Chapter 8
8
The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones as Constantine approached the modest town house in a quiet corner of London, one of many properties tied to his estate. He stepped out, his polished boots gleaming in the weak autumn sunlight. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and smoke.
“Please give the babe to me,” he said to Mrs. Walcott, who was about to descend from the carriage as well. Augustus was swaddled tightly in white lace and clutched to her chest. “It will be easier for you to climb down.”
Mrs. Walcott’s mouth pressed into a tight line. She had been in complete disagreement with his decision, he knew, from the moment he and Mrs. Higgs entered the nursery early that morning. As two maids had begun packing Augustus’s and Mrs. Walcott’s things, the nurse had continually asked if Modesty was aware they were leaving and if she would come to say goodbye.
He needed to hide Augustus away for the sake of his title. Avoiding a scandal around the marriage and the arrival of a baby in the house was paramount. Any scandal meant attention. Meant questions. And questions meant the Regent might start digging for answers.
For the truth.
“I am not going to eat him,” Constantine said, staring the nurse down.
The most annoying thing was, part of him agreed with her. He should have told Modesty. He should not separate her and the babe at all. Modesty would be furious. Hurt. Worried.
But this was the best thing. He’d return the child as soon as the threat to his title was eliminated.
Mrs. Walcott nodded. “Right then, Your Grace.”
She handed him the bundle. It was the first time he had held Augustus, and he was surprised by how little he weighed. The babe frowned, studying him as though through frosted glass. Constantine’s heart thumped against his chest. Good Lord, what was he doing? Being so afraid of a tiny newborn, innocent and pure. Was this really him—the honorable Duke of Pryde?
Mrs. Walcott descended and stretched her arms out. “If you could, Your Grace?”
“I’ll carry him,” he said, strangely reluctant to release the baby so quickly. “Your arms must be tired.”
She frowned but nodded. “If you wish.”
“I do. And I cannot stress enough that the duchess is not to know Augustus’s location. I appreciate that you owe her your loyalty, but you’re now under my employment. If my desire for secrecy was to be violated, I’m afraid Augustus will need to have a new wet nurse who is more loyal to the man who pays her wages.”
Anger flashed through her eyes. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He nodded, and they all turned towards the house. Two footmen and a maid were unloading things from the back of the carriage.
Constantine climbed the stairs first. The entrance doors were already open. He nodded to the footman who stood ready to greet him. “Good afternoon, Thomas. How is Mr. Hawthorne today?”
Thomas’s weathered face creased with concern. “Not one of his better days, Your Grace. He’s been talking about sending out advertisements searching for tutoring positions all morning.”
Constantine’s heart sank, but he kept his face impassive. “I see. Perhaps he’d like to see this little boy.”
A warm smile lit Thomas’s expression as he craned his neck to look at Augustus. “I’m sure he will. Surely, that would do him good.”
Thomas and the rest of the staff had been notified of the plan with Augustus last night when Constantine had made the decision. And the arrangements were made that morning, before Modesty was awake. The staff had been asked to set up a nursery and hastily purchase any furniture and other supplies required for a newborn and his nurse.
The interior of the house was spotless and warm, a stark contrast to the chill outside. Soft carpets muffled Constantine’s footsteps as he made his way to the sitting room. It was a modest but well-maintained house, one of the buildings his family had owned in London for generations. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with volumes on history, literature, and the classics. Constantine always made sure there were plenty of books for Mr. Hawthorne, whose lifelong passion for learning kept his spirits up.
Mr. Hawthorne sat in an armchair by the window, a woolen blanket draped over his knees. His once-sharp blue eyes were clouded with confusion as he looked up at Constantine’s entrance.
“Ah, young man,” Mr. Hawthorne said, his voice quavering. “Are you here to hire me as a tutor for your child?”
Constantine swallowed the lump in his throat. Mr. Hawthorne was the only friend he’d had as a boy. With his papa resenting him and controlling his every step and his mama anxious for him to be something he could never be—his papa’s natural son—the loneliness he’d felt as a child had been bone-deep. Except when he’d had lessons with his tutor, Mr. Hawthorne.
“No,” he said as he took a seat across from the elderly man. “This is little Augustus, my ward. I’ve come to visit you. How are you feeling?”
Mr. Hawthorne’s gray brows furrowed. “Visit me? I don’t… I’m sorry, I don’t seem to recall who you are, Mr.…”
He never did, not for the past two years. “It’s all right,” Constantine said gently. “We’re old friends. I come to see you every week.”
Mr. Hawthorne nodded, though uncertainty still clouded his features. His face was wrinkled and pale, the light reflecting off his bald head.
As Mr. Hawthorne’s gaze drifted to Augustus, his face brightened. “Is this not the most exceptional young fellow? Just look at the inquisitive light in his eyes! My brother was the same way as a babe.”
“Would you mind if Augustus stayed with you for a while?” he asked. “He’ll have a wet nurse and a maid to keep an eye on him.”
“Do I mind? Not at all.” He stretched out his arms, and Constantine gave him the bundle. “I’ll read to you, Augustus, and tell you stories of Robin Hood, and Red Riding Hood, and Cinderella. You need your curiosity fulfilled. I already see that. We will have the best of times together!”
As Constantine watched the old man coo to the baby, his chest tightened even more. As the babe fussed, turning his head this way and that, his cap shifted to reveal a birthmark behind his ear, visible through his wispy golden hair—a mark in the shape of a wolf’s head. Constantine’s breath caught. A wolf’s head had been on the coat of arms of the dukes of Pryde for generations. How fitting. Here, written upon Augustus’s very flesh, was an undeniable sign of his birthright. Providence itself had marked him as heir to the dukedom.
Constantine tore his gaze away from Augustus. “How have you been, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Very well, indeed.” Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes wrinkled as he smiled. “I expect to receive a good position any day now. It will be wonderful to teach young minds about the mysteries of the world.”
Constantine’s throat clenched as he pressed out a smile. It was heartbreaking to see a man he dearly loved in this state. “Of course you will.”
They spoke a little more, Constantine asking what he had done today, what he had read. And they discussed poetry that had been published forty years ago. As the conversation drifted, Constantine’s mind returned to his wife and Augustus. His gut wrenched in worry. Only yesterday he’d married Modesty and accepted the babe into his home.
Later today, he would pay the exorbitant sum of ￡1,000 to the drinking establishment Portside. It was situated near the docks in Whitechapel and also served as a boxing club with illegal fights. After he paid, the blackmailer should leave him alone.
If he lost his title, his wealth, who would care for Mr. Hawthorne? Who would provide for his new wife, his household staff, the families who depended on his estate? This man, who had been more of a father to him than the duke ever was, would end up in a workhouse. And Modesty—who deserved so much better—would be ruined by association.
“I will leave you, Mr. Hawthorne,” Constantine said, rising to his feet. “I will return to see you and Augustus soon.”
Mr. Hawthorne looked up at him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Of course, Constantine. Do come again. It’s always a pleasure to speak with bright young men.”
As Constantine left the town house, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily upon him. Was he truly protecting others or just disguising his self-preservation as nobility? Perhaps both were true. He climbed into his carriage, his resolve wavering. He would protect those he cared about, yes, but he couldn’t pretend his own survival wasn’t at stake.
How would he look into his wife’s eyes when she learned he’d hidden the child from the world…and from her?
Modesty stood before the ornate gold-framed mirror in her grand bedchamber, feeling like an imposter. The pale blue silk wallpaper still felt alien, as did standing idle while Graves, her lady’s maid, arranged her hair. The chignon was admittedly beautiful, but the hours spent preening could have been better used helping at the women’s almshouse or baking bread for the parish’s sick. Her old muslin dress looked particularly shabby now, contrasted with her carefully styled hair. It was like plaiting silk ribbons into a work horse’s mane.
The new duchess’s wardrobe was folded in drawers in her dressing room—silks and satins, the value of which could support Grace’s almshouse for months. But her world had shifted beneath her feet, and everything felt so strange. Her familiar muslin was like armor. She couldn’t bear to touch those grand gowns, didn’t want to betray the person she was behind her new title.
She could barely sleep last night after the duke had kissed her… The avalanche of sensations he’d caused… He had taken her by surprise, and she’d taken herself by surprise by allowing it, by not stopping him sooner. But it was so strange how right she’d felt in his arms at first. The warmth and pressure on her lips, the way his tongue stroked hers. Her breasts had ached to press against him, and a tingly heat had spread between her thighs.
She’d been so shocked by her own reaction that she had to stop it. If she’d let him go on, she didn’t know what else would have happened between them…
Just remembering the kiss caused similar sensations to course through her now.
Her rational mind had saved her from her treacherous body.
How could she let a man she barely knew into her bed? All her life she’d been taught to be dutiful, to put others first, to accept what came her way with humility. But something about Pryde made her want to fight back, to demand more. Perhaps it was because of Augustus—having someone else to protect had given her the courage to stand up for herself. Or perhaps this fire had always been inside her, tamped down by years of her father’s stern expectations.
“There, Your Grace,” said Madeleine, stepping back to survey her work. “The chignon suits you beautifully.”
Modesty met the young woman’s eyes in the mirror. “Thank you, Madeleine. Though I confess, I’m not used to being still for so long.”
Graves smiled kindly. “You’ll grow accustomed to it, Your Grace. And if I may say, you look every inch a duchess.”
Ready for the day, Modesty walked out of her grand bedchamber to go and see Augustus. The nursery was the first room she’d visited after the wedding guests left. These past two weeks, back at home, she’d fallen into a routine with Augustus. Every morning after breakfast, she’d take him to the garden, singing to him as they walked among the bushes and flower beds. She’d read to him from her books about Roman Britain while he cooed in his cradle, and rock him to sleep herself despite Mrs. Walcott’s protests. Even her papa had remarked on how the baby seemed to know her voice, how he settled instantly in her arms.
When she approached Augustus’s nursery, she froze and frowned… There were no sounds: no baby’s cry, no cooing, no soft tones of Mrs. Walcott humming a lullaby.
Her heart began to race. Was Augustus still asleep? Please let him be asleep.
When she opened the door, the nursery was empty. Augustus’s crib stood bare, the blankets folded neatly at its foot. His toys—the wooden horse from her childhood, the soft rabbit Ophelia had made—all gone.
At first, she thought Mrs. Walcott might have taken him out for a stroll. But his things would have been here, then. The nurse’s bed was also stripped of linens, and there was no sign of her clothes, either.
What in the world? A sharp, icy shiver coursed through her veins as a horrible realization crept into her psyche.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
She ran from the room, not caring about the impropriety of running through the house. After opening almost every door, she finally found Pryde in his study, writing.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is Augustus?”
Pryde looked up, his face a mask of calm. “Good morning, Duchess. I trust you slept well?”
“Where is Augustus?” she repeated, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
He set down his pen, unhurried. The audacity! “I’ve sent him away. It’s for the best, really. Having a baby here, when we’re newly wed, would create quite the scandal. People would assume he was born out of wedlock.”
Modesty’s chest felt constricted, as though bound too tightly. A hot flush surged up her neck, prickling her skin. “You…you sent him away? Without consulting me?”
“It’s better for everyone this way,” Pryde continued, his tone maddeningly cool. “He’ll be raised there, with everything he could need—doting nurses, toys, fresh air. When he’s older, we can reintroduce him as a young cousin or ward.”
“Better for everyone ?” Modesty’s voice rose to a high pitch she didn’t recognize. “Or better for you and your precious reputation? How dare you make such a decision without me! I am his guardian, I promised Ophelia?—”
“You are my wife now,” Pryde interrupted. “And I am the head of this household. It is my duty to make decisions for the good of our family and our standing in society.”
Modesty felt tears of frustration pricking at her eyes. “ Our standing in society? Your standing, more like! Is that all you care about? What about what’s right? What about keeping an innocent baby with the person his mother charged with his safety and well-being?”
Something flickered—doubt? Regret?—across Pryde’s face, but it was gone in an instant.
“He will be well cared for,” Pryde said firmly. “And when the time is right, we will bring him back.”
“When the time is right for you, you mean,” Modesty spat. She turned on her heel, ready to storm out, then paused. “Where exactly did you send him? Which estate?”
Pryde’s jaw tightened. “Why do you wish to know?”
“You cannot separate us. I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d make sure he’s all right.”
“Of course. And he is. Do you think I’d endanger a baby in any way?”
She shrugged. “I do know that for you, many things come before Augustus’s well-being.”
His brows twitched, and for a moment she saw hurt cross his face. She almost wished she hadn’t said it… Almost.
“His nurse is with him,” he said. “The house is fully staffed to care for his needs. You do not have to worry.”
She shook her head. “How can I not worry when you keep me in the dark? Where did you send him?”
He held her gaze, watching her coolly from under thick eyebrows. “I think it’s best if that information remains private for now. To avoid any…impulsive actions.”
Modesty scoffed. “First, you sent Ophelia away when she needed you most, and now you’ve done the same to her child—to your own flesh and blood!”
She saw Pryde flinch at her words, but she was too angry to care. “Why won’t you let me go with him?”
“You are my duchess, or at least the beginning of one. You will train with me to become a true duchess, and I will show you off like a prized diamond all around the city. We must convince the ton of our love match—anything less would create whispers, speculation. Such a scandal would harm not only us but Augustus as well. Society must see us as the perfect duke and duchess, above reproach in every way.”
She turned and fled the room, her mind already forming plans. She would question every servant in the household, from the highest butler to the lowest stable boy. Someone must know something. And if that failed, she’d write to every estate agent in England, checking property records for Pryde holdings.
In the kitchen, she cornered the housekeeper. “Mrs. Higgs, do you know where they’ve taken Augustus? I need to know he’s safe.”
Mrs. Higgs’s kindly face creased with sympathy, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I can’t tell you even if I want to.”
Modesty ran to the butler, Simons, and asked him, but received the same refusal. The maids. Her own lady’s maid. The footmen…
Everyone told her the same thing.
Finally, she retreated to her room, not in defeat but to think. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she pulled out paper and a pen. She would start her letters to those estate agents now and make a list of every Pryde property she could discover, every connection she could utilize. Pryde might have power and wealth on his side, but she had truth and justice on hers.
As her tears subsided, determination took their place. Whatever it took, she would find Augustus and run away with him if she had to.
She would keep her promise to Ophelia, no matter the cost.
But she didn’t have to face this alone. She needed her friends, the only people who’d understand. The only ones she could trust to help her find the baby. Wiping her tears, she left her room and called the butler to ask for the carriage.