“White,” he said, knowing she would try to follow or help or do something rash. “Keep Constantine with you.”
White nodded, and he stepped forward as Callum turned toward Constantine, gripped her shoulders, and tugged her to him. Without thought for the present company, he kissed her hard on the mouth, wanting to convey to her what he’d been unable to say. “I will never give up on us.”
With those words, he released her, ducked around White, even as she protested, and left with Beckford.
“But he said to keep you with me.” White shifted from foot to foot hours later in the drawing room, surrounded by Constantine, Blythe, Frederica, and Peter. Constantine had not sent a missive to Guinevere because in Guinevere’s condition, the woman should not be stealing about the docks, which was where she was about to go with Blythe, Peter, and White. Frederica was to distract the two men that Blythe had informed Constantine, moments ago, were guarding the townhome and were supposed to prevent Constantine from going anywhere. Luckily, Blythe had overheard her brother speaking to Callum about it last night and had intended to tell Constantine today.
“I will be with you,” she said, eyeing Peter, whom she had eventually gotten to agree to the plan of Frederica distracting the two men guarding the townhome, which would enable Blythe, Constantine, Peter, and White to slip away to the docks, where Blythe had discovered Trask was working tonight. There was no way White would let her go without him, since he took Callum’s orders so literally, and Peter had assured her that White was very good in situations where someone that he cared for needed protection, which White had already displayed. According to Peter, the intense focus needed seemed to make White very calm and capable in the moment.
Thank goodness Blythe had come to the townhome herself to tell Constantine of what she’d discovered about the guards and Trask. She’d arrived after Callum had departed with Beckford. Constantine had tried to go after Callum, but White had stubbornly stopped her from even going out the door. As soon as Callum had left, Constantine had known that it was going to be up to her to save her stubborn, foolish husband from himself. She loved him, and she was not about to lose him again. And he loved her. His touch, his eyes, his words spoken and unspoken told her so. Whatever he had done in desperation to protect her while locked in the asylum could not destroy the love between them. The image of the woman he had drawn, the one he had said was Constantine but also not her, flashed in her mind. She had so many questions, but no matter the answers, she forgave him. And getting all the answers would have to wait.
“And we’re going to find a man to prove Kilgore’s cousin is bad?”
“Yes, White,” Peter said, speaking before Constantine could. “We need to guard our lady, because she’ll find a way”—he looked at her accusingly—“whether we agree or not. At least this way, we know she’ll be safe.”
Frankly, Constantine would feel much better if White came. He was a large, rather intimidating-looking man, and Peter had also told her he was very good with his fists. Blythe also had a dagger on her, which Constantine suspected the woman knew well how to use. If it weren’t for the fact that she feared the guards would stop her from going to the docks, she’d have asked them to come as well for the added protection.
“Fine,” White finally agreed, and in her relief, Constantine kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh!” he said, grinning and patting at his cheek. “Never been kissed.”
“Hush it, big one,” Blythe hissed, motioning toward the door. “We still have to get out of here without the front door gents following us.”
“Have more faith in me,” Frederica said.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Constantine asked, since there had been no time to go over a plan.
Frederica winked at Constantine. “You all think we unmarried ladies know nothing, but I’ve learned a thing or two down in the rookeries while helping the ladies of the night.”
Blythe chuckled heartily at that, and not shortly later, Constantine saw why. With a little show of her ankle and a fake swoon, Frederica had the men set to guard Constantine so preoccupied that they never even saw the parade of Constantine, Blythe, Peter, and White creeping out of the house and fading into the night.
Chapter Twenty
Callum sat at the table in Beckford’s private office at the Orcus Society, and though his mind should have been completely on his next step to obtain justice, it was partially on Constantine. He should have answered her question bluntly before he had left. He should have told her of his betrayal, but he’d not wanted to lay it out there and not be able to explain, to beg forgiveness. His plan was all messed up. He had to tell her of what he’d done, and he did not even know if he could fix himself. It was that last point his mind kept circling back to.
He turned the problem of his nightmares over and over in his mind. Now that he had to tell her the truth—that damn sketch had ensured it—what if she, in fact, forgave him? Then all that was left between them was the nightmares. Then a possibility came to him. Once she knew the truth, once she knew the reason behind the nightmares, even if he did not get justice, they could work together to keep her safe.
The wordhopepopped into his head.
They could sleep in separate bedchambers. It would not be ideal, but it was a solution. He could lock his bedchamber when he went to sleep, and they could both ensure they never fell asleep together. None of it was precisely what he wanted, but hope still bloomed. Why had he refused to see these solutions before, to even consider them?
His breath caught in his chest—fear. Yes, he had wanted to protect her from him, but he was also damned afraid to admit what he’d done, to have her not forgive him, because that would have meant there was no hope left. The word and the warmth it filled him with burrowed deeper into Callum. Seeking vengeance first had allowed him to tell himself he was simply protecting her while putting off the confession he worried would take away all hope.
He had been testing her, he realized, without even knowing it. He was a damned fool, and she had the most astonishingly big heart full of love for him. She had proven it time and again. She had clung stubbornly to hope when he had foolishly tried to strip her of it. Not only had she clung to it but she had offered it to him over and over again. He rubbed at his chest, which now ached.
She had asked him what he would do if he could not get justice, if his violent nightmares continued, and now he knew that he would cling to the hope she had given him once more. He would cling to her. If she still wanted him after hearing his full confession, he would never give her up. And her stubborn vow to forgive him, no matter the sin, gave him immense hope for their future together.
An elbow to Callum’s right arm brought his attention back to the table where Beckford, Carrington, and Valentine were staring expectantly at him. “Do you want to go to the docks now? I think we should,” Beckford said.
Valentine and Carrington nodded their agreement.
“Yes,” Callum replied, thinking of what the other men had discovered. Beyond Delilah Dubois being murdered and Tate’s suspicious death, Valentine had found a man named Mr. Selkirk in a London asylum, but he, too, had met with a recent unfortunate demise. Callum had not doubt Ross was murdering anyone who might know what he had done—or could lead to proof of his actions—so that left only Trask. Callum needed to get to the man before Ross did.
“Yes,” Callum said again, rising. “Let’s go. I want to be home before Constantine awakes.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, as he should have five years ago. He wanted to tell her all that had happened to him at the asylum, all that he had done. He wanted to thank her for clinging to hope and for giving his life back to him.
The ride to the docks was not a long one, but as their carriage raced down the street, a foreboding took hold of Callum. He dismissed it, crediting it to being crammed in such close quarters with the three other men. He’d always detested crowded spaces, but his dislike had intensified with his year in captivity at the asylum. There was also a storm brewing outside, the wind whipping something fierce, rocking the carriage as the coachman wound it down streets and alleys along the dark river. Lighted ships could be seen in the heavy swirl of fog and the low tide.
The carriage jerked to a halt, and Callum’s gaze was caught by the black river once again. That same eerie feeling tugged deep in his chest as he alighted from the carriage. Trask, they’d learned, was with a small crew helping to unload a shipment of ice from a vessel.
