Crystal Heart

by Kruger, Mary

  The Crystal Heart

  Mary Kruger

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Mary Kruger

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design copyright 2011 by Princess Pages.

  In memory of my mother, Madelyn Sweeney Kruger.

  Chapter One

  The four young men gathered around the fire in the Cocoa Tree in London that snowy evening had long ago passed the point of inebriation. They were beyond drinking, beyond gambling, beyond doing much of anything. Certainly they were beyond attending any of the various balls and routs being held during this brief Christmas season, for it was nearer to dawn than midnight. They were, quite simply, sated with life in the social world of the ton, and yet none had the energy to bestir himself to do anything else.

  John Charles Winston, the Viscount Kirkwood, was bored. It was a failing he’d recognized in himself before, though he doubted anyone else would consider it such. After all, ennui was fashionable. He, however, did not like it one bit.

  Lord knew why he should be bored, he thought, staring into the embers of the dying fire, late at night in dark, cold January. He had everything he could want, money, title, position. He was well-liked and sought-after. And hadn’t he just spent an agreeable evening roistering with his friends? He cast a quick look around the fireside at them, and his mouth quirked with amusement. Danbury was sunk so low in his chair that he was nearly prone; the young Earl of Monkford, recently come into his title, leaned his head on his hand; and Edward Radcliffe occasionally made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore. No wonder. After the evening they had had and the wine they had consumed, it was a wonder any of them were still alive.

  John sat upright, his elbows resting on his knees and a lock of hair falling over his forehead. He was the most foxed of all, having disposed of several bottles of the finest burgundy without help, and yet his mind worked with a clarity rare even for him. Not for him, the gift of drowning one’s sorrows in drink. All alcohol seemed to do for him was make him see them more clearly. What he saw now was his life stretching ahead of him, very much like this, days spent in idle entertainment, nights spent wenching, gambling, and drinking much too much. Eventually, of course, his father would pass on, and then he would be the Marquess of Ware. Things would change then. He’d have to do everything his father wanted him to do now: manage his estates, choose a suitable bride, set up his nursery. The thought was so repugnant that he snorted.

  Danbury raised his head. “What?” he said, staring at John blearily.

  “I’m bored.”

  “Can’t be.” Danbury let his head fall back. “With us for company, old man?”

  John grinned. “Such as it is.”

  “It’s the wine.” He yawned widely. “It will pass.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Rising, John stretched, and went to stand by the mantle, staring down into the flames. “Don’t you ever get tired of it, Evan? We see the same people day after day, go to the same places night after night.”

  “Heard of a new gaming hell, over in Piccadilly—”

  John’s hand shot out in a gesture of disdain. “It’s just more of the same. One gaming hell is much like another.”

  “Huh. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling us one woman is much like another.” John shrugged, and Danbury stared at him, his gaze sharper now. “You don’t mean that. Lud, you do!” He sat up straight, shaking his head to clear it. “You are in bad case, my friend. Monkford.”

  He reached over and pulled at Monkford’s arm. Suddenly deprived of its support, Monkford’s head jerked up, and he glared at Danbury with astonishment. “I say. Can’t a man sleep in peace?”

  “Not now. Radcliffe.” Danbury gave Mr. Radcliffe similarly rough treatment, until he, too, roused. “Wake up. Kirkwood needs us.”

  “Lord help me,” John said, but he was smiling. “What kind of advice are you preparing to give me, Evan?”

  “Needs us? What?” Radcliffe sputtered, his mouth hanging open and his eyes blank. “John don’t need anybody.”

  “Kirkwood has just informed me that he is bored.”

  At this pronouncement, three pairs of eyes turned to John. “Well, I am,” he said, mildly.

  “How can you be?” Danbury sat forward, wide awake now. “I know town is thin of company this time of year, but that’s all to the good, you ask me. All the mamas are safe in the country with their marriageable daughters.” He shuddered. “Won’t catch me in parson’s mousetrap.”

  “Lud, no,” Monkford agreed, fervently. “But there’s plenty of the other sort around. Saw the way you looked at that opera dancer at the ballet this evening, Kirkwood. Thinking of setting her up as your mistress?”

  John’s smile was faint. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, if you don’t, I will. Pretty little thing. And willing, I’ll wager.”

  “Aren’t they all?” John reached for the one remaining bottle of burgundy, upended it, and was rewarded by only a few drops splashing into his glass. With a shrug, he tossed them down. “That’s the problem.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Radcliffe said, plaintively. “Why is John bored? Why isn’t there any wine left?”

  “We drank it, you fool.” Danbury remained watching John. “As to why he’s bored, don’t see why he should be. Capital mill at Gentleman Jackson’s today. Handy with your fives, John. The Gentleman himself said you were made for the ring.”

  “And I’ve the bruises to show for it,” Monkford said, gingerly touching his chin. “Danbury’s right. Plenty to do. Damned cold out, but there’s enough to do within doors. Gaming, don’t you know. You were prodigious lucky tonight, curse your eyes.” He sank back into his chair, his face gloomy. “Probably the opera dancer will favor you, too. That’ll make it three times in one day I’ve lost to you.”

  “You can have her,” John said, and the others stared at him. “I mean it.”

  “Lud! There really is something wrong with you, isn’t there?”

  “I’m bored.” John left the fireplace and began to prowl the room. “Don’t you ever think, sometimes, that there has to be more than this?”

  “What more can we ask?” Danbury said. “We’ve got everything we need, and then some.”

  “I know. Lord, I know, and I’m not complaining. But it doesn’t seem enough, somehow.” He stared down into the fire again. “Sometimes I think I should do as my father asks and learn how to manage the estates.”

  Danbury hooted with laughter. “You? Actually working? You wouldn’t last a week.”

  “I think I would.”

  “Gammon. You’d be back in town so fast your head would spin. This is where you belong, old man. Not holed up in the country, grubbing in the dirt.”

  “Care to wager on that?”

  “On what? On your going home?”

  “No. On my working. Say for, six months.”

  Danbury stared at him. “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Then damned if I won’t take you on. My new phaeton against your team of grays.”

  “I’ll take a piece of that.” Monkford sat up. “I’ll wager the opera dancer.”

  “You can’t wager a person,” Mr. Radcliffe protested. “It ain’t done.”

  “What would you wager? Your poetry?” Monkford jeered.

  Mr.
Radcliffe’s face got very red. “My poetry’s dashed good! Everyone says so. No, I’ll wager—well, dash it, I don’t know what, but I’m in on this, too!”

  “Accepted,” John said, and the four young men grinned at each other. Gaming was one thing; a wager of this sort was something else altogether. “Call for the betting book, and we’ll write it down proper.”

  “You’ll be back in town within a fortnight,” Danbury predicted, as the porter came in, bearing the club’s betting book.

  “We shall see.” John inscribed his name and the terms of the wager, and the others followed suit. “There. Done.” He grinned. “Shake hands with me, gentlemen. I’m off on an adventure.”

  “Or folly. I’ve always coveted those grays,” Danbury said, but he held out his hand. “Best of luck to you, John.”

  “I don’t expect I’ll need it.” He snapped his fingers at the porter, who came up with his greatcoat and hat. “I’m for bed. If I’m to find a position, I’ll have to start immediately. Good night, gentlemen.” Sketching a brief bow, John turned, and left the room.

  The three remaining men looked at each other. “Easiest wager I’ve ever made,” Danbury said. “He won’t last a week.”

  “Care to wager on that?” Monkford said.

  “Capital idea. Porter!” he bellowed. “The betting book, if you will. And more wine.” He grinned. “This is capital.”

  One week later, John would not have agreed with that assessment. As he alighted from the public stage before a coaching inn in Dorset, of all places, he ruminated again on the folly that had brought him to such a pass. What had possessed him to make such a wager? To be shut up in the wilds of the country for six months—six months!—working for his keep, surpassed all bounds. He was a viscount, for God’s sake. Viscounts did not ride on public stages, rubbing elbows with farmers and tradesmen and who knew what other manner of people. No. Viscounts traveled in well-sprung private carriages, upholstered in leather and velvet, and did not have to cater to the whims and tyrannies of the coachman. But damned if he’d give in, now, at the beginning of the wager. He wouldn’t let Danbury have the satisfaction.

  The stage rumbled away in a cloud of dust. Frowning, John brushed off his greatcoat, picked up his valise, and strode into the inn. Impatiently he pounded on the counter, and the innkeeper, a thin, bent man, came out from the taproom, wiping his hands on a dirty apron. “A private parlor, my good man. And luncheon. Dashed cold out there.”

  The innkeeper continued wiping his hands, all the time studying John. At least, John thought he was. One of the man’s eyes had a cast in it, so that it was hard to guess exactly where he was looking. “And who might you be?”

  “I am Kirk—er, Mr. Winston.” Just in time he remembered one of the terms of the wager. He was to secure his position on his own, with no help from either his title or his connections. Nor was he to reveal to anyone during the six months who he was. Damned inconvenient.

  “Winston, eh? Him that’s to work up at the big house?”

  “Yes. I am waiting, man. Your best private parlor, if you please.”

  The man cackled. “Hee, hee. Hear that? Best private parlor, he says. You can wait there.” He jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “With her. Carriage will be along for you presently.” With that, he turned and lurched back into the taproom. “Best private parlor. Hee, hee! For the likes of him.”

  “I say!” John exclaimed, staring after him, his hands on his hips. “Of all the rude, ignorant fools—”

  “You may as well sit,” an amused voice said, and he turned. For the first time he realized there was a female in the hall, sitting on a bench set against the wall. In the dim light he could see little of her; she was cloaked in a cape of gray wool, with a bonnet to match upon her head. The clearest impression he had of her was her voice, serene and cultured, and her eyes. They were dancing with amusement. “You won’t get more out of Mr. Horton.”

  “He is a damned, rude—excuse me. Dashed.” With an inward sigh, John picked up his valise and crossed the hall to the bench. So this was what life was like for those not of noble blood. He didn’t like it one bit. “May I sit?”

  The female shifted on the bench to make room for him. “Of course. I realize we haven’t been properly introduced, but under the circumstances I think that’s not necessary. I am Miss Alana Sterling.”

  John held out his hand. “Kirk—er, Mr. John Winston, ma’am.” He settled himself next to her, entirely disgruntled. First the unspeakable ride on the stage, then the innkeeper’s rudeness, and now this. Stuck with a female of indeterminate age and appearance. Why had he ever left London?

  “Well, Kirk Mr. Winston.” Her eyes danced. “You are to be employed at Heart’s Ease, as well?”

  “If you mean by the Valentine family, yes, I am,” he said, stiffly. What right had she to laugh at him? “I’ve been hired as the new librarian.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  He moved on the bench. This female annoyed him more and more. “And you?”

  “I’m to be companion to Lady Honoria Valentine.”

  Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. “Is this your first post?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. My third, actually. When one is a companion, one’s employers have a lamentable habit of dying on one.”

  What manner of woman was this? John turned to stare at her, and was caught by her eyes. They were the green of spring leaves, and alive, so alive. Mischief lurked in them, along with a hint of ridicule, and more than a little bit of intelligence. Wise eyes, which was perhaps why he had thought she was elderly herself. This close, he could see that she wasn’t. Her creamy skin was fresh and smooth, unmarred by wrinkles, with just a touch of color to her cheeks. Natural color, he’d wager, just as the glossy chestnut of her hair was natural. Good God. She was a beauty. Suddenly, his situation seemed more tolerable.

  “Well?” Her voice held that amused note. “Do I pass muster?”

  “Your eyes,” he said, and was annoyed to hear himself stammer. “I could write sonnets to your eyes.”

  “Could you, indeed.” Miss Sterling straightened. “How nice for you.”

  “What is someone like you doing, working as a companion?”

  “Making my way in the world. As are you.”

  “But surely you could find other ways.” He turned towards her, moving just a bit closer. “A beautiful woman like you must have any number of men interested in her.”

  Miss Sterling edged away. “What is your meaning, sir?”

  Marriage, of course. Why hadn’t this woman married? Beautiful as she was, most men would be willing to overlook her defects of position and fortune. Not that he wanted to marry her, or anyone. Still, her presence at Heart’s Ease might make life more tolerable. “I believe once we reach our destination, ma’am, we might become friends.”

  “Indeed,” she said, with all the hauteur of a duchess.

  “Yes. I mean no offense, ma’am.”

  “But, sir, I find you extremely offensive,” she said, so gently that it was a moment before he realized he’d just received one of the most blistering setdowns of his life.

  “I beg your—” he began, and stopped, speechless for the first time in all his long experience with women. Dash it, he was the Viscount Kirkwood! She should consider herself honored that he was even talking with her. Any other woman would. Except that this woman saw him only as a penniless scholar. He couldn’t set her straight; to do so would be to forfeit the wager, and that he wasn’t ready to do. His fists clenched on his knees. Dash it, he was destined to be stuck at a ridiculously named house in some remote corner of the world, with a woman whose disdain of him was obvious. Was any wager worth this?

  The door to the inn opened, and a coachman stuck his head in. “You, there. Are you for Heart’s Ease?”

  Miss Sterling rose gracefully to her feet. “Thank you, yes, we are.”

  “You took your time in arriving, my good man,” John said, rising as well. “My bags are there.”

&nbs
p; “Huh. Will you listen to that?” The coachman grinned at Miss Sterling, who was handing him her own bags. “His bags are there. Well, carry them himself, I says.”

  “I say,” John began, and stopped, brought up short again by the reminder of what lay ahead of him. He would repay his friends for this. Imagining their laughter, were they to hear of this day’s events, he picked up his valise and trudged behind the coachman, out to where an old, shabby carriage stood. Handing the coachman his bags, to store them in the boot, he began to climb in.

  “You, there!” the coachman called. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  John paused on the stair, holding onto the doorframe to support himself. “Getting into the carriage. What do you think?”

  “No room in there.” The coachman slammed the lid of the boot and walked forward, grinning. “Got the new maids from the village in there already. It’s up on top for you.”

  John glanced in, and saw that there were, indeed, several young females crammed inside. Sitting among them was Miss Sterling. He could swear he saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes, before she turned away.

  “I’ll get you for this, Danbury,” he muttered. “I’ll get you.” Climbing to the top of the coach, he resigned himself to a long, cold ride in the drizzle. And thus began John Charles Winston’s new life.

  Chapter Two

  “Ooh, that must be it now!” one of the maids exclaimed, and they all crowded to the coach window, looking out. Alana, squeezed into a corner, had just a glimpse of a large, pink, heart-shaped sign lettered in Old English, before the coach swept past into the drive. Above there was a thump and a shuffling sound, and she looked up towards the roof, smiling faintly. Poor Mr. Winston. Odious he might be, but even he didn’t deserve to ride atop a coach on a gray, drizzly day. Especially when it was so clearly something he wasn’t accustomed to. Come down in the world, had Mr. Winston, she surmised. She well knew what a shock it was, when one confronted the realities of life for the first time.

  As she had since boarding the coach at the inn, she let her thoughts drift back to him. Heaven knew why. He had been quite insulting, implying that she might enjoy a dalliance with him. It was too bad of him, because he appeared to be charming. He was certainly handsome enough, with that lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, and his clear hazel eyes, looking just a little bewildered. What had happened to him, to bring him down in the world? His clothes, well-cut and of good material, were not the clothes of a working man, nor were his hands, though they looked strong enough. Perhaps he had lost money gaming, she mused. Or perhaps he was a poor relative who needed to marry well. Alana’s mouth tightened. She’d known enough men like that in her time. If that were Mr. Winston’s problem, then she’d thank him to stay well away from her.