Chapter 3
3
Three days later…
The scents of wet mud, rotting fish, and sour decay mingled with the crisp evening air by the entrance of Elysium as Constantine brushed his hand down the Andalusian’s neck. Icarus’s silky white coat was almost glowing against the darkness of the Whitechapel night—the light of torch posts giving the horse a warm yellow glow. The stallion’s large, expressive eyes blinked as it sniffed at him softly.
“A stunning specimen.” The Duke of Enveigh’s light brown hair fell into his gray eyes as he looked over Icarus. The silver serpent buttons of his green coat glinted in the light. “No wonder His Royal Highness hates you for outbidding him. I’d hate you a little, too. Though, is it wise to bring such a valuable horse to Whitechapel?”
Constantine gazed up at the imposing building of three floors before him. “Mr. Blackmore’s stables are guarded like a castle. I’m not concerned.”
Petticoat Street stretched in either direction, its market—always bustling in the daytime—now empty. The windows glowed warmly with candlelight behind the panes. Above the entrance, six sharp triangles arranged in a semicircle formed the symbol of sunrays. In Greek mythology, Elysium promised eternal paradise for heroes and the virtuous. This Elysium offered its members a different kind of utopia—one where they could indulge their every desire without judgment or consequence. There was nothing virtuous about it.
Tomorrow, Constantine would retreat to his country estate. The blackmail scare three days ago had reminded him that he was long overdue for marriage. He needed a wife of impeccable breeding by the end of next Season. It had nothing to do with love. Love was so far from Constantine’s ambitions, it was but the tiniest speck in the sky. The right alliance and his wife’s excellent pedigree would give him even higher standing.
But all in due course.
Presently, he needed his lover Aphrodite’s help to cast Miss Fairchild and little baby Augustus out of his head.
“That is not only why His Royal Highness harbors a grudge.” Eccess took a long pull from his silver flask. His massive frame dwarfed the building’s entrance, his rust-colored coat barely containing shoulders as broad as a doorway. Despite his perpetually disheveled appearance, his eyes remained as sharp as blades.
Enveigh narrowed his eyes. “You would know. You’re the Prince Regent’s dearest friend.”
“I would not claim the Regent’s friendship, in truth.” Eccess cocked his head, stretching his neck muscles. “Let us just say we have similar tastes in all things pleasurable. Food and drink being among them. As for his feelings towards you, Constantine, I would argue that they have little to do with the Andalusian and much to do with your damned pride.”
“Ah.” Enveigh chuckled. “The famous House of Lords incident.”
Constantine’s jaw clenched. The Regent was famous for indulging in extravagances that had plunged him deep into personal debt. His Royal Highness had sought Parliament’s approval for an extension of his Civil List to cover the shortfall. While Constantine, as a duke, had no vote in the Commons where the decision would be made, his sharp opposition in the Lords’ chamber sent ripples through Parliament. Through trusted allies in the Commons and carefully placed public statements, he’d made his disapproval impossible to ignore. Now, the Regent—one of England’s most influential figures—nursed a grudge. One word from him could destroy everything Constantine had worked so hard to keep.
His ducal friends understood him as no one else could. Among them, he didn’t have to maintain his immaculate image. The need to appear flawless had been drilled into him since childhood. He had felt lonely and inadequate for most of his young years; his parents had restricted his contact only to his tutor and themselves, to keep his education pure.
Rath, Luhst, Eccess, Enveigh, Irevrence, Fortyne.
And himself. Pryde.
Seven Dukes of Sin. Friends he’d never had growing up. They knew his worst flaws and accepted his secrets, shielded them like their own. And he guarded theirs.
He’d die for every one of them if it came to it.
The doors of Elysium opened, and the owner of the club, Thorne Blackmore, appeared to welcome them. Two guards standing on either side of the entrance nodded to him with respect.
Blackmore was a tall man with inky hair and dark eyes. Handsome, with striking sharp features, he dressed like a duke and possessed the manners of a perfect gentleman. His calm demeanor was misleading—everyone in London knew how quick and deadly he could be.
The dukes nodded to him in greeting. “Mr. Blackmore.”
“Welcome, Your Graces,” said Blackmore. “As always, the club is ready for you.” His gaze fell on the Andalusian. “Is that the steed His Royal Highness can’t stop talking about?”
Constantine stroked Icarus’s finely muscled withers. “It is.”
“Let’s get those horses stabled.” Blackmore gestured to his head groom and two more who appeared from behind the corner of the building. As the three grooms led their horses away, Blackmore gestured towards the open doors from which soft golden light, the scents of vanilla and wine, and the sounds of a Haydn chamber piece emerged. “Please. A night of pleasures awaits.”
The men walked into the large room with wood-paneled walls painted an elegant dark teal. Music flowed from the orchestra on the balcony. A marula tree stood behind glass, its silk leaves catching light from crystal chandeliers while a python wound around its trunk. Fifteen women of all shapes and forms dressed in gauzy silks waited near round tables. A panther paced in its cage by the wall. Along the walls were several alcoves hidden behind dark velvet curtains. The scent of roasted meat, delicacies, and wine drifted from copper serving trays held by footmen.
Constantine’s gaze fell on Aphrodite, who stood wearing an indigo gown—his color. She was a beautiful woman with dark silky hair and deep eyes.
And yet for the first time in his life, he wished for another woman. Preferably a red-haired woman with green eyes.
“Stay in Pryde Manor for the hunting season, both of you,” he suggested to Eccess and Enveigh as each of them accepted a glass of wine from a footman’s tray. “And by hunting, I do not mean just foxes.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Eccess.
Constantine took a measured sip. “It is time for me to choose a wife. I’d like to call upon the nearby families in the coming months to make acquaintances. I expect that will make it easier to decide on the lady and start courting in the upcoming London Season.”
“We already lost Rath and Luhst,” declared Enveigh. “Not you, too.”
“I’ll start making a list of marriage candidates this week. Will you help me, Archibald?”
Enveigh shuddered. “Forgive me, but Octavius is much more a connoisseur of current debutantes.”
Eccess gave a low rumble of a laugh. “Indeed I am. Looking is an underestimated pleasure.”
Constantine chuckled. “Marvelous. Then we will discuss my options, and you will accompany me on my visits. This will be my last time in Elysium, I hope. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected elsewhere.”
But before he could make his way towards Aphrodite, a footman appeared before him with a letter on a tray.
“Your Grace, this was just delivered for you.”
Constantine blinked. Who would know he was here besides his staff and the dukes? He took the letter and, with a strange sense of trepidation, unfolded it.
London, 27 September, 1814,
To His Grace, the Duke of Pryde
Your Grace,
I have in my possession your late mother’s letter—the one that proves you are not the deceased Duke of Pryde’s son but rather the product of her affair with a common parson.
Constantine stopped reading, struggling to catch a breath. They had his mother’s letter. Ophelia’s mother had stolen it as insurance when she realized Ophelia was carrying the duke’s child. His father had hunted it for years.
Tensing his hands to stop the tremor, he resumed reading.
More importantly, I know that a true heir to the dukedom was born not a week ago. His name is Augustus, and he’s the son of Mrs. Ophelia Lester, who was the natural daughter of the deceased Duke of Pryde.
As per your father’s will, should this information become public, you would lose everything—title, lands, and your spotless reputation. However, for ￡1,000 in bank notes, delivered to the tavern Portside and set under the third table on the left in five days, the letter will remain our secret.
Fail to comply, and I shall forward it to His Royal Highness and the offices of all society papers.
Your Grace’s most humble and obedient servant,
Anonymous
Constantine’s world shook and swayed on its axis. He kept staring at the precise, practiced handwriting, and couldn’t quite understand.
His worst nightmare had arrived.
This was different from Miss Fairchild’s letter. It was specific. All business.
Octavius was looking over Constantine’s shoulder. “What is this?”
“My end,” mumbled Constantine as he felt the paper being taken from his hand.
“What is going on?” asked Enveigh.
“Another blackmail letter,” murmured Eccess as his eyes scanned the writing quickly.
“Another?” Enveigh’s tone became serious.
First Lucien had been blackmailed over a daughter he hadn’t known existed. Then Miss Fairchild had appeared with Augustus. Now this.
Constantine’s mind reeled. He felt sick. “Goddamn it… It must be Miss Fairchild.”
“Nah, not the redhead,” said Octavius. “She believed Augustus was your baby. She thought Ophelia was your lover.” He raised the letter. “This Anonymous knows Ophelia is your father’s illegitimate daughter, and that she gave birth to Augustus.”
Blood chilled in his veins as the memory of Miss Fairchild’s words struck him. She gave me custody of Augustus before she died.
“Oh, God,” he murmured as icy cold realization struck him. “Ophelia is dead…because of me.”
Both of his friends looked at him sharply.
“Not because of you,” said Enveigh. “What do you have to do with her death?”
He remembered the tired pregnant woman with his father’s blue eyes and blond hair, high cheekbones, the straight Roman nose that had been passed on through the Buccleigh line for generations.
All features that he lacked.
Ophelia had been well-dressed, but her clothes were grimy, her hair in disarray. Clearly no maid had touched her for some time.
“She came to me not long ago. I wanted to help her. I should have. I would have given her a house, staff, a monthly allowance. But I required assurances first. In exchange for my aid, I demanded the letter her mama had stolen.”
The letter that Anonymous was now using to blackmail him.
What was wrong with him? Was his pride really more important than a person’s life? He was not a monster. He was supposed to be a gentleman.
Enveigh cleared his throat. “Well, not to rub salt in your wound, but having her near would have been wise. You could have kept her and the baby under your control.”
Constantine hung his head. “And she wouldn’t have died.”
Octavius exhaled, sadness filling his eyes. “You don’t know that. Unfortunately, many women die in childbirth, whether they’re rich or poor.”
“But now Miss Fairchild has the babe,” said Enveigh, “and you’ve lost all influence over the situation.”
“Precisely. All ducal titles are, strictly speaking, gifts of the Crown. I’m certain His Royal Highness would love nothing more than to agree with my father’s will, strip me of everything, and install Augustus as the next duke. All just to spite me.”
“With himself as guardian until the boy comes of age,” Eccess added darkly. “Complete control of the Pryde fortune and influence.”
“Indeed. I need to bring Augustus under my protection to prevent him from becoming a weapon that could be used against me.”
His skin felt itchy and sweaty as he imagined the shame, the weight of the gossip, and the Regent’s satisfied smirk.
“Miss Fairchild…” Constantine said. “She must be involved in some way.”
“She did seem a decent person,” said Eccess reluctantly. “A vicar’s daughter.”
Constantine’s thoughts raced so quickly he couldn’t catch them. “She knew Ophelia. She has the child… The child that threatens everything I am.”
He pushed his hands through his hair. “Blackmore,” he yelled. “My horse! Right away! I’m leaving at once.”
Blackmore frowned as he slowly approached. “Of course, as you wish. Is everything all right?”
“Horse,” Constantine said through gritted teeth. “Now!”
A dangerous glint flashed through the man’s eyes. Blackmore surely didn’t appreciate being barked at. But he was a better man than Constantine, as he let the insult slide and nodded his head. “Right away, Your Grace.”
“What are you doing?” asked Octavius as Blackmore strode swiftly to one of the footmen. “Just stop and think for a moment. You can’t accuse her again.”
He’s right , came a distant thought. But Constantine could barely hear it. All he knew was that the baby was a threat.
He needed to find out if Miss Fairchild was the blackmailer—and take the baby into his custody now .
“It cannot be a coincidence I’m receiving this letter after denying Miss Fairchild’s claim. She didn’t get what she wanted from me, so now she or her accomplices say they have my mother’s letter. That must be her scheme!”
Eccess narrowed his eyes. “Is this even the same handwriting?”
“I do not care.” He strode towards the door. “Miss Fairchild must be dealt with, and quickly.”