Duke of Pryde (Seven Dukes of Sin #3)

Chapter 1

1

September 1814

“Where the hell is he?” Constantine Buccleigh, the Duke of Pryde, paced down the aisle of All Saints Church. This could be the day his secret finally ruined his life.

The scents of dust and incense hung in the air around him. And weak sunlight filtered through the Gothic windows, casting his shadow across the stone floor. The locals of Shepherdsbrook, a village on the outskirts of London, had filed out after the Sunday sermon not a quarter of an hour ago.

Constantine’s blasphemy bounced off the walls of the empty church like a bullet. His riding boots clicked against the flagstones, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he paced too fast for a duke who prided himself on his composure.

A crash behind Constantine had him spinning around, hand instinctively darting to the letter in the inner pocket of his coat.

But it was only Octavius.

At the back of the vacant pews, the Duke of Eccess flashed him a guilty look as he caught a bookshelf from which prayer books rained down.

Constantine raised a single eyebrow, forcing his shoulders back to their usual position. “Octavius, if you could save your talent of demolition for another day…”

Eccess straightened the shelf, his biceps bulging even through the layers of his tailored coat. While Constantine bent to pick up the books and return them to the shelf, Octavius gave the cross above the altar an exaggerated bow. “Pardon me, Lord. Just a tiny excess of wine. I’m sure you understand, with the whole water-to-wine business.”

He retrieved a silver flask with the symbol of a boar engraved on it from his pocket. He raised it first to Constantine, then to the cross, and drank, his honey-blond hair falling over his forehead.

When all of the books were back in their places, Constantine eyed the flask. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind a drop of that myself.”

“Certainly. You look like a bowstring about to snap.” Octavius extended the flask towards him. “As always, my best. Cognac Fine Champagne.”

Constantine’s hand twitched towards it. But then he let it fall back to his side. “Not today. I need every bit of control I possess.”

Octavius’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Suit yourself. You could use a bit of loosening up, if you ask me.”

“I do not.”

Finally, footsteps sounded upon the floor like a cannonade. Constantine ran one of his sweat-dampened hands across his hair and corrected his cravat.

He ushered Eccess towards the sound until he could finally see a movement in the darkness below the chancel arch. The footsteps stopped.

A baby cooed.

Constantine stopped breathing and went completely still.

A baby?

Two female figures in simple brown and gray muslin dresses and spencers walked out of the shadows, soft heels clicking against the worn flagstones. The one holding the baby was a fair bit taller than the other.

He and Octavius exchanged puzzled looks. Perhaps these were just two parishioners who had stayed after the sermon. These two couldn’t have anything to do with the letter.

As it had done so many times, his mind returned to the letter he had received three days ago.

London, 20 September, 1814,

To His Grace, the Duke of Pryde,

Your Grace,

I trust my letter finds you in good health.

An important matter concerning your circumstances has been revealed to me. It would be most prudent for you to attend the sermon at All Saints Church of Shepherdsbrook this Sunday.

Your Grace’s most humble and obedient servant,

A friend

Admittedly, a friend could be male or female. He supposed he just didn’t think blackmail would be within a woman’s purview.

When both ladies came to stand in front of him, he realized the one with the baby was even taller than he’d first thought, almost the same height as himself.

What reason might a mother with an infant have to engage him? He was not the Duke of Luhst. He did not whore around.

Eccess cleared his throat. “May we help you?”

The tall female focused her attention on Eccess. “Your Grace, Duke of Pryde?”

Now that she stood in the light, Constantine could see that she was lovely, with soft locks of copper-colored hair falling around her face from under a simple black bonnet. Her large green eyes looked gentle yet earnest. Her mouth was wide and sensual. And her nose was slightly pointy, making her appear young and adventurous. The shorter lady was in her midtwenties and had a conventionally attractive face under wavy black hair.

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Octavius. “Duke of Eccess. At your service.”

“I am Pryde,” said Constantine, keeping his voice measured despite his heart drumming against his ribs. “How can I help, Miss…?”

“Miss Modesty Fairchild,” she said. “This is Miss Grace Lockhart, who came as my chaperone.”

Constantine gave a customary bow of his head while Eccess did the same.

Surely, they were not blackmailers , these ladies who seemed modest and respectable, albeit poor. He admitted he had imagined scoundrels from the rookeries of Whitechapel, wielding knives and pistols.

“Mr. Fairchild, the vicar who just did the sermon, is my father,” she added.

He raised the letter. “Did you write this?”

Miss Fairchild’s gaze darted to the paper as she bounced the baby. A slight blush crept up her cheeks. “Indeed I did, Your Grace. I was uncertain what to write in such a situation. When your own natural child is concerned?—”

His own natural child?

What did she know about his mother’s long-lost letter—the one that confirmed he was not his father’s true son? She should have started the letter with that.

Wait—

Surely, she wasn’t implying?—

Goddamn it, not another attempted blackmail because of a secret child!

Not a few weeks ago, at his house party at Pryde Manor, his friend the Duke of Luhst had received a letter claiming he had a natural child. But Lucien had denied the allegations and refused to pay. The blackmailer had then sent Lucien’s three-year-old daughter to Pryde Manor. The resulting scandal had roared through London, been covered in every society paper and gossip column. The ton’s matrons still clucked their tongues over the Duke of Luhst’s fall from grace.

Did the same blackmailer now attempt to incriminate him? Or was this woman implying it was her baby from him ?

He was certain he’d never seen her before; he never would have forgotten those pretty lips.

For a moment, Constantine’s carefully maintained facade threatened to crack. He forced a polite smile he had given countless times. “Pray tell, what am I accused of exactly?” he asked.

She exchanged a cautious glance with her friend, who raised her eyebrows at her. Then Miss Fairchild’s eyes met his. “Augustus is your child, of course.”

Constantine felt a fiery pressure building within his skull, threatening to shatter it. The complete nonsense of this situation was so obscene it was comical. He ought to be relieved. She had not mentioned his mother’s letter nor his father’s will, nor made any threat to expose his true parentage.

The only woman he’d ever slept with was a sex worker at Elysium, an elite gentlemen’s club in Whitechapel. The club’s owner, Mr. Thorne Blackmore, had assured Pryde his lover was barren.

He struggled and failed to keep his voice even. “ My child?”

Eccess—the traitor—let out a laugh and craned his neck to look at the bundle in the tall woman’s arms. “May we see the babe?”

“No,” said Constantine while Miss Fairchild brought the bundle closer. “There’s no need.”

To his great dissatisfaction, he’d seen the adorable little face of a newborn—large dark bluish eyes landing on him, mouth smacking as the babe made sweet little grunts, adorable button nose and full cheeks—within the swaddle and a little hand with delicate fingers and translucent fingernails peek out by a round chin.

For the blink of an eye, warmth flooded his cold chest, and he wished the baby was his own flesh and blood. A tiny human to love and hold close. Should the baby be his son, he would bring him into his care. Provide for him. Support him.

In fact, a new kind of thrill ran through his limbs. Something strangely resembling affection.

But he was being manipulated. Lied to.

Someone was trying to prey on his feelings. Take him for a fool.

“Augustus’s mother told me everything,” said Miss Fairchild defensively. “You’re the father. She gave me custody of Augustus before she died…”

Constantine could now understand the rage his friend Dorian, the Duke of Rath, must have felt his entire life.

Unlike Rath, the Duke of Pryde couldn’t afford to unleash his rage.

“Miss Fairchild,” he said. “I cannot emphasize enough how impossible this is.”

“I assure you, it’s true,” said Miss Fairchild quickly. “I held her hand as she gave her last breath and she wanted?—”

His chest grew tight and hot. She dared to put him through this? Three days of clawing at walls, three sleepless nights, terrified someone had the proof that would destroy him.

For what? To be extorted with nonsense?

The deceased woman’s identity and cause of death were irrelevant to him. He suspected this self-proclaimed mother had fabricated the story—perhaps to blackmail someone after secretly giving birth.

She had selected the wrong man as her target.

“You read about the Duke of Luhst’s misfortune in the papers, didn’t you?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. “And you thought you could fool another man. Except, I am beyond reproach. Fathering a bastard is one thing I have always meticulously avoided.”

Miss Fairchild’s pretty mouth sagged open for a moment before she spoke. “I am not attempting to?—”

“This is not my child. I feel sorry for it, but I will not be drawn into a despicable scheme that has no grounds. If you contact me again, you will face court fees for libel so grave you will never be able to get out of debtor’s prison.”

Relief loosened the tight band around his chest. He turned on his heel and walked away. Octavius said a hasty goodbye and rushed after him. The doors of the church couldn’t approach fast enough.

Miss Fairchild was unaware of his true secret and had no solid basis to make any demands. He and his title were safe.

As they strode away, Constantine kept his steps measured and unhurried, his posture impeccable.

He needed to breathe. Unclench his fists.

Now he could return to his normal life. There was no threat and no blackmailer.

But under the rigid mask of control, his mind was in chaos.

He may have deflected one false claim, but his secret still made him vulnerable.

If not Miss Fairchild today, someone else might use it against him tomorrow.

Walking by his side, Octavius opened his flask. “A redhead… Looked so timid but must be fire in bed.”

An image flashed through Constantine’s mind of Miss Fairchild’s red hair spread across his pillow, those pretty lips swollen and open in bliss, her sweat-misted body arching beneath him.

Not beneath Octavius.

Him.

“Hold your tongue,” Constantine said, more briskly than he’d like. “Never speak of her in that way again.”

Octavius gulped from the flask and closed it. “Come now, I speak from experience.”

Constantine shook his head. “Do stop.”

Octavius sent him a puzzled look. “Fine. You and your pride…”

There was no point in getting angry over a strange woman’s honor, knowing he’d never see her again in his life.