In the Arms of a Marquess(77)

“No.” Creighton paused. “Lords Crispin and Nathans now hold the Sea Bird’s papers. They bought her several weeks before you purchased this vessel.”

Crispin.

A strange, humming urgency threaded through Ben’s veins.

“Creighton, from whom did Lords Nathans and Crispin and our French friend in Calais purchase these vessels?”

Creighton tilted his head in an oddly wary gesture. “I thought you might already know, sir. It’s Lord Styles.”

The wind seemed not to stir. It could not be coincidence. Or perhaps coincidence only in so far as the community of traders wealthy enough to purchase a ship with cash was quite modest. Modest enough so he would never have connected Crispin and Styles if Octavia had not made him aware of Crispin’s troubles.

But perhaps he was looking for connections that did not exist. Crispin had kissed Octavia for Styles’s benefit, and the burr beneath the saddle had not been an accident. But how could Styles have committed arson or even blackmail yet he hadn’t an idea of it? Their friendship could not have been a lie. Not so many years of it.

“Creighton?” Ben’s voice sounded peculiar in his own ears. Tinny.

“Yes, sir?”

“How difficult was it for you to discover that Lord Styles once owned these vessels?”

“Extraordinarily, sir,” his secretary replied promptly. “The dockmaster’s registers were incomplete. I went on something of a scavenger hunt before I found trace of the original owner. I was obliged to grease a dozen sailors’ palms before I even knew where to start looking.”

“Were you surprised at this difficulty?”

“Yes, my lord. In fact I was. But—” He halted, obviously reluctant to continue.

“But what?”

“You said it yourself, my lord. A man has no need to protect himself from prying eyes when he has nothing to hide.”

“I will return later if I am able.” Ben did not hear his secretary’s response, or see the faces of the sailors he passed on his way to his horse. The morning was advancing. He had little time before Constance left home for the day on visits. And, as much as he wished only to see Octavia now, as much as he ached to bring the doubt-filled waiting to an end, he could not have this conversation in her presence.

At the Duke of Read’s town house he sent his card up and paced the receiving room until Constance appeared. Her eyes were red. She did not come to him, or extend her hand as usual.

“Did I wake you?”

“Heavens, no.” She pulled the bell rope, an unstable smile crossing her lips. “I was writing correspondence. I am not always a social butterfly.”

“I know that.”

“Of course you do, hypocrite.” She did not meet his gaze.

“Constance, I would like you to go home.”

Her eyes snapped up, strangely dull. “I drink a bit too much champagne at one party and you wish to exile me to Scotland?”

“I do not ask it because of last evening.”

“Papa is coming to town soon. I would be silly for me to make the journey then turn around and immediately return.”

“Then go elsewhere. Entertainments are thin now. Lady Fitzwarren may be willing to retire to her home at Stratford for the winter.”

“Lady Fitzwarren? Good heavens, why on earth would you wish to exile her too?”

“She merely came to mind. You seem to be in her company frequently of late.”

“I am in Octavia Pierce’s company frequently as well but I doubt you wish her gone from town.” Her slender brows knitted.

“Constance, listen to—”

“No. I will not go simply because you say so.”

“You are in danger.”

“I am not.”

Her reply came too swiftly. Ben moved toward her. She seemed to force lightness into her eyes, the glint in them unnatural.

“You are a thorough widgeon, Ben. I am quite content and not at all in any sort of distress.”

“I did not say distress. I said danger. And I did not realize that copious tears are evidence of happiness.”

“I was foxed.”

“Why?”

She turned away with a shrug. “Those gentlemen kept giving me champagne. They were enormously diverting.” Her voice sounded edgy, the Scots burr rather stronger now.

“Constance, tell me.”

She whirled around. “Why should I? You don’t tell me anything. And there is nothing to tell. I am perfectly well and perfectly weary of you imagining you can dictate to me.” Her gaze skittered away again.

“I have only your safety in mind.”

“I do not doubt it,” she said in a smaller voice. “But you are wrong this time.” Her fingers pleated and repleated folds in her skirt. Ben’s chest and limbs felt numb, the goodness of the past entirely lost, first his brothers, then Styles, now Constance. He went to the door.

“I am not the person you always expected me to be, Ben.” Her voice broke. “I am not strong like you.”

He left without a word.

Traffic was smooth beneath the unusually brilliant sky and he reached his destination in short time. He deposited Kali in the mews near Hauterive’s. The entrance to the club was locked now, shutters closed. But Ben hadn’t any interest in the place. He moved along the narrow, unpaved street, glaringly naked in the bright daylight, straw strewn about in the dirt. A filthy pie seller vended his fare, a pen of suckling pigs for sale squealing at his heels. A prostitute lolled in a doorway, glassy-eyed with the aftereffects of too much gin and too little sleep, her rouge from the previous night smeared.