by Willa Ramsey
A footman ushered Adam and Quillen into the Curzon Street townhome. The new autumn sunlight was the only décor on the pale walls, a single bench and side table the only furnishings on the black-and-white floors.
“We are only wasting more time,” Adam grumbled when the footman left to announce their arrival. “September is nearly gone, and we’ve made no headway.”
“You are losing patience, Ryland, and I can hardly blame you. But Lady Cantemere is worth speaking to. You will see.”
“Four weeks, Quill. Four weeks and no word of Strayeth or Chumsley.”
“And let me guess: Miss Crispin still won’t return your letters?”
Adam looked away.
“She just needs—”
“It’s been a month!” he snapped. “She will not admit me. And this morning there was this, from her parents.” He handed him the letter.
Dear Lord Ryland,
Please accept our deepest apologies for the lull in our correspondence. Miss Crispin requires a respite from her usual role in receiving and responding to our letters, and I’m afraid we have fallen behind in the task. Can you meet with us in two weeks’ time, to look over the designs for your renovation?
Regards,
Mrs. Betsy Crispin
“This all seems quite reasonable,” Quillen said when he finished reading. He handed back the letter. “Anyone would need a ‘respite’ after what Caro went through.”
“This,” Adam replied, shaking the letter, “is a polite way of telling me to shove off.”
Just as Quillen put a firm hand on his shoulder, a slight woman with wisps of white hair and a frilly mobcap peeked around the landing above. “Reuben!” she called out. “Where are you, Reuben?”
The footman ran back into the hall, sliding several feet across the tile before coming to a stop, looking stricken. “I thought you were in the garden, my lady.”
She made a shooing motion with her hand and the footman scuttled away again.
“Gentlemen, stay where you are. I must speak with you,” she said, emerging onto the landing in a bronze gown. She came down the stairs in a slow but steady march, holding onto the railing and putting both feet on every stair, giving no indication that she cared a whit about the noise she made, the time she took, or the space she required.
Quillen called out to her. “My lady, it’s been too long—”
“Save your breath, Quillen,” she said, making her way down the last few stairs. “And introduce me to your friend.”
“Lady Cantemere, may I present to you the Earl of Ryland. He is acquainted with your nephew, Lord Strayeth.”
She looked him up and down, her fists on her hips. She looked to have some eighty years, and when she pushed the sleeves of her dress above her elbows, as a scullery maid might do, she exposed her tanned and sinewy forearms. “Well, I never. How do you do, Lord Ryland? Lord Strayeth’s grandfather was my brother. I am Philip’s favorite aunt.”
He stifled his shock. “You aren’t his Aunt Fanny, by chance?”
“I am indeed. You know of me?”
“I thought you were apocryphal!” he replied, smiling for the first time in what must have been weeks. “Your nephew invokes your need of him whenever he wants to excuse himself from something undesirable. But I’m afraid he is a bit less attached to you, Lady Cantemere, when the shooting is good.”
She offered him a half-smile. “Ah, yes. Family myths are ever so tiresome, aren’t they, Lord Ryland?”
His skin prickled; he didn’t know why she would make such an allusion, and was trying to think of a reply when Quillen stepped in.
“Lady Cantemere, we are so pleased we could see you this morning,” he began, his honeyed tones gliding easily off his tongue.
“No you aren’t,” she replied, flicking a wrist at him.
Adam struggled to contain his amusement. He had never seen Quillen struggle to charm someone before.
“You’re here because my nephew is a cad,” she continued. “And quite possibly a coward—I’m still unsure. Either way, the only thing that surprises me is that no one else has called here in the past month to complain about him. Not a one!”
“The only thing that surprises me is that no one has been here in twenty-five years to complain about him,” Adam replied.
She shook a finger at him. “I like you,” she replied, her half-smile inching up to perhaps three-quarters. Then she turned and walked to the glossy black chair at the edge of the room, the sunniest spot in the hall. “Forgive the informality, but my back is not what it used to be.”
“Would you be more comfortable in your drawing room, Lady Cantemere?” Quillen asked.
She shook her head.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Cantemere, you are right. We are here about Lord Strayeth,” he began. “But it’s because we are rather desperate to find his friend, Lord Chumsley. And we thought your nephew might know of his whereabouts, or be willing to help us…uncover him.”
She stared toward the back of the house, through a window and out to the garden beyond. Her hands rested gently on either side of her. There was dirt beneath her nails and her skin was shiny and impossibly smooth—from a lifetime spent out in the wind, Adam guessed. She was clearly a person who spent time around projects out of doors, though perhaps not as much as she would like. Adam always knew this trait when he saw it in another.
“Chumsley is an even bigger ass than my nephew,” she said finally.
He couldn’t help it then. He could not remember the last time he had felt amusement, and it was a welcome relief. He laughed heartily and bent forward. “There cannot be many ladies in London who delight in such oaths,” he said between laughs, “but I seem to know all of them.”
Quillen was undeterred. “We’ve spent the last few weeks searching for Chumsley, but to no avail. We’ve discovered that his villa here in town has been closed for some time. And he’s not been to the chambers he’s let for some weeks.”
“Let me guess: He owes them a great deal of money.”
“Indeed.”
“I have not heard from my nephew, gentlemen. And I’ve heard nothing of his friend that wasn’t printed in the papers. I cannot help you.”
“Is there anyone else we might speak to?”
She shrugged. “I am alone in this house. And with the season over, everyone in my circle has left town.”
Quillen glanced at Adam. “It seems that most everyone has. We’ve come to the conclusion ourselves that we’ll need to travel more widely if we’re to track either man down.”
“Tell me—are you only after Chumsley to collect his debts?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
She turned from the window and stared at them, and there was something in the heaviness of her posture, the glassiness in her eyes, that infused Adam with great sadness. “I thought you might also be here on behalf of the lady. The Crispin daughter.”
Adam was surprised by her bluntness, and didn’t know what he could claim anymore when it came to his relationship with Caro. He believed he was searching for Chumsley on her behalf; but if she had pushed him from her life, was that really the case?
He was grateful when Quillen cleared his throat and spoke up. “We are friends of the Crispin family, yes. Do you know something of Miss Crispin’s situation, of how it might be improved? I was not aware that you knew her.”
She looked down and shook her head. “I do not know her. I haven’t found society tolerable for many years—not since my Charles passed. But I know of Miss Crispin, of course. She is quite a giant here in town, though even she cannot survive a scandal of this magnitude. And I would like to do something for her.”
She pushed down hard on the bench, slowly raising herself up, her elbows shaking. She made her way slowly over to them.
“She does much for charity, I know. Which is her favorite?”
Adam thought a moment. “She talks a great deal about a new group that hopes to improve the situation of animals in town, particul
arly the dogs that are forced to fight in Westminster Pits.”
“Can you provide me with their information?”
“I can get it for you,” said Quillen.
“I would like to donate one hundred pounds to them, at the earliest opportunity.”
“The same amount as the wager?” Adam asked.
She nodded. “I’ll donate it under the name of Strayeth, with the hope it will send a message to society that my nephew’s ridiculous wager wasn’t won by either party. And also that…that there is remorse regarding this whole business. At least in some quarters.”
“That would be a wonderful gesture, Lady Cantemere,” Adam replied. He resolved to make a donation to the charity, too, and to get Quillen—and others—to do the same.
But Lady Cantemere flicked her wrist at them again. “It is a trifle, and it is too late.” She looked at Adam as she added, “I wish I could do more for your Miss Crispin. But I’m afraid it’s too late to raise a man not to behave so.”
“I fear she will remain the talk of the ton until the next shocking scandal occurs.”
She nodded. “She will be under duress. At least until the next giant falls.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Lady Cantemere. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
They bowed and had turned to go when she called out, “Lord Ryland?”
“Yes, Lady Cantemere?”
“Life is so much brighter when you step out from the shadow of others. Do remember that, before it is too late.”
When they reached the street, Quillen said, “That was most interesting. I’ve almost developed a smidgeon of respect for Strayeth, knowing that he has such an aunt as his favorite.”
Adam glared at him. “Let’s not give her nephew any credit for her good character.”
“I think is she is right, by the bye; we’ve exhausted all our leads in town. It’s time to look elsewhere for Chumsley.”
“Past time, I’d say.”
“And Ryland?” He put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Let this be my fight, now. You have no stake in Chumsley’s financial affairs. And Lady Cantemere’s charity donation will be a capstone of sorts to all this wager business. Go—be with your lady.”
“I confess, those were my thoughts exactly,” he replied, exhaling. “But do get that information to Lady Cantemere soon, about the charity.”
“I’ll send it today, before I leave for the festival.”
“The festival?”
“You know the one. The Harvest Festival, from the poster at Luke’s. It’s quite the to-do.”
“Yes, I remember. But I didn’t know you were an enthusiast.”
He shrugged. “I’m hoping to see some men there, on business related to Chumsley’s debts. But don’t worry—I shan’t embarrass myself by getting into the ring. The last thing I want is to be the subject of scurrilous chatter in drawing rooms across all of England next week.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Why aren’t you seeing Edie and Lord Ryland at their house?” Caro asked.
“Lord Ryland insisted on coming to the studio,” Mama replied. “He said—or wrote, rather—something about his mother, and not wishing to disturb her. You saw his note, Caro. And it’s fine; we do not mind hosting them here.”
“But…wouldn’t it be helpful to discuss your designs in situ? To make it easier for everyone to imagine what you’re proposing?”
Mama stopped shuffling through her drawings and turned to her, taking her chin firmly in her hand. “Caroline Crispin, you know that we host patrons here in the studio. And we’ve had two tours of Lord Ryland’s home already. Now, what is going on with you? If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to avoid them.”
You haven’t seen Adam come every day to the house, and every day refused. You haven’t considered that Edie will suffer if she continues to be my friend. Such things always pass under your and Papa’s notice.
“Since you do not need me, Mama, I’ll be in my—”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence, because Barclay opened the door to announce someone’s arrival. She froze in place; she was going to have to see him.
Adam nearly stumbled as Toby bolted around his legs, squeezing between him and the door frame. He hadn’t thought it possible for another being to be in more of a hurry to see Caro than he was.
She was the first person—the first anything—he saw when he entered the room, a dark silhouette standing stock-still near a table that appeared to have been set up with papers and drawing tools for their use.
“Lord Ryland,” Mrs. Crispin said warmly, curtsying and coming toward him with her arms raised. “Please, come in and have a seat by the window. I need to see to something downstairs, but Mr. Crispin and I will be in directly. Pray—where is Edie?”
“She could not be here today, Mrs. Crispin. I’m afraid I am the only Wexley on the premises.”
He looked at Caro as he spoke, and she looked directly at him, her hands clasped in front of her. He suspected from her wide-eyed expression that he’d caught her unawares. He’d arrived a few minutes early, which was impolite, but he was not above rudeness and trickery if it meant seeing his Caro.
And now her mother had given him an unexpected gift: She was leaving them alone together.
God bless the Crispins and their unconsidered, unconventional ways.
When the door closed behind him, he let his eyes leave Caro for the first time. Scattered thoughts and torrents of barely contained emotion swirled through him—pain, anger, excitement, guilt, confusion, hope. He wished he’d kept his hat or cane to fiddle with, because despite having had nearly a month and a half to dwell on matters, he still wasn’t certain what he wanted to say to Caro first.
“I want to thank you for your contribution to the society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” she said finally, her voice raspy and uneven. “It was wonderful of you.”
“I feel responsibility for what has happened, Caro. For not foreseeing Chumsley’s desperation. For not trying harder to persuade you to find another course of action—for all of it. I am responsible.”
She shook her head at him slowly, and closed her eyes. And that was when he saw a single tear slide down her cheek, crashing into the ridge of her lip while another followed directly on its course. He was to her in an instant.
Family be damned, propriety be damned—all of society and tradition could go to Hell in a proper handbasket for all he cared in that moment. He did not care about any of it anymore. He put his arms around her and felt he might crush her with the intensity he’d accumulated in six weeks’ time, that she might be smothered with the release of so many sensations at once. But she withstood it; she softened in his arms, in fact, and it gave him an unexpected pleasure, a pleasure he felt he didn’t deserve.
“Caro…” She was shaking then—although no longer crying—and he knew he must get her out of the room. “Where can we go?” he whispered, his breath visible in the movement of her hair. “Where can we have a few moments to ourselves, before your mother and father return?”
She pulled away and took his hand, leading him to the end of the room where a door opened onto a servants’ staircase. It was pitch dark, and with Caro leading, they descended to a tiny landing, where a single door likely led to another corridor. In his haste, Adam had forgotten to pull the studio door shut behind him. However through that opening came their only light—a slash of sunlight, about three inches in width.
“Careful,” Caro advised as she turned to face him. It was much warmer than in the studio—uncomfortably so. “There’s scarcely enough room for the both of us.”
That was all the permission he needed to pull her to him again, and she put her arms around his neck. He pressed her against the wall. He had no inkling of how to soothe her fears, or how to convince her to accept his visits—or his imminent proposal. But he could certainly envelop her in a dark stairwell. That much he could do.
Caro curled her arms around Adam’s
neck, savoring the warmth of his breath on her face, her neck, her arms, her hair. They stood like that a second or two, just breathing, adjusting to the darkness. His own arms had slid out from behind her back and were now resting heavily—and wonderfully—on her hips.
She had refused to see Adam because a love at arm’s length was preferable to a love wrenched cleanly away from her. And if they did not meet, how could they say good-bye? But here, in the blackness, away from the clucking tongues and prying eyes of the tastemakers and the gossips, did their meeting really count? If they enjoyed each other here, would the clock keep standing still for them?
“Your breathing,” she began. “Are you quite well?”
“No, dammit. I am not well. Caro, I am really bloody put out,” he growled, giving her hips a light shake.
“You are not used to being denied what you want.”
“That is true, Caro. But can you not believe that I have also been worried sick over you?”
She nodded—pointless in the dark, she knew—before adding, “Yes, Adam. I know that, too. I am sorry.”
“Why wouldn’t you see me?”
“I suppose that in a completely irrational way, I thought that in refusing to see you, I could delay the day when I could no longer see you at all—at least not in the way I’ve grown accustomed to. Not like this. Not as if I were still your…”
“Say it,” he said gruffly.
And at the sound of his commanding her, she gave in—gave in to the myriad sensations coursing through her, to the voice in her heart that screamed at her to stop pushing this man away, to allow it to enjoy being backed up against a wall, being the object of this heady mixture of love and lust.
“As if I were still your intended, Adam. I do not wish to stop feeling like your intended.”
He slid his hands up to her waist and clamped down hard—pulling her to him, bringing his forehead flush against hers. “Caro—I am not going anywhere. I am not going anywhere.”