Chapter 20

20

“Forgive me, but this is out of the question,” said Thorne Blackmore, leaning back in his chair the next day, his eyes as dark and bottomless as wells.

Constantine’s jaw tightened. He checked his pocket watch again. He needed to return home for Modesty, then continue on to Eccess’s Mayfair house—Dulcis Court—where all six of his fellow dukes would be waiting. The annual autumn dinner party was not an event to be late to, especially when the other dukes had been so supportive of his marriage.He had anticipated his business with Blackmore would be accepted quickly, but there was clearly something going on that he didn’t understand.

There were three more men in the study besides Mr. Blackmore. Blackmore’s associate and good friend, Mr. Brace Sterling, who leaned back against the desk, his fingers curling tightly around the edge, his piercing eyes on Constantine. He was muscular and ruggedly handsome, with blond hair tied back in a short tail. This was the unofficial doctor of Whitechapel who had secretly permitted Chastity to conduct medical research in his clinic.

Two more men were present—twins, both with wavy chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes. Tristan Nightshade always dressed in pale clothing and had a mischievous smile that softened his chiseled features. He sat on a red velvet sofa, his feet propped on the coffee table. Morgan Nightshade wore a dispassionate expression as he paced the room slowly. His arms were crossed over his black waistcoat, his hands tucked under his armpits, except when he’d stop to correct the position of an object: the marble bust on the mantel, books on the shelves.

The sounds from Elysium’s main salon were almost impossible to hear from here, separated by a labyrinth of hallways. It was early yet at six o’clock in the evening, but there were quite a few clients gathered there already—drinking, laughing, gambling, watching women dance—and a small orchestra playing music.The crackling fireplace in Thorne’s study burned real wood instead of coal, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in Constantine’s stomach.

“Mr. Blackmore, I hope you understand how much trust I’ve already put in you by asking for your help. No one knows.”

Thorne’s dark eyebrows rose while the rest of his angular face remained impassive. It was rare that someone of a lower social standing defied Constantine so openly and so coldly. The natural child of a baron, Mr. Blackmore mattered little in the ton.

But here in Whitechapel—in the world of forbidden pleasures, secret whispers, and criminal deals done in plain sight—he was the king. And he looked like one, leaning back in a large leather armchair, as calm and deadly as a python.

Tristan Nightshade rolled a coin across his knuckles, then flipped it high into the air with a flick of his thumb and caught it without looking, his amused hazel gaze on Constantine. “We already know more than you think.”

Blackmore exchanged a look with his three companions. Constantine thought they might share the kind of intense friendship or brotherhood he and his six dukes had, and he wondered how it had started.

“His Royal Highness asked me to start an investigation into your true heritage.” Blackmore picked up an ivory pen and tapped it against his desk.

The Regent’s growing animosity was no secret, but to actually commission an investigation…

It was Constantine’s own fault. If only he’d not indulged his pride at the antiquarian auction…

“Did he now?” he said, marveling at how calm his voice sounded while inside, his world was turning upside down.

“It seems your papa’s will stipulates that should his true male blood heir appear, the title would fall to him. I suppose it’s a curious clause. Highly unusual. It raises many questions, does it not?”

Constantine stared into the dark, glistening eyes, feeling like prey about to be consumed. “I suppose it does,” he replied. He needed to collect himself and to get what he’d come for. “Mr. Blackmore, I’ve been a loyal and generous client for years. All my friends have been, as well.”

Thorne gave a polite nod, knotting his fingers together on his flat stomach. “The Seven Dukes have been my very best clients.”

“Can you help me, then?”

“It’s a simple conflict of interest,” said Morgan, standing as straight as a column. “You must see that.”

Tristan rubbed the edge of his coin thoughtfully. “We wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle of a manhood-measuring contest between His Royal Highness and yourself. We lost you as a client when you married. We still have His Royal Highness.”

Constantine’s jaw worked. “Did you agree to help him? To investigate me?”

Thorne nodded slowly. “We did.”

“I will give you whatever you wish if you work for me instead and feed him some false information.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps that could be arranged. I do not need money, as you know.”

“What, then?” asked Constantine. “Anything. Name your price.”

“There’s a bill being proposed by Lord Saville in the House of Lords.The Licensing and Entertainment Venues Act. It imposes stricter licensing requirements, particularly on those operating late at night. If it passes next year, it would greatly affect my operations. I want it stopped.”

Constantine swallowed. The bill had as good as passed already. Stopping it would require significant political capital from him—which he had, thanks to his reputation as a man of honor from a highly respected family. Something that would be completely wiped out if the scandal of his true heritage emerged.

“Consider it done,” said Constantine.

The four men exchanged careful glances.

“How can I be certain you do work for me and not for His Royal Highness?” Constantine asked. “That you won’t share the secrets you uncover with him? The Regent is a more powerful ally than a duke.”

Thorne leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “Secrets and trust are more valuable than gold, Your Grace. You of all people must know that.”

Constantine had the feeling he was making a deal with the devil.

“One day, I might need another favor,” Blackmore continued. “As people who trust each other, I am sure you would grant it to me. Would you not?”

Constantine nodded slowly. “Of course.”

Throwing one last glance at his friends, Thorne nodded in satisfaction, stood, and walked around his desk to approach the sideboard with the whisky and the glasses. He poured five and handed one to Constantine and one to Tristan while Brace and Morgan took their own glasses.

Thorne raised his glass, looking straight into Constantine’s eyes. “Nothing like a good Lagavulin whisky to seal the deal. To secrets—uncovering them and keeping them.”

The liquid burned Constantine’s throat.

Tristan stood up, empty glass in his hand. “Another drink? My sobriety was beginning to impair my judgment.”

Brace poured some for him. “Of course. We need you sharp for the best sneaking ideas and evil machinations.”

Tristan took the glass and plunked back down onto the sofa. He swallowed a generous sip with a satisfied exhale.

“Now that I’m sharp”—he lifted his glass to Brace in a mock salute—“allow me to fountain some genius ideas upon you.”

His brother’s eyebrows rose. “More like spew random nonsense, as usual.”

Tristan’s gaze lightened with humor. “Brother, tell me, does that stick up your arse ever get uncomfortable?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “At least I can stand upright.”

Enough , Constantine wanted to roar, but he couldn’t. He had to be polite and perfect. His hand curled into a fist at his side. “Please, Mr. Nightshade, do elaborate.”

Tristan’s gaze turned slowly to him, and he flashed a bright smile, then took another drink, hissing through his teeth. “Here’s a novel idea that might just save your oh-so-noble arse. Why don’t you toddle off to old Prinny, fall on your knees, and offer him your firstborn child? Oh, wait, that Andalusian you snatched from under his royal nose might do the trick instead. Nothing says ‘please don’t strip me of my ill-gotten title’ quite like a prancing pony everyone wants, eh?”

A surge of anger clawed through Constantine. Him, begging forgiveness when he’d done nothing wrong? And giving the Regent such a treasure as the stallion when he’d envisioned starting a whole new line of pure Andalusians?

“Out of the question. That horse is mine.”

Tristan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Morgan meticulously adjusted the angle of a brass clock on the mantelpiece, ensuring it sat precisely parallel to the edge. “Your father’s will practically shouts your secret… Why mention a blood heir otherwise?”

Constantine’s hand tightened around the edge of the desk. “But it doesn’t prove I’m not the blood heir.”

Brace Sterling smiled at him sadly. “We might not know all of the circumstances of your situation, but bastards know bastards, Your Grace. It’s evident you were attempting to gain control over the situation with your hasty marriage. And your decision to hide the babe that came with your new wife. Yes, we know about that. Miss Grace Lockhart asked me to look at Mrs. Ophelia Lester when she came to the almshouse. I always make my rounds there and pay special attention to the pregnant women. I also know that later, Mr. Fairchild and Miss Fairchild took her in. She died in childbirth. Miss Fairchild married you, and the baby—which obviously couldn’t be hers because of the timeline—came with.”

Mr. Blackmore observed everyone with a quiet calm while Constantine’s world was crashing to bits. If these people could reach conclusions so fast, how fragile was his situation? And what had they told the Regent?

Constantine pinched the bridge of his nose. Whitechapel was a network of whispers, rumors, and dark corners where anyone could fish out secrets. It was a different world.

“The babe,” said Morgan, “we assume, is Mrs. Ophelia Lester’s. What we do not know for certain, but can deduce from your actions, is that the boy is your father’s heir.”

Constantine felt as if the floor had become very thin and very flexible and was now rising in waves under his feet. He weighed his options. These men already knew too much, and without understanding the full complexity of his situation, they might miss crucial leads. Better to have dangerous allies than powerful enemies.

He let out a long breath. “He is. Ophelia was my father’s illegitimate daughter, though she was born to a marriage of her mother to Mr. Copeland.”

Tristan chuckled. “The plot thickens.”

“A legal father for the child,” Morgan said, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms. “The Regent’s investigation of the will won’t overturn that. Roman law is clear. Pater est quem nuptiae demonstrant —the husband is presumed the father. So what evidence does this blackmailer have that could possibly threaten you?”

“They have my mother’s letter. She wrote explicitly about her…indiscretion with a clergyman. About my birth.”

Tristan clapped his hands together, grinning widely. “A duke, a parson, and an illicit affair walk into an inn… Oh, wait, that’s not a jest, that’s your life.”

Constantine’s fists tightened, his lips flattening into a straight line. “I need your help finding the blackmailer and retrieving the letter that they threaten me with. Here, I have the two letters the blackmailer sent.”

As Morgan took the letters and read them, Blackmore’s eyes were sharp on him. “I understand the seriousness of the situation now. Given His Royal Highness’s dislike of you, he would be inclined to rule in favor of your father’s will, declaring you the result of adulterine bastardy and appointing the boy the title out of spite, even if royals usually want to maintain stability in society. Am I correct?”

Constantine’s teeth clenched. “You are.”

Tristan swirled his whisky, then gestured at Constantine with the glass. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fellow member of the Bastard Brigade. Only this one’s managed to snag himself a shiny little title. I say we help our noble impostor here keep his ill-gotten gains. After all, what’s the point of being born on the wrong side of the sheets if we can’t occasionally give society’s precious rules a good, hard kick in the breeches?”

“I do not care for titles,” said Mr. Blackmore. “Those who know me would say my sister is my one weakness. You are a friend of the family, and she and Lord Seaton were at your wedding. She’d want me to help you. Especially since you will help me to stop the bill.”

Constantine remembered how Lord Seaton and Jane had attended his wedding, a gesture of support from Blackmore’s family that felt particularly weighted now. He knew them through the Duke of Grandhampton and the rest of the Seaton family. When he’d heard of Jane’s efforts in starting a school for the children of Whitechapel last year, he’d donated enough money to renovate the new school building. Knowing how fortunate he’d been to receive a good education, he wanted every child to have the same opportunity no matter their station.

“Thank you.”

As Morgan passed the letters to Thorne, he asked, “What has been done to find the blackmailer so far?”

Constantine told them everything they had discovered and the trail had led to a dead end. He finished by saying that even though he’d paid the second sum, the blackmailer had started a damaging rumor about his mother’s infidelity, which had been published in the scandal sheets.

“So far, just the rumor,” Constantine added grimly. “Publishing her actual letter would be something else entirely.”

Tristan tapped his chin with his finger. “Those letters were delivered by street urchins, weren’t they?”

“They were,” said Constantine. “The dukes and I considered following that thread, but it’s impossible to find the right child.”

Blackmore’s dark eyes glinted. “Impossible for you. Street urchins flock in every corner of Whitechapel. From the highest rooftops to the lowest cellars, they see everything. One word from me, and they’ll find which child delivered those messages.”

Constantine’s chest lightened with hope. He was right. It was impossible for the dukes to find the child, but not for Mr. Blackmore, the king of London’s underworld.

“Assuming it was just one,” Morgan noted, producing his notebook. “A clever blackmailer would use different children each time. Make the trail harder to follow.”

“And street children know every alley and hideaway in Whitechapel,” Thorne added, his lips curving slightly. “They’re impossible to catch—unless you know where they nest. And my starlings always come home to roost.”

Morgan made another entry in his notebook. “I’m willing to bet you will soon receive a new blackmail letter. The published gossip was a sign the blackmailer was serious. They’re preparing you for yet another demand.”

Tristan lifted his glass to his brother again. “For once, I agree with my mechanical twin. And may I suggest that we deliver the money this time—false, of course—and do what you should have done when you first had to pay. Catch the bastard—no offense to present company intended.”

Blackmore’s eyes shone with mirth as he looked at Constantine. “As you see, Duke, you’re in good hands.”

Half an hour later, Constantine walked out of Elysium with turmoil roaring in his chest. He might just have bought his own freedom.

But he’d sold his most precious secret to the devil.

And added his honor like a cherry on top.

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