Chapter 13
13
Modesty stared at the household ledger before her. Five days of duchess schooling had passed alone, without Constantine, and she was doing her first task of reviewing the household expenses. Written in her husband’s neat hand were regular expenses for a London town house she’d never heard of. It was in Bloomsbury, on John Street, and included a footman’s wages, a housekeeper’s salary, and weekly deliveries of food and wine.
Her stomach lurched. This was no business property or investment. This was a house maintained for someone’s comfort—someone who required privacy.
She turned her head to look at Mrs. Higgs, who was standing behind her, instructing. “Mrs. Higgs,” she tried to keep her voice steady, “are you familiar with this address?”
The light in the library was dim today with the heavy rain outside, but Modesty could still see discomfort flicker across the housekeeper’s face. “I couldn’t say, Your Grace. His grace isn’t obliged to explain the purpose of his expenses to a housekeeper.”
Of course, the irreproachable Duke of Pryde would ensure such arrangements were handled with utmost discretion. Her throat burned. He told her he’d be in Cambridge, but he could have lied. Was this where he’d been these past five days? In the arms of a woman who didn’t challenge him, who didn’t reject his advances or question his decisions?
She shouldn’t care. She had told him she despised him, after all. He’d shown his true nature when he sent Augustus away, when he’d abandoned Ophelia in her time of need. She should have expected this.
But the ledger’s damning evidence blurred before her eyes, and she realized with a start that she did care. Far more than she should.
While he spent his nights in another woman’s bed, she was longing for him, dreaming of his hands, his mouth, his body, remembering how they’d danced, reliving their kisses.
During the days, she was distracted by her training with the dowager and Lady Buchanan. They were very good company, really, and she had begun to feel as if they were both her fairy godmothers. Especially when they finally acknowledged that she was almost ready for the next grand ton event. Though they’d assured her most of the ton was out of town, so she would have the opportunity to practice on a smaller scale.
But she felt lonely. Without Augustus, without her husband, and without any friends, she’d never felt lonelier.
And now this…
How could one live in such a grand house and yet be so completely miserable?
She slammed down her pen and stood up. “Mrs. Higgs, please have a carriage prepared for me. I should like to go and see my papa.”
As the carriage carried her through the rain to Shepherdsbrook, she closed her eyes, praying to forget the word that made her heart wrench.
Mistress…
That word made her feel so insignificant, so betrayed. For the first time since her wedding day, she felt her wounded pride and wanted to roar.
Although Papa was glad to see her, he seemed to have become accustomed to life without her. Papa and she agreed on Augustus’s christening date. She helped him with correspondence and helped cook some stew and bake bread for the parish poor.
But eventually everything was done, and she returned home like a good wife and a woman who knew her place, though her loneliness had not abated.
To cheer herself up, she sat at the library window and reread the reports on Augustus…until she her vision was blurry from tears. The pain in her heart took over, and she just couldn’t stop crying. Outside, raindrops slowly slid down the glass of the window.
As she stared numbly into the grayness, she saw the duke stride out of the house. He must have returned while she was visiting papa. And now he was leaving again!
As she jumped to her feet, his carriage stopped before him. If she hesitated a second longer, she’d miss him.
The mistress. Either he had just spent time with his mistress, or he was going there now. What other reason could he have for such secrecy?
She hurried out of the library and towards the door.
As she rushed past the butler, Simons cried out, “Your Grace, is anything the matter?”
She ignored him as she opened the door, but she heard his footsteps behind her and more questions. Didn’t she need her bonnet and her spencer? Was there anything wrong? Where was she going?
She didn’t stop.
She had money in her reticule—thank heavens she’d grabbed it—so she ran across the street, rain quickly soaking her gown. She could see the duke’s carriage turning the corner to the right. She waved down a passing hackney.
“Follow that carriage!” she commanded. “I’ll double your fare!”
The driver nodded, and she climbed up, pulling the door closed behind her as they started moving.
She could no longer see the duke’s carriage, and only hoped the man had seen which one she meant. She was shivering from the rush of the chase and the cold, wet October weather.
What would she encounter at the end of this journey? Was she truly ready to meet the other woman face-to-face? What would she say?
All of her instincts begged her to turn around, to return home, to hide and make herself small and agreeable once again.
But she couldn’t sit there alone and in ignorance for another second. She wanted the truth. She wanted him to be faithful to her as his wife. She wanted a true family.
She wanted to roar her pain and her loneliness in his face.
Finally, the hackney stopped. Through the window, she saw the duke’s carriage across the street. She watched him descend, his coat quickly getting wet in the rain, and rush up the stairs of a respectable town house. This was the address she’d seen, where the food had been delivered, and the wages of the footman and a housekeeper were paid.
Her heart beat hard as she looked up the three-story building in the row of similar town houses. There was candlelight flickering through the window; a shadow moved. Her heart was pierced with pain.
Was this where he found love? Warmth? An understanding woman who praised him for his pride and confidence?
Everything she did not. No wonder he looked for happiness elsewhere.
She shivered harder.
She could turn around. Ask the driver to take her back.
But no. Anger roiled in her stomach. Pryde had taken everything away from her. Her freedom. Her purpose. The child she loved.
She was making herself into everything she was not to meet his demands. The least he owed her was loyalty.
Opening the carriage door, Modesty carefully descended the fixed step. The rain immediately assaulted her, drops stinging her cheeks. She fumbled with her reticule, her fingers numb with cold as she withdrew the fare.
Then she crossed the street, her head spinning, her knees wobbling a little, and her stomach quivering with rage. The biting cold gnawed at her whole body through the thin layers of her silk gown and chemise as she climbed wet steps to the front door. Seizing the knocker, she pounded it against the door with all the force her chilled hands could muster.
Moments ticked by slowly. After what felt like an eternity, she heard heavy footsteps from behind the door. Then it swung open to reveal a footman in his fifties, his graying brows arched in mild confusion as he took in her drenched, wind-whipped appearance.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I’m the Duchess of Pryde,” she said. Then she pushed by him into the hallway. “I’m here for my husband.”
Constantine smiled and cooed over Augustus. He didn’t know why his voice sounded so high or why he suddenly wanted to remove every piece of lace from around the baby’s face, bbut he’d missed the little boy for the four days he spent in Cambridgeshire.
He’d missed Modesty even more.
The grate in the living room of Mr. Hawthorne’s house radiated warmth, the glowing coals within crackling faintly. Mr. Hawthorne sat in his favorite chair with a book of fairy tales and read, his voice soothing and calm, taking Constantine back into his own childhood.
Mr. Hawthorne had an excellent voice for reading, just perfect for a tutor. Mrs. Walcott sat in the corner, snoring very softly, lulled by the story, a cup of tea at her side. Rain drummed quietly into the window.
The only one missing was his wife. Each time Augustus made a new sound or expression, Constantine found himself turning to share it with Modesty before remembering she wasn’t there. That was his own fault, he knew, keeping the baby’s location a secret from her. But he wanted to hear her delighted laugh, to see the way her eyes would surely light up at Augustus’s achievements. Every house felt hollow to him now without her presence.
And what a pity she’d been in Shepherdsbrook when he’d arrived home. He’d decided then to make a quick visit to Mr. Hawthorne and Augustus hoping to return before she would be home.
But now he wished he had waited for her, had seen her just for one moment.
Six days ago, they had watched the spot in Whitechapel—Constantine, Enveigh, and four footmen. They’d been instructed to note anyone who lingered near the stall where the money had been left and especially anyone who’d try to grab something from the chest.
But the market had been its usual chaos of bodies and noise. Hundreds of people had passed through, none paying obvious attention to that location.
They couldn’t spot the blackmailer, but the money was gone from the sea chest when Constantine checked it half an hour later.
Though their attempt to catch the blackmailer had failed, his investigation in Ophelia’s hometown of Millbrook had yielded promising results. He’d tracked down a maid who still lived there, one who had served both Ophelia’s mother and later Ophelia herself. At first, she’d refused to speak, but when he’d offered her an astonishing sum of two hundred pounds—twenty times the average yearly wage for a laborer—her resolve had crumbled.
She admitted to knowing about the letter in question, describing it as a prized possession that required careful guarding. It had always been kept in a precious rosewood box inlaid with delicate silver patterns and adorned with small pearls. The box itself was a treasure, given to Ophelia as a wedding gift when she’d married Mr. Lester.
The box, together with every single thing they owned, was repossessed by a firm in London since most of Mr. Lester’s debts were from gaming halls in the city.
Constantine had asked Simons to inquire into the address of the company.
Once he had the address, Constantine would go to their offices and ask for the box. With any luck, they would have the address of whomever had bought it. Then he’d follow the buyer and hope they were the blackmailer.
Augustus made an adorable coo that sounded like “Goooo,” making Constantine’s chest squeeze with some warm and wonderful feeling. He chuckled.
“I know,” he said. “Goooo. What an exciting word.”
He was so glad only Mr. Hawthorne and Augustus heard him speaking high-pitched like that. Mr. Hawthorne probably wouldn’t remember. Neither would Augustus. No one would recall the cold, proud duke cooing like a mother hen.
Distantly, he registered a knock at the front door but paid it no heed. Footsteps sounded from the hallway. That must be Thomas accepting a delivery.
He devised a new game to amuse Augustus, one that involved pressing his lips together and blowing forcefully to create a loud, sputtering sound. The noise made the little boy’s eyes widen and his lips purse with curious concentration. It was embarrassing, truly, how happy such a childish action made Constantine feel.
He barely registered the slight squeak of the door opening and realized all too late that Thomas must have come in, and he would most definitely remember the duke making silly sounds and faces.
“What on earth are you doing?” came a voice that was most certainly not Thomas’s.
He startled, leaping to his feet so abruptly that Augustus let out a squeal of surprise. Constantine turned to face Modesty, his heart lurching.
Her eyes, hard and bright as emeralds, glared at him; her arched eyebrows knit together; her copper hair hung limply from a formerly intricate chignon, tendrils sticking to her face; her cheeks were flushed with anger, her sensual lips in a straight line. The high-waisted red silk gown she wore was wet, too, and clung to her body, drawing his attention to her upper chest, which moved quickly with her ragged breaths.
She was the only woman arresting enough to leave him lost for words.
His wife.
The very person he’d been longing for, more than he’d even allowed himself to admit, stood there. His heart seemed to shift, a knot within it unraveling, softening. The tension that had settled in his chest over the past few days eased, leaving a sense of relief and quiet joy in its place.
Augustus began fussing in his arms, perhaps unhappy about the sudden change. Mrs. Walcott woke up and jumped to her feet.
“Miss Fairchild!” she exclaimed with a huge smile. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace! You’re here, finally!”
Mr. Hawthorne stopped reading and was frowning at Modesty. “Are you here to hire me for your children?” he asked over his spectacles, the book lowered to the blanket on his knees.
Modesty looked at everyone around the room. “Where’s your mistress?”
He was stupefied at the very word coming out of her mouth. Of all reasons for her to be here…it was this?
“My…mistress?” he asked.
“Yes! Mistress. Lover. The woman you’ve been keeping here…” Her face distorted in a grimace of hurt. “Oh, God, please don’t tell me she has been watching over Augustus!”
He belatedly realized she wasn’t wearing a bonnet or a spencer, and that she was shivering.
Still wondering what had possessed her to chase him down here and demand to know about a mistress, he approached her, Augustus snug in his arms.
Looking into her eyes, he held the baby out for her, and she hastily took him. The expression of fury mixed with hurt dissolved into one of pure love and wonder as she cooed at the baby. A stab of guilt in his gut made him wince inwardly. He’d been so cruel to have separated them.
But before he addressed that, and the mistress misunderstanding, he needed to get her warm.
He gently touched her elbow. “Come here, closer to the fireplace,” he said, guiding her to the empty chair next to Mr. Hawthorne. “Would you like some hot tea?”
She settled into the chair, talking to Augustus with the same high-pitched voice he had used.
“Would you please fetch tea for Her Grace?” he asked Mrs. Walcott.
The woman sprang to her feet and poured tea from the teapot into a fresh cup. “Of course, Your Grace. It’s still hot.”
Modesty was still shivering. Deciding to send all propriety to hell, he removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering both her and Augustus. Seeing her shining eyes on the baby made his heart melt.
He sank down to sit on the edge of the sofa next to her chair. “There’s no mistress,” he said gently.
She met his gaze, frowning. It pained him to see the softness with which she’d been looking at Augustus disappear, anger and betrayal filling her eyes.
“Do not lie to me, Duke. Not anymore. I’ve seen the bills you’ve been paying. You should have been more careful.”
“This home is not for a mistress.” He looked at his old tutor, who was still staring at Modesty over his spectacles, his gaze slightly cloudy. “It’s for Mr. Hawthorne, my old tutor.”
Surprise and realization filled her eyes. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time. While Mrs. Walcott brought over the tea and put it on the side table next to her, her gaze drifted to Mr. Hawthorne.
“Thank you, Mrs. Walcott,” said Modesty with a distracted but sweet smile.
“You’re not cross with me?” Mrs. Walcott asked. “For coming with Augustus?”
“On the contrary, I’m pleased you were allowed to come with him.”
Mrs. Walcott looked relieved as she returned to her place by the window.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” said Modesty. “How wonderful to meet you.”
“And you, too,” he replied. “Though I have trouble remembering your name, young lady.”
“Modesty,” she said.
“Modesty. You must be the mother of this little devil.”
Her face changed, a flash of sadness passing through her—grief that resonated in him. “No, but I am as close as I can be to one.”
Constantine leaned closer to her and said softly, “He was my only friend as a child. He’s been living here for years.”
“What are you talking about, sir?” Mr. Hawthorne chuckled. “Your old tutor! I’m only just beginning! I just sent out my advertisement for positions in good homes. I have plenty of excellent recommendations.”
“Is he unwell?” she asked quietly, so only Constantine could hear her.
She wasn’t angry with him anymore, thank heavens. A mistress? She’d come here, furious, through the rain without even stopping to put on a bonnet…
Had she been jealous?
The thought was strangely warming. He hated to cause her any vexation—God knew, he’d caused her enough of that already—but if she was jealous… Did that mean she wanted him for herself?
She didn’t know he’d been hers since the moment he met her. No woman had ever occupied his mind and soul so completely as his wife.
“This entire time, since you took Augustus away, have you been coming to visit him and Mr. Hawthorne?”
“I have. I had to make sure the babe was well while you couldn’t.”
She hugged the boy, inhaling his scent, just as Constantine had done a few times.
“There’s no mistress,” he murmured again, tenderly, and his heart split open in the most wonderful way when her eyes softened and she didn’t look away. “There never was. There never will be.”
Now she’d met Mr. Hawthorne. Caring for the old tutor was his weakness, a connection to his painful past. The tender underbelly he’d spent years hiding. He hadn’t wanted her to see this part of him because it was dangerous for her to know him better.
Dangerous for his heart.
And yet, the gentle look in her eyes—now a moss green—made it all worth it.
Mistress…what a ridiculous notion. Why would he ever want a mistress when he was married to her ?