by Willa Ramsey
“The very best,” Adam replied.
“Then why not honor him?” Strayeth continued, letting go of his shoulder and poking him instead, deep in the recess of his collarbone. “Besides, you can’t break the Duke of Portson’s arm and nose then retire to a life in the country, Ryland. Tell him, Chum.”
Adam took a deep breath as the heat in his skin ticked up still further. He so hated to be poked and prodded. “Right now, gentlemen,” he replied finally, turning back toward the entry hall for another look at Miss Crispin. “I’d just like to shake hands with our fair hostess and get back to the comforts of my own home.”
“Who?” Strayeth asked. “Caro?”
Adam winced at the use of the young woman’s given name.
“You know the lady?” he asked.
“Is that what we’re calling the opinionated young miss from Marylebone these days?” Chumsley asked, looking at Strayeth with a snort. “That honor is conferred a bit too broadly, is it not?”
Now Adam had had enough. He could only assume that they disdained Miss Crispin on account of her birth, and his patience for their arrogance had been worn to a husk. “Do watch yourself, both of you!” he growled, snapping back to them. “You are guests in this home!”
Strayeth took a step back, his chuckle bloating rapidly into a full-throated laugh. “Oh ho ho, Ryland! Didn’t realize you were such a friend of the lower orders! Want to take it outside, then? Is this how we finally get you brawling again?” He put up his fists and took a fighting stance, biting his lip and punching the air in front of Adam’s face.
Adam closed his eyes and leaned away from the jabs, regretting his angry outburst. He opened his eyes and bid them farewell, exited the ballroom, and gestured to a footman for his hat and cane.
He knew it was terrible manners to leave without a proper farewell, but he’d become rather adept at withdrawing from the world, at avoiding obligations whenever it was convenient for him. So with his accoutrements in hand, he strode briskly down a darkened corridor toward the rear of the house, where he expected there would be a servants’ staircase of some kind.
But as the voices faded behind him, he stopped. No. Not this time. He rapped his cane on the floor and recalled Father’s dying words: Be a gentleman, Adam. A true man. Always.
He’d been just fifteen years old when he’d heard them, and they’d gone with him everywhere, ever since.
He might never forgive himself for abandoning the family’s boxing legacy, but he could begin fulfilling other duties: He could fix the townhouse. He could better protect his family. He could step up his efforts to find a wife and get an heir. And he could stop avoiding people. Or at least, do so a little less often.
He was about to turn back when a familiar voice called out, “Ryland? A word?”
He turned to find an old schoolmate, Lord Quillen, approaching with Miss Crispin on his arm.
How does a person laugh without really laughing? Because that’s what Miss Crispin seemed to be doing, her eyes the color of tea left out in the afternoon sun. And then she smiled at him, those strong-brew eyes growing wide—unnaturally wide, he thought—as if they could absorb all the light from the nearly extinguished candles along the walls.
It was an expression that seemed to say: Finally, something exciting is going to happen.
“Our hostess just informed me that if I didn’t introduce her to the gentleman sneaking away from her party,” Quillen began, “that I’d find myself seated between two Tilbeths at all future card parties.” He gave an exaggerated grimace and performed the introductions.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Crispin,” Adam began, pulling at the bottom edge of his coat. Why did his throat feel so dry? Say your piece, Ryland. Look stern. Exit through door. “But my mother is quite—”
“You cannot blame this on your mother,” she interrupted.
He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your mother’s injury cannot be the reason you’re skulking through our portrait gallery, my lord! I saw Lady Ryland just yesterday, and she felt so well that she sang me the latest from Schubert. Loudly, and with feeling.” Her lips twisted into a wry sort of expression, raising the hair on his forearms in tandem.
You were in my house just yesterday, and I missed it? Clearly, I haven’t worked nearly hard enough at being a homebody.
Quillen glanced back and forth between them, a bemused expression stretching slowly across his face. Then he bid them farewell and headed back toward the entry hall. Adam was now quite alone with Miss Crispin, about a hundred feet from the nearest guests and servants.
“Do not vex yourself, Lord Ryland. I’m not going to check your pockets for silver,” she continued, adjusting the tops of her gloves. “Your sister warned me about these peculiar manners of yours.”
“She warned me about you, as well,” he replied in a rush, straightening and re-straightening his shoulders.
“Did she, now?” Miss Crispin opened her fan with an exaggerated crack, fanning herself theatrically. “And what did my dear Edie say about me, my lord? I’m all anticipation.”
“She said that you are—what was the word?” He stepped closer. He wasn’t sure what had come over him, but all thoughts of leaving seemed to have evaporated.
“Brash, I believe. Edie said you were brash.”
“Ah, yes. An American word. A good word.”
“An apt word?”
“Most certainly.”
He found himself eager to impress Miss Crispin, to keep her eyes on him, to keep her talking. He scratched at the hair above his ear. “She also told me you had a quick mind,” he said softly, leaning down. He was now only a foot or so away from her.
“Oh, stop,” she replied. “I’m blushing now.”
“And a quick tongue.”
And with that, the loquacious Miss Crispin went quiet, her loose posture suddenly quite still.
He stepped back. Too bold, Ryland. Too bold by half! He feared he’d offended her, though she continued to smile and look him straight in the eye. “And you clearly have little sympathy for gentlemen who feel entitled to sneak away from your party,” he continued, more warily now. “Rightfully so, I might add. I must apologize.”
“Ah, yes,” she responded, her limbs suddenly fluid and easy again. She fanned herself some more. “What is it with you modern gentlemen, and your prodigious sense of entitlement? If only I could make a fuel from it, no one in London would so much as shiver, all winter long.”
He laughed aloud—he couldn’t help it—but she spoke again before he could think of a riposte.
“You are free to go, Lord Ryland. In return for your rather generous donation of apples this evening, I give you leave. Sneak away.” Then she curtsied and turned, heading back to her guests in the entry hall.
As he bowed and watched her go, he felt utterly strange. On the one hand, their exchange had been a burst of pleasure he hadn’t realized he’d been needing. Disappointment at the brevity of it coursed through him.
But he also knew that parting ways with Miss Crispin was for the best. He might not be well-practiced at moving in society, but even he knew better than to flirt unguardedly with a lady unless he intended to court her.
But then, what if he did intend to court Miss Crispin? He wanted to marry. His family wasn’t concerned about her birth, and seemed to admire her for more than her impressive position in society. And couldn’t everyone benefit from a few more bursts of pleasure in their lives?
Perhaps finding a wife would be one duty he could attempt with some ease.
“Toby, you’re a true prince! Just don’t tell ol’ Prinny that I said it,” Caro told the dog as they descended the stairs to the ground floor. She wanted to take him on a sunrise constitutional now that the last of her guests had departed, but they needed to see the housekeeper first. So she brought the beloved mongrel—half-bulldog, half-terrier—to a secluded nook off the entry hall where she could drop into a small chair and wait. Toby sank obediently to the floor, h
is foot landing hard on her slipper.
“You’ve a head like a small anvil,” she cooed, leaning down and massaging his velvety ears. He yawned back at her. “And a mouth like a small lion.”
A soft knock sounded on the wall. The tiny space was little more than a wrinkle at the edge of the room—the snuggest of snuggeries—and had a narrow opening that wasn’t visible when looked at straight-on. “Miss Crispin, you wanted to see me?” asked Mrs. Meary in her familiar lilt.
“Yes!” Caro replied, holding out a sack of coins. “May I give you this now?”
“For splittin’ amongst everyone, Miss?”
“That would be lovely, thank you. The evening went off so beautifully. And would you ask Stinson to take this beast on his walk?” Caro handed her the dog’s leash. “I thought I could manage it, but I’m not sure I could keep pace this morning, after all.”
As Mrs. Meary led Toby away, Caro leaned back and lifted her skirts, giving her feet a much-needed rubbing. She smiled at an assortment of pleasant memories from the ball: The pungent smell of the garden when the windows were opened at midnight. The shouting of witty parries over jubilant music. The refreshing tang of the lemonade after an especially brisk waltz.
And what about that exchange with Lord Ryland? Lud! Where was the oaf Edie had promised? The mythic fighter? He’d been positively timid with her—apologetic, even.
Perhaps he was simply good at play-acting. His words had eventually turned salacious, after all, and when her pulse had begun jumping and dancing in her veins she’d figured it must be her conscience, reminding her not to flirt with men of marrying age. She resolved, now, to make conversation that was a bit less personal—and not about bosoms or bodices—in future.
The sound of heavy boots clomping on the entry-hall tile roused her from her reverie. Who could possibly still be in the house? She stood up and brushed at her skirts but didn’t move fast enough; she was still out of sight when two gentlemen started speaking.
“All right, then. I will see you later on.”
Chumsley.
“Right, Chum. At White’s, per usual.”
And Strayeth, of course. Perhaps they expected Barclay to come forward with their hats and canes? They wouldn’t know that the butler was already busy with the myriad extra tasks that awaited him after a ball. It was just like them to linger after giving their farewells, to claim the last of Cook’s delicacies and have a laugh about the nude portraits and sculptures throughout the home.
“I don’t understand it,” Chumsley sighed.
“What is it, man?”
“I do understand that everyone is quite desperate to put Crispin to work for them. But there’s got to be another way, without having to bow down to his whore daughter all of the time.”
She felt as if she’d been kicked in the chest by a horse. She exploded with pain and dropped into her chair with a shoosh.
Strayeth cackled in response, a loud crack suggesting that he also slapped himself rather hard on the thigh.
“I cannot be the only gentleman who finds it tedious to have to keep pretending that she’s respectable!” Chumsley went on. “Who on Earth does she think she is, with all that talk of bodices?”
“I don’t know,” Strayeth replied through his laughter. “Someone who hasn’t realized that a lady doesn’t speak of bare bosoms? But she’s always been quite the coquette, Chum. You know that.”
“True enough,” Chumsley said, sounding exasperated. “It’s as if a common whore has all of society wrapped around her little finger. I saw her with a bishop earlier, Stray. Do you suppose she spoke to him of stockings and petticoats?”
More laughter.
Caro burned behind the eyes, her chest still throbbing.
“She claims she doesn’t want to marry, but it’s just another one of her jokes, I’m sure,” Chumsley went on. “Anyone can see she’s set on marrying well. Can you imagine, Stray? Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
The other lord snorted his agreement. “I make it a rule that once a woman’s been compromised by three of the men in my circle, I no longer dance with her.”
Compromised? Caro sat up again, suppressing a snort of her own. What in Heaven’s name are they referring to? That I’ve kissed a few men over the years?
And three? She looked down at her fingers and did some quick accounting.
Fair enough. Three it was. Possibly four, depending on how one looked at things.
“Pish!” Chumsley continued. “I wouldn’t hand that woman into a carriage!”
More laughter.
“She might not be suitable for proper courting,” he went on. “But she might be useful for other…purposes.”
His voice softened, and seemed to be moving closer to the nook. Caro stopped moving. Every bone, breath, and sinew, every hair and nail and thought and fiber—all of her stood as still and cool as a new headstone, gone fresh into the ground.
“I’ve long suspected she was mine for the taking,” Strayeth whispered, his voice a low rasp. “She flutters over to me whenever I enter a room. And she sometimes puts a hand on my sleeve!”
“Pish! You? You’ve a gift when it comes to the debutantes, Strayeth. But while you’ve been worshiping at the finer doorsteps in town, I’ve entered into many an enjoyable apprenticeship with the daughters of shopkeepers and newspapermen.”
“And what about the daughters of builders?”
“They might as well be next in my education.”
More laughter.
Really, it was the snickering that sickened Caro most of all.
“Well then, Strayeth. We seem to be at odds on the issue. Perhaps we can make it a wager?”
“Always! What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s do it this way: whichever of us gets under Miss Crispin’s petticoats by the end of the season, wins.”
“And what coin are you willing to put on it?”
Chumsley paused a moment. “The losing gentleman shall pay the other one hundred pounds.”
Caro heard the hollow clap of two hands coming together, and knew they were shaking on it. The dull click of the front door soon followed, together with the familiar rattling of frames against the walls. At these sounds, she slid from her chair—and into a large urn—before hitting the floor, a pile of limbs and fabrics and shards of fine porcelain. Tears of mortification plummeted down her cheeks.
Chapter Two
Half an hour later, Caro was still on the floor—every part of her numb with shock, her thoughts a thick sludge—when she heard the front door open, and with it the furious scratching of canine toenails. She brushed off her gown and stood, still wiping hot tears from her face.
Air—that’s all I need. Some fresh air. She smoothed at her hair and emerged into the entry hall.
“Stinson, hello there!” she called out, extending her hand. “I’ll take Toby now, thank you.”
“He’s had quite a good run, Miss,” the footman replied.
“That’s wonderful. I’m taking him out again anyway.”
“Are you sure, Miss? He did himself in, just now. Chasing ’em squirrels he hates so much.”
“Oh, but he likes them, Stinson! He just wants to kiss one or two,” she replied, cringing as soon as the words had left her mouth. She hurried through the door just as the sun was extending its amber fingers between the rooftops along her street.
“But, Miss—”
“We’ll be going now!” she interrupted, not turning back.
She bounded down the steps, Toby’s leash in hand, and turned them down Upper Wimpole Street. It was one of their usual routes, and they charged toward Cavendish Square as if the fate of their world depended on it.
No one else was on the street at that crisp, early hour, which was perfect: She didn’t want to see anyone. Everything about her felt loose, jumbled, and out of sorts. Everything she thought she knew had been pulled down from the cabinet of her mind and tossed up into the air, willy-nilly, like Mr. McNabbins with her very best ser
ving bowls.
She didn’t get very far in such a state, of course. After a few blocks, her breathing became so labored that she all but collapsed onto a low wall before a stately terrace home.
She shook her head and after several slow breaths—one at a time, one at a time, one at a time—sat up rigidly and looked down.
Lud! She was still wearing her ball gown!
And she’d left her gloves at home.
She clutched at her pink, low-cut bodice. What had she been thinking?
She’d been thinking: I am not a whore. Why would those gentlemen, who as children had stomped and squealed with me in our garden, call me one?
And: What did Mrs. Hellkirk always say? ‘There are many insidious ways to check a woman who speaks too loudly, or too often.’
Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk, several doors down. She lifted her head and squinted into the first glare of morning. A well-dressed man with graying sideburns and a boldly patterned coat approached, looking a bit like a former pupil of her parents’—a Mr. Maplebaum. She clutched her bodice tighter and cursed herself for charging from the house in such a state. How could I be so self-indulgent? What will Mr. Maplebaum say?
Lord. Did he already think her a whore?
Did all the gentlemen she knew think of her that way? It was strange, but the next man who came to her mind was Edie’s enigmatic brother, Lord Ryland. She felt a pang of something—guilt or regret, perhaps—as she considered whether he might think ill of her, too.
The man with the sideburns stopped three doors away from her, just close enough for her to conclude that he was not Mr. Maplebaum, thank goodness. Whew! Too young, too spry. Still, he was looking at her in a strange way, and she wound Toby’s leash twice more around her pale and shaking hands, as tightly as she could. Toby whined and licked his lips, then looked up at her.
Oh, dear Lord. Had this man heard something about her? Had Strayeth and Chumsley been calling her terrible names at their club, telling exaggerated tales even before her ball?
Did gentlemen she’d never even met believe her to be…available?