Chapter 23
23
“A godfather?” Octavius gave a laugh, startling a flock of sparrows from a nearby oak. “You can’t be serious. My own wards defy me. How would I ever take care of Augustus if the three children I am currently charged with are growing up to be little devils?”
They rode side by side through St. James’s Park, their horses’ hooves crunching on the gravel path of the Mall. Ahead, Carlton House’s imposing facade loomed against the autumn sky, its Corinthian columns casting long shadows across the courtyard. Royal guards in their scarlet uniforms stood at attention, their muskets gleaming, watching the approaching dukes.
Despite the growing danger to his reputation and title, Constantine had kept his word to Modesty and brought Augustus home two days ago. The joy that had filled Pryde House ever since made him feel like he was walking on a cloud. Modesty was happily planning the christening. Since, as a boy, Augustus needed two godfathers, and Constantine was to be one of them, she’d asked him to suggest a suitable second godfather.
He adjusted his grip on Icarus’s reins as the stallion danced sideways, sensing his tension. “But I know when it really comes to it, you will want the best for him.”
Octavius threw him a dark gaze, his usually jovial face hardened. “Like you do?”
The jab made Constantine’s gut churn. He was right. If he truly wanted what was best for the child, wouldn’t he honor his father’s will and allow Augustus to inherit the title and fortune as he should?
“If nothing else, please just stand in that goddamn church and say the words,” Constantine burst out, his voice rough with desperation. “Augustus needs a powerful man who’d protect him. Who’s on good terms with the Crown.”
Octavius was silent for a long while, his gaze fixed on the palace ahead, a deep scowl on his face. Without taking his eyes from the path, he released one hand from his bay’s reins and reached for his ever-present flask, taking a long pull.
“Fine,” he spat out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll be his goddamn godfather.”
The weight lifted from Constantine’s chest. “Thank you.”
Icarus’s reins felt like lead in Constantine’s hands as they reached Carlton House five minutes later. The autumn morning was crisp and clear, perfect for riding, though Constantine’s stomach churned with every clop of hooves against the cobblestones. How had it come to this? Bartering away his pride, desperate to keep the secret he’d guarded his entire life.
They rode through the ceremonial archway into the grand courtyard. Beyond the palace’s imposing Corinthian colonnade, a smaller courtyard led to the Royal Mews—a complex of stables and coach houses that rivaled many noble estates in grandeur. Two grooms in long tailored coats of royal scarlet with stand-up collars emerged to take their mounts.
As the head groom took Icarus’s reins, Constantine’s fingers lingered on the stallion’s neck. He was perfect—the perfect sacrifice. The second groom led Octavius’s gelding away, and their horses’ hooves echoed as they disappeared into the magnificent stable block with its Georgian architecture. But would even Icarus be enough to appease the Regent?
As Constantine and Octavius were shown to the anteroom, the master of ceremonies told him the Regent would see him shortly.However, they sat in the spacious room—with rich silk damask walls of pale gold and light blue, elaborate plasterwork on the ceiling, and many portraits of the royal family in ornate gold frames—for what felt like hours. This was surely a deliberate slight, designed to put Constantine in his place.
A better version of him would have offered Icarus some time ago. But if he was lucky, this would be enough to satisfy the Regent without losing everything…
But “everything” had taken on new meaning since Modesty had entered his life.
His foot tapped against the polished parquet floors that shone in the dim light falling through the large windows. The clock was ticking. He had only nine more days until the blackmailer’s deadline when he would either have to part with a quarter of his yearly income—a sum that could purchase a grand town house in Mayfair or a prosperous estate with tenant farms and hunting grounds.
He’d need to borrow that money. He’d already paid the blackmailer all he had and spent an exuberant amount on the mirror for Modesty. Fortyne would oblige, as well as his ducal friends, but it was humiliating to have to ask them in the first place.
But it was better than watching as his mother’s letter stripped him of his title, his lands, his very identity. Even worse, Augustus would be taken from them, placed under some court-appointed guardian until he came of age. The Regent would ensure Constantine was humiliated, ruined, exposed to all of London as an imposter who’d lived among them. And Modesty… God, Modesty would learn the full extent of his deception in the most public, devastating way possible.
The most blood-chilling thought of all was that he could lose her. Her affection, her trust, the intimacy she’d shared with him.
So he had to do this for her, for himself, and for a foolish belief that perhaps he could keep the happiness of the past few days for the rest of his life.
Only, was it even possible with this secret between them?
Finally, he and Octavius were bidden to enter the Regent’s private audience chamber. At the door, he was announced in a less formal manner than his rank deserved. Yet another subtle slight that put his teeth on edge. Was it to show that the Regent had somehow uncovered proof that Constantine was not the rightful heir?
A shiver went down his spine as he went in.
The Regent was not seated formally as protocol dictated but reclining casually on a chaise longue, surrounded by five of his favorite courtiers. The Regent didn’t even turn his head to them, instead finishing a conversation with one of the ladies.
“This is not like him,” murmured Octavius. “He’d usually jump up and greet me with open arms.”
Finally, the Regent dismissed his courtiers, stood up, and went to the tea table, which was laden with refreshments and drinks. He popped a sugared plum into his mouth.
“So,” he said through the mouthful.
Constantine felt his lips press into a hard line. This intentional disrespect towards him left him with two questions.
Did Regent know for sure?
And had Thorne Blackmore and his team betrayed Constantine?
“My dear duke,” said the Regent, eyeing Constantine coldly. Then his gaze darted to Octavius, and he gave a curt, guilty nod. “Eccess.”
“Your Royal Highness.” Constantine and Octavius bowed.
“I hope we find you well,” added Octavius.
“Oh, I am very well. Forgive me, Eccess, I am very fond of you, but I’m afraid there are matters with Pryde I would like to discuss in private.”
Constantine and Octavius exchanged a long look. Not good. Not good at all. Octavius was supposed to be a jovial intermediary to smooth things over. And now he was being sent away.
“Must I, Your Royal Highness?” asked Octavius with a friendly smile. “I was hoping to have you taste this latest French cognac I got my hands on…” He lifted the wooden box he carried.
The Regent’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “I’d be delighted. Later. Please.”
He gestured to the door. After another moment of hesitation, Octavius put the box on the table, bowed to the Regent, and retreated with a sorry glance at Constantine.
The Regent had just eliminated Constantine’s strongest defender on the chessboard. Now his king was vulnerable.
When they were alone—save the footmen—Constantine’s heart pounded. There were no signs at all this was going to go well.
“Is your dear wife in good health?” asked the Regent slowly. “You should have brought her. Or even better, sent her here alone.”
Constantine felt a jab of fire cut through his body. “The duchess is perfectly fine. I thank you.”
“Marvelous. I suppose the marital bliss is still strong between you two? Does she know of this?”
He lifted a sheaf of carefully written papers from the desk. Constantine recognized it at once. A copy of his father’s will.
Blood drained from his face.
“She does,” he lied. “Of course she does. We have no secrets.”
The Regent’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “And what does she think of it?”
“She does not think anything of it. There’s nothing to think.”
“Oh, I disagree. It would be a great disservice to your deceased papa to dishonor his last wishes.”
“Indeed,” said Constantine, his back growing damp with sweat, anger roiling in his gut. Keep your composure , he told himself. You’ve done it all your life. Just a little longer. “His will has been respected for all these years. There’s nothing there that contradicts the current situation.”
“Isn’t there?”
Constantine’s pulse drummed hard. The man took pleasure in torturing him. Constantine’s own fault, really. All he had to do was to let the Regent win. Let him have a bigger budget, the horse, and the Pictish mirror. He had to put an end to this. It was not too late. But how could he have supported using the people’s money to pay for more elaborate parties and racing debts while children starved in the streets?
The thought was a bit hypocritical, he knew. Constantine himself could have done much more for the poor—like Modesty had before she married him.
“Never mind the will, Your Royal Highness,” said Constantine, gathering his restraint and self-control. “I brought a gift.”
The Regent’s eyebrows rose, and he laid the will back on the table. “Oh? I did not expect that.”
“The Andalusian. Icarus. He is yours. He is awaiting you in your Royal Mews.”
The Regent’s expression shifted. He looked pleased.
Victorious.
“Why, thank you very much, Your Grace. I appreciate the gift. It must have been quite hard for you to part with the stallion. You paid so much for it.”
He inclined his head submissively, hating every moment. But hope took root in his chest. This was helping. Mr. Nightshade, Dorian, and Lucien were right. Icarus was an easy price to pay compared to the alternative.
“Yes, it was, but I wanted to extend this gesture to you as a show of my respect, loyalty, and appreciation for Your Royal Highness. It is time to set aside our disagreements and be at peace. I hope the gift pleases you, now and in the future. I am your loyal servant, just like my father was to the Crown, and all my ancestors before.”
The Regent inclined his head and chuckled. “A grand gesture. One I accept gladly.” He picked up the will again. “I think this can be forgotten.” Constantine’s chest warmed and expanded with relief. Was this all it took to make the threat go away? If the blackmailer publicized his mother’s letter, the scandal would be damaging and unpleasant, yes. But it would be the Crown’s decision what to do with this information. Whether to ignore it and rule that according to “pater est quem nuptiae demonstrant,” he was the rightful heir or to honor the will and start the investigation into who the true blood heir was, causing Constantine to lose everything.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” He bowed. “That would be most welcome.”
“Very well,” said the Regent, slapping himself on the thigh. “And naturally, you will support the Crown’s request for additional funds?” The Regent’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “After all, the royal household’s expenses have only increased since your…passionate speech against the allocation.”
The decision that had started this feud. It would be humiliating—not to mention wrong— to go against his earlier statement. His standing in the House of Lords would be devastated.
His pride was groaning as he bent and twisted his own principles. Who even was he anymore?
“Yes,” he said, his teeth screeching. “You will have my support.”
“And one more thing…another gift I’d like from you,” the Regent said.
Constantine’s windpipe constricted. This was not good. Nor was the mischievous glint in the Regent’s eyes.
“Anything,” Constantine said.
“The final gift…the price…is your wife, Your Grace.”
No. Surely, Constantine hadn’t heard correctly. Surely, the Regent wasn’t so bold as to actually say this to his face.
“I’d like to become the best of friends with the Duchess of Pryde. Make it so, and the will is forever forgotten. Whatever happens, the Crown will always highly favor you and protect you at all costs.”
Constantine couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel the floor under his feet. Somewhere deep within him, a tremor started.
The fire of rage consumed his very being.
Control yourself , commanded the voice of duty and discipline that had governed his every action since childhood. A duke must remain beyond reproach at all times.
A duke does not slight his monarch.
But the voice was too weak now, and the image of Modesty being intimate friends with this man painted his world red.
He supposed that was all it took.
Modesty.
Abandoning thirty years of control and composure, he marched towards the Regent, grabbed him by the lapels, and roared straight into his face: “Never!”
The Regent’s eyes widened, his skin paled, and a pathetic squeal escaped his throat.
“Do not touch her, talk to her, even think of her or, so help me God, you will regret this.”
“Unhand me!” cried the Regent.
Through the fog of rage, Constantine became aware of cries behind his back, and quick, heavy footsteps. Then hands clasped his arms and dragged him away from the Regent.
The guards. Octavius.
Good God, what did he just do?
“What have you done, you fool?” grumbled Octavius in his ear, echoing his own thoughts.
But he had not a shadow of regret. Modesty’s honor couldn’t be threatened—and that was the end of it.
“You,” spat the Regent, his face reddening as he straightened his clothes. “You will be so very sorry about this.” He clasped the will in his hand once again. “I will do everything in my power to find out why the will stipulates what it does. And if I get the slightest chance to leave you with nothing, I will. You have no notion what a grave mistake you have just made. Get him out of here!”
Every word was like a stab into his gut. Victory had been so close.
And now he had made it all even worse.
“Leave at once,” barked the Regent.
“Let’s go, Constantine,” murmured Octavius, tugging him to the door.
Constantine turned around. “Icarus is coming with me.”
Then he let Octavius drag him out.
“You should be happy I’m not calling this treason!” the Regent shouted after him. “Threatening your own Regent! I could throw you into prison and have you hanged for this slight!”
But Constantine didn’t look back.
He knew the Regent could do it, and he’d have a good case against Constantine.
But as he and Eccess marched down the opulent hallways, all he thought about was how he wanted to see Modesty. How he longed to tell her everything.
And then an even more bizarre thought came: Was his title worth the cost of losing her?
Would surrendering to the truth actually be as bad as he’d feared all his life?
But as Icarus was brought to him outside in the courtyard and he looked into the stallion’s eyes, stroked his white coat, his father’s words—repeated countless times throughout his childhood—echoed in his mind. Better no duke at all than one who brings shame to the title.
Without his position he truly would be nothing, just as his father had warned.
The deserving heir. The perfect duke. That was what he had to be. That was the whole point of his existence.
As he and Octavius mounted their horses and walked towards the exit gate, he knew he had to work even harder to find the blackmailer. He’d send word to Mr. Blackmore.
And he had to protect Modesty. The Regent’s sexual appetite was legendary. He didn’t stop at anything; no lady was safe once she caught his eye, regardless of her rank or marriage. He’d destroyed countless reputations, broken up marriages, all for his own amusement. And now Constantine had just revealed Modesty as his greatest vulnerability.
He’d double his efforts to find both the blackmailer and his mother’s damning letter—despite the threats about further consequences. The blackmailer clearly wouldn’t stop until Constantine was destitute. If he didn’t fight, he might as well just give up everything—his title, his holdings, and now, most terrifyingly, Modesty’s safety.