Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (17 page)

“Papa, you must listen! Uncle Simon was only trying to help. I, alone, am responsible.”

“You are a woman and therefore not held accountable for the decisions you make. Simon, however, knew the risk to himself — and to you.”

The finality in his voice lanced deep. Constance nodded to Simon, entreating him to heed her father's warning. He'd known the danger and had sought to aid her anyway. She could only hope that once she fully explained the situation, the coals of her father's anger would cool.

Ushering her uncle to the parlor door, Constance urged, “Do as Papa asks, Uncle. Don't worry. I'll explain everything.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” he said.

“Papa is all bluster. Deep down, he only desires what is best for me, for all of us.” Simon shouldered much of the blame for their misfortune and debt, but it was enough to know he was innocent of the crimes her father accused him of.
If only she could find a way to prove it.
“I'll send a missive to you soon. I promise.”

“The sight of you returning looking as you do, has dealt me quite a blow. Where, by all that is holy, have you been?”

“In good time, Uncle. In good time,” she assured, her voice visibly shaken.

“I will discover the truth.”

“You will, sir,” she said as she watched Cooper usher him out the door.

• • •

Lord Burton discarded his cravat and paced the polished marble floor of his study. He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand and read it aloud one more time.

Burton threw the missive into the hearth and hit his hand on the mantle, drawing forth an exasperated gasp. That the twit had run from their impending engagement was an outrage. That she did so on the
Octavia
, the ship Whistler had informed them carried valuable cargo, was another. If she was on the ship when it had been captured, what had she learned? Seen? Heard?

He watched the burning communiqué disintegrate and pictured his life doing the same. He'd grown accustomed to the finery he'd procured since first venturing into the smuggling business. Siphoning his funds through various accounts and businesses, he'd been successful enough to prove himself proficient. Prove himself skilled enough to work his way into influencing the House of Lords, the seat he'd been deprived for nearly a quarter century.

It would take more than finances and notoriety to aid his cause. Lady Constance held the key to his desires. With her at his side, he was bound to ascend in social status. But one word from her could nullify his endeavors. Once Constance and her family were aligned with his, he'd have everything he ever wanted, a wife to spoil or abuse at his whim, control of Throckmorton House, a more positive role in government, and power beyond his wildest imaginings.

A lopsided smile parted his lips. What was left of the note smoldered like an ancient blood pact, fueling his will. Pouring himself a heavy libation, he sat down in his leather desk chair and leaned back, curling his finger in the chain of his pocket watch, content as a sated parlor cat.

He would get what he wanted and he'd use anyone in his path to help him do so, even if it meant spilling innocent blood. Yes, a jolly good plan.

“You nearly drowned when the
Octavia
was attacked,” her father croaked, “and were kept prisoner in a pirate's cabin?”

“Yes, Papa. But I'm also only here with you today because that pirate captain saved my life.”

“And did this
pirate
have his way with you for his trouble?” he snarled.

Tears rimmed her eyes and she looked away guiltily, unable to give her father the assurance he craved.

Her father reached out his hand and turned her face toward him. “Answer me, Constance. I lost your mother years ago and nearly lost you at the same time. I could not bear to lose you now, no matter what has happened.” He paused, swallowed and then began again. “You are all I have left.”

“Papa.” She sighed, hating herself for the disappointment she brought him.

“Let me finish,” he said, nodding and squeezing her hand. “I abhor pirates, but I wish your rescuer no ill will unless he did something we shall all regret.”

“The only regret I have is that I did not make it to Aunt Lydia to rectify your financial problems.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. The time she'd spent in Thomas's arms had felt natural and right. But now, safely comforted by her father's touch, the intimacy she'd shared with the rogue seemed a vulgar slight against everything she'd been taught to hold dear. If only she'd met him on her way back from her aunt's villa. Perhaps then, armed with what her father needed to remedy his plight, her descent into madness would have not come at so great a cost.

“Did he touch you, my dear? No matter how distasteful, I urge you to tell me the truth. It is certain you had no choice in the matter.”

But she had chosen. What would her father think of her, if he knew the truth? She could never admit, least of all to him, that she'd fallen in love with a rogue.

“I'm no longer marriageable, Papa. Is that what you want to know?”

Her father's spine uncoiled. His brows furrowed. Face reddening, he scowled and his next words cost her, and she suspected himself, dearly. “Is there any chance you could be with child?” he asked.

Constance paled. Other than from Mrs. Mortimer, she'd had little counseling in these matters. “I don't know.” Her voice sounded weak and far away and a heated flush crept up her neck.

Father's eyes burned raw and volatile. “Do you mean to tell me that I now have to find you a husband, who'll also be duped into thinking any resulting child will be his?”

Constance reached for him but he broke away. “Surely we can find another way to rectify our debts than forcing me to marry, Papa. I am quite sure my beloved aunt would be more than willing to help, if we would but ask.”

“Lydia,” he snapped, “has never forgiven me for not being on board that damned ship. I suppose she would have rather seen me die defending Olivia's honor.” His voice broke. “Which is what I would have gladly done, if given the chance. It was only by the hand of God that you didn't follow your mother to her grave!”

Keenly aware of his distress, Constance gazed into her father's eyes. She understood his agony. She'd watched him grieve.

“No matter what the future unfolds, know that I do what is in your best interest, Constance.”

“Or do you mean the best interest of Throckmorton?”

“
You
are my only family.
Your
heirs stand to inherit all that I own.” He embraced her, as if that one act could make up for what he had in store for her.

Constance tore her hands away from his eager embrace to prove a point. “You mean my husband will inherit.” His lack of sensitivity struck deep. The rules of succession were firm. “What do you suggest?”

Rising, her father left the divan and strode over to a crimson decanter sitting on an embossed side-table imported from Spain, ironically a wedding gift from Aunt Lydia. “You have only one option left. You must marry Burton as planned.”

She gasped. “You can't be serious? He's the reason I sought out the
Octavia
in order to procure Aunt Lydia's help. I'll marry anyone but him … anyone! Papa, Burton's not an amiable man.”

“I know very well what kind of man he is and it makes me unhappy to deal with him, but what do you suggest? Who will accept you now? This scandal, your sojourn with ruffians, will surely be the talk of London before long. Look at your appearance. Surely you've been seen. How will our family survive it?”

Survive? Constance felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. She had survived! But he had a point. She was home now and if she'd been seen leaving the Striker, if Thomas's men ever spoke of her presence aboard, rumors would spread in quick fashion. It was the natural order of things along the docks.

“Perhaps we can lead Burton astray while seeking a more receptive proposal,” she suggested hopefully.

“Indeed?” His brow rose sardonically as if her suggestion bore no merit. “How do you propose to accomplish that without his knowledge?”

“I don't know,” she cried. “But until something can be arranged, we can try to contact Aunt Lydia. It's worth a try, Papa.”

“Do not put all your hope in Lydia's hands, Constance. History has proven her an unwilling, hardened soul.”

• • •

Constance tossed and turned all night, kicking off the sheets that imprisoned her legs. Her father's lack of confidence in the marriage mart, his determination to wed her to Burton, and memories of a rogue who'd won her heart and educated her body haunted her dreams. Against her will, against all that she'd been raised to believe, she yearned for the man who'd willingly risked his life to save her own. Thomas.

Her flesh still responded to his branded kisses. Lying in bed, she ached for him, perfectly molded against her body. She desired his hands upon her, ached to feel the rugged set of his jaw as he nuzzled her neck. But she was alone, achingly alone. Her days with Captain Sexton were over.

Constance rolled over in her bed and hugged her pillow close. Her experience with Thomas enabled her to see Burton's beastly attempts to seduce her for what they were. Burton was incapable of love. He was the true horror in her life, not pirates. Father's most vehement enemy — the sea — was nothing compared to his truest enemy nested closer to home. Why couldn't he see this?

Alone more than ever, Constance rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets up to her neck.
Damnation!
She'd fallen in love with a rogue and it would cost her everything.

• • •

The long drive back to Herford Street from the dock only proved to deepen Percy's frustrations. His preliminary meeting with Simon had not gone well. He'd expected his commander's anger about his mutiny, resulting in the loss of Collins. He'd expected congratulations on the capture of Frink and his men, but he hadn't anticipated Simon's exhausting inquiry about his niece. Shouldn't he have been more grateful she was alive, that he'd been able to deliver her to London in one piece?

Unfortunately, conditions with the Throckmorton fortune had not improved, making Simon's frustration all the more telling. And so he'd omitted certain information about Constance. Simon didn't need to know
everything
. Especially when Percy didn't want to be called out to Green Park and forced to kill her uncle in self-defense.

Percy gazed out the muted pane of his barouche, blinking back the dismal sights of misery on the streets of the East end. Children's hollow eyes stared at his carriage as he passed, envy and hunger prevalent in their expressions, making it extremely hard to ignore the distant stare of a particularly young girl.

Tapping on the ceiling, he alerted the driver to come to a stop. He reached into his frock coat and pulled out a money purse, shook it, weighing it in his hand, just as he'd done in Constance's cabin. He'd intended to return the money to her someday, but the thought of another young girl selling herself on the docks gutted him.

He stepped down from his carriage, paying curious passersby no mind. “Don't be afraid,” he told the young thing. “Do you live around here?”

She nodded. Her eyes were as big and black as the buttons on his greatcoat when he produced the purse and held it out to her. “Take this. Use it to get you and your family off these streets.”

The child hesitated to grab the bag, but her lips curled upward into a smile. She grabbed the purse, curtsied, and was gone. He did not stay long enough to know whether she turned back or not. He stepped back inside his carriage and tapped on the ceiling to resume his journey home.

Preparations for his arrival had been put into place. Jacko and Ollie had outfitted him with the pompous garments he now wore, which had been stowed away for his return. Papers in his satchel provided the proof he needed to convince the ton he'd been to India, Turkey, and Greece on sabbatical. Gifts from his travels were stacked near his feet. As any first son staking claim to his family inheritance at an ailing father's behest, living as the heir to the Duke of Blendingham was a privilege, behaving as a rogue, his choice. From the time of his birth, he'd been a fortunate man. Unlike those he passed along the way to his townhouse, located in fashionable Herford and Corazon Streets, he did not have to worry where his next meal came from.

Indeed, the game he played was deceitful, dangerous, and preposterous. To conceal his passion, his love of the sea, his duty to country, and maintain his focus on vengeance, he lived on pretense and charade alone. If it became known he slummed along the docks, he would surely be shunned. The embarrassment his father would be subjected to if word of his activities became known was unfathomable. For this reason, and this reason alone, he understood what Constance faced now that she had departed his vessel. Both of them would be forced to wear disguises.

His mood spoiled, the carriage slowed to alert him he neared his goal. The horses clip-clopped down Herford Street to Number Seven, and then stopped. Jacko, attired in footman's garb, opened the door and extended his hand.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing reverently.