Chapter 11
11
“You summoned us—here we are,” said Eccess as the six dukes walked into Constantine’s study three days later.
Sitting at his grand mahogany desk, Constantine looked up, the letter gripped too tightly in his hands. No matter how certain he was that he could solve any problem on his own, seeing his friends arrive on short notice lifted some weight off his shoulders.
He stood up from his armchair as Rath, Luhst, Eccess, Enveigh, Irevrence, and Fortyne spilled through the room.Autumn twilight poured through the large window framed with heavy curtains in Pryde indigo. The room smelled pleasantly of wood polish and books.
Dorian took a seat at the settee placed between two floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases full of leather-bound volumes. Above him, the large dark oil portrait of one of the previous Dukes of Pryde glared at Constantine, skillfully rendered eyes full of judgment.
Dorian’s gaze was on the letter in Constantine’s hands. “What happened?”
Constantine started pacing about, a thick rug with a blue floral pattern softening his steps. “I paid the required sum not three days ago,” he said. “However…”He raised his hand with the letter higher. “This arrived this morning.”
Enveigh took the letter from Constantine’s hands. “Let me see.” He began to read aloud:
London, 5 October, 1814
To His Grace, the Duke of Pryde,
I trust my letter finds you well, though I suspect it may disrupt your newfound marital bliss. You have taken the first step to secure your position, but I’m afraid your troubles are far from over.
The sum of ￡1,000 was merely a test of your willingness to protect your secret. Now I require ￡2,000 to be delivered in bank notes to the ragman’s old sea chest filled with discarded rags at Whitechapel Market by noon tomorrow. This sum reflects naught but a fraction of what you stand to lose.
How much is your pride truly worth?
I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
Anonymous
Fortyne leaned next to the fireplace, staring pensively into the amber liquid he’d poured into a crystal glass. “Two thousand pounds… Only one tenth of your yearly income, but an exuberant sum for most.”
Indeed, as a rural vicar of a small parish, Mr. Fairchild’s income was only fifty pounds per year. It would take a lifetime for him to earn ￡2,000 with honest work. Constantine’s jaw clenched. “And I’m not certain this Anonymous will stop if I pay.”
Dorian rose to his feet and strode over to glare at the letter. “He intends to ruin you.”
Eccess slammed his hand on the desk, making ink jars clunk against each other. “All of us. One by one. Lucien was first. Now you. Who will be next?”
“We all have secrets,” said Fortyne quietly.
“Allow me to be the voice of reason once again,” said Irevrence as he sank onto the settee Dorian had abandoned, sprawling out like a Roman emperor at a feast. “Though I notice no one ever thanks me for it. There’s no evidence Anonymous knows all our secrets. We can’t just assume that.”
“So you suggest doing nothing?” demanded Constantine.
Enveigh snorted. “Of course he suggests doing nothing. Hiding himself from the world, from life, denying everything, lest he discover some emotion and get hurt in the process.”
Anger flashed in Irevrence’s soft blue eyes for a moment, then he turned away and lazily emptied the contents of his glass down his throat. “At least I don’t think my lot in life is insufficient, while my peers have everything better. And I do not suggest inactivity. I suggest considering this carefully and not jumping to conclusions that might jeopardize everyone in the group.”
Lucien cocked his head. “Whether they’re a threat to all of us or not, it is very clear that we do need to find this person. I am proof that doing nothing is pure foolishness, though I am grateful to have my daughter in my life.”
“Let’s devise a plan.” Fortyne walked over and sat behind Constantine’s desk. He dipped the pen into ink and poised it above a piece of paper. “My investigators could learn nothing about Lucien’s blackmailer. Whoever this is, they’re very clever and practiced as they leave no clues behind. It’s entirely possible you and Luhst aren’t the blackmailer’s first victims, that other members of the ton may also have paid thousands to keep their secrets hidden.”
Dorian licked his lips. “We will speak to the clothes broker and watch his stall, though I doubt this will lead anywhere. It would be too obvious if the blackmailer turned out to be the merchant himself. But perhaps we may learn something.”
Constantine exhaled slowly. “I wish to do it myself.”
Enveigh frowned. “Did you not tell me you forbade your new wife from going to Whitechapel? And you yourself are going there?”
The mention of his wife sent hot awareness rushing through his body. He ached to hold her close again, to kiss her, to finally bed her. Despite Modesty going to see her friends in Whitechapel, he couldn’t find a single flaw in her.
During the past three days, she had done his bidding—she’d gone to the modiste, spent time with Mrs. Higgs to learn how to run the household, and dined with him, learning the art of conversation. She took everything in with no word of complaint. But the light that he’d once seen in her eyes was dimmed, and he found himself trying—quite awkwardly—to cheer her up. He made sure she received daily reports of Augustus’s health, which were written by Thomas, the footman who had looked after Mr. Hawthorne for years. He wouldn’t betray Constantine by adding an address or a hint of how to find them.
Even worse, he found himself thinking of her, wondering what she was doing. Last night, he’d stared at the door separating their bedchambers so hard, his control had snapped once again, and he’d knocked. When no reply had come, he’d opened it to see his duchess asleep in a pool of moonlight. He’d longed to curl his body around her sleeping figure, but instead he’d returned to his bedchamber, feeling lonelier than he had in his entire life.
“A man is a very different thing from a woman,” he said to the dukes. “I used to frequent Elysium in Whitechapel—just like you did and still do. But, given our hasty marriage and the blackmail, my duchess must not draw criticism or arouse suspicion of anything untoward.”
“Very well. Interviewing the merchant,” said Fortyne, who began scribbling. “What else?”
Eccess focused bleary eyes on Constantine. “How could the blackmailer have found your mama’s incriminating letter in the first place? Could any servants know something?”
“Good thinking,” Constantine said. “My father always ensured he knew the location of Ophelia’s mother and later Ophelia, so I have their former addresses. If we track down the servants, we may find the blackmailer, or someone who knows something.”
Fortyne continued writing. “Very good.”
Constantine unfolded the map of England across his desk and put his finger at a location near Cambridge. “I’ll go to Millbrook myself. It’s a village ten miles north of Cambridge.”
Fortyne wrote it down. “It’s a little far-fetched, perhaps, but worth looking into.Wouldn’t you rather send someone?”
“The fewer people who know about it the better.”
“Allow me to come with you, then,” said Eccess.
Irevrence chuckled, whirling his drink around. “What about your wards? Shouldn’t you be trying to find yet another governess for them?”
Eccess threw him a deadly glare. “Believe me, they prefer I’m not there. All four of us do. And the governess…the advertisement is always running in the papers. The governess-hiring business has become my housekeeper’s most important occupation.”
“Very well, thanks for offering to come with me,” said Constantine.
Fortyne looked up. “Anything else?”
The dukes all looked at each other.
Constantine folded the map back. “This is a good beginning. Tomorrow around noon, I’m going to wear a disguise and watch the blackmailer pick up the money at the merchant’s stall. Perhaps one of you could do the same. A few footmen will accompany me to give chase if the culprit is spotted.”
“I’ll help,” said Eccess.
Enveigh shook his head. “It’s quite difficult to disguise you, Octavius. There aren’t many men in England of your height and build.”
“I could hunch,” Eccess offered.
“Yes, because a hunched giant is so much less conspicuous than an upright one,” Enveigh drawled. “I’ll do it, Constantine.”
Eccess rolled his eyes and drank. “Suit yourself.”
As they talked through the details of organization, a cold certainty settled in Constantine’s gut. This wouldn’t be the end. The blackmailer had tasted blood, and they would keep coming, demanding more, until Constantine had nothing left to give.
Unless he caught them first.
The very idea of prowling Whitechapel’s dangerous streets in disguise should have been an affront to his ducal dignity. Instead, he felt a grim satisfaction. For once, he would be the hunter rather than the hunted.
And God help whoever had dared threaten not just his position but his chance at real happiness with Modesty.