The Rogue’s Prize (24 page)

for whoring women, gambling, theatre,

and drink, a perfect cover for his

activities with Nelson’s Tea. He’d not

seen the signs warning him her life was

at risk until it had been too late.

Gazing longingly at the cut-glass

doors of his study, he felt an urge to

disappear, to drink himself into oblivion

as he’d done so often before. But before

he could reach the door handles, he

caught his reflection in the beveled

glass. Curious, he lifted his quizzing

glass and pivoted in front of the door,

only to be taken aback by his mirrored

image. Gone were the pirate disguise,

beard, mustache, and eye patch. He was

clean shaven, hair tied back in a neat

cue,

face

powdered.

Dressed

immaculately in a fine grey suit, silver

vest, and opalescent cravat tied to

restricting perfection, one would never

know he’d spent nearly eight months

with pirates. Lace dangled from the ends

of his sleeves and his boots shone

without blemish. The debacle sickened.

He resembled a spooney and felt like the

fool. Encumbered by his high collar, he

reached for the study door’s brass

handles.

“My travels have taken me far,

Jeffers, and I’ve developed quite a

thirst. I’ll take libation in my office.”

“I’ll have tea sent to you

immediately, my Lord.”

“No need to put yourself out, my

good man. I’ve got more potent

refreshment in mind.”

“What could more potent than tea,

my Lord?”

“Jeffers, I’ve told you many times

that moniker isn’t necessary between us.

Be a good man and humor me when

we’re alone.”

“Yes, my Lord. Would brandy

suffice?” Jeffers egged.

“Interminably so,” he said, raising

a quizzical brow.

“You’ll find all that you need on the

side table in your study.”

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “You

remembered.” Jeffers was a marvel,

worth every penny he’d paid to pluck

him out of the mud. A might puzzling at

times, but just as proficient at his job as

Jacko on any given day. Squeezing his

fingers around the double door handles,

Percy pushed the doors open and inhaled

a deep breath. Satisfied everything had

been left as he remembered it, he entered

the room. Leather and sandalwood

assailed his senses. He stepped into the

study, turning his back on the man who

had his whole life under control.

“Jeffers?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

He grimaced and Jeffers’s eyes

glistened mischievously. “See to it that I

am not disturbed.”

“Yes, my Lord. Shall I send in

dinner?” his man cued with a quizzical

brow.

Percy strode purposefully over to

the side table nestled in the corner of an

expansive mahogany bookcase filling

fifty percent of the curtained, dark

paneled room. Opening a crystal

decanter containing sparkling honey

brown liquid, he poured himself a

healthy portion of brandy and downed

the contents in one swallow, relishing

the searing burn down his throat, and

then poured himself another glass.

Jeffers’s eyebrows rose and his

Adam’s apple bobbed up and down

ludicrously. He gazed down his aquiline

nose as if to speak, but kept his lips

tight-rimmed. Percy was impressed at

the man’s control. Though Jeffers

disapproved, no more loyal servant

could be found.

“Shall I send for more brandy?” he

quipped.

He took a deep breath and

reproached

Jeffers’s

disapproving

frown. “No need to go into any trouble

on my account, Jeffers. I intend to join

friends for dinner.”

“Friends?”

“I should think many anxiously

await my return,” Percy submitted.

“Though,” he said grimacing with the

effort, “I suspect I may have to remind a

few of my worth.”

“Lady friends?” Jeffers asked.

Percy pivoted on his heel. “Is there

any other kind, my good man?”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Jeffers’s snickering could be heard all

the way down the hallway. Satisfied that

he’d managed to draw a smile out of the

man, Percy approached his personal

desk near the curtained window and sat

down. He ran his fingers along the edges

of the large wing-backed furniture,

lingering over nicks on the well-worn

surface. His gaze penetrated the dimly lit

room, settling upon a vase of fresh

flowers with colors as vivid as a spring

morning

against

the

improbable

backdrop of glowing embers in the

hearth, reminding him of Constance —

beauty and passion combined.

He inhaled smoke and spice,

content that he’d been able to spend time

with such a woman. But, he reasoned,

straightening his shoulders, that respite

was past. Now he must transform

himself into a man playing a fool at

playing himself.

Shaking off his melancholy, Percy

turned his attention to the stacks of post

awaiting his perusal. He gazed at the

bothersome correspondence, narrowing

his eyes, knowing he would be better

served to acquaint himself with what

was before him than what might have

been. Resignedly, he gulped down

another dram of brandy and then picked

up a letter opener. Past due requests for

parties and balls were contentedly

unimportant.

Reports

on

property

appraisals and maturing investments

accompanied a note from his father’s

doctor petitioning his presence. The

latter gave ill-fated evidence that this

had also been too long overlooked.

The Duke’s vitality is gone. I

have done all I can. You, dear

sir, are his only request.

Come soon. Come home

before it is too late.

Yours respectfully,

John Turbin

Percy dropped the missive to the

floor. The news he’d dreaded for four

months had come. All hope was lost.

The doctors had no other recourses left

and his beloved father did not have long

to live. He quickly retrieved the letter to

note

the

date.
March twenty-third,

eighteen hundred and four.
Two weeks

ago. Was his father still alive? Had he

arrived home too late?

A commotion rose in the foyer,

jarring the throttling rhythm in his chest.

Percy’s hawkish gaze darted to the

double-paned doors. What now? He

craned his neck to listen and could not

help but overhear Jeffers arguing with a

man, quite insistent to see him.

“I will not be ignored!” came the

wayward vow.

Footsteps

scuffed

the

marble

flooring and the glass doors barreled

open, slamming inward. Simon Danbury

burst into the room.

It begins.

“Deny it, if you will,” Simon

ordered, his voice booming like cannon

shot.

“My apologies, my Lord! He would

not wait to be announced,” Jeffers

interjected.

Nodding

to

Jeffers,

Percy

encouraged his loyal servant to ignore

their intruder’s impudence. “Forgive

him,

Jeffers.

Simon

needs

no

introduction, but it appears since I’ve

been gone the gentleman has forgotten

his manners.”

Jeffers slowly backtracked out of

the room. Relaxing, Percy reclined in his

chair. “Deny what, sir?”

“You know very well of what I

speak!” Simon raged.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “That is

untrue. I know only that you’ve openly

broken one of your stringent rules of

conduct by entering my home.”

“And with just cause!” Simon

exclaimed.

“What has happened?”

Simon’s chest heaved as he

perched his white-knuckled fists upon

Percy’s desk and leaned forward to

debate his case. Percy likened the look

in Simon’s eyes to violent gale force

winds on a perilous sea. He imagined

himself the doomed sail and prepared

for the brunt of the weather’s assault, to

be torn to shreds in his wake.

“You have scandalized my niece! It

is only a matter of time before the ton

hears of it.”

“I assure you that neither I nor my

crew has maligned Lady Constance in

any way.”

Simon stepped back and paced in

front of the barrier between them,

wearing a path in the oriental carpet. He

wrung his hands in frustration. Percy had

never seen him this disturbed. Something

else was amiss.

“What’s really bothering you?” he

asked.

“My brother will not wait!” Simon

began rattling off his concerns. “He

believes I’ve misled him, abused our

relationship and his funds, an offense

which, he’s decided, has led to

Throckmorton’s ruination. I cannot

convince him otherwise.”

“Simon, I begged you not to invest

your family inheritance on this mission,

but you insisted the funds spent would

not be missed. You particularly advised

me not to use my own money so that

nothing we did could be traced back to

me.”

“Indeed, I did. But something else

has gone wrong and Byron blames me

for it. Now, because of me, my niece

must sell herself like a common doxy.”

He shook his index finger at Percy. “Let

it be known she does so under protest.”

He began to pace again, shaking his fist,

rousing Percy’s alarm. “Byron will not

hear me out. He will not see reason.

Stoutly resisting any suggestion I make,

he insists Constance marry Lord

Montgomery Burton, a man nearly twice

her age.”

Percy drew his hands together,

tenting them under his nose. He’d heard

of the man’s ruthless business dealings

but had yet to gain an introduction. Was

Burton the man she’d been running away

from?

“What are your niece’s feelings on

this matter?”

His mind raced. He’d ruined

Constance, damaged her chances of

finding a love match. A reality that was

hard to stomach. Were he a better man,

he would take responsibility for his

actions by asking for her hand. Yet,

harsh times required harsher measures.

Percy frowned. If she agreed to this

match, he would be equally engaged.

But, if she did not —

Simon laughed, directing Percy’s

eyes to the angry slant of his mouth. “The

extra rib, Percy, is Constance doesn’t

want to marry Burton. She has this crazy

idea that he will hurt her. In fact, my

darling niece accuses the man of already

having done so.”

Percy searched his memory for any

snippet of conversation Constance might

have spoken that would help him

understand why she’d accuse the

gentleman of such an affront. He recalled

their first meeting, entering her cabin,

seeing her standing like a valiant angel,

bed warmer in hand, prepared to

flummox him. He smiled. She’d shown

the kind of courage and conviction he’d

never dreamt a woman capable of, at a

moment when other women would get

the vapors or beg unceasingly for mercy.

Recalling Frink’s attack upon her

person, rage filled him anew. He relived

their escape from the
Octavia
’s hold,

gazed with abandon upon the sight of her

naked in his bed. Fisting his hands, he let

his eyes feast on the memory of her

womanly curves until his gaze finally

settled upon her breast. He’d asked her

where she’d gotten the unsightly bruise.

Desperate to lash out at him, she’d

practically accused him of putting it

there. Did that bruise hold the key to her

accusations against Burton? Or had it

come from someone else entirely?

“Have you heard a word I’ve said,

Percy?”

“Have I missed something?” he