The Rogue’s Prize (28 page)

After an awkward silence, a hand

bearing a white scroll stretched out.

Cane retrieved the parchment and

nodded before glancing up and down the

foggy alleyway. Satisfied he hadn’t been

followed, the man stepped away from

the building and stashed the missive in

the lapel of his coat and turned back

toward Thames Street.

Percy scrutinized the warehouse,

and waited to see if anyone else might

appear. He was not to be disappointed.

The door opened again, scraping loudly

across the sill. A dark clad figure

stepped out. Sweeping his gaze left, then

right, the spectral form moved into the

fog. Percy struck up the chase. Light-

footed, he used the fog to his advantage,

occasionally stooping or hiding when the

figure stopped and turned as if sensing

his presence. Percy eluded detection

time and again, until the silhouette

disappeared into the fog and Thames

Street swallowed the retreating figure

whole.

Approaching

the

intersection

signifying Black Raven Alley lay behind

him, he heard footsteps. Before he could

react, he felt his body jerk. Stunned,

Percy twirled around, ready to fight.

Oozing warmth dripped down his ears,

neck, and back. Within seconds, he

connected with the ground beneath his

feet.

• • •

Percy felt himself stirring to a jumble of

hazy thoughts. His head pounded like

horses hooves on a barren clay road.

Confused, he opened his eyes and found

himself in his own bed. Trying to sit up,

he winced. He remembered little of the

night before. How had he managed to

make his way home?

Blinding light pelted his eyes.

“God’s hounds!” he grumbled. “Are you

trying to kill me?” he asked the blurred

figure who materialized at the side of the

bed.

“No need. You do a good job of

that yourself.”

“Then why are you here?”

Jeffers 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 have lost count of how many

times you’ve returned in this condition.”

Struggling to get up, Percy handed

Jeffers the tray and staggered out of bed.

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 with

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. To

make matters worse, the pulsing knot on

his head ached abominably. What had

happened? Little by little, he began to

remember

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?” Jeffers responded, clearly

knowing full well who he meant.

“Jacko and Ollie.”

“Those two wouldn’t be needed if

you would put this idea of vengeance

behind you. Nothing you do can bring

Lady Celeste back, if you don’t mind me

saying so.”

Percy grimaced. “I mind.”

“Someone must remind you that

you’ve gotten careless. You cannot

continue to abuse yourself this way, my

Lord,” Jeffers chastised. “Someone will

begin to notice.”

“You know I don’t care what

anyone thinks.”

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 drown in my

cups, Jeffers. One tip from you and the

household will spread the word quickly

enough.”

“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

these 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.

Jeffers was right. “Jeffers,” he said,

reaching out to steady himself. “I’m in

desperate need of one of your healing

potions.”

“I don’t 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. “I can

always count on you to keep me

grounded.”

A slight grin cocked the corners of

Jeffers’s mouth. “Into the study,” he

suggested, steering him in that direction.

Jeffers had to right him as he lost his

balance, and then settled him into his

favorite leather chair. “Neither of us is

getting any younger.”

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.

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 could not 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 his fingertips. Damn it! Where

was Jeffers?

The doors to his study opened. He

called out, “It took you long enough — ”

“Have you no shame?”

Percy jumped. “Simon?” he asked,

turning in his chair. “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. 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 took immediate notice and rose

shakily from his chair, staggering toward

the door 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,” he

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 relaxed. Was that what his

visit was about? A previous paramour

who was just 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.

Simon winced. “What have you

learned — if anything?” he asked,

cocking a dubious brow.

“Only

that

she

has

intimate

knowledge of one Lord Montgomery

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

multifaceted 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 and

I’ve been intently trying to search out the

cause.”

After one distasteful sip, he threw

the drink into the fire. The glass broke

into the awkward silence.

“Is that for a hangover or what lies

under those bandages?”

Percy gazed into the flames and put

his hand over 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.

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 upon 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.”

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?”

Simon’s fist pounded his desk.

“Damn it, you’re the father!”

“Are you certain she was not

championed by Guffald before I found

her? She has a fondness for the name

Henry,” he insisted. The memory of