The Rogue’s Prize (25 page)

queried.

“What has taken hold of you?”

Simon fumed.

“Nothing,” he lied. The truth had a

name. Constance.

“I’ve known you long enough to

know that there has never been a time

nothing
has been on your mind.”

Percy grinned. Simon knew him

well. He’d be a fool to believe he could

hide anything from the man, but hide

everything he must. “I just remembered

something.”

“Involving

Constance?”

Simon

asked, fully alert.

Percy nodded. “Your niece has

been horribly misused, that is true.” In

more ways than one, he thought guiltily

and contentedly.

Simon stepped back, his face

reddening with rage. “How so?”

Percy held up his hands. “I am not

the fiend involved. Frink attacked her.

The bruising could have come from him.

But,” he labored over the memory, “the

mark was not fresh. I saw it shortly after

bringing her aboard the
Striker
.”

Simon’s brow rose disapprovingly.

“Did she tell you where she got it?”

“No. She evaded answering,” he

admitted. “But at the time, and in spite of

the circumstances in which I found her, I

thought no more on it.”

Now more than ever the puzzle

pieces began to fit. She’d been running

from an arranged marriage to a man she

despised, an event that scared her

enough to make her risk a journey on

open water to a volatile country when

she was afraid of drowning.

“It makes sense,” he conceded, the

images flashing across his mind’s eye. “I

take it Throckmorton has attached her to

this man, romantically?”

Simon guffawed. “That’s beyond

the pale.”

“What impression then, if at all,

does a woman make of a man if she has

never been exposed to him? What would

make

Constance

think

Burton

unsuitable?”

Simon responded quickly, “His

age, for one.”

“Marriage to an older man is the

rage. No, I do not think that just cause

for inducing fear in a woman.”

“He’s a portly, odd fellow,” Simon

admitted with a sneer.

“Still not worth risking your life at

sea.”

Simon nodded, agreeing. “You’re

right, of course. She did attend a ball at

his home but I imagine she would not

have found any time to be alone with

him. No matter,” he said, shaking his

head as if it was no use, “my brother

intends to have her marry Burton unless

someone of more prosperous means

offers for her.”

“That should not be a problem for a

woman as clever and amiable as Lady

Constance.”

“You forget that she arrived in

London on a pirate ship, Percy. It is only

a matter of time before everyone will

think her compromised.”

“Has she given anyone reason to

believe such a thing?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed upon him.

“Should she?”

Percy’s clean-shaven jaw twitched.

His eyes narrowed and he steepled his

fingers below his nose to conceal his

thoughts. He was not at liberty to divulge

the passion that had flared between

them. No matter what he’d done in the

name of England, no matter what else

could be said of him, he was a

gentleman. Yet, instinct warned trouble

lurked at Throckmorton’s door. Though

his blood boiled with a need to staunch

it, he wanted none of it. He only had one

more chance to avenge Celeste. Until the

day he brought Celeste’s killer to

justice, his life was forfeit. He’d gone to

astonishing ends to fashion a duel

existence, rogue by night, gentleman by

day. Absolutely nothing, nothing could

divert him from his goal. Not even the

beautiful

and

tempting

Constance

Danbury.

His gaze darted to the stacked maps

on his desk, the
Striker
’s maps, and a

knowing smirk tugged at his lips. A day

of reckoning beckoned. A taste for

vengeance dewed on his brandy-laced

tongue. He had a name — Josiah Cane.

That was enough.

“No one is questioning your

loyalty, Percy,” Simon’s voice invaded

his thoughts. “You’ve proven yourself

quite mercenary to our cause.” Pausing,

Simon added with indisputable passion,

“
I
put Constance on the
Octavia
.
I
bear the guilt of her circumstances.” Crossing

his arms, the man exhaled. “I fulfilled

my obligation to Constance as her uncle,

coming to her aid when Byron would

not.”

“What would you have me do?”

Percy asked.

“Prevent

her

from

marrying,

Burton.”

“In order to do that, I would have to

care.”

Simon’s stalwart silence affected

him greatly. “If you will not do it for me,

do it for Constance, the woman you have

blemished.” When Percy did not

respond, he added, “I expect this matter

to be satisfactorily resolved in due

course.”

“I will not be detoured,” he

insisted, knowing that Simon was not

only giving him an ultimatum but an

order. “If that is your goal, you had

better find another one.”

“No one could force you to do

anything.”

Percy leaned over his desk. “I’m no

good for her. Look at me, Simon. I’m

Percival Avery,” he said, pounding his

chest. “I’m a man who’s built a

reputation of callousness, boredom, and

frivolity.”

“You do yourself no credit, Percy.

You’re greatly admired and respected

among your peers.”

“That is of no consequence.

Constance would no sooner wed a

popinjay
than she would a man like

Burton.”

“Do not underestimate my niece,”

Simon warned.

“That I could never do,” he

answered without hesitation. “I may play

the fop, but I’m no fool.”

The clock on the mantel sounded

eight bells. Silence descended between

them. Simon scowled, stepped forward,

opened his mouth to speak and then,

altering his course, retreated to the door,

pausing at the knob.

“Satisfy my curiosity,” he said.

“How well did you come to know my

niece when you were aboard the

Striker
?”

What did Simon want? Lies? Half-

truths? “Well enough,” he supplied.

Simon’s

eyes

narrowed.

“Apparently not well-enough.”

• • •

Constance descended the staircase

prepared to greet her visitor. She’d

successfully avoided Burton for a

fortnight but now he waited in the parlor,

unwilling to be eschewed. She’d been

instructed by her father to accept

Burton’s hand in marriage, if a proposal

was given. To accept meant their

financial needs would be assured. To

decline meant her father’s humiliation.

But after having experienced the ecstasy

found in coupling with the right man,

how could she settle for a pompous

derelict like Burton? How could she

hand over her fate to a man who took joy

in her discomfort?

Pausing by the tall master clock,

Constance peered at her reflection in the

glass. She was dressed in a white muslin

gown, lilacs embroidered around the

hem and bodice, a tasteful addition that

emphasized her bosom. A lilac ribbon

cinched her empire waistline and, though

she found her image satisfactory, she

wished the extra time taken with her

toilette had not gone to waste. Her

father, however misguided, would view

her efforts to please as submission.

Burton enjoyed finer things. While her

looks weren’t entirely uncommon, she

knew he cherished the credibility of her

public presence more. That had never

disturbed her before. But now, she

wondered why a knot tightened in her

stomach. Was he the type of man who

took pleasure in collecting and harming

beautiful things? If so, would she be

doomed to suffer his abuse intimately?

The bruise fading upon her breast

attested the man’s character.

She stared at her expressionless

face a moment longer, knowing she was

a pawn, like so many other young

women of her generation. But nothing

could be done for it. Resignedly, she

lifted her chin and, with determined

steps, rounded the stairs, entering the

parlor with an eloquent flourish.

“Good evening,” she said, giving a

polite curtsy to Burton’s bow. She

moved to the sofa and sat on the edge

directly across from the letch, a

maneuver that also allowed for hasty

departure, should one be warranted.

“Good evening, Lady Constance. I

hope you enjoy chocolate,” he said

pushing a box toward her. “These are

Debauve & Gallais chocolates from
A la

Renommee des chocolats de France.
A

finer chocolate you will not see or

taste.”

Constance eyed the confections and

forced an appreciative smile. Burton had

given her many gifts, all of which she’d

refused. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to

impress her as a French proficient. But

how had he managed to procure the

chocolate?

“No doubt a lavish gift,” she

commented.

“I know you don’t agree with taking

gifts from suitors, but let this be the first.

I want to make amends for my

behavior,” he said thickly. They both

knew what he meant. “And it is my dire

hope that you are ready to be seen with

me in public.” His eyes popped out of

his face and his throat bloated like a

bullfrog. He licked his lips as if he

meant to croak or catch a fly. Constance

was not willing to be that fly.

To hide her discomfort in his

presence, she dropped her gaze to her

lap. “I fear I will never forgive your

indulgence.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” he added,

leaning forward. “But I do hope you will

forgive an old fool simply for being

overly zealous with the woman he seeks

to marry.”

Her head snapped up. Her heart

skipped a beat. Was he going to actually

say the words?
Dear God in heaven!

She had to escape.

“Yes. We are to be married,” he

continued. “Your father has agreed to

announce our engagement the night of the

ball he’s giving in your honor.”

Her fists knotted tightly underneath

the folds of her gown. Somehow, hearing

the words out of Burton’s own bulbous

mouth made her predicament infinitely

more ludicrous.

“I’m not ready for marriage,” she

whispered.

“I understand your sensibilities.”

Did he? “You have nothing to fear, I

assure you.” But she had everything to

fear.

The image of Thomas battling

Captain Frink to prevent her ravishment

flashed before her eyes. Thomas’s

bronzed skin, his shirtless, muscular

chest and the feel of his body against

hers, made her suddenly ache for his

reassurance.
Trust me,
he had insisted.

Though a rogue, through and through,

despised and feared, she’d given him her

trust against her better judgment. She’d

given him
everything
. And she wasn’t

sorry.

Her gaze settled upon Burton. She

owed him nothing. He sickened her. His

portly exterior exuded weakness. His

vacant stare sucked her into a fathomless

void. She did not want any part of
his

world and knew if she married him, she

would ultimately be devoured by it.

“Must I assure you again, Lady

Constance? You have nothing to fear.”

He’d moved closer like a spider

crawling out on its web. “You are

mistaken, sir,” she quipped.

“Mistaken? How so?”

“You know how,” she accused, her

voice firm.

“A lady in your predicament cannot

afford — ”

“My predicament?” The man had

simply gone too far.

He cleared his throat rather