Chapter 22
22
“Your Grace,” came a voice from the doors.
The laughter that filled Eccess’s red drawing room was still loud, and Constantine’s own stomach quivered with laughter. The biggest, most beautiful grin spread on Modesty’s face after a mildly inappropriate jest Irevrence had made about the hunger of some debutantes for a good match.
The faces of his closest friends and his wife were alight with genuine joy. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to forget everything else. The anxiety over the blackmail, the threat of losing his title and wealth, the danger to his reputation.
He just was. And he was with the woman he loved, with his friends who were like family.
Constantine turned his head to see Octavius walk to his butler. The man held a silver platter in his hand with a letter. While the room was still full of chatter and laughter, Octavius’s face lost all humor when he read the letter. Octavius’s gaze met his, and Constantine’s stomach dropped, all previous lightness sucked out of him as reality crashed over him like a storm.
He stood, noting the five other dukes follow him with their eyes.
Octavius held out the paper for him. “This came from Pryde House for you.”
Constantine took it, forcing his hand to remain still as he registered the blackmailer’s handwriting.
The butler looked at Constantine. “Your footman brought it urgently, Your Grace. Apparently, a street urchin delivered it, and your butler thought you’d want to see it right away. He apologizes for the disturbance.”
Constantine’s windpipe was so tight he couldn’t take another breath. “Quite all right. Simons was right to send it here. Can we go to your study, Octavius?”
“Of course.”
Constantine looked back at his wife and saw concern replace the happiness in Modesty’s eyes. He sent her a gaze full of regret.
Just one flick of his head towards the door was enough, and Rath, Luhst, Enveigh, Irevrence and Fortyne left their places as they apologized to the rest of the company.
In Octavius’s study, when all seven of them had gathered, he unfolded the letter and read aloud.
London, 15 October, 1814,
To His Almost Former Grace,
I trust you enjoyed the society papers for the past two days? Consider that merely a taste of what’s to come if you do not stop your surveillance. How entertaining to watch London speculate about your mother’s “close friendship” with a certain clergyman.
This time, I require ￡5,000 in banknotes, delivered to the fishmonger’s barrel at Whitechapel Market. I understand it may take some time to procure this larger sum, but I am certain it must be possible by noon in twelve days.
Should you fail to comply, your mother’s letter will find its way to His Royal Highness’s breakfast table.
As always, your most humble and obedient servant,
Anonymous
P.S. Do not dare to have your men watch the appointed place again or you will face further consequences than a little gossip.
Constantine’s jaw clenched so tight he felt he might crack his teeth. “Damnation. One of Blackmore’s men said I’d get another letter.”
“Five thousand…” said Fortyne, who stared into space. “You’d have to borrow that kind of money.”
“We have to catch them,” grumbled Octavius, thrusting his fist into the palm of his other hand.
Dorian slowly shook his head then laid his hand on Constantine’s shoulder. His sky blue eyes looked deep into Constantine’s. “Friend, this is serious. Once, you helped me conceal a murder, so you know I’ll do anything for you. Five thousand is a fortune, no doubt. But there are more important things. What if Modesty is pregnant—or will be in a few weeks—and you lose everything? Can you not set your pride aside, go to His Royal Highness, and appease him? If he is on your side, he’d turn a blind eye to even a published letter. In that case, all you’d have to do is withstand the storm of rumors. But your title and your fortune would be yours. And eventually your heir’s.”
Pride. That was the hardest thing to give up.
“Beg him,” added Lucien, who stood next to Dorian. “Get on your knees and beg him. Give him your horse. Give him anything he wants. Just get him on your side.”
Constantine would never kneel for anyone. Not even his prince.
But they were right. A grand gesture was necessary. And Icarus was a small price to pay.
“Goddamn you two,” he said. “Tristan Nightshade advised me the same earlier today. I couldn’t agree to it then. But hearing both of you now… But I’ll give him Icarus and I’ll ask for his forgiveness. I’ll request an audience right away.”