The Rogue’s Prize (29 page)

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.”

Percy’s head throbbed. He put his

head in his hands, 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.”

His mind raced. Constance would

be scandalized because he’d been too

weak to keep from sampling her charms.

He
was guilty of ruining her. And now,

because of his weakness, Josiah Cane’s

gossip would reach the ton, leaving her

completely

vulnerable

to

public

derision. Never mind the rumors were

true.

Simon sat down across from him,

more suitably at ease now that he could

see Percy was thinking within reason.

“Byron has formed a pact with Burton.”

“Pact?” Percy winced, but focused

upon the implications of that agreement.

The Baroness knew something that could

discredit Burton. Maybe her information

could sever that pact.

“It’s

a

formidable

binding

agreement Burton won’t be easily

swayed from, especially when he learns

Constance is with child.”

Percy tented his fingertips 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.

“She’s pledged to run away, if

nothing can be done.”

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 did not

need a wife to slow him down.

“Percy, only you have the means to

counter offer for Constance’s hand.”

“I cannot give Constance what she

needs,” he said.

“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 head shot up. Simon put up his

hand to apologize for speaking of his

dying father. “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

she needs your protection, Percy.”

“I would only bring Constance

heartache,” he admitted.

Simon paced about the room, and

then turned to stare at him, his face grim.

“Frink has escaped.”

Percy sat up and his eyes narrowed.

“How?”

Simon sat down on the settee

across from him, a grim expression on

his face. “Apparently he had connections

I was unaware of. Now I fear my niece

is in greater danger.”

“The safest place for Constance is

a monastery.”

“I do not trust her in anyone else’s

care but yours,” Simon said with

finality.

“I’ve made a mockery of marriage.

No one will believe that I want to marry

Constance.”

“You’re heir to a dukedom. Every

duke needs to produce an heir of his

own. Do not underestimate the ton. They

will accept your proposal for what it is.

Only you and I will know the truth.”

Percy stood. Was it fair to ask

Constance to live a lie? What kind of

life would that be for a young bride? He

would not stop his ruthless sprints into

London’s underbelly until Frink and his

benefactors were found and expunged.

Was he capable of living with

Constance’s hate when she discovered

that Thomas Sexton and Percival Avery

were one and the same?

“I will not stop looking for

Celeste’s killer.”

“You can do whatever you choose,

but either way, you
will
help Constance.

She was on her way to get help from her

aunt when you attacked the
Octavia
and

ruined her chances of making it to San

Sebastian.
You
took advantage of her on

your ship when you had the choice to

bring her in unscathed. The child is

yours,” he reiterated. “The opportunity

to right a wrong, yours.”

Percy froze. The child. How

quickly he’d forgotten its existence.

“Burton will become enraged when

he learns he’s been duped,” he

suggested. If Burton had been the man

who’d left the bruise on her skin and if

the tales he’d recently heard from

Baroness

Chauncey

were

true,

Constance and his child would be in

grave danger when Burton found out she

wasn’t a virgin.

“Exactly!”

Simon

exclaimed.

“Where will that leave
your
child?”

He thought of his dying father and

the vast inheritance that must be passed

from father to son. What would become

of Throckmorton if anything ever

happened to him? Many lives depended

upon that living. He touched his head,

suddenly cognizant that he had much to

live for. Celeste was gone. But he was

not the only Avery left.

“Tell me what I must do.”

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Candelabras illumined the twilight. Light

flickered down upon the decadently clad

crowd striding through the foyer of

Throckmorton Hall. Patrons assembled

to approach the receiving line, then

meandered into the western ballroom

where a large table lining the wall

enticed with effervescent lemonade,

wine, opulent fruits, biscuits, tea, and

chocolate. A piano sonata by Pleyel

heightened the atmosphere as guests

roamed throughout the rooms, one by

one. Later a quartet of pianoforte, cornet,

violin, and cello were scheduled to play

a minuet. Pink and white lilies, roses,

and peonies scented the hall. To all who

entered Throckmorton and viewed the

décor, it was thought to have been

masterfully done. Only one, however,

remained unaffected.

Constance took her place beside

her father in the receiving line,

welcoming

each

guest,

appearing

modestly composed in a sea of white.

Outwardly, she waxed content as she

flashed one smile after another without

any sort of joviality reaching her heart.

Nothing in the room excited her. Nothing

about the night intrigued. She was

doomed to a life of torturous consort,

one from which there was no escape. A

shiver traveled up and down her spine

as thoughts turned to the last dance,

when her father would announce her

engagement to Burton. Were it not for

her unborn babe and her promise to

Simon, she would never have played her

part in this gala.

She stood woodenly beside her

father, acknowledging one patron after

another as they passed through the

receiving line. Tête-à-tête between her

father and members of the House of

Lords soured. Women praised the decor

and yet nothing, not the presence of dear

friends or the sparkle of finery generated

her enthusiasm. The conversation muted

as she mentally took note of the ticking

clock. Not even the pleasant return of

Lieutenant Henry Guffald, who bowed

stiffly and took her hand in his in an

attempt to place a tender kiss upon her

finger, roused her to smile. His action,

though sincere, was quickly interrupted

by her father. Guffald’s blue eyes

instantly hardened in response to the

slight. He rose to his full height,

militaristically handsome.

“Lieutenant,” she murmured, both

thrilled to be reminded of one of the

most adventurous times in her life and

afraid someone would learn of it. She

peered at their guests to see if anyone

noticed their conversation.

“Lady Constance. It is a pleasure to

see you — again,” he whispered. His

eyes flashed unreservedly and this

alarmed her. Would he divulge her

secrets? The idea slightly unnerved her.

Light flickered off the small scar slitting

his brow, a reminder of his sacrifice

aboard the
Octavia
, marring his too

handsome face, and providing him a new

and foreboding dangerous aura.
A small

price,
his eyes confided.
One he’d been

most willing to bear.

“Lieutenant Guffald,” her father

cued, startling her.

Seemingly unaffected, the lieutenant

nodded and moved on. Absentmindedly,

Constance found herself searching for

his tall form as he disappeared among

the throng. Stretching up on her tiptoes,

she then heard the oddest voice dance

above the stream of guests, crowding the

doorway and her attention was diverted.

Puzzled, she sought the owner of that

voice until her gaze settled upon the

most preposterous looking man she’d

ever seen. Impeccable in appearance,

from his high-collared, gold-braid

trimmed cream jacket and brilliantly

laced gold cravat, to his buff-toned

breeches, complete with fob and watch,

he posed in garish champagne pumps,

and lifted a handkerchief delicately to

his nose. He soon stood before her.

Curiously,

he

peered

through

a

rectangular quizzing glass as if critiquing

her choice of gowns and discovering her

wanting.

Constance smiled politely, and then

curtsied. Every other man in the room

wore black, which made this one stick

out like a skunk among rabbits. His face

and hair was powdered. She did not

know how to react to the man and under

his scrutiny felt instantly self-conscious

of her own attire.

Her father cleared his throat.

Taking his cue, she offered her hand and

murmured a greeting. “Welcome to

Throckmorton Hall, Mister … ”

“Percival Avery,” the man offered

nasally, dabbing his nose.

“Mister Avery,” she repeated,

bowing

a

curtsy.

“Welcome

to

Throckmorton Hall.”

“Though Percy would never admit

it, my dear,” a sultry woman hanging on

his arm interjected, “he is Percival

Avery, Marques Stanton, the next Duke

of Blendingham.”

Mock perturbation glinted in the

ridiculous man’s eyes but he quickly

recovered, waving his quizzing glass

about, making Constance feel she’d only

imagined the reaction. There was

something pleasant about him, something

familiar.

“Ah, the Baroness Chauncey is ever

my defender,” he snorted. “Forgive my

impudence. I am not normally this

affected by tales of a woman’s beauty

but upon closer inspection,” he said,

raising his eyepiece, “I find myself

utterly astounded.”

The man’s behavior was so

preposterous Constance had to restrain

her laughter. He was a shameful flirt,

surprisingly

handsome

in

an

unconventional way.

The Baroness was the first one to

breech the silence. “Come now, Percy.

Don’t scare the poor dear out of her

wits. This is her coming out ball. She

has no experience with a man of
your

breeding.”

“Did you say coming out?” he

questioned the woman; completely

ignoring she stood before him. “E-gad!”