Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (18 page)

“Mind the mockery, my good friend, when no one's about,” Percy said, exiting the vehicle.

“Do you have any instructions for the crew, Cap'n?” he whispered.

“Be prepared at a moment's notice. I intend to set out again as soon as I receive word on Josiah Cane's whereabouts.”

Jacko winked. “Aye. Aye, sir.”

“Shhh. Mind your tongue, Jacko. We're in high society now and best apt play the game or find our heads in a noose of our own making.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The front double doors, grand polished mahogany complete with brass knockers, opened. Jeffers and his staff descended the steps, lining up to receive him.

“Welcome home, my Lord!” Jeffers proudly announced, lifting a quizzical brow at the man who stood beside him. Gray-headed, stiff-backed, valet, and man-servant combined, Jeffers ran a rigid household.

Percy turned to his smiling staff, at attention along the threshold, and put on the expected airs a man of his caliber exhibited. “Jeffers, my good man. E-gad!” he said, raising his quizzing glass. “What a magnificent welcome! I assume the household is in order?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jeffers beamed. “We've taken every precaution to prepare for your return.”

“I pray I've caused no trouble arriving so quickly,” he confided with a good-humored wink. “Heaven knows how intolerable my old abode has become in my absence.”

“No trouble at all, my Lord,” his loyal servant replied. “Everything is in readiness.”

Jeffers held out his hand, suggesting Percy step inside. Curiosity reflected in the many eyes that fell upon him, but being trained to mind their own business, his staff simply bowed and stared at their feet.

Percy took a deep breath, and thanked each man and woman for their loyalty, then entered his bachelor's quarters, which, in the past, had been filled with gaiety and music when the world had been a more desirable place. Celeste's death had dispirited the halls and ruined the pleasant architecture Percy once coveted. Now his eyes gazed upon a prison. Housed within the walls of his confinement, memories did their worst, often rousing him from fitful sleep.

No longer did he regale moments of frivolousness and joviality, a Percival Avery predisposition, which was in and of itself a terrible problem. It was unseemly for a man of his station to mourn beyond the pale. Instead, he was expected to clamor about fashion, exalt ladies in their splendor, and chat up the men with nonsense.

Slapping his gloves across his hand, Percy scanned the foyer. Like a coffin, the wooden corridor shone to glistening polish as he stepped onto the Italian marble. A scant noise echoed from the landing, raising hackles on his neck.
Celeste's voice!
His gaze hesitated to survey the high vaulted ceiling, sculpted moldings and papered walls. He scrutinized the room until he saw her, standing on the landing, as if she had awaited his return. Auburn tresses adorned with cascading flowers, her gown flowing about her soft-slippered feet. Winsome smile and adoring eyes gleamed with delight as she heralded.
Welcome home, brother!
She giggled and then disappeared.

He felt the all-too-familiar heartache as if he'd just suffered her loss, standing oblivious to the rattling of carriages bounding down the busy street outdoors. He didn't hear the front door close or see his staff carry his belongings up the staircase. Suddenly, Jeffers cleared his throat. Habit took over. Percy removed his hat, handing over the cumbersome member, along with his gloves, to Jeffers before discarding his greatcoat.

“Is everything to your liking, my Lord?” Jeffers asked.

Percy shook his head to clear it, eager to assure his dutiful servant all was well. He turned and smiled. “Everything looks simply divine, Jeffers. I've been absorbing the sights and smells, and basking in the glow of home. In fact,” he added, “I'd forgotten how much the old abode meant to me.”

“Indeed.” Jeffers nodded.

Percy knew Jeffers understood. He was not alone in his grief, though the house seemed to take pleasure in ridiculing him. The walls of Number Seven taunted his failings. As Celeste's older brother, it had fallen upon him to protect her as their father busied himself with Parliamentary business. Yet, he'd been too absorbed in the nonsensical gaieties of life, building up a reputation for whoring women, gambling, theatre, and drink, a perfect cover for his activities with Nelson's Tea. He'd not seen the signs warning him her life was at risk until it had been too late.

Gazing longingly at the cut-glass doors of his study, he felt an urge to disappear, to drink himself into oblivion as he'd done so often before. But before he could reach the door handles, he caught his reflection in the beveled glass. Curious, he lifted his quizzing glass and pivoted in front of the door, only to be taken aback by his mirrored image. Gone were the pirate disguise, beard, mustache, and eye patch. He was clean shaven, hair tied back in a neat cue, face powdered. Dressed immaculately in a fine grey suit, silver vest, and opalescent cravat tied to restricting perfection, one would never know he'd spent nearly eight months with pirates. Lace dangled from the ends of his sleeves and his boots shone without blemish. The debacle sickened. He resembled a spooney and felt like the fool. Encumbered by his high collar, he reached for the study door's brass handles.

“My travels have taken me far, Jeffers, and I've developed quite a thirst. I'll take libation in my office.”

“I'll have tea sent to you immediately, my Lord.”

“No need to put yourself out, my good man. I've got more potent refreshment in mind.”

“What could more potent than tea, my Lord?”

“Jeffers, I've told you many times that moniker isn't necessary between us. Be a good man and humor me when we're alone.”

“Yes, my Lord. Would brandy suffice?” Jeffers egged.

“Interminably so,” he said, raising a quizzical brow.

“You'll find all that you need on the side table in your study.”

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “You remembered.” Jeffers was a marvel, worth every penny he'd paid to pluck him out of the mud. A might puzzling at times, but just as proficient at his job as Jacko on any given day. Squeezing his fingers around the double door handles, Percy pushed the doors open and inhaled a deep breath. Satisfied everything had been left as he remembered it, he entered the room. Leather and sandalwood assailed his senses. He stepped into the study, turning his back on the man who had his whole life under control.

“Jeffers?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

He grimaced and Jeffers's eyes glistened mischievously. “See to it that I am not disturbed.”

“Yes, my Lord. Shall I send in dinner?” his man cued with a quizzical brow.

Percy strode purposefully over to the side table nestled in the corner of an expansive mahogany bookcase filling fifty percent of the curtained, dark paneled room. Opening a crystal decanter containing sparkling honey brown liquid, he poured himself a healthy portion of brandy and downed the contents in one swallow, relishing the searing burn down his throat, and then poured himself another glass.

Jeffers's eyebrows rose and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down ludicrously. He gazed down his aquiline nose as if to speak, but kept his lips tight-rimmed. Percy was impressed at the man's control. Though Jeffers disapproved, no more loyal servant could be found.

“Shall I send for more brandy?” he quipped.

He took a deep breath and reproached Jeffers's disapproving frown. “No need to go into any trouble on my account, Jeffers. I intend to join friends for dinner.”

“Friends?”

“I should think many anxiously await my return,” Percy submitted. “Though,” he said grimacing with the effort, “I suspect I may have to remind a few of my worth.”

“Lady friends?” Jeffers asked.

Percy pivoted on his heel. “Is there any other kind, my good man?”

Jeffers's snickering could be heard all the way down the hallway. Satisfied that he'd managed to draw a smile out of the man, Percy approached his personal desk near the curtained window and sat down. He ran his fingers along the edges of the large wing-backed furniture, lingering over nicks on the well-worn surface. His gaze penetrated the dimly lit room, settling upon a vase of fresh flowers with colors as vivid as a spring morning against the improbable backdrop of glowing embers in the hearth, reminding him of Constance — beauty and passion combined.

He inhaled smoke and spice, content that he'd been able to spend time with such a woman. But, he reasoned, straightening his shoulders, that respite was past. Now he must transform himself into a man playing a fool at playing himself.

Shaking off his melancholy, Percy turned his attention to the stacks of post awaiting his perusal. He gazed at the bothersome correspondence, narrowing his eyes, knowing he would be better served to acquaint himself with what was before him than what might have been. Resignedly, he gulped down another dram of brandy and then picked up a letter opener. Past due requests for parties and balls were contentedly unimportant. Reports on property appraisals and maturing investments accompanied a note from his father's doctor petitioning his presence. The latter gave ill-fated evidence that this had also been too long overlooked.

Percy dropped the missive to the floor. The news he'd dreaded for four months had come. All hope was lost. The doctors had no other recourses left and his beloved father did not have long to live. He quickly retrieved the letter to note the date.
March twenty-third, eighteen hundred and four.
Two weeks ago. Was his father still alive? Had he arrived home too late?

A commotion rose in the foyer, jarring the throttling rhythm in his chest. Percy's hawkish gaze darted to the double-paned doors. What now? He craned his neck to listen and could not help but overhear Jeffers arguing with a man, quite insistent to see him.

“I will not be ignored!” came the wayward vow.

Footsteps scuffed the marble flooring and the glass doors barreled open, slamming inward. Simon Danbury burst into the room.

It begins.

“Deny it, if you will,” Simon ordered, his voice booming like cannon shot.

“My apologies, my Lord! He would not wait to be announced,” Jeffers interjected.

Nodding to Jeffers, Percy encouraged his loyal servant to ignore their intruder's impudence. “Forgive him, Jeffers. Simon needs no introduction, but it appears since I've been gone the gentleman has forgotten his manners.”

Jeffers slowly backtracked out of the room. Relaxing, Percy reclined in his chair. “Deny what, sir?”

“You know very well of what I speak!” Simon raged.

Percy's eyes narrowed. “That is untrue. I know only that you've openly broken one of your stringent rules of conduct by entering my home.”

“And with just cause!” Simon exclaimed.

“What has happened?”

Simon's chest heaved as he perched his white-knuckled fists upon Percy's desk and leaned forward to debate his case. Percy likened the look in Simon's eyes to violent gale force winds on a perilous sea. He imagined himself the doomed sail and prepared for the brunt of the weather's assault, to be torn to shreds in his wake.

“You have scandalized my niece! It is only a matter of time before the ton hears of it.”

“I assure you that neither I nor my crew has maligned Lady Constance in any way.”

Simon stepped back and paced in front of the barrier between them, wearing a path in the oriental carpet. He wrung his hands in frustration. Percy had never seen him this disturbed. Something else was amiss.

“What's really bothering you?” he asked.

“My brother will not wait!” Simon began rattling off his concerns. “He believes I've misled him, abused our relationship and his funds, an offense which, he's decided, has led to Throckmorton's ruination. I cannot convince him otherwise.”

“Simon, I begged you not to invest your family inheritance on this mission, but you insisted the funds spent would not be missed. You particularly advised me not to use my own money so that nothing we did could be traced back to me.”

“Indeed, I did. But something else has gone wrong and Byron blames me for it. Now, because of me, my niece must sell herself like a common doxy.” He shook his index finger at Percy. “Let it be known she does so under protest.” He began to pace again, shaking his fist, rousing Percy's alarm. “Byron will not hear me out. He will not see reason. Stoutly resisting any suggestion I make, he insists Constance marry Lord Montgomery Burton, a man nearly twice her age.”

Percy drew his hands together, tenting them under his nose. He'd heard of the man's ruthless business dealings but had yet to gain an introduction. Was Burton the man she'd been running away from?

“What are your niece's feelings on this matter?”

His mind raced. He'd ruined Constance, damaged her chances of finding a love match. A reality that was hard to stomach. Were he a better man, he would take responsibility for his actions by asking for her hand. Yet, harsh times required harsher measures. Percy frowned. If she agreed to this match, he would be equally engaged. But, if she did not —

Simon laughed, directing Percy's eyes to the angry slant of his mouth. “The extra rib, Percy, is Constance doesn't want to marry Burton. She has this crazy idea that he will hurt her. In fact, my darling niece accuses the man of already having done so.”

Percy searched his memory for any snippet of conversation Constance might have spoken that would help him understand why she'd accuse the gentleman of such an affront. He recalled their first meeting, entering her cabin, seeing her standing like a valiant angel, bed warmer in hand, prepared to flummox him. He smiled. She'd shown the kind of courage and conviction he'd never dreamt a woman capable of, at a moment when other women would get the vapors or beg unceasingly for mercy.