Constance beamed at him.
All he felt was shame.
“May I have a word with you?”
“Of course.”
He stepped into his study, waited for her to follow him, and pulled the door shut tight so as not to be overheard. “Constance … I see you mean well by this—”
“I do!” She nodded vigorously. “Don’t you like it?”
It was impossibly sweet of her. So sweet it produced a heavy feeling in his chest. Nevertheless …
“I can’t accept it,” he said quietly.
She cocked her head like a parrot who understood his words but not their meaning. “Can’t accept it? Whyever not?”
He closed his eyes. Would there be no end to his leveling this month?
“I see you mean this as a kindness, and I’m touched. But surely you must not think I live this way out of a personal taste for filth? I don’t employ more servants here because at present I cannot afford them.”
With his creditors calling in his debts and his usual means of supplementing his coffers with small coin decidedly unavailable, he had less than four guineas of ready money at his disposal to spread between his needs in town and his estate. He’d withdrawn from his clubs, given up his horse, sold off his silver. Even with those economies, when wages came due in Cheshire next quarter day, he had no earthly idea how he would pay them. And the small comforts he had always been able to provide his mother and sister would not be forthcoming.
It was humiliating to admit how bad things actually were, even to himself.
Admitting it to Constance, who exuded money like her strange perfume, was a special form of torture.
“I can’t pay them. Please see them reinstated at Westmead House.”
Her face softened, in that way nice people had of pretending that something that was humiliating wasn’t. “No need. I will continue to pay their wages out of my household budget. It’s a gift.”
His pride dripped to somewhere beneath the well-scrubbed floorboards.
“That’s kind of you, but there is no need for it. I’m not home to visitors, and the season will be over soon in any case. And once I have the money, I’ll sell this place and buy a proper house in Mayfair.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ah, Mayfair, where the houses are as alike as the people. Why move there when this place has so much history and character? If you kept it and improved it, it could be a jewel. Besides, what’s the appeal of doing what all the boring people do when one could stand out?”
Because standing out was not an advantage when one had things to hide. Dullness was a form of self-protection. But saying as much would only invite questions he did not wish to answer.
“Constance, I simply cannot accept your charity.”
She continued to smile at him, as if by not acknowledging his obvious humiliation, she could erase it. “It’s not charity; it’s strategy. You must make a point to entertain here. When your creditors hear that your home is full of valuables, servants, and fine food, they will glean you have regained access to funds. After all, you are now living in anticipation of my very considerable dowry. And Lady Spence has expressed a desire to visit us at our future home. If it is not in order, she will know that something is amiss.”
She gave him a winning smile.
His head pounded. “Would you please just do as I ask one bloody time?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m afraid that cursing will not change the fact that I am not known for doing things I disagree with. Besides, I can’t bear to see a friend live in such disorder.” She gestured at a number of trunks shoved up against a wall. “It’s a wonder you’re always so elegantly attired when you live amidst this squalor.”
She lifted the lid of one trunk distastefully and grimaced at the mess of papers it held. “Have you unpacked nothing since you left the Rosecrofts?”
“Leave that. Please inform the servants they will not be required here.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy,” she said, busying herself by prying off the lid of another crate. “I’ve already begun issuing invitations and no one will believe I intend to live in a crumbling rathole. You must be seen to be preparing your home for my arrival.”
She paused to peer inside the trunk. “Ah, look, here are your riding effects.” She pulled out a whip. “I’ll have these sent down to the stables. Or, rather …” Her voice trailed off.
From deeper in the box, she extracted an iron key on a long leather cord.
What was that doing with his riding gear?
“What’s this?” she asked, fingering the intricately wrought key. “It’s very pretty.”
He quickly snatched it from her hands. “I’ve been looking for that,” he said, putting it into his coat pocket.
She plunged her hands back inside the trunk.
“Constance, could you please—”
She yelped, producing a pistol, which she gingerly held up in the air with two fingers.
“Good holy God, Apthorp. You should not store firearms so haphazardly. What if some unsuspecting young lady accidentally shoots off her own hand?”
Fuck. These were most certainly not his riding effects.
He stepped forward and removed the weapon from her hand. “It’s not real. But let that be a lesson to young ladies not to nose about in other people’s private things. You’ve made your point. Go downstairs.”
She shot him a challenging smile, evidently enjoying teasing him. “I wasn’t nosing. I was cleaning. You should try it. Why do you have a fake pistol?”
He pointed at the door. “Out.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. This is far too intriguing.” With a teasing look at him, she plunged her hand back in the crate and produced a cord of rope, a blindfold, and a pair of leather cuffs with silver hooks.
“Oh dear,” she said, suddenly less amused.
He could only agree with the sentiment.
“So that’s how you’ve been paying your bills. You’re a highwayman.”
Her game was growing tiresome, and he was increasingly concerned by what else might be lurking in that trunk. “I assure you I’m not a highwayman.” He reached out for the cuffs. “Give me those and go downstairs. If you must paw through my things, you can do it in the kitchen.”
She chuckled, in a flirtatious way that would be attractive were it not that he desperately, desperately wanted to prevent her from reaching back into the box. “So secretive, my lord. Exactly like an outlaw. Tell me, why would an elegant gentleman like yourself possess a box of blindfolds and fake pistols if he was not using them to rob coaches?”
She plunged her hand back into the box, rummaged deeper, and extracted a long, carved marble phallus. Seeing what she had retrieved, she froze, her jaw agape, holding it out in front of her. Her eyes roved over his face, and her mouth formed a perfect O as realization dawned in her eyes.
He lunged, snatched the object from her hands, and threw it in the box.
“Stop this! It is not appropriate for you to see these things.”
She leaned back against the wall and looked up at him in wonder. “Wednesdays. These are for Wednesdays.”
“Go downstairs, Constance,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t have seen this.”