrupted, the sound of his voice squeezing the life out of her lungs. “I’ve been eagerly awaiting this moment.”
Constance curtsied, albeit slowly, and bowed her head politely.
Burton reached for her hand, but she kept it hidden in the folds of her gown, as if smoothing away an unwanted wrinkle.
The prickly lord exchanged a quizzical glance with her father. “I take it this soiree will be a joyous occasion for all, Your Grace?”
“I guarantee you a night you will never forget, Burton,” her father replied.
>
The smug satisfaction on Burton’s face alarmed her. His sly wink was a reminder she’d pay for her public slight. A shiver trailed down her spine, and she swallowed a sickening lump of revulsion, suddenly reminded of the last ball she’d attended in his presence. Nevertheless, Constance stood her ground. She wasn’t his to command… yet.
When at last the final guests arrived, her father put his hand to the small of her spine and led her into the pulsing mob. Haunting strains of the violin swelled on the floriated air. The luxurious mix relaxed her. Though the pianoforte was her favorite instrument, she was devoid of any personal talent herself, which forced her to seek out the presence of others more gifted, like Lady Winifred Simmons and Miss Eleanor Mason, two of her dearest childhood friends. As the night progressed and her father finally released her to her own amusement, she ventured into the throng in search of Winifred and Eleanor. Sighting the former sipping punch with a dark-haired gentleman, Constance set out to intercept her, but a large muscular form outfitted in blue stepped in her path. Immediately, she recognized the shiny naval uniform buttons.
“Lady Constance, it is gravely important that I speak with you,” Guffald whispered.
Constance stared up into Guffald’s eyes, unable to comprehend what could be so urgent. Skirting a glance at guests nearby, she asked, “Is something amiss, Lieutenant?”
He grabbed her forearm none-too-gently and led her to the atrium, away from the crowd. “I’ve been trying to see you, but your father will not allow it.”
Alarmed, she peered around him, noticing her father immersed in deep conversation with Burton. “He’s been preoccupied.” She suppressed a shiver.
“Aye. It seems your father has taken permanent steps in providing for your future.”
An unspoken sadness reflected in Guffald’s eyes. Sympathy overflowing, she offered the only thing she could. “Do not allow my father to unarm your worth.”
“If that were but the case,” he confided. “Tell me, are you presently unattached?”
