by Kim Bowman
“Nonsense. Nonsense,” he cooed, soothing her. After a long silence, he asked, his voice strained, “Who’s the child’s father?”
“You must already know.”
“Sexton.”
A flicker of apprehension passed through her. Her entire body stiffened in alarm. She had never mentioned Thomas. “How do you know that name?”
“That is none of your concern,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“None of my concern? Oh, but it is,” she said, her heart thudding erratically. She’d promised Mr. Clemmons that she wouldn’t tell a soul who her abductor had been. But Simon knew Thomas’ name. How? And if he told the authorities and Thomas was found, taken into custody, and charged with her abduction, what would happen to him? Had Mrs. Mortimer told Simon? “No one can know the truth.” In the few short days they’d spent together, she’d felt safe with Thomas, safe enough to love, to live. “I fear this news will force Papa’s hand where Burton is concerned. Truth be told, I believe it will persuade him to see a marriage between us come to speedy fruition.”
Simon took her hands in his. “No question.”
“My behavior has been shameful,” she admitted, taking back her hand to wipe away an errant tear. “I have little choice but to run away before I disgrace the family further.”
“No,” he said abruptly. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “Where would you go? What would you do to support yourself and the child? No. No,” he repeated. “I cannot allow it.”
“What do you suggest? That I sacrifice my life? Willingly marry a man who would more than likely kill my child?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” His face reddened. Then, after a moment’s pause, rage faded from his eyes and sanity took hold. He took a few deep breaths. “There is another way.”
“No,” she said. “The die has been cast.” She could no longer fight her sobs. Tears of humiliation cascaded down her cheeks. Simon had already sacrificed his relationship with her father for her scheme to reach Lydia. She couldn’t bear to watch him suffer more on her behalf.
He welcomed her into his comforting embrace. “I can convince someone to take Burton’s place, Constance. It will take some doing, but it can be done. First,” he said, tilting her head to look into her eyes, “you must promise not to run away.”
“I cannot.” She blinked, unable to make that kind of vow. “What can you possibly do? The ball is in just under a week, and Papa plans to announce my engagement then.”
“I’ve got an idea. One I’m sure will please him immensely.” He hugged her close, released her, then stood up and set about straightening his cuffs.
“What idea?” she asked, dabbing her eyes, barely capable of hope.
“If I can find another suitable man to ask for your hand, would you accept?”
The question startled her. Who would want her now? She was spoiled goods. Would she be forced to marry an old curmudgeon? Was it even possible to find someone who would be willing to supply her father’s financial demands? She had no dowry, nothing to separate her from the crowd of tempting young misses. Placing her hand over her abdomen, Constance wondered who would marry a woman already carrying another man’s child. Her baby needed a protector. If she didn’t marry, he would be without one. If she did, how long would her child survive?
“Would you accept a man of my choice?” he asked, gazing down impatiently.
“If I approve of the gentleman — yes, a thousand times yes.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her close. “Are sure you are with child? Perhaps your fears aren’t warranted.”
“Morty says we shall know soon enough.” She choked on a sob. “In either case, my reputation has suffered and I’m destined to be married whether I like it or not. I’m desperate, Uncle.”
“Then we shall activate a plan to outwit your father and Burton, at once. If we succeed, I guarantee you a better life than you ever imagined possible.”
“How can you assure me so?” Constance hugged him close, never wanting to be parted. Cold despair gripped her. Her heart raced with conflicting emotions: anticipation, hope, dread. Simon had always come to her rescue. She needed him now more than ever.
“Thank you! Thank you, Uncle!” A peace she hadn’t felt in weeks settled over her.
“Do not thank me until the deed is done.”
“But where will you find such a man?” she asked, doubtful one could be found. “Do you already have someone in mind? Will you have to go far to find him?”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek tenderly. “A name and the perfect fit, my dear. Never doubt it. You’ve placed your confidence in me, and I will not trifle it away. But I urge you to be patient.”
“Make haste then, Uncle. I’ve not much time to lose.”
~~~~
Percy was at the third establishment on his list, the Cat’s Hole. Tired and losing patience, he swallowed another cup of ale and scanned the unruly crowd, searching for familiar faces among the tars, street merchants, tavern wenches, and mealy-mouthed cutthroats loitering in the room. Jacko had sent word that Josiah Cane frequented taverns like this one near the warehouses along the Thames. In his wake, Cane had left precisely primed rumors of a certain lady’s demoralizing stay on board a pirate ship recently confiscated by the war office. As a result, Constance’s name was being passed willy-nilly along London’s inner city streets. Inwardly, Percy blamed himself for Constance’s precarious reputation. He was the reason she’d been ruined. And it was only a matter of time before the ton got wind of it.
Angry at himself, at Cane, at fate’s prickly interference, he set his mind on avenging Constance, as well as his sister. His disguise took more care now that he was clean shaven, but, thanks to Ollie, it wasn’t an impossible feat to pull off. Primed for action, he worked the unruly crowd systematically before resuming his place at the bar and chugging down the last drop of his ale in one gulp.
“What’s your pleasure, gov’na?” a red-headed bar maid crooned, winking.
Here was his chance. He grabbed her by the neck and planted a hearty kiss on her lips. “Aye,” he said appreciatively. “You’ve a pair of lips to tempt a starving man. My cup is empty, wench. What say you?”
Brushing her ample bosom against his chest, she posed what he assumed was her most attractive enticement and licked her lips. “What’ll you have?”
Revenge. His eyes scanned the room over the top of the tart’s head as a man stood, clamoring to leave against an assailment of protests. Percy hugged the bar maid close, feigning interest, all the while measuring up the man as he chortled to his friends.
“I’ve a mind to accept what you’re offering, lass. But who’s making such a ruckus?”
Eager for attention, the wench laughingly stroked his chest, turning in his arms to locate the man in question. “That gent be no stranger here. Name’s Cane. At least that’s the name he uses. One can never be sure with these ruffians.”
“Josiah Cane?” he probed, the name slipping easily off his tongue.
“One and the same.” She winked. “Do you know the gent?”
Know him? He wanted to pulverize the man.
“Shall we go up to my room for a tup?” she asked, grinding against him.
Percy took a coin out of his pocket and smiled devilishly as her eyes lit up. Depositing the gold piece between her breasts, he tapped the tip of her nose. She laughed suggestively, shaking her bosom to ensure the money was secure.
He grinned and peeled her arms from his neck. “That’s a lovely offer, but, unfortunately, I have business to attend and must see it fully serviced.”
She shook her curls, whipping them about her face, and licked her lips. “Come, love, can you not spare an hour for your own servicing? You’re such a strong buck,” she said, stroking his arms. “Built like a stone wall, you are. I’d do anything for a man like you.”
“Anything?” he asked.
“Yes,” she panted, her pouting lips poised for another kiss.
He bent near her ear and whispered his most heartfelt desire. Her eyes rounded then narrowed with understanding. She nodded and moved toward the inner room, swaying her hips seductively, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure he watched her performance. One or two men slapped her buttocks along the way. Apparently the affront didn’t affect her, because she laughed and continued toward her target, checking as she did so to make sure the gold piece didn’t loosen from its hiding place.
Josiah Cane stood in the midst of a crowd, his drunken revelry absorbing quite a bit of attention. Patrons laughed riotously when the bar maid neared him and grabbed him by the groin. The redhead draped herself along Cane’s side, sliding her hands over his manhood to his chest and back again. Patrons egged her on, cajoling her to grope them when she was finished with Cane.
“Get away from me!” the spindly man roared.
Laughter echoed off the rafters. The tavern wench flinched as Cane tried to swat her away like an insect. Unperturbed, the woman made a comment about his inability to rouse to her ministrations. The crowd erupted with laughter. Percy watched as Cane shoved past the brilliant actress and then pressed his way through the unruly group until he reached the door and broke through it at a breakneck pace. The bar maid turned back toward Percy, smiling like a feline intent on cleaning her fur. Percy nodded his thanks and meandered toward the door. Exiting the building, he sighted Cane walking briskly in the distance. Ducking here and there, Percy followed him down Thames Street and into Black Raven Alley, keeping to the shadows.
Fog descended on the street, casually slipping over Cane as he stepped into the opaque haze. Percy quickened his pace. Wafts of moisture clung to his skin, bringing with it a chill that seeped into his bones. Thoughts of Celeste and Constance were his constant companions, challenging him not to lose Cane as he monitored the man’s advancement past warehouses toward the wharf.
Every now and again, he was forced to duck out of sight. When Percy was sure he hadn’t been spotted, he slipped back out onto the street and resumed his chase, darting in and out of alleyways and climbing a stone partition until he stopped at a deserted warehouse. Hiding within the entrance of a white-washed facade adjacent to Cane, Percy watched the man knock once on the ramshackle masonry then three consecutive times. The door grated open slowly. Percy slinked closer, repositioning himself to better glimpse the man who appeared on the threshold. 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. After a moment, Cane 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 wasn’t 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 enveloping shroud 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 mist and Thames Street swallowed the retreating figure whole.
Approaching the intersection signifying Black Raven Alley lay behind him, he heard footsteps echo nearby. Before he could react, his body jerked. Stunned, Percy twirled around, prepared to defend himself. Oozing warmth dripped down his ears, neck, and back. He swayed. Within seconds, he connected with the ground beneath his feet.
~~~~
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 doo
r 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.”