Chapter 29
29
The stench of Whitechapel Market assaulted Constantine’s senses. Rotting cabbage trampled underfoot, fish guts gleaming wetly on wooden boards, the metallic tang of blood from the butcher’s stall. A cold drizzle fell, turning the packed earth between stalls to mud. Through the haze, peddlers’ cries echoed off the close-set buildings: “Eels, live eels!” “Fresh mackerel!” “Apples, ha’penny each!”
Constantine’s borrowed laborer’s coat, threadbare wool scratching against his fine linen shirt, did little to ward off the damp. Around him, merchants haggled, people bought salt fish, ribbons, apples. His boots, though deliberately muddied, still marked him as different—they were too fine, too new for this world of desperate commerce.
In All Saints Church, Modesty would be standing alone, no doubt hating him. The image of her face when he’d fled the carriage haunted him. But he pushed the guilt down and forced himself to focus. If this worked, the torment might finally come to an end. He could keep his title.
Keep her.
“Your wife will never forgive you for this,” Dorian muttered beside him, adjusting his worn laborer’s coat.
Lucien gave a soft snort from his other side. “I don’t know that I agree, Dorian. Both of our wives have forgiven far worse offenses. Especially in your case.”
It was a wonder that Blackmore and his men had managed to arrange the setup on such short notice. Constantine had only to step inside Elysium, bark what happened, and Blackmore had sprung into action. Dorian and Lucien had arrived at Elysium shortly after Constantine, both out of breath, having galloped their horses. Then the three of them were given clothing to help them blend in. Blackmore had sent word to the rest of the dukes at All Saints Church.
They would make sure Modesty and Augustus were all right while he hunted the blackmailer.
Constantine’s chest constricted. “She might forgive me. Once she understands I had no choice.”
Three stalls down, he saw five of Blackmore’s men—sharp and strong but blending in surprisingly well. All of them were dressed like regular inhabitants of Whitechapel, wearing worn-out and stained wool jackets, long frock coats, old breeches or trousers of wool or canvas. Dr. Sterling watched from farther down Petticoat Street, where it narrowed into an alleyway, leaning against the corner.
“Thank you both for helping me, by the way,” Constantine said.
Dorian chuckled. “Considering what you’ve done for me, friend, helping you get your blackmailer is nothing.”
“I am grateful to have my daughter, but I can’t wait to look into the eyes of the person who used a blameless child to blackmail me,” Lucien added. “And ask questions—for all of us.”
Constantine nodded. They understood. They knew what it was like to live with sin…and that a day would come when one had to pay for it.
“Is the bag in the barrel?” asked Lucien, casting a sideways glance at the stall across the aisle where people wound through the crowd carrying bundles and pushing carts. Children darted between the adults.
“Yes.”
His palms were sweaty, his heart racing. At any moment, someone would come for that barrel. So far he saw only customers coming and going: a couple of women who looked like kitchen maids, a pie seller looking for cheap fish for his pies, a group of three washerwomen haggling over sprats for dinner, and sailors and mill workers.
“Be ready,” Morgan Nightshade muttered as he passed, balancing an empty porter’s yoke across his shoulders.
Across the way, his twin, Tristan, lounged against his knife-sharpening wheel.
The hair on Constantine’s neck prickled as he darted a glance at the barrel. Casually, Morgan stood at the stall, and then he was blocked from Constantine’s sight by a passerby.
But he could still see the barrel.
The person who came to the barrel was so smooth, Constantine might have missed them entirely. The movement was practiced and subtle, just someone looking at the fish.
But from the corner of his eye, he saw an arm sinking into the barrel.
His throat went dry and sweat broke through his skin.
He tensed to charge. It was a tall man, probably as tall as him. A poor coat with holes and patches covered his large body. A hat was pulled low over his forehead, and a tightly wrapped dirty cravat covered his mouth, concealing most of the man’s face. Only a reddish nose protruded, indicating that he was perhaps a drunk.
“Is that—” began Dorian.
“The blackmailer,” finished Lucien, already shouldering his way towards the big man.
The staged fight erupted right on schedule. “You bloody cheat!” one of Thorne’s men bellowed. “I saw you palm that ace!”
The crowd surged towards the fight, creating the perfect distraction. Through the chaos, Constantine caught glimpses of their target moving down Petticoat Street. He was limping.
He was large, with a belly and broad shoulders. But there was something familiar about those shoulders, the way the neck was set, the angle at which the head was craned. Something nagged at his memory.
But the man was gone in the next moment, brownish coat melting into the crowd.
“He’s heading for the alley,” Lucien cried over his shoulder as he hurried after the blackmailer. “Sterling’s ready.”
Constantine charged after him, boots slipping in fish offal. The twins practically flew through the street, Morgan cutting left while Tristan circled right to flank the blackmailer. But the man snatched up a handful of oyster shells from a nearby stall and flung them underfoot. Morgan went down hard.
“Split up!” Dorian shouted. “Cut him off before the alley!”
Constantine’s heart hammered against his ribs as they separated, weaving through the press of bodies. Rain dripped from the brim of his borrowed cap, running cold down his neck.
The man glanced over his shoulder and sped up. His limp was fading, steps becoming confident and broader in stride. He turned over a barrel of apples, and Dorian cursed as he crashed into it. But Constantine kept his eyes locked on the man, even as his trousers snagged on a nail, even as market women screamed and scattered.
The blackmailer glanced back once more. In that moment, the cravat slipped.
Constantine’s blood turned to ice.
George Lockhart.
Modesty’s childhood friend. The man who’d offered her everything Constantine denied her—adventure, discovery, freedom. Of course it would be him.
He wanted her for himself.
George broke into a full run, and it was clear that the big shoulders and stomach were nothing but rags that now flapped from under his clothes.
“Stop him!” Constantine shouted. He shoved through the crowd, no longer caring about maintaining his disguise. George disappeared down the alley where Sterling waited, then there was a sharp cry and a thud.
Constantine’s chest burned as he ran. Modesty’s face when he’d fled the carriage flashed in his mind—hurt, betrayal, confusion warring in those green eyes he loved. She was waiting for him…
But he couldn’t stop. If he failed now, everything would crumble—his title, his marriage, the fragile happiness he’d found. And yet with every step guilt gnawed deeper. Was he choosing pride over love?
Constantine rounded the corner to see Brace Sterling sprawled in a puddle, blood trickling from his temple. George must have struck him. Beyond, the twins gave chase, but George was already scaling a stack of crates against a warehouse wall.
Dorian, the strongest of them all, followed George while Lucien stopped abruptly by Constantine’s side, breathing hard. Dorian climbed one crate after another, but George was faster. Tristan was close on Dorian’s heels, but as George reached the top of the wall, he kicked the topmost crate, and the whole construction tumbled down with a tremendous crash.
Constantine, Lucien, Morgan, and two more of Thorne’s men darted towards the pile of crates, throwing them aside to get to their friends. Spitting curses, Dorian emerged from under the crates and threw a furious glare up towards the man silhouetted against the gray sky. A few scratches and bruises. Otherwise, Dorian looked fine. Constantine saw Tristan’s coat, and he and Lucien hurried to help him up. He looked a little worse as he spat blood and favored his right leg. Morgan put his arm around him to keep him on his feet.
George watched them in silence, the bag in his hand. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, now free of the cap he must have lost in the chase.
“You were her friend!” Constantine bellowed. “How could you do this to her?”
His face twisted with something like regret—or was it triumph?
“Do this to her? I’m doing this for her!” he called back. “To save her from your pride and your lies. Your secrets will destroy you. I won’t let them destroy her, too. She must have realized what a rotten man she married by now. She should have agreed to come to Egypt with me. I would have given her the life she’s always dreamed of.”
Then George disappeared.
“The other side!” yelled Tristan. “Run! You might still catch him!”
Constantine, Lucien, Dorian, and two of Thorne’s men burst into a sprint. Dorian limped slightly; he must have hit his knee. Seconds later, Constantine reached the other side of the wall.
The maze of Whitechapel’s back alleys was completely empty.
Dorian and Lucien caught up, breathing hard.
Dorian gripped Constantine’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. No one can hide in Whitechapel for long with Thorne’s eyes and ears on the lookout.”
But Constantine barely heard him. His mind was already racing ahead.
“Modesty…” he murmured.
“You need to get to her,” said Lucien, tugging his arm. “She might still be in the church.”
He nodded, moving his feet as if trudging through a swamp. “God, he’ll find a way to get to Modesty,” he murmured. “Tell her everything I was supposed to and never did.”
How much more would George reveal out of some misguided attempt to “save” her?
“His ship is leaving in a few days to Egypt,” he told the others. “We’ll need to keep watch in the port. Contact the captain of the ship.”
The rain fell harder, soaking through his borrowed clothes, but Constantine didn’t feel it. His mind raced. He’d need to stop to make sure Brace Sterling was all right, and then he’d fly like the wind to All Saints Church.
He ran, but he felt the weight of his choices crushing him. He’d abandoned his wife and ward to catch the blackmailer. Instead, he’d discovered the threat was closer than he’d ever imagined.
He had to warn Modesty, tell her George had been plotting against them all along.
But would she even speak to him after he’d left her at the christening alone? And would George now follow through with his threat to publish the letter?