Chapter 27
27
“Constantine, do you have the shawl?” Modesty asked from the darkness of the carriage, little Augustus cradled against her chest and cooing sweetly.
Descending the front steps, Constantine walked to the carriage and handed Modesty the Norwich shawl of rich indigo with hand-embroidered patterns in golden thread. It had been his paternal grandmother’s, and he was proud Augustus would be christened in the family heirloom.
“There you are,” he said as the soft silk left his hand.
Thankfully, Augustus had improved greatly, but he was still congested. Every time the babe gave a chesty cough, Constantine wished he could take the sickness away. He would rather be ill himself than see the child suffer.
But instead, he was taking Augustus’s future away from him.
Modesty barely met his eyes as she took it. The three days since that terrible night when Augustus was so feverish had been spent in tension. That was exactly what he’d feared. His lies, his secrets, would ruin their happiness, wouldn’t they?
He ached to reassure her. All morning, Modesty had been fidgeting, fussing over Augustus, tugging at her gown, checking her appearance in the mirror. She’d been increasingly on edge leading up to the christening, except when he’d held her in his arms at night. Though their hearts grew ever more estranged, their bodies met in the darkness with the desperate urgency of laudanum-seekers, each knowing their medicine was also their undoing.
“You don’t need to fret, Modesty,” he said softly, and she met his gaze this time. “You couldn’t be more perfect.”
For the first time since that night, the softness he craved warmed her eyes. Her copper hair was done in fashionable curly tendrils under her bonnet, framing her pretty face. And she wore a silk indigo gown and pelisse, silently announcing to the world that she was his. Just the thought had him growing stiff in his breeches.
“Thank you, Constantine,” she replied, and the increasing blush on her cheeks hardened his member further.
That was how she was in his arms, in their bed, when he took her to her next peak. Flushed. Those pretty lips swollen. Eyes dark and glistening.
“I am so glad you’ll be his godfather,” she said. “You know how important it is for me to have him properly christened publicly without shame. I just wish you?—”
He swallowed. “What?”
She looked over at Mrs. Walcott, then leaned closer to him. “I wish you could tell me everything. We’re husband and wife. I’m yours, aren’t I?”
His mind reeled. “You are.” He reached out and brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and she leaned into his touch like a kitten. “I wish I could, darling. You just need to wait a little longer.”
He needed only one more day to remove the biggest danger. Tomorrow the payment of ￡5,000 was due, and with Blackmore’s help, he’d finally get the blackmailer.
Thorne had informed him that a washer woman had sent the last messenger. She’d said the man who’d hired her was wearing a top hat so low she couldn’t see his face, and since he’d paid her handsomely, she didn’t ask any questions. Blackmore assured him the trap would be set tomorrow at noon, when the false money was supposed to be dropped into the fishmonger’s barrel.
“Tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
She searched his face and nodded. “Very well. Now come, we should go to Shepherdsbrook. We must be on time for the meeting with my father.”
Right. The meeting with the vicar to go over the responsibilities of the godparents and raising the child with the church’s values.
He put one leg on the carriage step, his heart lighter with the resumed connection between them. “Of course. I can’t wait.”
“Are you His Grace, the Duke of Pryde?” asked a boyish voice.
With a prickly sensation at the back of his neck, Constantine turned. A boy of about ten, with a dirty face and threadbare clothes, stood in front of him with a folded paper.
A dark premonition sank like a stone in Constantine’s gut.
He stepped down onto the pavement. “That is me.”
The boy shoved the paper into his hand and darted down the street.
“Get him!” he yelled to the footman who stood by the carriage.
Constantine started after the boy, his legs pumping. The footman, Davidson, ran by his side down the paved road. They followed him down to the next crossing, then the one after.
But the urchin was too fast. At the second crossing, he turned sharply to the right and then again right into an alley. But when Constantine and Davidson turned there, it was empty. Constantine called for the boy, saying he only had a few questions about who gave him the note, but there was no one.
He cursed, breathing hard, dreading to open the note.
But he had to.
He unfolded the paper.
Sir,
I regret to inform you that your time is at an end. Circumstances compel me to alter our arrangement; the date is now advanced to this very day. You have but one hour to deliver the money to the specified location or prepare to lose all. Your mother’s letter lies ready to be dispatched.
Anonymous
It was written in a rush, without the usual formalities. Constantine’s fingers trembled, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure the whole street could hear it. The world around him faded, leaving only the stark reality of the words on the paper. In one hour—the same time as the meeting with Modesty’s father.
There was his choice.
Go with Modesty and risk everything: his position, his title, his fortune, and perhaps even her good regard and custody of Augustus.
Or finally get the blackmailer and save his title, his fortune… And his pride.
He needed to choose Modesty, he thought as he walked back to the carriage. There were other ways to deal with this, weren’t there? He could send the note to Blackmore, urging him to set the trap immediately.
But they may not be able to arrange things in time.
“Constantine?” Modesty’s voice cut through his haze. “What is it? Who was that boy?”
He looked up, meeting her eyes. He had reached the carriage without realizing. The sight of her, so beautiful, rocking little Augustus in her arms, made his heart constrict painfully. How could he choose between them and everything he’d striven so hard to preserve?
“It’s…” he began, his voice catching. “It’s nothing. Just a message about some business matters.”
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. His mind raced, weighing his options. If he went to the christening, he’d be there for Modesty and Augustus, supporting them as he’d promised. He’d see the fruits of Modesty’s hard work, watch her shine as the duchess she was becoming. But the letter…if it was published, everything would come crashing down. His very identity would be stripped away.
On the other hand, if he caught the blackmailer, he might finally end this nightmare. He could secure his future, protect his family from scandal and ruin. But at what cost? Missing this crucial moment, breaking Modesty’s trust, letting down the little boy he’d come to love?
“We must go,” she said. “Please. We don’t want to be late.”
“Of course.”
Climbing into the carriage felt like moving through molasses. He settled beside Modesty, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace.
“Is anything amiss?” she asked.
Constantine looked down at Augustus. The baby cooed happily, oblivious to the turmoil raging within his guardian. Those innocent eyes, that sweet face—how could he risk losing this?
But then the weight of generations of Buccleigh pride pressed down on him, judging, demanding that he protect the family name at all costs.
His mother’s voice echoed in his mind: Beyond reproach. You must be beyond reproach.
The carriage lurched forward, and with it, Constantine felt his resolve crumble. He couldn’t do it.
He was too proud to give it all up while he could still fight.
“Stop the carriage!” he called out, his voice cracking.
Modesty startled beside him. “What’s wrong?”
Constantine turned to her, his heart breaking at the confusion and worry in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Modesty. There’s an urgent matter I must attend to. It can’t wait.”
Modesty’s eyes widened. “But the christening!”
“I know, I know,” Constantine said, the words tumbling out in a rush. The meeting with her father would take some time, then the christening itself… He might make it. “I’ll be there, I promise. I just need to take care of this first. I’ll meet you at the church.”
Before Modesty could protest further, Constantine was out of the carriage, ordering the driver to take his wife and Augustus to All Saints. As he watched the carriage pull away, Modesty’s hurt and bewildered face burned into his memory, and Constantine felt a piece of his heart shatter.
He ran around the house and into the mews, crying for the grooms to prepare Icarus right away. Then he barked instructions for two grooms to gallop to the houses of Dorian and Lucien and ask them to meet him in Elysium. They were all probably getting dressed, soon to leave for Shepherdsbrook for the christening.
Eccess would be needed as the second godfather. And it would be good to have the other three present in the church to help with anything Modesty required.
He ran back through the servants’ door and to his study to collect the bag that held stacks of paper cut to the size of pound notes. It was already prepared for tomorrow, thank God. As he picked up the leather bag, he was still trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing. He was protecting Modesty and Augustus, wasn’t he? Securing their future?
But as Icarus flew through London’s streets, all Constantine could see was Modesty’s face, all he could hear was Augustus’s soft coos. And as he felt the distance between them growing with every hoofbeat, he wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
And if his pride was going to be his downfall once again.
This time, forever.