Chapter 32
32
Constantine sat on the floor of the empty ballroom, his back against the wall. He held the decanter of cognac, Eccess’s gift, in his hand, which rested on his knee. There were three more wine bottles discarded on the floor, glass shining in the dim light.
It was late…or early…
He was not certain.
His head spun as he replayed the vision of Modesty and him as they practiced the English country dance in this room. He remembered the feel of her warm waist through her clothes, her scent of wildflowers in his nostrils, her eyes glowing with the sort of fire that ignited his blood.
None of the chandeliers were lit, only a single candelabra burning low by his left boot.
Muddy footprints marred the pristine floor, perhaps for the first time in this house’s existence. He wouldn’t let the staff enter this room. His father’s portrait—the length of the wall—glared at him from the dark background of an English landscape. Judging him. Better no duke at all than bring shame to the title.
Oh, he’d done that—and more.
The mirrors that had once reflected their first dance were now dark and empty. Sheet music was still on the harpsichord from their last lesson. The room’s grandeur now felt hollow.
He was finally living in the nightmare he’d always feared.
A paper with George’s exposé lay on the floor crumpled by his right boot. Confirming, exposing the truth.
He was never supposed to be the duke.
He still wore yesterday’s clothes. He’d sent his valet away and refused to leave this room after the last time Mr. Fairchild had sent him away. The Pictish mirror he’d bought Modesty at that auction lay on the floor next to his coat. Was he cold? He didn’t know. He felt numb.
He was also not sure if he’d slept at all. Perhaps he had dozed off at some point. He felt stubble on his face—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much stubble.
The exposé’s aftermath was more devastating than he could have imagined. Although his mother’s letter itself had not been published, the author claimed the report had come from “a trusted source close to the family.” They’d revealed the details of the late duchess’s affair with the parson. Dates and locations of their meetings that aligned perfectly with Constantine’s birth—which Constantine couldn’t verify or deny since there was no proof, but they seemed plausible enough for people to believe. Comments about how Constantine’s appearance differed from that of his “father.” Ophelia’s true parentage and her connection to Augustus. The late duke’s will specifically recommending a blood heir. And even Constantine’s rejection of a pregnant woman when she’d come for help. There were church records, the details of his and Modesty’s special marriage license and how quickly it was arranged, and even a testimony of a former servant who’d asked to remain anonymous.
His unblemished reputation had been left in tatters overnight. Yesterday, several letters had arrived withdrawing dinner invitations; another letter had suggested he should stay away from the House of Lords while “certain matters” were being investigated. His trading partners were suddenly requiring immediate payment. The bank demanded repayment of his investment debt. His solicitor had informed him that several contracts were now under legal scrutiny. His neighbor Lord Allen was raising an old dispute about the location of the boundary between their two properties. There would be more, he knew. More vultures circling.
Every fear he’d had since childhood was coming true. Every perfectly executed social interaction was now viewed as pretense.
His entire identity had crumbled.
But the biggest blow had come from the Regent, of course.
A letter had arrived stating that, in view of all the facts that had become clear in recent days, the Regent was concerned with the safety of the Pryde ducal title. And in the likely event that the Pryde title was stripped from Constantine, His Royal Highness was going to take Augustus as his own ward and raise him until he was of age.
The very thought made Constantine’s gut wrench.
But what hurt him the most was losing Modesty. The biggest treasure of his life.
He should have spent every minute with her—talking to her, taking her to Pictish sites in Scotland, searching for ancient treasures. Time with her, that was what truly mattered.
True pride could not be gained in trying to be someone he was not.
His true pride was Modesty.
His wife.
The love of his life.
There were footsteps in the hallway, and he threw a glare at the doors. He should have blocked them with the chair.
“Go away, Simons!” he yelled and gulped the cognac.
He knew it was an exquisite one, but he could barely taste it through the pain in his heart.
“It’s not Simons,” boomed Dorian’s voice.
“Go away, Rath!” he yelled, though with less conviction.
The doors opened; of course Dorian wouldn’t leave.
Constantine leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “Go away, please.”
Even now, he hated for one of his closest friends to see him like this. How much lower could he fall?
But there were more heavy footsteps. And when he looked up, six tall figures were silhouetted against the candlelit hallway behind them.
“Not just Dorian,” said Lucien.
“Then all of you, go to hell.”
But of course, they did the opposite, spilling into the room until they surrounded him like walls. Something cracked in his chest. He’d been alone taking blow after blow when he really didn’t have to be. He couldn’t do anything. The gaping void where his heart used to be burst, and tears fell from his eyes as he sobbed.
Dorian dropped down and sat next to him, leaning against the wall. Lucien did the same on the other side. Both clenched his shoulders in silent support. The rest of them sat on the floor in a semicircle around them.
“Any word from Blackmore’s men at the docks?” Lucien asked.
“Nothing,” Dorian replied. “They’ve watched every ship for three days. Either George hasn’t tried to leave yet…”
“Or he’s already gone,” Fortyne finished grimly. “Though my money’s on him still being in London. He’d want to see the scandal unfold.”
Octavius tried to better fit his large body into the gap between Dorian and Fortyne. He soon gave up and simply stretched out on his side, supporting himself with a bent elbow. Picking up one of the bottles, he nodded in appreciation and drank.
“Octavius, can you not?” asked Fortyne coldly.
“No sense of wasting a good smuggled bottle,” he murmured as he offered it to Fortyne, who refused.
“Leave me,” Constantine managed through his clenched throat, his chest convulsing uncontrollably. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
“For God’s sake, Constantine,” murmured Dorian, still gripping his shoulder, “we’ve watched you maintain this perfect facade for years. You protected our secrets while drowning in your own. Did you think we wouldn’t be there for you?”
The chasm in his chest ached. He knew in his head that he could rely on this mad circle of outcasts, but it was one thing to know and another to feel it as his truth.
“I haven’t always been agreeable to you all.” Constantine wiped his eyes. “I haven’t always been your friend. I’ve judged you.”
“You helped me when I needed you most,” Dorian said.
“I was against your marriage to Patience.”
“But you changed your mind. And now you’d protect her like we’d protect Modesty. Like we are going to.”
Constantine exhaled, unable to see how anyone could do anything to help him. That cognac quickly disappearing from the bottle in Octavius’s hand seemed very appealing. “You don’t want to be associated with me right now,” he added, staring at the crumpled paper with the exposé. “I’m already ostracized. Everything is crumbling. You will crumble in association.”
Lucien picked up the mangled paper. “First, we’re not going to leave your side. If anything, we’ll stand with you. Second, if you remember, only a few weeks ago, I lost everything when my scandal broke. Or so I thought. Instead, I found what truly mattered—love, family, redemption, and forgiveness. You’re not losing your life, Constantine. You’re finally starting to live it.”
Constantine cleared his throat. “It certainly doesn’t seem that way. I’ve lost my wife.”
“It was my fault,” Eccess admitted guiltily. “I must have told the Regent about the christening when I was in my cups. Maybe even told a few of the other lords who were in Elysium. God, Constantine, I’m so sorry.”
“Secrets shared. Secrets sealed,” said Enveigh with reproach. “You’re our weakest link right now, Eccess. You must stop drinking.”
“Go to the devil,” Octavius muttered, casting him a dark scowl. “Yet another governess quit. There’s truly nothing to do but drink. My three wards make my life a misery.”
“Are you certain she quit because of your wards, and not because of yet another indiscretion of yours?” asked Luhst, winking.
“I’d never bed a good governess that can keep those three little devils under control,” assured Octavius. “I’d treasure her and worship her and never touch her with a single finger.”
“We’ll see,” murmured Lucien.
“Steady on, gentlemen,” said Fortyne. “Eccess’s indiscretion didn’t help, but the Regent wouldn’t have interfered if Constantine hadn’t been so proud. Besides, most of the ton came because someone sent them invitations.”
“It was goddamn George. So you haven’t caused my fall from grace, Octavius. But the truth is, your drinking might bring another of us to ruin.”
Octavius’s brows drew together. “Goddamn all of you.”
The men were silent for a while, until Enveigh cleared his throat. “Look, Constantine, I’ve always envied your composure. That perfect mask you wore so well. But seeing you now, I realize what maintaining it must have cost you.”
Irevrence chuckled. “Well, look at that—our flawless duke is human, after all. Rather refreshing, actually. Though your timing could use some work.”
The jokes, the appreciation, the support, were like a balm to Constantine’s raw, wounded soul.
Lucien sighed. “You’re thinking like a duke trying to save his title. Start thinking like a man trying to save his family. Because no matter what you think now, you still can.”
Constantine’s shoulders hunched. “I don’t know if I can. Modesty knows everything I am is a lie.”
Dorian shook his head. “No. Everything you pretended to be was a lie. Who you are is the man who stayed up all night with a sick baby. Who bought his wife a Pictish mirror because her eyes lit up at the sight of it. Who took the blame for a stolen pin to protect his tutor.”
“The man who would do anything to help a friend,” added Lucien.
“Who saw worth in us when we couldn’t see it in ourselves,” said Enveigh.
“Who built this brotherhood on bonds stronger than blood,” said Irevrence.
“Who should finally realize that being worthy isn’t the same as being perfect,” added Fortyne softly.
Constantine stared at the Regent’s summons—the letter Modesty had given to him—and something shifted inside his chest. The lifelong fear that had driven his every action, every word…was not there.
What was he protecting anymore? He’d already lost what mattered most—his wife.
“Let them take the title,” he said, and the words felt like freedom. “It was never truly mine. You’re right, Lucien. I can still fight for my family. This time, I know the right choice. I choose Modesty.”
He rose to his feet and marched to his study, the dukes following him.
His hands steadied as he reached for paper and a quill pen on his desk. No more masks. No more facades. For the first time in his life, he would do what was right, not what made him appear beyond reproach.
“Your Royal Highness,” he wrote, the words flowing easily now. “I write to formally acknowledge Augustus as the rightful heir to the Duchy of Pryde…”
He outlined his requests: provisions for Augustus’s care, protection for Modesty’s position and reputation, guaranteed support for Mr. Hawthorne. The settlements he’d already arranged would ensure Modesty never wanted for anything, title or no title. He simply wished the Crown to know that and to make sure Augustus would be in her care.
Not the Regent’s.
Strange how losing everything could feel like gaining something precious. Freedom. Truth. A chance to be worthy of love rather than a title.
He needed to tell her first. Before the court gossip, before the official pronouncements. Modesty deserved to hear everything from him. No more secrets, no more lies. He prayed she would forgive him and would see that he’d finally chosen love over pride.
He gave the letter to Fortyne and asked him to deliver it to the hearing for him.
Then at everyone’s insistence, he bathed and allowed himself to be groomed and dressed properly.
But when he arrived at the parsonage in the afternoon, and saw Mr. Fairchild’s ashen face, the hollow dread in his stomach returned.
“She’s not at home,” her father said, wringing his hands. “Mr. Lockhart came by earlier—said he’d learned of some ruins…or sites…just two miles south. She took Augustus with her… They should have returned by now…”
Constantine’s blood turned to ice. “Two miles south? There are no ruins or sites south of here.”
“Mr. Lockhart said they were newly discovered. Surely, something must have happened on the way?—”
“The Egypt expedition,” Constantine cut in, already turning. His heart pounded with a different kind of fear now.
He was running before the thought fully formed. He wouldn’t let it be too late. Not when he’d finally learned what truly mattered. Even if Modesty never forgave him, even if she never looked at him with love again, he had to ensure his family’s safety. Their happiness and well-being mattered more than his desires.
Perhaps that was what true nobility meant, after all.