The Rogue’s Prize (45 page)

Guffald’s eyes narrowed. “This

evening — ”

“Your own ship?” Percy inquired.

“By jove, this is indeed cause for

celebration.” Rising, Percy reached

through the window to give Guffald a

proper congratulatory handshake and a

slap on the shoulder. Constance grabbed

onto the carriage as it jostled under his

weight. “I know how much this means to

you, Henry. You’ve worked extremely

hard to get where you are. No one knows

that more than I.”

Guffald’s eyes gleamed. “Indeed.”

“Which ship do you command,

Captain Guffald?” There was a ring to

his new name and a pride emanating

from his eyes at the sound of her

speaking his rank.

“I’m curious as well, Henry. Which

ship?” Percy asked.

Guffald ignored Percy. Instead, he

stared into Constance’s eyes with a

longing she recognized, a child savoring

the taste of his first sweet.

“Your ship, man,” Percy’s voice

scored the air. “What is she called?”

Had she known otherwise, she was

almost convinced Percy was jealous.

“Please do not leave us suspended,

Captain,” she repeated, encouraging the

gentleman’s attention. “I’m eager to

learn all about your ship. As you well

know, I’m a quick study.”

Percy shifted noticeably in his seat,

a frown apparent on his face. She’d

found her mark. Might the jab to his ego

convince him to tread carefully where

her reputation was concerned?

“Yes,” Guffald declared boldly,

“you

are

quick

witted,

Lady

Blendingham. As to your question, I’m

proud to announce I command the

Stockton
, a three-masted, fully outfitted

brig.”

She avoided Percy’s terse frown as

she continued her pretense. “Have you

been assigned a crew?”

“Yes,” Guffald said.

“A crew?” At last, Percy spoke.

“A ship cannot sail without a crew,

Your Grace. You cannot claim ignorance

of this,” Guffald baited. But there was

something in the man’s voice, a nagging

discrepancy in his tone that triggered

disquiet within her. Had she just

witnessed a secret code between them?

The thought quickly dissipated as

Guffald tipped his hat, teeth flashing

eerily white against his weathered skin.

“My men await orders,” he explained. “I

expect the road ahead to be a challenge,

but I’ve no doubt in my mind as to the

outcome.”

Charmed by Guffald’s confidence,

Constance said, “May success guide

you, Captain.”

Guffald touched the brim of his

tricorn and dipped his head. “’Tis what I

pray for every day, your Ladyship.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY

Nearly a week had gone by since the

fiasco in the park. Constance had tried

not to dwell on Percy’s abnormal

behavior. It was, she had to admit, for

lack of a better word, not that unusual.

However, since meeting Guffald, her

husband had rarely made an appearance

in the townhouse. An alarming distance

mounted between them. Had her

behavior toward Guffald embarrassed

him? Had Burton made good on his

threats?

Her lips puckered with annoyance.

It was, after all, only a matter of time

before Burton made good on his vow to

destroy everything she’d ever loved or

dared to love.

Constance had never felt her

position as Percy’s wife more tenuous

than it was now. Nothing seemed to ease

her fractured nerves. Until one particular

morning, after dealing with Sumpton

Hall’s

estate

and

several

correspondences having to do with his

ducal duties, Percy appeared at the

dining table boldly announcing that

tonight would be a night she would

never forget. He conversed over

luncheon as if Hyde Park and his

previous indifference had been nothing

of consequence.

And so, here she was, sitting before

a vanity mirror, preparing for the

anticipated hour they’d depart for

Convent Garden. Why would tonight be

a night she would never forget? And in

what way? Her heart pounded with

expectation as one possibility after

another raced across her mind. Was she

to be humiliated in front of the ton by

their quick entry back into society?

Would Burton arrive to air his

accusations publicly and permanently

tarnish the Blendingham name?

Mrs. Mortimer tugged on her hair to

adjust a wayward strand. Constance

gazed into the mirror and tilted her head

left then right to better view the

woman’s skillful work. Morty had

arranged her blonde tresses with seed

pearls and massed them into a formal

coif.

“Should I wear the rubies, Morty?”

Her companion tsked. “They were

a gift from your husband, Constance. Of

a certainty, you should wear them.”

Constance held the open jewelry

box up to the candlelight. The dangling

red spheres reminded her of the first

time she saw Thomas aboard the

Octavia
. He’d worn a red handkerchief

tied about his head, giving him demonic

flair, and the sight of him had stolen her

breath. She put the gems down and

reached back to unclasp her locket —

except it wasn’t there. How could she

have forgotten? She frowned at her

reflection and sunk once more into

despair.

“Shall I put them on for you?”

Morty asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head,

as much to ward off the nagging concern

of the locket’s whereabouts as to

answer. “I worry about their expense.”

“You’ve no need to worry, child.”

One by one, Mrs. Mortimer put the

baubles on, and then critiqued her

reflection in the oval glass. “You look

beautiful.”

The woman sitting before her was

unrecognizable, far different from the

child who’d survived a pirate attack and

had fallen in love with a rogue, only to

find herself married to a duke with

rakish charm.

Excitement raced through her. The

earbobs were stunning and matched her

coloring to perfection. Percy had

impeccable taste. But would he think her

beautiful? Did she fit the mold of

duchess? Not one to put stock in the

reaction of the demi-monde, trepidation

ruled her heart as to what the night might

disclose.

Their

sudden

marriage,

procuring a special license, posting the

bans quickly, meant breaching etiquette

in the ton’s eyes. By being seen in public

before the statute of marital protocol had

ended, they would be committing another

travesty of epic proportions.

Morty

continued

her

toilette,

passing her lavender cologne. “To

please your husband,” she suggested. “It

will do the man good to realize what

he’s neglected these past few days.”

“We have no idea why Percy has

been

preoccupied,”

Constance

suggested, trying to give him the benefit

of the doubt. Trusting the man who’d

abandoned

his

penchant

for

bachelorhood was the least she could

do. Wasn’t it? With a worried frown,

she slipped a curl about her finger,

angling it just so near her ear.

“Don’t worry, Constance,” Morty

said, resting her hands upon her

shoulders.

“You

are

dressed

to

perfection. When His Grace observes

the scandalous dip of your almond gown,

I suspect he will carry you right back

upstairs, abandoning all thought of the

theatre and the repercussions of the ton. I

promise you, no man in his right mind

could resist such a vision, especially the

duke.”

Was Mrs. Mortimer right? Though

Percy had been distant during the day,

he’d made a concerted effort to appear

in her bed during the middle of the night,

where he’d made love to her until she’d

fallen asleep, only to wake and find him

gone again. What did his absences

mean? What did he do with his time?

Once again, she worried if Burton

was the cause.

“Appearances

are

everything,

Constance.”
Percy’s words reminded

her that she’d married a dandy, willingly

placed herself in his care. She owed him

her life, the life of her child. But she had

much to learn about playing his

enthusiastic accomplice.

Constance stared at her reflection a

moment longer. The mirror convicted

her of multiple sins, surviving disaster

when her mother had not, running away

from her father, taking up with a pirate,

pregnancy, deceiving her enemy, Burton,

and selling herself to the highest bidder,

Percy, a man she respected and grew to

love more and more each day. She held

her breath, fearing that any moment the

love she felt would be stolen from her

chest.

“Why so glum, child?” Mrs.

Mortimer asked. “You miss your mother,

don’t you? It’s fitting for a mother-to-be

to miss the woman who could ease her

anxieties of childbirth. I never had my

own child, but had I been blessed, I

would have wished for a daughter like

you, my sweetling.”

Constance reached up and squeezed

the hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

“You’ve been a wonderful example to

me, Morty. Mother and friend, by all

accounts.”

Touched by her words, the woman

tsked. “Naught more than you deserve.”

Then just as quickly, Morty’s eyes

hardened.

“What is it? I know you well

enough to know when something’s

amiss.”

Chewing her lower lip, Morty

glanced toward the door. “Have you

thought more about your locket? Where

it might be?”

Constance stroked a place on her

neck where her hair spiked. “Yes,

endlessly. I cannot believe it’s simply

vanished without a trace.”

“What do you suppose happened to

it?” she whispered now, close, as if

afraid of being overheard.

“I don’t know. I remember I wore it

before the wedding. Then there was so

much to do, so little time to think, I

hardly realized it was gone until it was

too late.”

“Have you considered whether

someone might have taken it?”

Constance gasped. “Who would do

such a thing? No, I fear that while trying

to prepare for the wedding, I misplaced

it. It, most probably, is still at

Throckmorton House.”

Mrs. Mortimer went to the door,

opened it, peered down the hall, and

then closed it again, securing it behind

her before returning to her side and

picking up an ivory brush to rearrange an

errant curl around Constance’s face. The

same curl she’d just redone.

“It is peculiar. You’ve managed to

keep the locket safe all these years only

to have it disappear the night before your

wedding. Don’t you find that odd?”

Seeds of doubt planted, Constance

mulled over Morty’s words. Only a few

strangers had been in the house, Burton

and Percy. Neither would have had the

opportunity to take her locket. And what,

she wondered, would they want with it

in the first place?

“What are you suggesting?” she

asked, dreading Morty’s logic.

“Think, Constance. Visualize the

last time you saw the locket.”

She thought hard. She could see

herself laying the locket on her night

board, then nothing. Only one conclusion

could be drawn. “It must have been

someone in the household, one of the

servants perhaps.”

Who would steal the only thing she

had left of her mother. Constance’s head

reeled and a part of her yearned to

believe that no one at Throckmorton

House could possibly have betrayed her

this way.

Constance

latched

onto

Mrs.