“I have been unfaithful to you,” she whispered.
“I am afraid, my dear, that you must make yourself much plainer than that, or I will begin to imagine that you are not in your right mind.”
She pivoted away, covering her eyes with her hand.
“I told him everything he wished to know. I told him so that he would have me, and he said he would, but now—now he—” She lowered her hand to her mouth, her eyes frantic.
“Constance.” She knew as little of Ben’s real business as any member of the ton. There was nothing she could divulge to anyone of her acquaintance that everyone else would not know. “Perhaps we should begin with the identity of this man.”
“You must know it.” Her tone tightened. “You have encouraged me on his behalf any number of times.”
Foreboding crept into him. “Styles?”
Her eyes widened.
“I never encouraged you toward him.” But he had encouraged Styles to pursue Constance, because of her infatuation with him. At the time, he had trusted his friend.
“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “Perhaps I misspoke. But you teased me about him.”
“I did. Am I to regret it now?”
She nodded.
“Constance, what have you done?”
“What I should not have,” she snapped, but her shoulders shook. “And he has played me false.”
Ben drew in a slow breath. “What would you have me do now, call him out?”
“Oh, no. No.” She came toward him swiftly and reached for his hand, but then snatched hers back. “I would never put you in danger to salvage my honor. But—But I think I may have put Octavia in danger instead. I do not know how, precisely, but this morning when he called— Oh, Ben, I think he means her no good.”
“Constance, tell me now exactly why you believe this. Exactly.”
She backed away a step, her eyes wide. “I—”
“Tell me.”
Tears slid down her face as she spoke. “At Fellsbourne he wanted to know of your interests in ladies. It was merely idle conversation so I obliged. But today he asked if your flirtation with Octavia indicated anything more profound. He behaved so—so— I thought he was finally coming to be certain that you and I were not—” She stuttered. “I sought to assure him, so I told him what I believed concerning you and she.”
“What do you believe?”
“That there is a great deal between the two of you that neither of you will speak of.”
“What makes you believe he intends her harm?”
“He seemed satisfied that her betrothal to Lord Crispin was not based on anything more than the most superficial affection. You know that, don’t you?”
“What else, Constance?” Dear God, how could he have been so blind?
“When I told him what I thought about you and she, h-his eyes seemed to light, as though I had given him the key to a puzzle. I thought it perhaps some sort of competition between the two of you. Octavia once said something about that—competition. I did not understand what she meant at the time, but after he reacted that way I thought perhaps he has designs on her and she is aware of it and sought to make you jealous. But that does not fit with her character in the least, so I discarded the idea. But then he left in such haste—” Her voice broke off. “Ben, please tell me what is going on.”
“He is only interested insofar as harming her will hurt me.”
“No.” Her hand slipped over her mouth. “What have I done?”
A fist of fire lodged in his chest, and panic.
“I am sorry he did this to you, Constance.” He could say nothing else to stem the confusion in her blue eyes. He went toward the door.
“But why would he wish to hurt you? You have been friends for so long. Like brothers.”
“He killed Jack.” The words struck the air like lead. “He set the fire that burned my brother and father and six other people in their beds that night. He murdered your betrothed then lied to us both about it for years.”
She went immobile. Then her body seemed to crumple. Ben moved to her swiftly and took her up in his arms. She pressed her face to his chest.
“Why? He loved Jack as much as you did. Why would he do such a thing?”
“I am endeavoring to discover that now.”
She loosened her grip, face awash in hopelessness.
“I am sorry, Ben. So sorry I have put Octavia in danger.”
He shook his head. “You could not have known. But have you told me everything?”
She nodded, but her eyes spoke of grief he had not seen there in years.
“Remain here as long as you wish,” he said gently, “or return to your home, but do not leave the house or accept callers until I tell you otherwise.”
“He has had any number of occasions to harm me. He will not now.”
“He already has. What he does not understand is that I will not abandon you because of it.”
Her gaze retreated and she stepped back. “I will not ask the same friendship of you any longer, Ben. It would not be fair to Octavia.”
He studied the lines across her brow, the sorrow in her eyes. Octavia had brought her here. She had not shied from Constance’s distress or dependence on him. She had only sought to remedy the trouble, as she wished to do for Crispin and his lover. Her heart knew no subterfuge or jealousy. It only knew how to give.
Samuel appeared at the door. “My lord, Mr. Sully has sent word.”
He must have located Crispin. “Have Kali saddled.” But his conversation with Crispin must wait. Styles as well. He must see Octavia now and tell her everything. He should have done so earlier when she was standing before him, her eyes filled with intention and confusion at once. He should not have let her go without knowing about Styles. Now young Jimmy was keeping watch over her from the street, and surely Abha from within the house. But Ben could not entrust her safety to another man for an hour more. Never again. That was his job.
He paused on the threshold. Constance stood beneath the tiger portrait again in shadows, the great beast looming over her in an attitude of princely power.
“Will you be all right?”
She nodded. “Make it well again, please.” Her voice was thin.
“I will.”
“You always do.”
Samuel met him at the front door with greatcoat and hat.
“Where is Lord Crispin?”
“At his club, sir, a quarter hour past.”
“Is Mr. Sully still here?”
“No, sir. He’s gone back to the office in the event that his boys send news, as you wished.”
“Samuel.”
“My lord?”
“Have that large painting in my study removed and remounted in the drawing room over the mantel.” He started through the door. “It needs more light.”
“Miss Pierce is not in, my lord.”
“Not in?” Ben stood perfectly still in the foyer of St. John Pennworthy’s house. “Did her manservant accompany her out?”
The butler stiffened. “I believe so.”
But Abha had, after all, allowed her to meet Crispin’s lover. And there was every likelihood that if she wanted to see Crispin now, Abha would take her to him again.
“Where did she go?”
The servant’s face seemed to lengthen. “I haven’t an idea of it, my lord.”
Ben headed in the direction of St. James’s Street. Above carriages and carts, horsemen and pedestrians, the November day hung heavy with coal dust and fog, the sort of chill-to-the-bone weather Ben had struggled for years to become accustomed to as a boy. That had been in the countryside, at Fellsbourne and Eton, where trees and green fields at least gentled the harsh transition from tropical heat to foggy gray.