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.