The door opened behind her. “Half an hour,” Crispin said.
Jane took a deep breath. Much could be accomplished with a brave smile and brazen hope. She forced her lips to curve before she turned. “I’m . . .” The sight of him caused her to stammer. “R-ready.”
She must have seen him formally dressed before. At dinners at Marylebigh—and her uncle’s ball. Perhaps an instinct for preservation had blinded her to his full beauty. But her eyes were open now. His black evening coat fit him like a second skin. It clung to the breadth of his shoulders and chest, and skimmed over his lean waist and narrow hips. Her hands curled, her desire physical: to sweep her hands down him. To feel his chest again, and the muscled plane of his belly.
“Jane . . .” He was looking her over, his admiration unmistakable. “Is this the gown you were deploring for a ‘ready-made rag’? God in heaven, woman. Do you need spectacles?”
She managed a laugh. “It was the finest I could procure on half a week’s notice. Aunt Mary always made sure to poke holes in my hem. I doubt your political friends would have liked their hostess looking so ragtag.”
He came swiftly toward her, catching her hands. “You are a mistress of understatement.” He turned her toward the mirror, his arms looping around her waist as he stepped up behind her.
He was half a head taller. His lips were very near to her ear. With an adjustment of an inch, they would touch her. That was all she could think.
“You look,” he said, “like Caesar’s wife.”
“Oh dear. That didn’t end well.”
His laughter warmed her cheek, causing a shiver to rise. “You look regal.”
Regal? She considered herself skeptically. Having never kept a lady’s maid, she had resisted Crispin’s suggestion to hire one. Her hair was simply dressed—but elegantly so, she hoped. With small, glass-tipped pins, she had looped a coronet of braids twice around her head. The paste jewels winked in the light, and echoed the glimmer of the rich apricot silk gown, sleeveless and low-cut. The skirts bloomed over her steel-hooped crinoline into scalloped tiers trimmed with glass beading.
He pressed his palm against her belly, drawing her back into his hard body, and she swallowed a breath.
“Sorry,” he murmured into her ear. “Am I crushing your skirts?”
She shook her head. Their reflection in the mirror riveted her. His hand looked so large, spanning her waist, his fingers square and blunt. She laid her hand over his and felt his hot, dry skin. A fevered feeling yawned through her, an internal tremor.
Their gazes met in the glass—his brooding, contemplative. Slowly, he turned his face and gently set his teeth around her ear.
“Half an hour,” he said softly. The flick of his tongue made her shudder; he turned her to face him. His thumb caught her chin, but she had already lifted her face. What was she doing? In this moment, she did not care. His breath brushed her chin. Very gently, he kissed the corner of her lips.
Her eyes drifted shut. In her daily life, she took her lips for granted. But as his own lips slowly learned hers, tracing the edges, stroking and rubbing, her mouth became . . . a wonder. A concentration of feeling, unbearably sensitive.
Their bodies pressed closer together. His mouth dragged once, twice, over hers. Then, with his lips, he pressed her mouth open.
The bottom dropped from her stomach. She swayed and his hard arm around her waist banded more tightly, keeping her against him. He smelled of cologne water. Her hands closed on the slick merino of his jacket. As their tongues tangled, she squeezed the muscled bulk of his shoulders. Here, mine, now.
He angled his head. His mouth tracked down her throat. Sensation purled in waves, slipping down her spine, along the backs of her knees. She threaded her fingers through his thick, fine hair, feeling the warm shape of his skull, the indentation—
Her eyes opened. She palmed the spot again, feeling sick. How had she forgotten it for a moment?
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Still rather impressive.”
How close he had come to death! As she stroked his hair, she felt light-headed. A random attack, the police had concluded. A robbery gone wrong. The world could be so cruel.
Crispin eased away to study her. He was frowning a little; his eyes were the color of night, lashed thickly. “What is it?”
For days now, she had dreamed, prayed, that he would never regain his memory. This Crispin, this marvelous, delightful man, would be allowed to remain in the world forever.
But the other man had suffered terribly. And for the first time, she felt a powerful, startling anger on his behalf.
Mr. Burke had not deserved that. Nobody did! But especially not he—not when he’d had it in him to become this man, so delightful, so extraordinary—
But this man never would have existed had it not been for the attack. He would have remained a villain. For all she knew, he had done something to incite the assault. You will listen for a name, Mr. Burke had instructed her. Tell me everything you hear of Elland. Had his secrets caught up to him? She was enraged on behalf of a villain. Was she not?
Bewilderment made her step away from him. As the clock struck the quarter hour, she seized on the obvious excuse. “Someone might come early. We should be ready to receive them.”
He took a large breath, then nodded. She retreated another pace, and without instruction, he brushed down her skirts with the palm of his hand, then turned a full circle himself, allowing her to check his appearance.
He wore a faint smile when he faced her again. “No damage done?”
“No.” But damage had been done. The gash in his head proved it. Only a wicked woman would count that a blessing, and pray for him never to recover from it.
CHAPTER TEN
Disaster took its time to unfold. Crispin’s brother and sister-in-law arrived first, shown into the drawing room without ceremony by a footman hired only yesterday. When Atticus wheeled back to stare at him, Jane half anticipated some critique of his livery: procured in haste, it strained at his shoulders.
Instead, Atticus said, “Are we not to be announced in this household?”
The footman’s startled gaze swung toward Jane, then fixed carefully in the middle distance. “Baron and Baroness Randol,” he intoned—his booming volume better suited for a ballroom, or, for that matter, Westminster Cathedral.
Elise winced, then sent a strained smile to Jane.
“Oh, is that who you are?” Crispin’s sarcasm was owed to nerves, of course, but they could not afford to start on this foot. “Come have a drink, Atticus, and try to knock some of that starch from your spine.”
“How good to see you,” Jane said to Elise, who, to her relief, looked amused. They shook hands but had no time to exchange intimacies, for now the Lamberts were being shown inside. With them came the crackling atmosphere of some unresolved argument. Lambert was scowling and taciturn, his wife frenetically cheerful.
On greeting Jane and Elise, Mrs. Lambert immediately flew into a high-pitched flurry of exclamations. She was very young and very pretty, a bright-eyed brunette in a yellow silk gown trimmed in exquisite ivory lace. She had an eye for finer things, it was clear, and if anybody doubted it, she immediately began to coo over each of the rare touches in the room.
“This vase!” she cried. “The enamelwork, so exquisite! You must tell me where you got it, Mrs. Burke.”
Jane had no idea where the vase had come from. Nor would Crispin, she suspected. “A family piece,” she said, “of my husband’s.”
“Oh, is it?” Elise asked idly.
“Naturally.” A peculiar edge came into Mrs. Lambert’s voice as she cast a glance toward her husband. “It is so nice to have a family with taste. Taste cannot be acquired; it must be bred, I think. Don’t you agree, Lady Randol?”
“Quite,” said Elise.
“With all these newcomers to society, I fear it is in increasingly short supply!”
With a murmur of agreement, Elise excused herself to speak with Attic
us. Mr. and Mrs. Culver were now stepping into the room, but before Jane could go to them, Mrs. Lambert caught her wrist.
“Oh, I hope I didn’t give offense,” the woman said. “I had forgotten that your family—well . . .” She trailed off, fluttering her lashes. “I do hope you’re enjoying London, Mrs. Burke. I know it can be somewhat overwhelming for country folk.”
Jane had studied up on the guests with Debrett’s Peerage, so she knew that Mrs. Lambert’s family held a minor baronetcy, while her husband’s was distinguished only by its recent wealth. “So true,” she said warmly. “But one does miss the rolling fields, the peace and quiet. Lord Randol’s father has the most cunning home in Somerset—a castle, to be precise, but refitted with all the modern conveniences.” She was lying through her teeth; she knew from her uncle that the Burkes had some ancient residence in Somerset, but for all she knew, it was in ruins. “Why, I believe the Queen visits regularly. Have you never been?”
Mrs. Lambert looked green. “I haven’t had the pleasure. I always tell Lamb that he must accept these invitations, but he can’t bear to pry himself away from Westminster!”
“Oh, but Lord Randol discusses nothing but politics himself. It would be no break from Westminster at all!” Jane manufactured a light laugh. “I do hope to see you there sometime.” The bait thus set, she turned away to greet the Culvers.
“What a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Culver said after Mr. Culver had detached himself to speak with the gentlemen. She was a handsome woman of middling age, her dark blond hair threaded with silver. “I confess, the entire town went into a tizzy when your marriage announcement was published. I will dine out for weeks on the strength of having met you!”
Such a remark might have served as a subtle insult, suggesting as it did that Jane’s marriage had the buzz of a scandal. But she sensed no malice in the woman. “Oh goodness,” she replied with a polite laugh. Who had published the announcement? Crispin’s mother, no doubt. “How terrifying, to imagine myself the subject of discussion!”
“I am sure it is glowing.” Mrs. Culver gave her hand a brief squeeze. “And what a time you’ve had, my dear! Such a shock it must have been, to have your newlywed bliss so rudely interrupted. But Mr. Burke looks quite well now. What a relief! I know he has been sorely missed in Parliament.”
“How good to hear. Yes, Mr. Burke has made a wonderful recovery.”
They turned as one to consider Crispin. He was holding court across the room, speaking earnestly to Lambert, who looked very uneasy at having Atticus so close by—indeed, Lambert was making a subtle but distinct retreat, inch by inch, from the scope of Atticus’s glowering regard.
Culver, meanwhile, looked wooden-faced. “Your husband,” Jane said casually, “is an old friend of Lord Randol’s, I think.”
“So they are.” Mrs. Culver spoke blandly. “But in recent days, it was Mr. Burke on whom my husband relied. I confess, my son does not understand that. But I tell him, ‘Christopher’—Christopher one day hopes to be an MP himself—‘Christopher, if you are ever so fortunate as to hold office, you will realize how new friends might change one’s course.’ ”
Their eyes met. Jane kept hold of her steady smile. “And if the new course does not suit?”
Mrs. Culver’s lashes flickered. “Friendship requires loyalty, I believe.”
“Of course,” Jane said. “But courses may twist. Friends may change their minds together.”
The woman’s pause was elegant, too brief to seem pointed. “What an interesting notion,” she murmured. “I must remember to tell Christopher so. Until recently, he had a habit of learning politics from his father. I’m certain they would have much to discuss again, should such a twist come to pass.”
Jane exhaled. This was very good, very encouraging. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Atticus’s wife. “Have you greeted Lady Randol? No? Come, I know she was looking forward to seeing you.”
By the time the gong was struck for dinner, Jane felt certain of three things, two of which she whispered into Crispin’s ear as they led the guests into the dining room.
Mrs. Lambert was a snob with no care for politics. Her only aim tonight was to needle her husband into regret for whatever sin he had committed before arriving. Happily, his wretched looks showed that he valued her opinions. Wooed with namedropping and invitations, she would influence her husband to befriend whoever had the oldest and grandest country house.
The Culvers, on the other hand, were a political family at war with itself. The son had broken with his father over his support for Crispin. That sore spot could be prodded.
What Jane did not share with Crispin was her private conviction that Atticus was useless. For the past half hour, he had listened sullenly, grimaced regularly, and done a fine job of souring the atmosphere.
But Crispin sensed her restraint. “What else?” he whispered as a footman opened the door to the dining room for them.
“Nothing.” She smiled at him. “Steady on.”
He gave her a quick, flashing smile in reply. “Steady on,” he agreed, and the guests spilled into the room behind them.
Murmurs of appreciation traveled the table as the guests took their seats. Jane had chosen to serve à la russe, freeing the table for a complicated arrangement of scarlet flowers and small ferns that spilled from graven silver bowls. Branches of candles marched across the table, and a multitiered epergne at the center offered a bounty of hothouse fruits, bright-skinned oranges, lemons, and ripe, fragrant pears. The extravagant chandelier overhead, the crystal beading of which shivered musically at the footfalls of the servants, cast a brilliant light over walls covered in Pompeii-red silk. The luxury and extravagance of the scene seemed to put everybody in a genial mood, and the first course, a savory mock turtle soup, was received with broad acclaim.
The pleasant idle talk about books and art exhibitions, the opera’s upcoming productions, and the unusually wet weather lasted through the second course of salmon in Dutch sauce. But once the saddle of mutton was laid on the table, Crispin’s brother seemed to come awake, saying flatly, without introduction or any attempt at politesse, “Now, this penal bill. Any man who means to support it is a fool or a blackguard.”
Mr. Culver and Mr. Lambert both bolted upright in their seats.
“I say,” Mr. Lambert spluttered. “That seems a bit—Burke, I expect you have something to say to that.”
“My brother’s diction suffers a want of style,” Crispin said dryly. “But on the whole, I fear, I must agree.”
“Agree?” Culver’s glass thumped soundly to the table. “I beg your pardon?” Jane caught his wife’s eyes across the table. Mrs. Culver offered her a brief, crooked smile. “I—forgive me, Burke, but I’m certain I don’t understand you. This bill flowed from your own pen, every line and syllable.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Atticus drawled. “My brother was never a hand at composition. Extemporaneous speaking, now—quite a different matter. Perhaps it was dictated?”
A muscle ticked in Crispin’s jaw. Jane felt quite ill-tempered herself. He had been promised his brother’s support, and instead he was clawed and mocked at.
“Charm,” Crispin said, “is not a family trait, I fear.” Uneasy laughter traveled the table, and Atticus flushed. “But modesty, yes.” He offered a mocking half smile, then continued over Culver’s disbelieving snort. “My wife’s uncle also had a hand in writing the bill—yes, I will gladly share the credit. His support is not philosophical—he takes great interest in the profit that might be extracted from prisons, which never fail to supply a steady pool of free labor.”
“And your interest was purer,” Culver said coldly. “Is that what you mean to claim now?”
“Not in the least.” Crispin retrieved his wineglass, his wedding ring glinting as he took a long sip. “But as you know, I suffered a blow to the head recently. And to my deep and lasting regret, it appears to have awakened my conscience.”
Mrs. Lambert tittered.
Then, finding herself the object of her husband’s censorious glare, she shrugged and said, “It’s amusing.”
“Isn’t it?” Crispin’s easy smile made her blush and fuss with her serviette. “And rather ludicrous, from a profiteer’s perspective. The public good was never a lucrative undertaking. But having read the remarks made in committee, my eyes have opened to a new angle. The penal bill is a backward piece of legislation that will do nobody any good save the few who stand to make money from the suffering of the most wretched. I am no longer able to support it.”
“This is extraordinary,” Lambert said. “Why—it must be a joke. You are joking, Burke, are you not?”
“A man is allowed to change his mind, I believe.” Crispin looked between Lambert and Culver. “And never more fortuitously than before, rather than after, his mistake becomes law. The bill is regressive. It will not deter crime. Indeed, it has a good chance of exacerbating that epidemic. I am withdrawing my support. I invite you both to join me in opposing it.”
Lambert gaped like a fish in want of water.
“If this isn’t a joke, then it’s bound to be a scandal,” Culver bit out.
Crispin shrugged. “Perhaps. But I will gladly weather a scandal for the sake of a legacy. Your son’s son will live in the country that we create. Would he flinch from a scandal if it meant a better world for his heirs?”
Culver went pale. “I . . .”
“He would not,” said his wife steadily.
Culver shot her a dark look before turning back to Crispin. “A fine time for your conscience to stir,” he said. “You have spent months—every day since the last session—currying and browbeating and buying support for this bill.” His wife gasped, and Lady Randol, too—for he had just bluntly accused Crispin of corruption.
“William,” his wife murmured. “Take a moment—”
Mouth tightening, Culver jerked sharply to one side—avoiding, no doubt, his wife’s restraining touch beneath the table. “And now you mean to go volte-face? Ha! The scandal won’t only touch you! Tell me, sir, how you plan to keep our people from appearing perfect laughingstocks? You, a recent victim of a brutal attack. You, deciding that criminals merit mercy? That will look very fine in the press, oh indeed. Why, the public will wonder if the assault did not disorder your brain!”
A Lady’s Code of Misconduct Page 16