The Rogue’s Prize (46 page)

Mortimer’s hand. “It can’t be true,” she

said. “My mother’s locket means

everything to me. Why would anyone

steal it, especially before my wedding?”

A sympathetic smile brightened the

woman’s features. “You’re such an

innocent.”

A knock sounded once, then twice.

Within

moments,

Constance

found

herself alone as Morty was summoned

away. She gazed about her bedroom,

dejectedly. She wasn’t innocent. She’d

given herself to a pirate. She didn’t

belong in Percy’s townhouse. She didn’t

deserve to be a duchess. And the loss of

her mother’s locket revealed she wasn’t

responsible enough to wear the rubies

Percy had given her. The babe in her

belly proved she was a wanton who’d

sold herself for respectability and

protection. Her attempts to play the

dutiful wife, while mourning for the

father of her child, confirmed she didn’t

deserve Percy’s love. She owed Percy

her loyalty, her life, her trust — the truth.

Perhaps it was time he learned her true

identity, that Burton’s accusations were

sound, that she carried a bastard’s child.

Constance walked to the door of

her room and turned the knob. She was

spoiled goods. She couldn’t possibly

hope for her husband’s forgiveness and

there was no joy in being honest. But she

had to purge her soul. Now. Before the

love she felt blossoming in her heart

overwhelmed her. No man should be

forced to raise another man’s child.

Sneaking out of the bedroom, so as

not to direct attention, she spied Jeffers

exiting Percy’s room. She drew back

upon her bedroom threshold and waited

for him to descend the stairs. Then, with

a swish of her skirts, she headed through

the darkened mahogany-lined hallway.

Ample light beaconed from below the

staircase, where voices indicated Mrs.

Mortimer officiated. She had little time

to do what she knew she must do —

catch her husband alone. What she had to

say was not for servants’ ears.

Her heart thumped wildly behind

her ribs as she knocked on the door to

Percy’s room.

Silence.

She lifted her hand and knocked

again, eyes alert for a wayward servant,

Mrs. Mortimer’s or Jeffers’s return.

“Percy,” she whispered.

Her mind revolted and her nerves

entreated her to withdraw. But her

conscience would not allow it. If she

was to expel her sins, she could not back

down now. Eager to reveal the truth

about herself and the baby before she

changed her mind, she tested the

doorknob

and,

finding

the

door

unlocked, slipped inside.

“Percy?” she called.

To her left stood a large wooden

bed, a tangled mass of fabric heaped

upon the surface. The room was sparsely

decorated and smelled of sandalwood,

Percy’s scent, and something else — the

sea. Curiously, her gaze shifted about the

room. By the hearth, a tepid tub

indicated that her husband had recently

bathed. Was she too late?

Heartbroken, her gaze scanned the

haphazardly strewn room to the bed and

a side table stacked with odds and ends.

Nearby, a lit candelabrum fluttered on a

desk near the open window. Shadows

played across the bedroom walls,

teasing with telltale shapes. She stepped

further into the room, hesitant to explore,

prepared to flee at a moment’s notice.

There was something overpowering

about the room. She didn’t belong. She

knew it instantly and decided she’d

made a horrible mistake. Her senses

came alive with an awareness that

scared her. What if her husband found

her snooping through his belongings?

Her position in the household was

tenuous enough. Add to that the

revelation that she was carrying another

man’s child and she would most

assuredly find herself out on the street.

A breeze whipped the drapes in the

window, bringing them dangerously

close to the flaming candlewicks.

Constance reacted by instinct. She

grabbed the silver base, and then set the

candlestick

upon

the

side

table,

breathing a sigh of relief. With the threat

of fire over, she closed the window,

careful not to make a sound. Smoothing

her hair and skimming her hands over

her skirts, she turned to grab the

candelabra and place it back upon the

desk, but her hand struck a book

dislodging a shiny silver object. The

oval case gleamed as she brought the

light closer.

“No.” She gasped. “My locket?”

She lifted the book, a sudden wave of

nausea roiling inside her abdomen.

“How?” She looked around the room,

speechless.

She took hold of the chain and

dangled the case from her fingertips.

Percy had had her locket all this time?

But how was it possible? She thought

back. Had she laid it out, handed it to

him? When had he been present when the

necklace had been off of her neck? They

hadn’t been lovers until after the

wedding and it had been noticeably

absent during that event. How had it

come into Percy’s possession? And why

hadn’t he returned it to her?

Constance gazed about the room,

her locket fisted in her hand. Anger

enveloped her. She expected lies and

dishonesty from Thomas, from Burton,

but not Percy.

Visibly shaken, she clasped the

locket around her neck, and then

guardedly

flipped

through

various

papers on Percy’s desk. It was unlike

her to be meddlesome, but her trust had

been violated. What else had her

husband kept from her?

The books upon Percy’s desk were

volumes dedicated to shipping lanes,

investments, and law, nothing out of

sorts for a man of position and wealth.

She continued her search, locating

another image of the woman called Lady

Celeste. A different miniature sat on his

bedside table. She held it up to the light,

her thumb stroking the woman’s flowing

hair. Her heart hitched in her chest as the

resemblance shook her unsteadily. No,

she thought, it was beyond the realm of

possibilities.

Thomas.

Placing the striking resemblance

back upon the bedside table, Constance

turned unable to breathe. She leaned

onto the coverlet for balance. The room

was small, unsuitable for a man of

Percy’s rank, and it closed in ever

tighter. Why had he continued to abide

here when her room, her bed, her arms

were willing to share everything and

more?

Why? Why had Percy kept quiet

about

his

father’s

illness,

his

relationship with the woman in the

picture? She choked back a sob.

Couldn’t she be trusted to keep his

secrets, to share his burdens? Burton had

threatened to discredit her father if she

didn’t resort to investigating Percy’s

involvement in her father’s accounts. But

based on trust, she had not acted upon

that threat.

This was madness!

Constance gained control of her

senses and turned to tamp the wick on

the candle by Percy’s bedside. She had

to leave before she was discovered. As

she did, her slipper caught upon

something on the floor, nearly tripping

her as she moved away. Reaching down,

she picked up a discarded piece of

fabric entangling her feet and rolled the

fabric between her fingertips. Curious,

she held it up to the candlelight. The

garment was black as pitch. Her fingers

paled in comparison. Her heart beat out

a tortuous rhythm as her fingertips slid

through gashes cut along the forearm.

It couldn’t be!

Dropping to her knees, Constance

sank into an abyss. What more?

Hesitantly, she inspected the floor, and

then reached into the dark void beneath

the mattress. There she found Hessians,

black breeches, and — Lord help her —

a red handkerchief!

Paralyzed, she sat back on her heels

and attempted to recover from the shock.

Thomas had been here? Percy had lived

in this room since they’d been married.

Did he know Thomas? Had he been

hiding him here? Or were the two men

she loved — brothers or one and the

same? No. Her mind screamed. It simply

couldn’t be!

Her

mind

spun

with

the

ramifications, replaying image after

image of time spent with the rogue,

Thomas, contrasting wildly with the

impish dandy, Percy, whose gentlemanly

portrayal had won her trust. And yet

she’d been betrayed! Doubly so!

Seduced by a pirate, she’d become

pregnant and then, thanks to Burton,

forced to partake in a sham of a marriage

to a popinjay. Who was she married to

— Percival Avery or Thomas Sexton?

How had her life become so twisted, so

beset upon by lies and deceptions? Oh

God. If Thomas was Percy, then Percy

was the father of her child. He’d been

aware of her pregnancy all along.

Within

seconds,

anger

more

destructive than any feeling she’d ever

known took hold of her senses. Jumping

to her feet, she walked dazedly to the

door, the very threshold she’d crossed to

humble herself before her swine of a

husband and divulge her sins. Unaware

of her actions, she put her hand on the

knob and jerked the door open, uncaring

who heard her exit the room.

Darkness in the hallway swallowed

her whole. Constance paused, allowing

her eyes to adjust, clinging to the

shadows a moment longer to regain her

wits. She started to hyperventilate and

clutched the wall in order to take deep

breaths to steady herself so she didn’t

faint.

What she had done to deserve this?

Her father had relinquished Burton’s

proposal

in

favor

of

another

advantageous one. Not out of sympathy

but out of practical greed. What had

Percy offered that would force her

father’s hand? Was her uncle involved?

Or had her father known all along the

two men were one and the same? Was

everything she knew or thought to be true

a lie?

Never trust a pirate.

A sob tore from her throat. She’d

married a pirate! Constance clutched her

mouth to stifle her anguished sobs.

All at once she understood what her

mother must have experienced in the

perilous moments before her death.

She’d been betrayed by men who’d

schemed to use her for their benefit.

Now it was her turn. She’d been taken

advantage of by a rogue, made a

laughing stock of the ton by a rake. How

the devil must have enjoyed his disguise.

How he must have laughed at her

naivety.

What was she to do now? Where

was she to go?

Her mind sorted recent events,

especially the carriage ride in Hyde

Park.

“A ship cannot sail without a

crew, Your Grace. You cannot claim

ignorance of this.”
Was Guffald

involved?

Her heart clenched and an iron vise

gripped her lungs. She’d been saved by

Thomas’s narrow thread of decency

aboard the
Octavia
and when she’d

arrived in London, Percy’s sense of

decorum. She paused. No matter how

dismal her life appeared, both men had

tried to protect her. In some twisted

sense of duty they had stepped forward

to save her. Thomas from Frink. Percy

from Burton. Her child needed a father.

He’d been given one, one she was

legally honor bound to obey whether she

wanted to or not.

Tears filled her eyes. Dabbing her