Romancing the Rogue (55 page)

~~~~

Percy stirred to
a jumble of hazy thoughts. His head pounded like horses hooves on hard clay. Confused, he opened his eyes and found himself in his own bed. He tried to sit up and winced. What had happened? He remembered little of the night before. How the bloody hell had he managed to make his way home?

Blinding light pelted his eyes. His brows snapped together and he covered his eyes to blot out the sun. “God’s hounds!” he grumbled. “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked the blurred figure at the side of the bed.

“No need. You do a good job of that yourself.”

“Save the mockery.”

Jeffers grabbed him by the shoulders and made him lean forward, plumped up his pillows, and then produced a tray and laid it across his lap. “You were lucky this time. One more inch would have done it. No more forays into the night, my lord,” he scolded.

“I’m not in the mood, Jeffers,” he said, grabbing his skull. Instead of being able to rummage his fingers through his hair, he felt a handful of bandages and winced.

“You never are, especially mornings after you’ve been down to the docks.”

“The docks?” he asked, confused. His ego quite bruised, he had no idea what Jeffers rattled on about.

“As I suspected,” Jeffers harrumphed, opening another set of drapes. “It appears you’re experiencing temporary memory loss. Then again, even I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve returned in this condition.”

Struggling, Percy handed Jeffers the tray and slipped his legs over the side of the bed and tried to get up. Jeffers offered him a steadying hand then helped him put on his morning coat.

“It would be better if you stayed in bed, my lord.”

“Better still if you stopped jabbering at me,” he complained, Jeffers at his heels.

He stumbled and Jeffers stepped in to stabilize him. The previous night’s activities had put a chill in his bones made worse by the pulsing knot on his head, which ached abominably. What had happened? Little by little, his memory flashed recognizable images: following Cane to a warehouse, a dark figure lost in the fog, and then — nothing.

Jeffers hounded him with a myriad of questions he was unable to answer and then informed him he’d appeared around two in the morning, slumped over Jacko’s and Ollie’s shoulders as if he’d been on a drunken romp. But that had not been the case, to which Jeffers made clear. If Jacko and Ollie had not disobeyed his orders and followed him, he might not have ever been found.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Jacko and Ollie.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but those two wouldn’t be needed if you would put this idea of vengeance behind you.”

Percy grimaced. “Don’t lecture me.”

“You cannot continue to abuse yourself this way, my lord. Someone will begin to notice.”

Perhaps it was a result of his injury that he lost his temper or perhaps it was the brutal reality that he’d been bested. Percy didn’t care. He went on the attack. “I do not need you to tell me what I can and cannot do, Jeffers.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The public thought him a social warhorse, enjoying vices of the
ton
. He’d given no one reason to suspect otherwise. As one of London’s most eligible bachelors, he had an image to uphold, an image that enabled him to sneak about without anyone being the wiser.

“Hint that I nearly drowned in my cups, Jeffers. One tip from you and the household will spread the word quickly enough.”

“I shall do as you ask. But I cannot help you if you do not help yourself, my lord,” Jeffers bemoaned.

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” he snapped, grabbing onto Jeffers as they made their way down the stairs.

As a duke’s son, he was allowed vices. His rank allowed him to shift easily within the snobbish horde, woo enemies with flippant remarks, and unravel secrets without delay. Seduce ladies. Attend significant events without question. He’d become quite adept at pomp and circumstance. Yet he abhorred those methods with every fiber of his being. By day, he was a prisoner of his own creation. By night, he could bloody well be anything at all.

Sadly, Jeffers was right. “Jeffers,” he said, reaching out to steady himself. “I’m in desperate need of one of your healing potions.”

“I do not think that will help what ails you this time.”

“You’re a good man, Jeffers,” he said, frowning at the bright light reflecting off the front door as they descended to the bottom step. “You have a sharp tongue, but I can always count on you to keep me grounded.”

A slight grin cocked the corners of Jeffers’ mouth. “Into the study,” he suggested, steering him in that direction. Jeffers had to right him as he lost his balance going through the study doors and then settled him into his favorite leather chair. “Neither of us is getting any younger, my lord.”

Percy scowled. “Save the scorn and bring me your magical libation.”

“You need to eat before those two oafs finish off breakfast,” Jeffers recommended.

“The libation,” he ordered. “That will be all, Jeffers.”

Bowing, the dutiful butler, more confidant and conspirator than servant, grabbed hold of the glass ocher knobs of the study doors and closed them, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room. He placed his fingers against his temples and, drawn to the fire in the hearth, stared at the burning embers. The dancing flames burnished golden-orange, making him think of Constance’s hair shimmering in the sun.

Flustered, he gently shook his head, forgetting the act would make him see stars. Why couldn’t he get Constance Danbury out of his system? He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve a normal life. If Celeste couldn’t have one, how could he be free to live, to love?

He sat brooding. Warmth from the hearth eased the dull aches in his body and he stretched his legs toward the welcoming heat. He wanted to forget Constance’s eyes, the feel of her skin beneath him. Damn it! Where was Jeffers?

The doors to his study opened. He called out, “It took you long enough—”

“Have you no shame?”

Percy started. “Simon?” he asked, turning in his chair with a moan. “I thought you were Jeffers. How did you get in here?” He was not up to sparring with the man.

Simon stood silently watching him. He exuded an icy demeanor and Percy’s hackles rose. Bloody hell. This was no hospitality call. “I repeat the question. Have you no shame, sir?”

“I’m out of sorts this morning, Simon, and do not have the stamina to endure visitors.”

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?”