The Rogue’s Prize (23 page)

option left. You must marry Burton as

planned.”

She gasped. “You can’t be serious?

He’s the reason I sought out the
Octavia

in order to procure Aunt Lydia’s help.

I’ll marry anyone but him … anyone!

Papa, Burton’s not an amiable man.”

“I know very well what kind of

man he is and it makes me unhappy to

deal with him, but what do you suggest?

Who will accept you now? This scandal,

your sojourn with ruffians, will surely

be the talk of London before long. Look

at your appearance. Surely you’ve been

seen. How will our family survive it?”

Survive? Constance felt the weight

of the world on her shoulders. She had

survived! But he had a point. She was

home now and if she’d been seen

leaving the Striker, if Thomas’s men

ever spoke of her presence aboard,

rumors would spread in quick fashion. It

was the natural order of things along the

docks.

“Perhaps we can lead Burton astray

while

seeking

a

more

receptive

proposal,” she suggested hopefully.

“Indeed?”

His

brow

rose

sardonically as if her suggestion bore no

merit. “How do you propose to

accomplish

that

without

his

knowledge?”

“I don’t know,” she cried. “But

until something can be arranged, we can

try to contact Aunt Lydia. It’s worth a

try, Papa.”

“Do not put all your hope in

Lydia’s hands, Constance. History has

proven her an unwilling, hardened soul.”

• • •

kicking off the sheets that imprisoned her

legs. Her father’s lack of confidence in

the marriage mart, his determination to

wed her to Burton, and memories of a

rogue who’d won her heart and educated

her body haunted her dreams. Against

her will, against all that she’d been

raised to believe, she yearned for the

man who’d willingly risked his life to

save her own. Thomas.

Her flesh still responded to his

branded kisses. Lying in bed, she ached

for him, perfectly molded against her

body. She desired his hands upon her,

ached to feel the rugged set of his jaw as

he nuzzled her neck. But she was alone,

achingly alone. Her days with Captain

Sexton were over.

Constance rolled over in her bed

and hugged her pillow close. Her

experience with Thomas enabled her to

see Burton’s beastly attempts to seduce

her for what they were. Burton was

incapable of love. He was the true

horror in her life, not pirates. Father’s

most vehement enemy — the sea — was

nothing compared to his truest enemy

nested closer to home. Why couldn’t he

see this?

Alone more than ever, Constance

rolled onto her back and pulled the

sheets up to her neck.
Damnation!
She’d

fallen in love with a rogue and it would

cost her everything.

• • •

from the dock only proved to deepen

Percy’s frustrations. His preliminary

meeting with Simon had not gone well.

He’d expected his commander’s anger

about his mutiny, resulting in the loss of

Collins. He’d expected congratulations

on the capture of Frink and his men, but

he hadn’t anticipated Simon’s exhausting

inquiry about his niece. Shouldn’t he

have been more grateful she was alive,

that he’d been able to deliver her to

London in one piece?

Unfortunately, conditions with the

Throckmorton fortune had not improved,

making Simon’s frustration all the more

telling. And so he’d omitted certain

information about Constance. Simon

didn’t

need

to

know
everything
.

Especially when Percy didn’t want to be

called out to Green Park and forced to

kill her uncle in self-defense.

Percy gazed out the muted pane of

his barouche, blinking back the dismal

sights of misery on the streets of the East

end. Children’s hollow eyes stared at his

carriage as he passed, envy and hunger

prevalent in their expressions, making it

extremely hard to ignore the distant stare

of a particularly young girl.

Tapping on the ceiling, he alerted

the driver to come to a stop. He reached

into his frock coat and pulled out a

money purse, shook it, weighing it in his

hand, just as he’d done in Constance’s

cabin. He’d intended to return the money

to her someday, but the thought of

another young girl selling herself on the

docks gutted him.

He stepped down from his carriage,

paying curious passersby no mind.

“Don’t be afraid,” he told the young

thing. “Do you live around here?”

She nodded. Her eyes were as big

and black as the buttons on his greatcoat

when he produced the purse and held it

out to her. “Take this. Use it to get you

and your family off these streets.”

The child hesitated to grab the bag,

but her lips curled upward into a smile.

She grabbed the purse, curtsied, and was

gone. He did not stay long enough to

know whether she turned back or not. He

stepped back inside his carriage and

tapped on the ceiling to resume his

journey home.

Preparations for his arrival had

been put into place. Jacko and Ollie had

outfitted him with the pompous garments

he now wore, which had been stowed

away for his return. Papers in his satchel

provided the proof he needed to

convince the ton he’d been to India,

Turkey, and Greece on sabbatical. Gifts

from his travels were stacked near his

feet. As any first son staking claim to his

family inheritance at an ailing father’s

behest, living as the heir to the Duke of

Blendingham was a privilege, behaving

as a rogue, his choice. From the time of

his birth, he’d been a fortunate man.

Unlike those he passed along the way to

his townhouse, located in fashionable

Herford and Corazon Streets, he did not

have to worry where his next meal came

from.

Indeed, the game he played was

deceitful, dangerous, and preposterous.

To conceal his passion, his love of the

sea, his duty to country, and maintain his

focus on vengeance, he lived on pretense

and charade alone. If it became known

he slummed along the docks, he would

surely be shunned. The embarrassment

his father would be subjected to if word

of his activities became known was

unfathomable. For this reason, and this

reason alone, he understood what

Constance faced now that she had

departed his vessel. Both of them would

be forced to wear disguises.

His mood spoiled, the carriage

slowed to alert him he neared his goal.

The horses clip-clopped down Herford

Street to Number Seven, and then

stopped. Jacko, attired in footman’s

garb, opened the door and extended his

hand.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing

reverently.

“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