Chapter 16
16
Later that evening, when Lady Virtoux unveiled a bronze mirror, Constantine heard Modesty’s soft gasp.
Lady Virtoux stood on a small dais at the front of the drawing room, slightly elevated above the seated guests. To her left, a long sideboard displayed items yet to be auctioned, carefully arranged under glass domes or on plush velvet cushions, guarded by two attentive footmen.
The bronze disc the size of a lady’s palm caught the candlelight in its dull golden-brown surface. The mirror’s handle was in the shape of intertwined serpents, and it looked to be cast iron. Around the mirror’s edge, a binding with intricate spirals and geometric patterns flowed.
Modesty’s fingers twitched at her sides as though longing to touch it, to examine the spiraling patterns that matched the drawings in her books. She bit her lip, and he knew she was trying to maintain composure. He’d get it for her. Then he’d go and speak to Lady Virtoux about the rosewood box.
The article published in that morning’s paper was a knife in his back. He had no idea why the blackmailer would attack his reputation when he’d paid everything that had been asked. Perhaps it was to make sure Constantine knew they were serious, and a new demand for more money was surely about to come.
With the attention brought on by the gossip about his mother’s indiscretion, it wouldn’t be safe to bring Augustus home as he’d promised Modesty.
He’d need to break his word to her…which was going to kill him.
Although if Lady Virtoux was the blackmailer, his struggles would be over. He wouldn’t leave without his mama’s letter.
Whatever it took.
Then he could bring Augustus home early—today, even—and have the pleasure of watching his wife’s face glow with joy.
Lady Virtoux lifted the mirror in her gloved hands, turning in a circle so everyone could see it clearly. “A rare artifact which was found near Inverness, this bronze mirror shows the distinctive patterns of Pictish craftsmanship. Bidding begins at five pounds.”
The starting bid alone was worth half a footman’s yearly wages. Constantine raised his hand. “Five pounds!”
The Regent’s voice cut through the crowd. “Ten pounds.”
Constantine’s jaw tightened. The Regent knew very well Constantine had led the opposition to increasing his annuity just last month. This wasn’t about the mirror at all.
“Twenty,” Constantine said, his voice carrying across the suddenly hushed drawing room.
The Regent’s lips curved. “Forty.”
Constantine’s fingers dug into his palm. He knew he should yield. The practical choice would be to let the Regent have his victory. But then he caught sight of Modesty from the corner of his eye, watching her struggle to hide her disappointment behind a duchess’s mask, and something in his chest twisted painfully. He’d denied her so much already. He couldn’t bear to see that light die in her eyes—not when he had the power to keep it burning.
“Eighty,” he said.
“Ninety,” the Regent countered.
A ripple went through the crowd. Everyone knew of His Royal Highness’s mounting debts, his struggles with Parliament—and Constantine’s actions against increasing the annuity.
“One hundred pounds,” Constantine said. Modesty turned to him, her eyes wide.
The Regent’s face flushed deeper. “Two hundred.”
Damn his pride, but Constantine couldn’t back down. Not with Modesty watching, not with the Regent’s smug certainty that Constantine would yield. Just as he was expected to yield about Augustus, about his marriage, about everything.
Constantine’s jaw tightened. “Four hundred.”
Just as he said it, part of him wondered if he was being reckless. The blackmailer would surely demand more money soon, and here he was, spending a fortune on pride.
A collective gasp echoed across the room. The Regent’s fingers whitened on his glass of wine. Constantine could practically hear his own future crumbling. But Modesty’s face, the naked hope she couldn’t quite hide, had his heart squeezing with determination.
“Constantine, that is too much!” she whispered. “It’s not worth it. You can put this money to much better use…give it to the almshouse…or anything else.”
She was right. Four hundred pounds could even fund a small excavation somewhere in Britain. Was it really worth it to spend that much on one mirror?
Around them, ladies fanned themselves, whispering behind their hands at each escalating bid. The rustle of silk, the clink of wineglasses, the sparkles of jewels shifting as they turned their heads to watch the battle between duke and Regent.
“Six hundred!” the Regent proclaimed.
Constantine met his gaze, keeping his composure perfect. They both knew the Regent couldn’t go higher without causing a scandal because of his debt. Both knew Constantine had forced this moment. It was exactly what had happened at the bidding for Icarus. The Regent must be finding it unbearable.
“Constantine, don’t,” Modesty whispered. “Truly, I’m thankful, but let him have it.”
He heard her. But he couldn’t let it go. He had to have the mirror. He couldn’t let the Regent win, not like that. It was a matter of pride.
“One thousand pounds.”
Silence fell. Constantine could feel the weight of every eye in the room. It was more than most families saw in a year, more than he’d planned to spend on updating the tenant farms this season. Distantly, he wondered what other sacrifices his pride would demand of him. The bidding had started at five pounds, and here he was, offering a small fortune.
The Regent’s face purpled, but after a long moment, he inclined his head with deadly grace. “Yours, Your Grace. Though I wonder if you’ll find it worth the price.”
The threat wasn’t subtle. But then Modesty’s hand found his arm, trembling with suppressed excitement, and Constantine couldn’t bring himself to regret a single pound.
“One thousand pounds,” said Lady Virtoux, “going once…twice…sold to the Duke of Pryde.”
Modesty dug her fingers into his arm, obviously fighting to maintain composure. But her eyes… God, her eyes were luminous, like emeralds on fire.
As Lady Virtoux’s footman brought the mirror for their inspection, Modesty’s careful duchess mask cracked. She leaned forward, her breath catching as she traced the air just above the bronze surface.
“I know it was much too much, but… Oh, Constantine, look at the spiral patterns here… They are usually carved on objects of importance. And the serpents on the handle… Serpents often represent wisdom or transformation in Celtic art. A regular mirror wouldn’t have such elaborate metalwork. I think it wasn’t just practical—it was symbolic. A woman who carried it could have been seen as powerful in her own right.”
“Fascinating,” Constantine said. He’d pay another thousand just to see that light in her eyes again.
But to his disappointment, she looked around and schooled her features back to demure appreciation.
“No, go on.” He squeezed her hand secretly, unable to stop his smile. “I believe you were about to revolutionize our understanding of ancient Scottish society.”
She looked up at him then, really looked at him, and the naked gratitude and joy in her expression made his chest ache. For a moment, he forgot about the Regent’s threatening glare, forgot about Lady Virtoux possessing the rosewood box, forgot about everything but the way Modesty’s whole being seemed to glow with enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For taking me seriously. For letting me be myself, if only for a moment.”
He’d been a fool to try suppressing this side of her, to try molding her into some perfect, passive duchess. This was who she truly was—brilliant, passionate, alive. Let tomorrow bring what consequences it would. Tonight, he’d given his wife a piece of history to unravel, and her smile was worth any price.
But he couldn’t rest yet. The box awaited and with it, perhaps, answers about the blackmailer. He’d need to tread carefully with Lady Virtoux, approach the subject with more finesse than he’d shown when accusing Modesty. One wrong word could send his carefully constructed world tumbling down.
After the auction finished, Lady Virtoux came to him. “Shall we discuss payment in my study?”
Perfect. He’d ask her about the box right after he settled the payment. “Of course.”
Leaving Modesty under Eccess’s care, he followed Lady Virtoux into her study. It felt too warm, despite the chill October night beyond the windows. At her desk, she produced a ledger bound in leather, the gilded edges catching the light. Constantine dipped the pen she provided into the inkwell, then signed his name with a practiced flourish on the page where she indicated—the official record of the sale.
“I thank you, sir,” she said as she put the ledger away. “Now, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?”
His fingers clenched behind his back. “I understand you recently acquired an interesting piece,” Constantine said carefully. “A rosewood box with silver inlay and pearl work.”
Lady Virtoux’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. “How curious that you’d know of such a specific item.”
“I have an interest in fine craftsmanship.”
“Do you?” Her smile was razor-sharp. “How intriguing. Your mother shared that passion, didn’t she? Though her interests tended more towards…spiritual matters.”
His fingers dug into his palms behind his back. “My mother had many interests.”
“Oh, yes. She was particularly captivated by theological discussions, as I recall. Spent quite a lot of time with that country parson… What was his name?”
Constantine’s throat tightened. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“No? Strange. One would think a son would remember such things. Though perhaps not all sons have reason to remember their mothers’ spiritual advisors.”
The threat in her words was clear as crystal. Constantine fought to keep his voice steady.
“Tell me,” she said, “how is married life treating you? Your new duchess is quite…unconventional. A clergyman’s daughter, isn’t she? How fitting.”
The deliberate emphasis on “clergyman” made his blood run cold. “My marriage is not the topic at hand.”
She leaned forward. “But it’s all so riveting. The hasty wedding, the mysterious woman no one has ever heard of… Is she a suitable match for a duke? And now this stunning display over a Pictish mirror. One might almost think you were trying to make amends for something.”
“If you have something to say, Lady Virtoux, say it plainly.”
“Oh, but where would the fun be in that? Though I must say, your new duchess’s scholarly enthusiasm is quite charming. So passionate about uncovering secrets of humanity. Would she be as overjoyed to uncover hidden truths in family histories?”
The room seemed to close in around him. Was this elegant torture preparation for a blackmail demand? Or was she simply amusing herself with his discomfort?
He was in quite a pickle. He couldn’t plainly accuse her of blackmail, because if she wasn’t the blackmailer, the ton would know everything tonight.
“The box was my mother’s family heirloom,” he lied. “I simply tracked it through the seller and wish to buy it from you. I do not have many happy memories of my childhood. That box is connected to one of them.”
He was falling deeper into his own trap. How could he find out if she was the blackmailer?
He could ask her to write something and compare her writing with that of the letter.
“Oh,” she said, smiling. “I see. I wouldn’t want to keep a cherished childhood memory from you. What was it about, if I may inquire?”
He cleared his throat. “A wonderful day out with my mama. She used to keep her necklaces in the box. My wife wears one of them tonight.”
“Right. I noticed. Your mama’s taste was exquisite.”
“It was.”
She nodded then rummaged in the drawer of her desk and withdrew an ornate rosewood box. His heart beat hard against his chest at the sight.
“A rather unique piece,” she said, setting it before him. “Though perhaps not as valuable as your new Pictish mirror.”
His throat tightened at the sight of the silver inlay, the delicate pearl work—exactly as the maid had described. “May I?”
She gestured permission with a practiced flourish. As he lifted the lid, his heart pounded. There were pens inside. Discreetly, he lifted the false bottom the maid had mentioned and suppressed a curse. The secret compartment was empty, no trace of the letter that could destroy everything.
If Lady Virtoux had found the letter, she would, of course, keep it in a different location. So he still needed to find out if she was the blackmailer.
He nodded and placed the box on the desk. “How much would you like for it?”
“Take it for free, Duke. As my gift and appreciation for your mama.”
“Thank you,” he said tightly. “Might I impose on you for one more favor? Would you write a short note gifting it to my duchess? She’s quite meticulous about documenting her growing collection of antiquities. I’d love to surprise her with both the mirror and this beloved family piece, properly authenticated by such a renowned collector as yourself.”
She chuckled. “Of course. Anything for your new duchess. As long as she doesn’t have her own spiritual friend.”
She began writing while Constantine clenched his jaw hard enough to crush his teeth in an attempt to not say something he’d regret.
Handing him the note with a sly smile, she said, “Do give my regards to your lovely duchess. Such a refreshing addition to our circle.”
Constantine’s hand tightened around the box until his knuckles whitened. “Very kind of you.”
He strode out, his mind racing. The box was empty. He stopped at the candle sconce on the wall and studied her writing. He cursed. Completely different. Her handwriting was round and curly. The blackmailer’s was sharp and long.
He supposed she could have changed it, but what were the chances of that?
The investigation had hit a dead end, despite his friends’ help. And now the ton’s most notorious gossip was circling like a vulture, ready to tear him apart.
The smartest thing he could do was to avoid gossip and questions. Which meant keeping Augustus hidden. The look of hurt and disappointment on Modesty’s face would kill him.
Unless…
There was only one person left who might be able to help—a man who dealt in secrets darker than his own. Thorne Blackmore. The thought of going to him made Constantine’s skin crawl, but he was out of options.