Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (30 page)

Jacko swore. Ollie ran back breathless as Percy grasped the dying man by his bloody collar. “What does the locket mean?”

Blood percolated from the dying man's mouth, his neck, dousing Percy's hand, his chest. Cane gagged, “Girl … kill … ”

When the man's body finally went limp, Percy let go and watched his only informant drop to the ground with a thump. He stood up and faced Ollie and Jacko with stone-faced determination. “Did you catch the other one?”

Ollie grimaced. “The toad gave me the slip not far ahead. I tried to follow 'em. But he disappeared over a stone wall and when I arrived, he was gone.”

Percy nodded.

“What are you going to do, Cap'n?” Jacko asked.

“Go home to my wife,” he offered numbly.

“What about the locket? How do you think they came by it?”

His eyes focused on Jacko's face, seeing past him. “That's a good question. I've never seen her without it, except this morning — at our wedding. ”

“Do you think she could be involved?” Ollie croaked.

Percy didn't answer. His mind began to spin. Simon had sent Constance to the
Octavia
. He'd seen enough of Burton to know why she'd been trying to get to Spain. Or had she been sent? What better way to undermine a plan then to coerce someone from Simon's inner circle to tip the scales? Was she the one Frink was insistent upon scourging the ship for? Had the whole thing been arranged to make it look like she'd been abused and kidnapped so no one would be the wiser? Or perhaps to flesh him out?

He'd been there. How could he doubt the danger she'd been in? But were there even more lethal ramifications? Was there a traitor in their midst? In the past few months, Constance had attended the first of many social events under the guise of finding a suitable husband. Anyone could have slipped her information.

Blinking back the sensation that he'd been hit with a brick, Percy thought about the way she'd insisted he stay in their bedchamber. Had an informant tipped her off to his ambush? Was she trying to keep Cane from being intercepted?

“You can't be seriously considering that she — ” Ollie hissed.

Jacko backed away, shaking his head. “The air's grown fowl.”

“Cap'n. There has to be an explanation,” Ollie said, holding up the necklace. “I can't believe the lass would cap her lot in with — ”

“We'll know the truth soon enough,” he said.

“Do you want to know the truth?” Jacko asked.

Percy ground his teeth, ripped the necklace from Ollie's fingers, and fisted it in his hand. “I've never wanted anything more.”

Constance paced in front of the fireplace anxiously wringing her hands. A week had gone by with no word from Percy. But try as she might, she could not find fault with the distinguished gentleman. After all, he'd placed a wedding ring on her finger and saved her from a life of abuse. His father was gravely ill. She did not have to reverse their roles in order to understand the adversity Percy faced. Having already lost a parent, she understood a son should not hesitate to reach his father's ailing bedside. Further, she had no hold upon Percy other than a piece of paper signed by witnesses and a ring to grant her the right to retain him.

She gazed down at the square-cut sapphire gem, offset with amethyst stones, and raised her hand toward the firelight, entranced by the sparkle flickering against her pale ivory skin. That a man who barely knew her would gift her with such a ring, let alone propose marriage, astounded her. That he would desert her on her wedding night cut her to the quick. Dejectedly, she dropped her hand.

The door creaked open, jolting the hopelessness weighting her chest.

“Oh, dear! I'm afraid you're as jumpy as the fish we spotted at sea.”

Peering quizzically at Mrs. Mortimer, Constance chided, “Morty! Truly, you say the strangest things.”

“No stranger than a new bride spending her wedding night alone,” Morty huffed, stomping into the room to deposit a tray of sausage, hot buns, and chocolate upon Constance's bedside table.

“Don't be angry with Percy. I would react the same way if my father's life was in jeopardy.”

“Yes. But you would allow your husband to accompany you,” the woman reminded her. “Therein lays the difference.” Morty outstretched her arms and Constance needed no further encouragement to run into her embrace. “There. There,” Morty cooed. “Two weeks is not such a long time. Your life will be set to rights soon enough. All will be well. I promise.”

“Oh, Morty,” she cried, reminded of the last time Mrs. Mortimer had promised a fruitful end to her dilemma. Images of the pirate attack, the
Octavia
sinking, and Thomas immediately flashed before her eyes. Her heart ached for what she couldn't have. She had given her love once. She could ill afford to do so again. Closing her eyes, she willed the memories to dissipate.

“Time will not cure my ills. I'm sure of it,” she said, sniffling.

“Time has a way of taking care of everything, my dear. Take this room. You've already brightened the space up nicely and with little expense.”

Gazing about the room that had become her tomb, Constance inspected the gold curtains and papered walls, along with other added accoutrements — a vanity, stuffed chair, gilded mirror, and lamp stand — she'd contributed from other rooms in the house.

“Continue to busy yourself around the townhouse. Busy work will do you good,” Morty said.

Carriage wheels clattered upon the cobblestones. A door opened and closed. Constance's hopes alighted. She rushed to the window thinking Percy had returned and peeled back the heavy damask curtain to peer down upon the stoop. There, in place of her husband, dressed in black from head to foot, was the portly and disagreeable Lord Burton. Like a puppet led by strings, he raised his eyes and met her gaze. Hastily, she stepped away from the sill, the fluttering curtain left in her wake objecting to her absence.

“What is it? Has Lord Stanton arrived? Why are you shaking?” Morty asked. The woman sauntered to the window with concern. “Why are you hiding? There's no shame in letting your husband see you await his — oh!” she snapped. “There's the end to it.”

“What is he doing here?” Constance hissed against her fist.

Sinking back into the room, her face pale, eyes wide, Morty unnerved her. Constance grabbed onto Morty's forearms when footsteps sounded in the hallway and stopped outside the door. A knock sounded and then Jeffers's deep baritone called.

“Lord Montgomery Burton has come to pay his respects, my Lady. Are you accepting callers?”

Mrs. Mortimer rushed to the door, yanked it open, and quickly declared her to be indisposed.

Jeffers added, “The gentleman suggests it's a matter of life and death.”

Constance moved as gracefully as her leaden feet allowed, crossing the room and gently pushing Morty out of the way. Jeffers's disapproved of Burton. But what had the man meant by “a matter of life and death?” Was her father in danger?

“Jeffers. In that case, I see no reason why I shouldn't receive Lord Burton. Show the gentleman into the parlor. I shall join him momentarily.”

Jeffers tipped his head awkwardly in surprise. “If I may suggest, my Lady, it isn't seemly for a newly wedded bride to receive gentlemen without the presence of her new husband and, might I add, in so short a time. Perhaps I should tell the gentleman to return in a few weeks?”

She eyed Jeffers quizzically. He meant to protect her. She'd been taught better than to war with servants but, damnation, she had to know what Burton meant by life and death.

“The gentleman and I are acquainted. I assure you, there will be no impropriety. He's more like a father figure to me.”

She gazed back at Mrs. Mortimer just as the woman's eyes rolled back into her head. The haggard woman huffed with little effort, causing Jeffers to raise his brow.

“Very well then,” he replied, apparently unwilling to upset her. “I'll tell the gentleman you'll be down presently.”

“Thank you.” She nodded and shut the door.

Once they were sure Jeffers was out of range, Morty ranted. “What do you think you're doing? That man is nothing but trouble. Why, he just as much threatened to harm you if you accepted another proposal! The danger is in entertaining him now.”

“That is where you're wrong,” she insisted. “Burton is no simpleton. He would not come here if he knew Percy was present. I do not know how or why, but he obviously knows Percy is gone,” she said. “What if Father is hurt? I must know.”

“He's up to nothing but mischief, I'm sure!” the woman exclaimed.

Constance went to her wardrobe and pulled out a pale blue dress with lavender buttons and ribbons. She waved Mrs. Mortimer to the bedside. “Here,” she said. “Help me dress quickly.”

Moments later, gazing into the full-length mirror, she pinched her cheeks, hoping to hide the fact that she'd had another sleepless night. Then, realizing a sleepless night could very well flaunt Percy's prowess, she tugged gently at the corners of her eyes and giggled.

“If he thinks to belittle my husband or gloat, I will convince him otherwise by appearing a vision of sated contentment.”

“You will only end up getting yourself into more trouble,” Morty goaded.

“Nonsense! Percy has come to my defense and I will not allow that man to malign my husband if I can help it.”

Pushing her way past her weary cohort, Constance opened the door and managed a dignified, studied walk toward the staircase. The foyer was silent as she made her way to the bottom of the stairs. Settling her gaze upon the parlor entrance and the etched doors with their artistry and flourish, she instantly caught sight of a cane tapping an unmistakably familiar and distinctly irritating rhythm. The owner preened in front of reflective glass in the liquor case. Constance hoped to catch him off guard, but to no avail. With the hearing of a skittish rodent, the dour man whirled, a whitened mask veiling judicious eyes that scoured her head to foot.

Maintaining civility, he bowed. “Lady Constance. Thank you for tearing yourself away from your — husband,” he coughed, “to see an old friend.”

“It is Lady Stanton now,” she reminded him.

“Ah, so it is. My apologies,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if the effort cost him dearly.

“Is it not customary to refrain from visiting a newly married couple until after their first outing?” she asked, taking a seat on the opposite settee.

His bushy brow perked high. “Isn't it customary for a bride to refuse an audience?”

She was caught. She nodded. “You're — ”

“Quite right,” he admitted, taking his seat. “Yet here you are, making me quite curious as to the nature of your relationship with the Marques.”

“You did mention it was a matter of life and death. You can hardly blame my distress. And my marriage is none of your concern. I seek only to know the true reason for your visit. As we have not been on the best of terms, pleasantries need not be exchanged.”

He tilted his head, his impertinent tongue wetting his large, bulbous lips. “Do you doubt my affections?”

“I think you made them abundantly clear the night of the ball.”

His cane hit the ground with a thump, making her jump. She rose and moved behind the settee, using it as a barrier between them. He stood, and stepping toward her, his eyes riveted upon her bosom.

“You ridiculed me before an entire ballroom, madam. I am still the laughing stock of the ton. As a means of making amends for my behavior, I came here today to merely seek if you were well and settled.”

“I am,” she confided. In truth, she was. Percy had saved her from this man. She knew now that was enough. One month of marriage to Burton would have found her in a freshly dug grave.

His beady eyes squinted, but, she thought, in an effort to ease her suspicions, he smiled like a cat concealing claws. “Does Percy suit? It galls me to think that even now you are filled with his seed,” he spat.

“Sir!” She turned to leave. He moved closer and cut her off. “Control yourself, Lord Burton,” she ordered. “This is my husband's home.”

“I lost control of myself when I lost you, madam!” he spat.

She side-stepped him and approached the door, anxious for Jeffers's rescue. Wily and skilled, Burton eased up behind and grabbed her hand, turning her back around, giving her no chance for escape.

“Did you moan like a cat in heat in Stanton's arms? Did you sate his appetites the way I've dreamed of happily planting my seed in your womb?”

Shivering, Constance spat. “You're disgusting!”

He jerked her back to the sofa and forced her to sit. “I applaud your little charade. I know Stanton left your bedside before he could have ever claimed you. The fool! Only a simpleton would put off consummating marriage to a woman of your — talents. ”

“You're insane,” she gasped.

“And you should be mine!” he grunted. “Do not expect me to recede into the shadows without a fight.”

“After the lies you told my father, you cannot believe that I would ever consent to anything you have to offer.”

Burton was a madman! He believed he could control her, even now, which was simply preposterous. Even when she'd been promised to him, she had never approved of her father's agreement. It took little effort to recall the terror that made her flee home in the middle of the night, putting her life at risk aboard the
Octavia
. A sly smile turned up the corners of her lips, the irony of it all plain. In some way, she owed Burton a debt of gratitude for steering her toward Thomas — and Percy.

Burton's eyes narrowed. “Were it not that it would be too quick, I would strangle the life out of you now.” He stood before her, gazing down at her with an evil glint in his eyes. “I will never stop wanting you. Accept that fact,” he vowed. “And when I want something, I have ways of getting it.”